Twisted Fate (Tales of Horror) (17 page)

“Do you require ambulance, police or fire?” he heard through the phone.

“Police. My wife is being attacked in the bushes behind my house.”

The phone clicked. A man said, “Police, what is your emergency?”

Charlie rose his arm again and again, dropping his fist into Fran’s face. The only difference was his fist was covered with blood now.

“My wife is being attacked on the path behind my house. Please help. Come fast. He’s killing her!”

Matt tossed the phone and ran for the front door without looking back at the painting.

He hit the sidewalk running, the pizza jostling in his stomach, trying to slow him down.

The access to the trail was two blocks away. Matt ran, knowing it was too late to avoid serious damage. He was hoping to at least stop Charlie before he killed Fran.

A police siren wailed in the distance.

Good, they’re coming.

He hit the opening to the path as a police cruiser rounded the corner twelve houses back.

Matt tried to maintain his speed, but was slowed from lack of routine exercise. Sure his wife had tried to kill him, but he couldn’t sit by and watch her be murdered.

After a hundred yards, he entered an area that was familiar to him from the picture in his office. He heard the authorities not far behind.

He recognized the creek. The tree to the right. The spot where Fran had stood was five feet away. He stepped up, afraid to see what had become of Fran. There was no sign of Charlie.

He saw the blood first.

Blood had pooled in little puddles over two feet from her broken body. Her nose sat askew on the top of a ruined face that looked like a farmer’s plow had gone over it. Matt couldn’t tell where the cuts started and stopped. Above her sightless eyes, there was a sizable dent in her skull that dipped inward at least an inch like she had been impaled by a golf ball.

He dropped to his knees beside her, overcome by sadness.

He tried to lower her eyelids, but they were missing.

What the fuck did Charlie do to her?

The cops caught up to him. Matt leaned down and wept.

What had Charlie’s fists been made of, bricks?

Then he saw the culprit. Two feet from Fran’s ruined face sat a jagged stone the size of an average running shoe. It had edges that were covered in blood, and part of Fran’s hair was matted to the surface of it.

Matt grabbed the stone and turned to the cops.

“His name is Charlie. He did this to my wife and he used this rock. I saw the whole thing.”

Matt set the stone down as it seemed to be unsettling the cops. One was calling for backup and the other had stepped back, his hand resting on the butt of his gun.

“How do you know it was Charlie?” the one cop asked.

“Because I saw the whole thing.”

“Could you explain how you saw the whole thing?”

Even in his heightened state of emotions at the loss of his wife, he realized no one would understand what had happened. No one would believe him when he told them about moving pictures on the wall.

“What I mean is, I heard the scuffle and knew Charlie’s voice from over there. I just couldn’t get here fast enough. Charlie is my ex-business partner so I know his voice. He has been fucking my wife and when she rejected him, he did this to her.”

More officers approached. Backup had arrived.

The cop who had asked him the questions turned to the new officers. “We wanted to wait for you. He claimed to see someone else doing this, but when we pulled up he was running into the bushes with us on his ass. He knew exactly where she would be. He said it was an old business partner. Something about the guy fucking his wife.” The cop stopped talking and pointed at Matt. “And look at his hands. They’re all red like he’s been slapping and punching something.”

Yeah, a metal filing cabinet in my den, asshole. The one beside the painting where I watched all this happen.

Two more officers walked up, making it six in total now.

“This is my wife,” Matt said. “I did nothing wrong. I did not touch her.”

“Then explain to us what we’re looking at,” one of the new cops said. “Help us understand.”

“It all started when I overheard Charlie and my wife planning to kill me …”

Two of the officers turned to the others and smiled, like they’d all heard this story a thousand times.

“Look asshole, I didn’t do anything. Stop making out like I’m guilty.”

“Mister, stand up and place your hands on your head. Do it now.”

“I will not. I did nothing wrong.”

“That’s not for us to decide. Stand up and place your hands on your head. I will not tell you again.”

Matt let go of Fran, set her broken head down on the grass gently, and started to stand. Five of the six officers held their hands over their holsters. The one talking to Matt had handcuffs in his hands.

Matt looked down at his wife. “Is this what you wanted? Was this how I get killed?”

“What’s that?” the cop asked.

Matt looked back at him. “You’re in the picture now.”

“I’m not following.”

“If I was back in my den, I would be able to watch you. You’re in the picture now.”

“Hands on your head. Now. Last chance to do it peacefully.”

“There’s nothing you can do to me that would hurt me more than what has already happened. I’m innocent here and fuck you if you think otherwise.”

Matt made it three steps before he was tased. With no muscle control, Matt fell and rolled away, down the small embankment, and into the creek. He slipped below the surface of the water, and moved from the edge with the strong current.

The officers ran to the edge and looked over. Matt was already four feet from them and moving away fast.

Nothing in his body seemed to work properly. He could only breathe. He took in a large breath. His mouth filled with water, his lungs enlarging with it.

He detected a splash nearby. But it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing else mattered.

Maybe he didn’t see the picture in his office move. Perhaps he knew about Charlie all along. But could he kill his own wife?
Did
he kill her?

Or was it the painting that showed him the truth?

He drifted down the creek and in and out of consciousness.

His chest hurt. His heart hurt. His head ached.

And then nothing hurt.

No Trespassing

I am on a search for the rarest leaves I can find.

