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Kiss of Nectar
Eric Wilder
Published by Gondwana Press
Smashwords Edition
© 2011 by Gary Pittenger
Discover other titles by Eric Wilder at Smashwords.com
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Once a respected literary form, the short story has all but disappeared, replaced in most part by lenthy novels. Unlike a novel, the short story, by its nature, gives the author little time to develop characters, refine plot structure, or create a back-story. Still, acclaimed writers such as Guy de Maupassant, Carson McCullers, O Henry, Stephen King, and even Ian Fleming, somehow found ways to create unforgettable characters and stories while employing a minimum of words. Someone once said, “You can’t touch an emotion.” Don’t believe it. For a taste, and a touch of many emotions, read Kiss of Nectar. Experience the short story form for yourself, and then see if you don’t agree.
We crossed the Panhandle at sundown, heading south toward Amarillo. Jim hadn't moved in over an hour. He just stared out the window at crimson light bleeding up from the horizon, finally fidgeting in his seat and folding his arms.
“You know, little brother, this reminds me of a movie I seen once.”
Hoping to free him of the blue funk weighing on him since we left Wichita, I said, “Tell me about it.”
Jim leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes, and took a long, dreamy breath.
“Don't remember much. A kid trying to make a name for his self shot an old gunfighter in the back. Left him for dead on the edge of town.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Sheriff waylaid the kid and beat him senseless. By then folks from town had gathered, wanting to string the boy up on the spot. The dying gunfighter wouldn't have none of it. Turn him loose, he said. Let him feel what it’s like to live life in the sight of a gun.”
“What's it mean?”
Jim offered no answer. His eyes had closed and stayed that way until I braked the Ford on the outskirts of town. Not knowing where to go from there, I nudged him, waiting until he shook away his bad dream.
“Teddy Jackson's place. Down the road a ways,” he mumbled. “Next to a used car lot.”
We passed miles of used cars, cattle pens, and wrecking yards, finally finding Teddy Jackson's trailer behind a twelve-foot fence topped with concertina. The sign on the gate said Teddy's Junk House. When I stopped the old Ford Jim reached across the seat, leaning on the horn until a woman with a thatch of thick red hair came out of the trailer and shined a flashlight through the windshield.
“Closed up. What the hell you want this time of night?”
“Here to see Teddy,” Jim said.
“Well he ain't here. Come back tomorrow.”
“I'm Jim Droon, and this is my brother. Teddy's expecting us.”
The red-haired woman must have known we were coming because the muscles in her face relaxed, and she said, “We won't see Teddy till the bars close down.”
She swung open the gate, leting us drive into the lot, smiling when Jim winked at her. Flushing visibly red, even beneath dim fluorescent light flooding the junk lot, she straightened her yellow hair bow.
Darla was her name. She took to Jim right off and him to her. The trailer was a mess, Teddy's junk occupying every inch of the floor. It didn’t bother Jim. Without asking permission, he sprawled out on a faded sofa older than both of us. Darla didn't seem to mind. Before long they were sharing tequila straight from a bottle. I passed when they offered me a swig. We hadn’t eaten all day, and I didn't think hard liquor would help the dull ache in the pit of my gut.
Darla and Jim were in a world of their own when I walked down the hall to the bathroom. Rummaging through the kitchen, I for something to eat. All I found was a single can of Lone Star, its top already popped. With nothing to eat, I sipped flat beer till it got too hot.
“How do you like our little corner of the world?” Darla asked when I returned to the couch.
“It's so. . .”
“God forsaken?”
“You got it.” Jim grinned when I said, “But it reminds me of Kansas, all big and open. We had a tree once you know?”
Darla rubbed a dark bruise, shaped like a buffalo's head, on her calf. “Only one tree?”
“Yeah and it didn't last long. When Mama was working and Daddy off playing pool, Jim siphoned gas from the tractor, poured it on that tree and set it on fire. Said it bugged him the way wind caused it to brush against the screen door.”
Leaning forward on the couch, Darla said, “What did your Daddy do when he found out?”
By now, Jim was all grins. “Let little brother tell you. He's better at it than me.”
Glancing away from Darla's expectant eyes, I said, “Jim didn't want a whipping. He sneaked off to town, but not until he left the half-empty gas can beside my bed. Daddy come home all sotted up. Found the burned-up tree, and can of gas. I didn't know what hit me when he yanked me out of bed by the hair, beating me with the buckle of his belt till I begged him to stop.”
“You survived,” Jim said. “Besides, that's why you're the little brother, Little Brother.”
Around midnight, Darla said, “Amarillo's a hell hole. Ain't enough life here worth embalming. Been thinking of hitchhiking back to Dallas. Where you boys headed?”
“South,” Jim said.
“How far south?”
“Till the wheels burn off that ol' Galaxie.”
“San Antone,” I said. “Jim says it's like paradise. Jobs for everybody. Beautiful weather.”
I didn’t miss the glance Darla shot Jim. “Well, don't take everything you hear too seriously, kid. San Antone's okay, but for my money the place to be is Dallas, any time.”
Shaking my head, I said, “We're going there for sure. Jim says they pave the streets with gold.”
Darla laughed, and she and Jim kept right on drinking till the bottle was empty. About two-thirty, we heard brakes screeching outside the fence. I sensed it was Teddy, coming home from an all day drunk. We watched him stagger out of his dented blue Biscayne. When he saw Jim, recognition flooded his ratty eyes.
“Jimmy,” he said, latching his arms around Jim's neck. When he kissed him on the mouth, a strange look in Darla's green eyes flickered and then died.
“Get in this house,” Teddy said, steering Jim back toward the trailer door. “Who's this you brung with you?”
