Blood Kin (13 page)

A window opens and both barrels of a shotgun discharge, one after the other.

Silence. I hunker down and wait—wait for Creed to come out again, maybe reload and run the intruder off with a good charge of rock salt or even birdshot. Creed always wants to fight once he has the drink-courage in him, but he'll go for his shotgun rather than use his fists like a real man . . . especially if he's scared shitless.

Twigs snap. Loud muttering. What could have been
the shadow of a man moves away from the door as silently as a doe, past the woodpile. Creed cooks and heats the house with his woodstove, like his father before him. No electricity poles out this far on Hessian's Redoubt, and Creed's generator burned out years ago. Not that he could afford the gasoline to run it if it did still work. A drinking habit consumes all a man can scrape together.

I strain to see through the heavy layers of fog. Sound plays funny tricks on your ears on a night like this. You can't trust your senses. A cramp in my left calf makes me gasp with pain, but I grit my teeth and don't move. The shadow I'd seen could have been a deer.

I wait. The cramp passes. Farther off, leaves crackle and a screech owl hoots—a shrill whinny so much like a frightened horse that many a farmer who should know better has gone to see what's amiss in the barn. The owl's scream flushes a rabbit. Its agonized squeal breaks off in midcry. I can imagine the crunch of bone and tearing of flesh. I sniff the wind, trying to catch a scent. Fresh blood has a sweet odor, not foul, but fear gives off a smell all its own. A screech owl is a skilled night hunter, and any prey had best lay low if it doesn't want to be owl supper.

Creed doesn't show his face outside, but he isn't quiet either. He rants and shouts, using all manner of foul language. Then I hear the crack of breaking wood and crockery. “Son of a bitch!”

An empty fifth shatters a kitchen window. How sodden in drink does a man need to be to pitch a bottle through his own windowpane when the replacement costs an arm and a leg?

I wait another quarter of an hour to see if the troublemaker is still crouching in the dark, hoping Creed
will be fool enough to step out of the house. When nothing bigger than a tree frog stirs, I cross the yard, past the stacks of winter cordwood and the chopping block, to knock on the back door.

No answer. Creed hasn't passed out. I hear him in there thrashing around, ranting, making threats he'll never follow through on. What respect I have for the man is fast evaporating. I knock harder.

Heavy footsteps. The door opens a crack. Creed sways like a mast in a gale. I smell the stink of kerosene from the smoky lamp behind him.

“Will you get off—”

I push past him into the kitchen and begin to cough. It's close in here, what with the lamp, the booze, and Creed sweating like a horse. The house is a mess. Chairs are overturned, shards of broken dishes litter the floor, and the place reeks of spilled whiskey and old cabbage.

“Leave me alone!” he says. “What do you want?”

“I want to shut that mouth of yours before—”

“Before what?” He thrusts his drink-distorted face into mine.

His whiskey breath makes me gag.

“Before people find out?” he asks. “Before the truth comes—”

I hit him. Blood flies, splattering my cheek. “It's over!” I say.

Coward that he is, he starts to blubber like a girl. I think of her and the rage boils up inside me.

“It's not over. I sleep . . . sleep with it . . . every night. Wake with it . . . every morning,” he whines. “Her face is the first thing I see. Every day.”

“You're weeping over a whore?”

“She wasn't.”

“As much as her mother before her. Whore of Babylon! Slut.”

“She was nice to me.” Spittle flecks his unshaven chin.

“A bastard's bastard? She deserved what she got!” I hit him again. My fist strikes his chin and he staggers back.

“She didn't . . . didn't deserve to die.”

“Didn't she? She wanted it! Flaunted her body. But you couldn't see it, could you? Couldn't see past—”

He swings at me. I duck, backing away from his flailing arms. I would never have lived to grow up if I hadn't learned to be quick, to hit before I was hit, and to run when I had to.

“You were jealous. You couldn't stand all that innocence!”

I dodge his clumsy blows and stumble against the open doorjamb. Creed lowers his head and charges like a drunken bull. I sidestep him and retreat into the yard. “You fool! You'll kill us all for something that's long done with. Joe's already dead. Who's next?”