I didn’t know that I would find death instead.

I’m a leaf collector. For me, the leaves glisten in their hammock of twigs. At times, they call to me with disdain. I hear my name whispered among them as a soft breeze caresses their undersides. They don’t yell, they only whisper.

I love leaves. I fear trees.

They watch me. I feel them watching. When they see me coming I hear my name. That’s their way of telling the other trees I’m close. I often hear a branch move, a twig snap. In the past I would jump and look around. No one would be there. I soon realized the trees were stalking me. They don’t like me. I take their leaves, the art they created, and put them on display. I steal their protection. I steal from their crown.

But I respect them. I steer clear when walking through the forest and I don’t respond to their small noises. But I listen. Oh yeah, I listen, because they call my name.

In my satchel I carry numerous pieces of magazine paper to keep the leaves I collect safe and dry. I also need bear spray. I keep it clipped to a rope which I use for a belt. Alongside that, is my trusty umbrella. I couldn’t walk the forests collecting leaves only to have it rain and soak my work.

I slow to pick up a leaf, then stop myself. I can’t. I have enough regular leaves. Today I only want Honey Locust leaves.

“
Seve
…”

I hear my name, Seve Johnson, whispered, drawn out. The trees whisper it. They always take their time saying my name. I feel it as much as hear it. I feel pleasure, like I belong here, but it’s fleeting. A stronger breeze has touched the leaves and they use this chance to sing to one another.

I forge ahead. Somewhere in this area I will find a Honey Locust. I know it because it was documented in the
Botanical Journal
last week.

I ease a branch out of my face and look upon a clearing. The only movement I see are the various trees passing messages back and forth amongst themselves. I ease away from the clearing and slip down a small embankment where I open my satchel. The banana and jelly sandwich I prepared for lunch is soggy and mushy. I fish it out, take a bite, and listen.

Whenever I break to eat, I can almost hear the trees hatching their plan. A root stuck out in a nonchalant way, left exposed to trip me. A branch swinging back to swat my face. A dead tree knocked over to block my path. Whatever they devise, I can usually avoid it. As long as I hear them. As long as I listen. I’ve come to realize they fear me just as much as I fear them.

After finishing my sandwich, I close my satchel, move the umbrella to my left side where I hook the handle into my rope and start back up the embankment. Within ten paces I’m in the clearing I saw earlier.

There’s a shadow a hundred yards up on the right. The area I’m looking at is an extension of an old forest. I suspect it’s the section of forest the
Botanical Journal
spoke of. Convinced the Honey Locust I’m searching for will be in that copse of trees, I start walking.

Halfway there I notice a barbed-wire fence. Every twenty yards or so I can see small metal signs going the length of the fence. The signs are facing the other way so I can’t read them. The fence is old. I approach an area where it’s been trampled down. It’s no more than two feet off the ground where I step over the barbed-wire barrier.

On the other side of the fence I turn around to face the Honey Locust tree. I’ve found it. Elation sweeps over me. I need to touch it to make sure it’s real. I smell it, feel it, and set a leaf on my tongue. I realize with the addition of the leaves of this tree to my collection, I have almost completed my legacy. My display of rare leaves will sit in botanical museums for years to come.

It takes no more than fifteen minutes to collect the leaf samples I want, gently placing them in the magazine papers I’d brought. I make sure the leaves I’m collecting aren’t damaged by insects, disease, or the environment. I also want ones attached to a small part of the twig with a lateral or terminal bud.

It isn't even mid afternoon yet and I’ve found the tree I was looking for. Overjoyed, I turn to the sky and shout with glee. More like a baying. I’m not much into yelling. I try to do a fist pump, but it just shakes my arm too much.

Before I step back over the barbed-wire fence, I read a posted metal sign that says,
“NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT.
”

I didn’t see a house. There isn't a farm close by, therefore no reason why I can't cross this fence and walk back the way I’d already come. Then I realize that I’ve trespassed the whole time, so going back through this piece of land would make no difference.

I shrug and make my way back across the clearing. I walk past the embankment where I’d had lunch and am halfway to my car when I start to hear the trees again. Of course the trees want to say something. I didn’t think I was going to get away that easy.

I hop behind a dead trunk. I’m being smart. Dead trees don’t talk. This one will provide shelter while the others talk, trying to figure a way to get me to give back what I have stolen from their forest.

They never get their leaves back, though. Seve always triumphs. I pull out my bear spray. I want to be ready for anything they throw at me.

A twig snaps. I press my back against the dead tree. I am less than an hour walk to my car. This is their last chance. I swipe at the sweat collecting on my forehead. The hand that still held the bear spray, safety off, pauses in mid swipe.

Cold steel touches my neck. I panic and freeze in the same moment. My heart slips and stutters.

“You was supposed to read the signs,” a man said beside me.

Someone’s talking to me. This clear voice could never come from leaves. I look to the left as far as my eyes can go without moving my head. To look further, I would have to turn my head, but I don’t want to startle the owner of the voice. The cold steel is pressing hard near my lower jaw, so hard I think my skin might break.

I begin to understand. I get it. Everything comes to me in an epiphany. I am going to be shot for collecting leaves. The trees will finally win. The cold steel is a gun, held by a man gone insane. A man who lives out here. A man who hears the trees talk, night and day, night and day. They drove him crazy. It’s not his fault.