“Little brother,” Jim said.
“Looks bigger than you,” Teddy said. “Darla, I'm starved. What's to eat in this place?”
Darla stalked off to the kitchen, returning with stale rice, soaked in red sauce, in a bowl. She didn't bother heating it up. Teddy didn't seem to mind, eating it straight from the bowl without offering any to me or Jim.
“Jim and me spent time in McAlester,” Teddy said. “Hard time. Jim kicked the shit out of a guard.” A wicked grin spread across his skinny face. “What a man your brother is. What a man!”
“Shit, Teddy. You're the one,” Jim said. “You always had a plan. The rest of us were just doing time.”
“A plan is what I got right now,” Teddy said, edging closer on the sofa.
Teddy had finished the red rice. Now, he filled a shot glass with tequila. Darla had passed out on the couch and Teddy sipped the shot, staring at Jim. “There's a bank in town, ready for the breaking. You boys interested?”
Jim said, “Maybe. At least in hearing what you got to say about it.”
“End of the month payroll,” Teddy said. “Probably forty thousand dollars, or so. Twenty each.”
Teddy paused as Jim thought about the amount he’d mentioned. Leaning closer, he said, “I drive. You walk in, hand them the note, collect the money and walk out. I'll pick you up on the corner. Nothing to it.”
Not believing my ears, I waited for Jim to laugh, or at least change the subject. He did neither.
Instead, he said, “How many guards?”
“Just one,” Teddy said. “That's the beauty. They got all the money in the world and no security. We'll waltz right in, take what they got and hit the road without a hitch.”
I tried to catch Jim's eye, but he glanced away. Considering Teddy's scheme, I guessed.
“When?” Jim finally said.
“Tomorrow. Right after they open up.”
“Won't give us much time to case the place.”
“I already done that,” Teddy said. “You think about it,” he said, patting Jim's cheek before sauntering off to bed in the next room. Darla rubbed her eyes, blinked herself awake, and followed him. Jim kicked me off the sofa, wrapped his hands behind his head, and grinned.
“You wouldn't rob another bank, would you Jim?” I asked.
“Not me, little brother, us.”
“If Teddy wants to rob a bank, let him do it alone. He don't need you.”
“Teddy's just a driver. He can't pull this job alone. Besides, Teddy and me shared a cell in McAlester. He's smart and knows how to make things work. If he says this is a good bank to rob, then I believe him.”
“If he's so smart, why did he wind up in McAlester in the first place?”
Jim ignored my question and said, “We need Teddy to drive and I need you to back me up.”
“But what about San Antone?”
Jim stared at the ceiling, smiling his crazy smile, and said, “This is San Antone.”
“No way. You promised Mama, and you promised me. I won't let you screw up your life again.”
Though Jim's eyes had closed, I knew he was listening because of that grin on his face I’d seen all my life.
“Quit your belly-aching, little brother,” he finally said. “Neither of us is gonna rob anything. I was just kidding.”
“You sure?”
Jim passed out on the couch, the only answer to my question a coyote, somewhere down the road, howling at the moon. Propping my shoulders against a wall, I closed my eyes. Didn’t matter much. Mental meandering prevented sleep until almost dawn when Jim nudged me awake with his foot.
“Get up Little Brother. We're going into town and get something to eat.”
My gut ached. So did my head. During the long night, I’d somehow convinced myself the robbery was all a joke. When my stomach growled, I remembered my hunger, and bacon and eggs Jim was promising.
Teddy, Darla, and Jim weren’t quite ready to go so I chewed on a piece of cardboard until they killed the last of the tequila. Temperatures had dropped below freezing during the night, and we had to push the Ford to start it. The ride to town seemed endless, and we found the streets deserted when we got there. Like winter on Mars.
Jim and I sat in the back seat of the Galaxie, Darla riding shotgun as Teddy circled the block. They both looked strung out, and it worried me. Maybe it was just last night's Lone Star, but the atmosphere in the car made my gut feel like slag lead. Finally, Teddy stopped and let us out.
“I'll park this heap around the corner,” he said. “Just come running.”
Darla reached through the window, giving Jim a hug and frantic kiss, and waved as Teddy pulled away. Drawing me like a magnet, Jim drew a deep breath, patted his chest and started down the street,
“Why aren't they coming with us?”
“Cause Teddy's lazy. He’s looking for a closer place to park. Cafe's just down the street, and I ain't waiting.”
When we rounded the corner, I looked in both directions for the pancake house. Instead, a bank door beckoned, and I realized Jim had suckered me. Grabbing the front of my pea jacket, he shoved a large revolver under my belt and pushed me through the front door.
“Don't do this,” I said.
Jim grabbed my shoulder, cupped my ear and whispered into it. “All you have to do is stand right here and wait on me. I'll do the dirty work and no one will even know you're involved.”
“I'd follow you to hell. But robbing a bank. . .”
“You never robbed a bank before?”
“Jim, you know I ain't.”
Jim's eyes began to glaze. “It's pure sex, kid. Pure sex.”
Now my knees were shaking, heart thumping against my ribs. Across the room, one fat guard propped up the wall, drinking coffee from a plastic cup. Jim strolled past him, straight to the nearest cashier where he pulled out his pistol and stuck it in the woman's chest. Once outside, I felt I was about to puke. Time began passing, like a slow motion Technicolor pan across the room, as if I weren't really there, but knew I was.
“You're too young to die, Beautiful,” Jim said to the scared woman. “Put your money in this sack and signal your boss over here, now.”
The woman's body stiffened like a chopped stump, color draining from her face and saliva drooling from the corner of her mouth. Looking at her, it made me wonder if she would piss her pants before I did.
“Don't shoot me,” she said. “Please!”