Creed keeps coming. Keeps screaming his lies. “You!” he accused. “It was you! It was all your fault!”

The back of my leg strikes the stump he uses for a chopping block. I windmill my arms to keep my balance, and my fingers brush the handle of the ax he uses to split wood. I close my fist around it. I know now what I have to do . . . what Creed Somers has brought on himself. . . .

I wrench the ax loose from the stump and swing it in a wide arc. The blade catches his right thigh and slices through it like a cleaver through soft butter. His flesh opens like a ripe melon. A tide of blood wells up and overflows the gaping wound.

Creed howls. He falls back, clutching his wounded leg. I come after him into the kitchen with all the fervor of an avenging angel.

The pale circle of yellow light from the smoking lamp illuminates the beauty of the weapon in my hand. The blade glistens crimson . . . drips scarlet pools on the rug.

Creed grabs his shotgun off the table. “Get out! Get out or—”

I laugh. I am beyond stopping and he, above all, should know it. Common sense would tell me to cut my losses and flee, but he's gone too far. I can't allow this any more than I could allow Beth's whoring to go on unpunished. I go for his head with the ax.

He never has time to raise the gun to his shoulder, and tries to fire from his waist. But the hammers click on empty chambers. His eyes widen and he grabs for the shells on the table. I shriek with glee as I realize the stupid fool hasn't reloaded.

My blade cleaves skull and teeth with a hollow, sucking thud. Droplets of blood spray around me like warm rain, and Creed falls like a lightning-struck sapling. Blood gushes from his ruined skeleton of a face. He chokes twice and gives a garbled gasp.

I hit him again.

Oddly enough, my weapon seems to take on a mind of its own. I chop and chop until what lies on the floor no longer resembles a human head or neck. I don't stop until the gore begins to soak my hair and clothes, and my arms tire from the weight of the ax.

Panting from the exertion, I lean back against the table, somewhat amazed at the amount of blood that has drained from Creed's lifeless body. More blood than a deer or a hog, and thicker, it seems to me. The
feeling of revenge is sweet, and the cloying scent fills my nostrils, tainted with the odor of Jack Daniel's. I wonder if his body will ever decay. Maybe the alcohol will preserve him for years.

Not years, surely. Rats and mice, perhaps even crows will find their way into the house and feast on the—

“What's going on? Creed? What's . . .”

A voice from the adjoining bedroom yanks me from my musing. A familiar woman's voice . . . her words as slurred and confused as Creed's had been before he began to gargle his own blood. I drop the ax, pick up the fallen shotgun, and crack it open. Shoving two shells into the double chamber, I ease back the hammers and turn expectantly toward the bedroom door.

Long seconds pass.

Retching.

“Creed? Creed, help me. I'm sick.” The knob rattles.

I wait, barrels trained on the door. “Ida?”

She opens the door. The slut's hair hangs loose and tangled, her blouse open, one sagging tit bare. Her exposed nipple is long and brown, shriveled as a dried prune. She blinks, stares at the thing on the floor, and blinks again before opening her mouth to scream, a shrill, high-pitched shriek.

I pull both triggers. The buckshot catches her midsection, blowing her backward into the bedroom. Her bare heels thud against the floor. One arm flings out and thrashes like a chicken with its head cut off.

I reload the shotgun, follow her into the darkened room, shoot her once in the face, and a second time in the chest. The sound nearly deafens me, but I don't have to check to see if she is dead. I use a clean corner of a bedsheet to wipe down the weapon, then discard it on the floor beside her.

I never cared for Ida.

She pretended to be more than she was because she'd been a teacher. Once, when we were a lot younger, I offered her my friendship, but she thought she was too good for me, and turned up her nose at it. She deserves what she got. Actually, she deserves more, but I'm aware that time is passing. Soon it will be daybreak, and I have much to do.

Outside, in a lean-to shed behind the kitchen, Creed keeps two cans of spare kerosene. I use those liberally on the floor, the curtains, and the bodies. The last thing I do before smashing the lamp and leaving the house for good is to find Creed's violin and lay it next to his body. The flame flares and catches.