“Put the money in the sack,” Jim said, his words growing progressively louder. “Then call your boss over here.”
The woman's voice was also growing louder and had become noticeably shaky when she called to a well-dressed man beside the open vault.
“Jeremy, over here.”
With a glance of disapproval, the banker in a blue suit approached the booth. He had no chance to comment on the cashier's disrespect before Jim stuck the pistol in his face, easing the two of them down the row. Jim followed them into the vault.
I glanced at the big clock on the wall and waited. Although it seemed like forever, less than five minutes passed before Jim strolled out of the vault. He was alone. Slung over his shoulder was a heavy-looking bag, and I thought we were home free. Instead, fate suddenly dealt us aces and eights.
Jeremy or the cashier must have tripped an alarm from inside the vault. A siren began wailing and people started screaming and throwing themselves to the floor. The fat guard pulled his pistol and dropped to his knees, fanning the bank. Jim was almost to the front door when the man yelled for him to halt. Without waiting for a response, he began shooting. His pistol erupted, my heart counting three explosions.
The first bullet caught Jim in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second took off a hunk of his right ear. The third struck him square in the belly. I watched helplessly as he staggered back against the wall, pluming blood painting a crushed rose across the front of his jacket.
It wasn’t over. The fat guard rushed forward, jamming his pistol in Jim's face. Amid screams of the people in the bank and sirens wailing outside, he prepared to pull the trigger. I had already started for the door, but stopped, knowing I had to save Jim. Use the gun he give me. Yanking it from my belt, I pointed it, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger.
All my luck had ebbed sometime the day before. When he saw my weapon, the fat guard squeezed off a round from his pistol at the exact instant. His bullet burned a hole through my leg, igniting sharp pain just below my right knee. My bullet lifted him off his feet, crushed him against the wall, robbing his breath until no life remained in his eyes. He was dead, and me that had killed him.
Somehow, reality fazed me less than intense pain surging through my leg. Steadying Jim before he collapsed to the floor, I fought back my nausea, wondering what weird anomaly of life caused blood to gurgle from my brother's mouth while letting his eyes remain clear as Amarillo's cold December sky.
“Get us out of here, Little Brother.”
Trembling bodies lay sprawled on the floor, blocking our path to the door. I stepped over, through and between them, hauling Jim to the front door, the bank's alarm still screaming bloody murder, distant sirens blaring as we stepped outside.
Down the street, Teddy and Darla waited in Jim's Galaxie. Teddy saw us first, slamming the car into reverse, burning rubber all the way down the road until he reached us. Amid the confusion, a crow cawed, somewhere overhead. For a moment, I thought we was back home in Kansas.
“Teddy, Jim's shot. Help us.”
The front door opened and Darla bolted out, rushing toward us like an excited chicken, wrenching the moneybag off Jim's shoulder instead of helping me with him. The car door slammed behind her, old tires screaming as they burned rubber around the corner and disappeared.
“Bastard,” Jim said, weak from loss of blood. “Get me out of here. I ain't doing no more hard time.”
The crowd gathered on the sidewalk scurried out of our way as I moved us along with no idea where to go. Then it appeared before us—a cross topping a church steeple and red brick fencing a churchyard. I dragged Jim through the gates.
“Inside,” I said. “The priest will give us asylum.”
“Dumb shit,” Jim said. “We're bank robbers. There's no asylum for us.”
I pulled him forward anyway. By now, my right leg was numb from the knee down, and my head felt as if I had taken two dozen fast circuits on a broken tilt-a-whirl. Fighting the urge to throw up, I pushed through the heavy oak doors, into the main chapel of the church. We managed to reach the third pew before I collapsed.
“They're coming,” I said.
Jim's laugh surprised me. When he spoke, I had to lean closer to hear him.
“You know little brother, last night I dreamed about that movie again—the one where the kid shot the old gunfighter.”
Blood had soaked my jeans, and I felt faint and sick. Jim's throaty voice swam inside my head like a trapped goldfish. In response to his question, I could only nod.
“The gunfighter just lay there in the dirt,” he said. “Half dead. Staring at me as if I was a cockroach he wanted to stomp. So were the sheriff and all the town folk.”
“Just stay quiet and the priest will get you a doctor. You'll be okay.”
Ignoring me, he said, “It was me, the dirty bastard who shot the gunfighter in the back.” He laughed and coughed up blood that foamed down his chin and neck. “This morning when I woke up, I could still feel the noose around my neck.”
Jim slowly massaged his neck as more blood gurgled from his lips and a cold glaze crept over his blue eyes.
“Hang on. They're coming for us now.”
“Too late. I'm gut shot, Little Brother. Maybe I'll see you back in Kansas sometime. And maybe that old gunfighter again, somewhere along the way. Gotta go now. Daddy's coming. Take care of him for me, will you?”
Jim's body went slack in my arms as the church's heavy oak doors swung open. I gazed up helplessly at the dozen men pointing angry pistols and rifles at me. Through the portal, I saw hazy clouds dulling the pink winter sky.
A chill breeze, leaving a pall in my heart, gusted down the aisle. It whistled like Daddy's belt, causing me to remember the sting of its buckle—hard and cold as it flailed long red whelps across my back.
Dark clouds gathered on the horizon as Linda Stevenson watched her husband pace ever-widening circles around their living room floor. Despite her worried glances out the window, she held her tongue until husband Ted noticed her watchful gaze.
“Please don't go out tonight. The weather's awful, and getting worse by the minute.”
Ted stopped pacing and frowned. “No option. Big meeting at the bank.”
“At seven on Friday night? Really Daddy?”
Both Ted and Linda glanced up at their daughter Britta, naked except for a skimpy pair of lacy panties. Staring back at them from the top of the stairs, she grinned and covered her bare breasts with her arm.
Glancing first at Ted, and then at her precocious daughter, Linda said, “Britta! Put some clothes on.”
Britta stuck out her tongue and pranced back to her room, returning with one of her father's starched white shirts over the panties.
“Hot date, Dad?”
Britta's jesting implication caused Linda's gaze to return to the pot on the stove. Ted didn’t seem to mind.
“I have an important meeting at the bank, young lady.”
“Even Gramps wouldn't call a meeting on a night like this.”
“Your grandfather may own the bank, but he doesn't run it any longer. I'm president now. I call the meetings when I see fit.”
“Whoa!” Britta squealed.
“Have you done your homework?”
“It's Friday, Mom. I have a date with Freddy.”
“You can't go out on a night like this. I won't allow it.”
Britta eyed her father and said, “Dad?”
Ted glanced at his watch before replying. After winking first at his daughter, he said, “Britta's eighteen. We have to allow her some freedom.”
“Thanks Dad,”
Britta blew him a kiss, and then disappeared into her room before Linda could protest.
Ted cracked the curtain and peeked out the window, continuing to pace.
“Fix me a drink?”
Linda swallowed her annoyance on the way to the liquor cabinet, pouring a drink for herself as well to help steel her nerves. She gently touched Ted's hand as she handed him the vodka.
“You know I don't sleep well when you're not here.”
Ted pulled away, ignoring her distress. “How did the weather turn so sour, so fast? The sun was out when I left the office.”
Linda opened a crack in the living room curtains and gazed out at drifting snow, already beginning to pile up against fences and houses.
“Blue norther. They can turn a hot day cold in the blink of an eye.”
Ted saluted the snow with a raised glass. “Amen to that,”
“You see how dreadful it's getting. Surely, you're not going out in this.”
Ted didn’t bother answering her and she turned away from his cold stare, returning quickly to the kitchen. Linda was different from her daughter. Soft and milky smooth compared with Britta's lithe body and all-over tan. Long frosted hair draped her shoulders; Britta's cropped short and surfer blonde. Their differences went even further. Britta was a chatterbox. Not Linda. Around most people, she was introverted to the point of angering Ted. He resented her icy translucence that concealed her real feelings like a frozen cloak.
“At least eat something before you go.”
Rattling ice in his glass, he just stared out the window. “If the weather doesn't get any worse.”
Ringing of Britta's cell phone interrupted their conversation. In a minute, she returned to the banister. “I'm staying home tonight after all. Freddy's battery is dead.”
Linda looked relieved. “Good.”
An unexpected knock at the front door halted her in mid-sentence. Ted glanced at Linda for an explanation, and then opened the door. A tall stranger, his fur-lined jacket pulled tightly around his neck, waited in the doorway.
“Can I help you?”
“Car broke down about a mile down the road. I lost my cell phone in the snow. Mind if I use yours to get help?”
“Let the poor man in and close the door,” Linda called from the kitchen. “You'll lower the inside temperature twenty degrees.”
Moving aside, Ted watched the man remove his gloves and blow his hands to warm them. Linda rushed into the living room her distress calmed by the young man's clean-cut looks. She took his coat and pointed to the kitchen.
“Warm yourself by the stove. You look half frozen.”
The man's dark eyes transfixed Linda, but Britta shattered her concentration when she hurried downstairs to satisfy her own curiosity.
“Now I'm glad Freddy has a dead battery,” she said, staring wantonly at the stranger.
This time, Ted frowned. “Britta, put some clothes on.”
Britta pouted, but trotted back upstairs as Linda followed the stranger into the kitchen.
“Cup of coffee or hot tea?”
Looking at her nearly empty glass, he said, “I'd rather have what you're drinking.”
Staring at the floor, she smiled nervously. Despite her nervousness, she felt a deep and inexplicable attraction to the stranger. Feeling foolish, she hurried to the liquor cabinet to mix him a drink.
“The phone is by the coffee pot,” she said as she handed him the scotch and water.
Storm-stranger raised his glass in a silent toast without taking his eyes off her. It brought a flush to her face. He picked up the receiver.
“Phone's dead.”
“That can't be,” Linda said, concern replacing her facial flush. “Britta just had a call.”
“On her cell phone,” Ted said, coming up from behind.
Linda jumped at her husband's unexpected appearance. Regaining her composure, she called upstairs.
“Britta, is your phone working?”
“All the bars are gone. I can’t call out.”
Apparently gratified by their inability to assist the stranger, Ted smiled. “Mines not working either. Must be the lousy weather. Guess you're out of luck. Sorry we can't help.”
Linda frowned at Ted's thinly disguised animosity as Britta called from the banister. “Dad can take him into town when he goes. Invite the poor man to dinner.”
Linda was quick to react. “Pardon my rudeness. Will you have dinner with us?”
“Why not?” he said before Ted could protest.
Again, Linda felt her neck become warm. “Relax in the living room. Pot roast is almost ready.”
When the stranger smiled, her face flushed again. This time she noticed Ted's frown and quickly looked away.
“How rude of me not to introduce ourselves. I'm Linda Stevenson. This is my husband Ted. The sassy teen is my daughter, Britta.”
Grudgingly, Ted shook the man's hand. For an extra moment, the stranger continued staring at Linda, squeezing her hand and refusing to let go.
“I'm Dan Savage,” he finally said.
Though something in the stranger’s tone bothered Ted, he had other things on his mind. Deciding to ignore the obvious eye contact between his wife and the handsome young man, he moved toward the stairway.
“I'm going upstairs to see if I can get something on the weather band.”