I don't bother to close the door. Fire needs air to breathe. The house is built on pilings, with space beneath for rising water. Between the broken window and the open door, there'll be draft enough. With the kerosene everywhere, Creed's old wooden house will go up like a torch.

He always said he wanted to know what hell was like. Now he'll get his wish.

Outside, I strip to my skin, hold my breath, and toss the blood-soaked garments through the open door. I don't want to leave any evidence that might lead suspicion to me. Who knows how many nosy outsiders might invade the island, asking questions?

Creed always kept a change of clothes on his boat. I walk down his dock, dive into the bay, and wash myself as best I can before retrieving clean pants and a shirt. I'm no thief, but it's hardly stealing. I doubt that Creed will have need of garments where he's going, and I'd hate to walk home naked in the damp air. I
know I'll have to dispose of these clothes later, as well. It's a pity. There's a lot more wear left in the shirt.

Bailey awoke about eight thirty Saturday morning with an intense throbbing in the back of her head. She hadn't fallen asleep until sometime after two, thinking about her crazy uncle, the property she'd inherited, and Daniel . . . Daniel and his contradictory behavior most of all. And even after fatigue had gotten the best of her, her sleep had been disturbed by fitful dreams. Twice she'd gotten up and gone to the bedroom window, certain that she heard the whistler outside in the fog. Now she couldn't get the tune out of her head.

 

Hush little baby, don't say a word

Papa's going to buy you a mockingbird. . . .

 

Ten minutes in the shower and two aspirins later, she wandered downstairs in search of strong coffee and found Emma at the round kitchen table in tears.

“What's wrong?” Bailey asked.

The older woman raised her head from her folded arms and tried to speak. Her graying bun was coming undone from the bobbypins, her eyes were red and swollen, and her voice was a croak. “Creed,” she managed. “He's dead.”

“Dead?”

“Daniel saw the flames in the sky early this morning. By the time he got there the whole house was gone. It was too late to do anything.”

Stunned, Bailey dropped into a chair across from Emma. “His house burned?” An image of the laughing waterman with the violin tucked under his chin surfaced
in her mind. How could he be gone, and all that lively music with him? “Are you certain? Maybe he wasn't—”

“He was in there, all right. Daniel said he saw . . . part of a leg bone through what was left of the kitchen wall.”

“How could . . .” Woodenly, Bailey rose and poured herself a cup of coffee. Her hands and fingers felt numb. The coffee was too hot, but she barely noticed as she took a sip and then hastily swallowed. “He . . . he was drinking last night.”

Emma drew in a shuddering breath. “The damn fool drank most nights. And that house of his was a tinderbox, waiting to go up in flames. But that's a hell of a way to go.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“We've been friends since we were hanging onto our mother's apron strings.” Emma wiped her running nose and her eyes with the back of a big hand. “Daniel's tore up bad. He said he saw a lot of death over there . . . where he was. . . . But it's different when it's a man you've known all your life.”

“Over where?”

“Iraq. Iran. Somewhere where those terrorists make life impossible for decent folk. I never can keep the two countries straight. When he was with the government.”

“Is he here? Daniel? He didn't spend the night here. . . .” It was a question, but Emma either didn't hear her or didn't want to answer.

“Creed sure was good with those kids last night, wasn't he?”

Bailey nodded. “And he played beautifully.”

“Sorry old drunk. He was a fine-looking man in his youth. Had a lot going for him, but it all sort of fell
apart. Creed was married a couple of times. No kids. But it always ended bad. Jack Daniel's doesn't do much to hold a man and a woman together.”

“Where's Daniel now? If there aren't any police here, who will do the investigation—take care of . . . of the remains?”

Emma sniffed, blew her nose loudly on a napkin, and poured herself another cup of coffee. “Oh, I expect we'll be overrun with fire marshals, state police. Coroner will pop up from someplace. Talbot, most likely.” She shook her head. “Creed remembered more of those old songs and stories than anybody on Tawes. I expect a lot of it died with him.”

“I only knew him a little while, but he seemed like a nice man.”

“He was flawed, same as all of us. Never could keep a decent lamp burning. He never trimmed his wicks right. I tried to show him how, but Creed could be stubborn. He said he didn't care if his ceiling was smoke blackened.”