“Well,” Linda said, embarrassed but unable to move. “Guess we'll find out about the highways. Dinner won't be long.”
Dan Savage released her hand and went into the living room. Linda heard the rattling thump of logs adding to the barren fireplace, and peeked through the door, watching him from behind until he felt her gaze.
“Thought I'd heat things up a little.”
Before she could reply, Ted rushed down the stairs, already dressed in coat and gloves.
“Can't wait for dinner. Gotta go now. Storm's worsening by the minute. I’ll drive you into town, Mr. Savage.”
Dan Savage hurriedly placed the last log in the fireplace and grabbed his coat hanging by the front door. Before he could button up, Britta came rushing up from the basement.
“Wait, Daddy. We have a broken pipe downstairs. If we don't do something now, we'll have a frozen house before morning.”
Ted banged the door with his clenched fist. “Dammit!”
“No need missing your appointment,” Dan Savage said. “I'm handy with things. “I'll fix it for you.”
“Fantastic! You go ahead, Dad,” Britta said. “Mr. Savage can fix the pipe and stay the night in the spare bedroom. You can give him a ride into town tomorrow.”
Ted didn’t answer, though his dark expression revealed an intense inner turmoil. He studied the cut of Savage's clothes and hair, trying to assess the young man's trustworthiness, disregarding Linda's unmistakable look of concern.
“Good idea. I’ll take you into town tomorrow.”
Without waiting for protest, Ted kissed Britta's forehead, ignoring Linda's tightly folded arms as he went out the front door without a backward glance.
“Show me the pipe,” Savage said, interrupting the moment.
Eagerly grabbing Savage's hand, Britta led him to the basement. Linda watched them leave the room. Despite her concern, she found she was experiencing an almost forgotten flush of sexual excitement. The feeling embarrassed her as she returned to the kitchen and tried focusing her thoughts on cooking dinner.
Despite Linda’s concern, she found she couldn’t shake her sexual fantasy for the young man. Succumbing to the feeling, she fixed him another drink and took it to the basement. When her eyes adjusted to the dim fluorescent glow, she saw Dan Savage, stripped to the waist, making final adjustments on an exposed pipe. Britta, sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, licking her freshly glossed lips, was also watching Savage's every move.
Linda handed the drink to Savage. “Thought you might need this.”
Sweat trickled down the young man’s muscled rib cage. Unnerved by his physical presence, she almost spilled the drink.
“Thanks,” he said with a knowing grin.
Again, their eyes locked. Linda admired Savage's angular face and brown curly hair. Six inches taller and at least fifteen years younger than she, the young man had dark, brooding eyes. Britta was also staring, watching intently as Dan Savage tipped the glass. Rubbing its icy surface across his forehead, he licked his lips and stowed the wrench.
“Fixed,” he said.
“You are so good!” Britta squealed, wrapping her slender arms around his neck.
Linda's face flushed, realizing the emotion she felt was jealousy as she watched Savage and her daughter embrace.
“Follow me, Mr. Savage, I'll show you the guest bedroom. You can shower, and I'll find some of my husband's clothes for you to wear.”
“Call me Dan,” he said, untangling from Britta and following Linda up the stairs, into the spare bedroom.
“Towels are in the cabinet, Dan. Take your time.”
Linda waited in the kitchen for twenty minutes before selecting shirt and pants from her husband's closet. Returning to the guest bedroom, she tapped lightly on the wall, and then entered without waiting for a reply.
Through the partially opened the bathroom door, she heard Savage humming a discordant tune. Grasping the handle, she eased it open, her senses sharpened as she stared into the steam-filled room, her eyes finally focusing on Savage's hazy shape. Standing with his back to her, he studied his image in the mirror, shaving cream on his face and razor in his hand. She watched, riveted by his naked backside, until he stopped humming and turned around, grinning and seemingly unmindful of his nakedness.
“See something you like?”
Linda's face flushed bright red. After hurriedly placing Ted's clothes in a chair by the door, she hurried out of the bathroom.
“Dinner in ten minutes,” she said, ignoring his blatantly sexual remark.
***
Twenty minutes later Dan Savage, dressed in her husband’s clothes and making no apologies, joined her in the kitchen. The shirt and pants were too small. Savage didn’t seem to mind, and Linda’s face flushed when he smiled at her.
“Britta,” she called. “Dinner’s ready.”
Wearing a sexy blouse and tight leather skirt, Linda's pretty daughter appeared. Too sexy for Friday night with mom, Linda thought, raising an eyebrow.
Britta’s eyes were awash with Dan. “Where you from?” she asked.
“Here and there,” he said, ladling corn from a bowl. “Mostly there.”
His reply made Britta giggle and Linda smile. Dan Savage regaled them with tales of the road as they ate. When they finished eating, Britta went upstairs. Dan Savage helped Linda with the dishes. After straightening the kitchen, they went to the living room to bask in the warmth of the roaring fireplace.
“Does your husband always have meetings on Friday night?”
Savage's question brought a nervous titter. “I've wondered that myself.”
“And what's the answer?”
Reclining on the couch with bent knees, she rested her head in her palms. The posture caused her skirt to slip down her thighs, and she soon realized Savage was peering down her dress. More than just looking, he was staring. She sat up abruptly.
“You didn't answer my question,” Savage said, grinning.
Linda's face was on fire. The warmth felt terrific, and she realized she didn’t want it quenched. “Britta suggests he's having an affair,” she said, looking away from Savage's glance but unable to suppress her own grin.
“Is he?”
Staring again into his mesmerizing eyes, she said, “Yes. I'll get you a robe and a pair of Ted's pajamas.”
Dan Savage stretched out on the couch until she returned.
“You're bigger than Ted,” she said, handing him the robe and pajamas.
He winked as he climbed the stairs to the bedroom. “Your husband has excellent taste. I’ll put these on and see you later.”
Savage's barely disguised implication seared her soul. Flushing with sexual warmth, she waited ten minutes. When he didn’t return, she went to her own bedroom, shutting the door and leaving it unlocked. After an hour had passed, she tried to sleep, but her body blazed as she rolled beneath the sheets. Sometime later, still wide-awake, she went to the window, drawing open the curtains.
The storm had arrived. Standing at the window, she touched herself as she watched snow pile up against the house. Returning to bed still filled with unbridled lust, and unable or unwilling to stop fantasizing about Dan Savage, she touched herself again. In the midst of the storm, perspiration beaded her forehead. Like green wood in a fireplace, she smoldered, ready to explode, soon slipping into a restless, multicolored dream—
She stood in the bathroom with Dan Savage; this time they were both naked. Savage extended his hand. Linda moved toward him. When he touched her breast, the sensual caress caused her to awaken.
She found herself tangled in the sheets, desperately needing a drink.
Dressed in only her blue nightgown, not bothering with robe and slippers, she went to the kitchen for a glass of ice water, finding something amiss along the way: Ted's office, its door gaping open. Peering inside, she switched on the desk lamp. Papers lay scattered on the floor like drifts of snow. His heavy floor safe stood open and empty. With trembling fingertips to stifle a scream, she touched her open mouth.
“My God!”
When Linda discovered Ted's gun was missing from its usual spot in the desk, her hands began to shake. Despite the warmth of the house, she shivered and hurried upstairs, halting outside the guest bedroom, trying desperately to decide what to do. Grasping the doorknob, she pushed it open, almost fainting when she heard the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking.
Not only had the brazen stranger stole their money and jewels. Now he was raping Britta under their roof. Impulsively, she reached for the light switch.
“Leave my daughter alone, you monster!”
Britta sat bolt upright, resolute shock on her pretty face. Dan Savage grinned back at her, bringing a gasp of distressed comprehension to her already horrified expression.
“Mother, how could you?” Britta said, beginning to cry.
“Get out of that bed,” Linda yelled. “Now!”
Grabbing Britta's arm, she yanked her to the floor. Britta curled up in a ball in the corner to hide her nudity. This time, Linda screamed at the stranger.
“Thief! How could you rob us and then rape my daughter?”
“You kidding me, lady? The little bitch loves it.”
“You’re a liar.”
Hot with emotion, Linda threw herself at him, scratching and flailing with arms and fists as Savage deftly blocked her blows. When he slapped her and shoved her against the wall, she sank to the floor, wiping tears from her eyes and blood from a split lip.
Britta's sobbing moans came from deep within her chest as she lay crumpled in a naked heap beside the bed. Savage, no longer smiling, wiped the blood from three parallel scratches on his face. Linda took the opportunity to crawl to her daughter. When she tried to put her hands on Britta’s shoulders, she wrenched away from her grasp.
“How could you do this to me?” she said, her voice low and filled with barely subdued ire.
“Britta, you don't understand. This man is a thief.”
“You did this because you want him for yourself,” Britta said, her tears returning.
“That's not true.”
“I hate you,” she cried, springing up from the floor. “I hate you just like Daddy hates you.”
Slamming the door behind her, she hurriedly exited the room as Linda's face flushed with hopelessness. She caught her breath, glaring at the thief on the bed.
“Get out of here, or I'll call the police.”
Savage only laughed, and it chilled her. “Phone's dead. Remember?”
Linda reached for the phone. “You cut the line, didn't you?”
Savage didn’t answer.
“How did you know about the money and jewels we keep in the house?”
Laughing again, he said, “Maybe you should ask your lovely daughter about that.”
Linda froze. “What do you mean?”
"You think I just met Britta tonight? We’ve been going at it like cats in heat for a month now. We're taking the money and blowing this state.”
“Liar.”
“Am I? Surely you know I cut the phone line. How do you think I managed the broken pipe in the basement?”
Feeling dizzy, Linda sank slowly to the dark carpet, senses floating just above the edge of reality. After watching him dress, she followed him out of the bedroom and down the stairs. There they found Britta dressed for the storm, her suitcase packed. Savage grabbed his coat from the closet, took the suitcase, and opened the front door. Icy wind quickly filled the hallway with blowing snow.
Linda grabbed Britta's elbow. “Stop it! Where do you think you're going?”
Britta shook loose from her grasp. “Away from you.”
“You can't leave like this. What will I tell your father?”
Pivoting on her heels, Britta glared defiantly. “You never loved Daddy. Don't bother telling him anything. He'll know why I left.”
“Don't go,” Linda begged as her daughter trudged through the snow, following Savage.
Britta kept walking without turning around. Linda followed her into the brunt of the storm, wearing nothing but her blue nightgown. When they reached a car parked on the street, Savage opened the door, tossed the suitcase into the back seat, and tried to crank the engine. Behind them, the front door slammed shut in the wind. Linda didn’t notice, grabbing Britta's arm. Her daughter pulled away and climbed into the passenger seat, locking the door behind her. Banging on the window, Linda pleaded for her to open the door. She simply folded her arms and stared across the car's hood, refusing to look at her mother.
Savage continued trying to crank the engine until it became clear the battery was dead. Sliding across the front seat, Britta grabbed his hand and led him to the garage. Minutes later, Linda's silver Mercedes screamed away through misty darkness. She chased after them down the road, begging her daughter to come back.
***
Ted Stevenson returned the next morning, easing his car into the driveway. He straightened his tie before switching off the engine. In front of the house was a red Chevrolet he hadn’t noticed when he left. From the snow lying thick on its hood, he realized it must have been there all night.
Something near the front door of the house glinted in the sun. At first, he thought it was a snowman, a child's early morning creation. It wasn’t. Racing to the front door, he found Linda's body, clad only in her sexy nightgown. She was on her knees in the snow.
Ice covered her exposed body and caused it to glisten like broken diamonds in the morning sunlight. In a deadly embrace, one frozen hand clutched the locked door handle. The other raised to the sky as if signaling for help that had never come. Paralyzed by dissociated horror, Ted stared at his wife's lovely face.
Her lips were icy blue, frozen in an ironic smile. Ted thought he saw her eyes move, deciding finally it was only a frosty reflection. Realizing there was nothing more he could do for his wife, he dropped his coat to check on Britta. Rushing upstairs, he abandoned the frozen body of his ice princess, leaving her alone again, this time to bask in the gloomy cloak of frigid morning, and the eternity of untimely death.
Years ago, I worked up a geologic prospect in Grant County, Oklahoma and sold it to a company that bought it under the condition that I would personally sit the well. This means I would stay near the location while the well was drilling and describe the drilling samples. This was before Anne and I were married, but not before we were living together. Deciding to adventure, we rented a thirty-three foot recreational vehicle. Country and western singer Wanda Jackson’s former RV, according to the man we rented it from. Heading north to Grant County, we took along our dear friend Ray.
The well was in the middle of a wheat field, without a tree in sight. The drilling rig, we soon learned, didn’t have enough power to generate electricity for the RV, so we had to run the generator full time. It was hot that summer, one hundred to 105 degrees every day. Although the weather was steamy, the wheat field dusty and the drilling rig noisy, we had a daily respite—three, in fact. There was a little eatery in Pond Creek called the Curb Café. The county sheriff owned the place, and the specialty of the house was chicken-fried steak. Soon, Anne, Ray and I were eating chicken-fried steak and eggs for breakfast, the chicken-fried steak luncheon special, and the dinner that included a fully-loaded, baked potato. Sheriff Archie’s chicken-fries weren’t his only claim to fame. He was also the state expert on witchcraft, crop circles and cattle mutilations, of which there were many during that summer.
The height of the eighty’s drilling boom, every man on the drilling rig was a weevil (translation: a person having no earthly idea what he’s doing). Anne, Ray, and I weren’t worried because we had our chicken fries to look forward to three times a day. Returning to the rig after breakfast on the second day of drilling, a state trooper, directing traffic and pulling selected cars to the side of the road, halted us.
“Where you folks headed?”
“We’re drilling a well about a mile up the road. What’s the deal?”
“Someone cut up a cow out there last night,” he said, pointing to the fenced pasture. “Sliced its udder smack-dab off, and not a drop of blood anywhere.”
Anne glanced at me, and I looked at Ray. “What’s going on?”
“A coven,” he said. “Last night was a full moon.”
Ray grinned as he glanced first at Anne and then at me.
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
The question earned him a dirty look. “Mighty big RV you got there. Mind if I take a look inside?”
“Sure,” I said, my easy acquiescence earning another dirty look, this one from Anne.
The trooper didn’t wait for a second invitation, hurrying up the short flight of stairs to the RV’s door. He glanced inside the tiny bathroom and the bedroom in back before satisfying himself that we weren’t part of the coven that had mutilated the cow the previous night. We were soon on the road again to the drilling rig.
“Why did you let him look inside the RV? He didn’t have a search warrant,” Anne said.
“We have nothing to hide,” I answered. “I thought that he might give us more information about what happened last night.”
Ray shook his head. “Fat chance of that! He probably couldn’t get his mouth open because of that frown on his face.”
A dust devil blowing across the location as we turned off the highway ended our talk of covens and cattle mutilations. The location, bulldozed from an Oklahoma wheat field, lay miles from the nearest town or farmhouse. The roar of a giant diesel engine accosted our hearing when we stopped and opened the RV’s door.
Ray and Anne relaxed as I walked across the location to the drilling rig known as a double because it drilled with stands of pipe consisting of two thirty-foot sections. The mast poked seventy or eighty feet into clear Oklahoma sky. The doghouse and drill floor were twelve feet above the ground, and reached by climbing a steep flight of metal stairs. The sample man had tied my drilling samples to the handrail at the base of the stairs. I decided to check the drill floor anyway before returning to the RV with the samples.
I sprinted up the steep twenty-four steps leading to the doghouse. Three roughnecks acknowledged my appearance by melting away without a word. Ralph, the driller, stared across the wheat field, rubbed an oily hand through his equally oily three day-old beard, and spat tobacco juice on the ground below. I glanced at the Geolograph, the mechanical device on the rig floor telling how deep we had drilled. Ralph continued to ignore me.
This wasn’t my first rodeo. Though I hadn’t been on a drilling rig in more than a year, I knew the hierarchy and flow of a drilling hole as well as I knew my own name. Ralph looked older than his thirty-odd years, the shirt he wore as black as his oily hair. Still, he had drilling intelligence, maybe more than me. He knew more about the subsurface of Grant County, Oklahoma than any person I knew. He could immediately pick “pay dirt” and he didn’t tolerate fools.
“Was that last drilling break in the Layton?”
“Yep,” he said.
“You heard about the cow cutting, up the road?”
“Yep,” he said again.
“And?” I asked, trying to draw him out.
Ralph spit a wad of tobacco over the railing and started away, toward the rig’s diesel engines.
“Weren’t no alien spacecraft,” he said, his words quickly overcome by the mechanical drone of the giant diesel outside the door.
“Then what was it?”
When he turned and glanced at me, he wasn’t smiling. “Don’t pay to ask too many questions around here about such as that.”
Giving me no chance to ask any more questions, he hurried down the steep stairs as fast as his gimpy leg would let him. I glanced again at the Geolograph, and then followed him. I found Anne and Ray watching a portable television while eating potato chips and drinking Coke, Anne’s omnipresent drink of choice.
They both gave me looks of apprehension when I said, “Maybe we better lock the door tonight.”
Many strange and eerie events had already occurred in Oklahoma that summer. Whenever one did, the news stations always interviewed Sheriff Arch, the owner of our chicken fry café in Pond Creek. That evening, we had a lively discussion as we drove to the Curb Café for our nightly feast.
“Let’s confront Sheriff Arch,” Anne said. “He’ll tell us what he thinks is going on around here.”
“Maybe he knows what’s happening because he’s a Satanist himself. Maybe we should keep our questions to ourselves.”
“Bull,” Ray said. “I agree with Anne. Let’s ask him. You think he’ll put a hex spell on us, or something?”
Anne snickered when I said, “Maybe.”
“Well it’s two to one,” she said. “Tonight we talk with Sheriff Arch.”
True to its name, the Curb Café sat just north of a big bend in the highway as it passed through Pond Creek. The café was large and almost always crowded. When Sheriff Arch was around, he held court at a big booth in the corner near the kitchen.
Every farmer, rancher and shop owner entering the restaurant paid him homage, shaking his hand before taking a seat for dinner. An imposing figure, he ruled the County by his mere presence. Maybe, but intimidated is how I felt, as apparently so did Ray. Not so Anne. Walking straight to his booth, she extended her hand and introduced herself. She was also an imposing figure and had the savvy and intelligence to play to his ego. It was easy to see he was immediately impressed.
“I’m Anne, Sheriff, and these are my friends Eric and Ray. May we pick your brain a bit?”
“About what, little lady?”
“Satanists and cattle mutilations. You’re the expert. Everyone in Oklahoma knows that.”
“Slide in here, little lady,” he said.
Anne slid into the booth beside Sheriff Arch. Ray looked skeptical, but followed after her and so did I.
“The usual,” Ray said to Chloe, our regular waitress.
She smiled and walked away toward the kitchen, knowing without asking that we all wanted chicken fried steak dinners.
“I see you like our specialty,” Sheriff Arch said. “We like to think it’s the best in the state.”
“Best I’ve ever had,” I said.
“What do you think, little lady?” Sheriff Arch asked Anne.
“Are you kidding? I’ve gained three pounds in the last week.”
“A pound of that came from your bread pudding,” I said. “It’s Anne’s favorite desert.”
“Good, good. Now what can I do for you?” he said.
“There was a cattle mutilation just west of here last night. State police stopped and questioned us. The tool pusher on the rig we’re on said it wasn’t aliens responsible.”
Sheriff Arch chuckled. “More likely the Blackwell Coven. They been fairly active lately.”
“The Blackwell Coven. You mean there’s more than one?” Ray said.
“Depends on who you ask,” he answered.
Anne gave me a glance that I knew meant, how does he know how many covens there are unless he’s a member. She must have been afraid to ask. Both Ray and I were.
Instead, she said, “Can you tell us exactly what a cattle mutilation entails?”
Sheriff Arch rubbed his grizzled chin and nodded. “It’s always the same. The farmer finds the cow dead, drained of blood, its sexual organs surgically removed, and their eyes and tongue also gone. No blood on the ground. Not a drop.”
“Is the tool pusher on our rig correct when he said the mutilations aren’t related to aliens?” I asked.
“You don’t believe in little green men from Mars, do you?” he asked, staring me straight in the eye.
“No, but. . .”
“Then give me a little more credit,” he said, his tone suddenly stern, as if he were a teacher admonishing a slow student. “These mutilations are done by Satanists, plain and simple.”
“But how do you know that?” Anne asked.
“I know because the mutilations always happen during satanic holidays, or eves to holidays.”
“Such as?” Anne goaded.
“Yesterday was the first day of July, when Satanists and pagans celebrate the Demon Revels. It’s a celebration of female sexuality. The udder of a cow is often taken for the ceremony. That’s what happened last night.”
“You mean Satanists have celebrations, like Christians?”
Our chicken fried dinners arrived before Sheriff Arch could answer Anne’s question. After the waitress had left our table, he said, “All the Christian holidays are based on pagan activities that preceded them by centuries.”
“Even Easter?” Ray asked.
“Son, do you know what estrus means?”
Ray stuttered a bit and said, “Well, not really.”
“It’s when an animal goes into heat. Eastre was the Anglo-Saxon Goddess of fertility, a goddess associated with eggs and rabbits. Their holiday for Eastre took place around the Vernal Equinox of spring. Does any of this sound familiar?”
“So these Satanists are pagans, acting out ancient beliefs?” Anne asked.
“That’s right,” Sheriff Arch said.
“Then why are they so secretive? We do have freedom of religion in this country,” she said.
“Because the congregation at the local Methodist Church doesn’t kill cattle that aren’t theirs, then cut them up for use in some pagan ceremony.”
“Is that all they do that’s illegal?” I asked.
Sheriff Arch motioned Chloe to bring us a refill on our coffee. After she had filled our cups and left the table with a smile, he said, “There’s rumor they do quite a bit more than cattle mutilations.”
“Such as?” Ray asked.
“Sacrifice, of the human variety.”
After hearing Sheriff Arch’s words, Ray and I simply sat there, staring at him with our eyes wide and mouths open. Anne wasn’t so content and asked, “Do you know any Satanists?”
“You bet, little lady, and so do you. Ralph Thompson, the daylight driller, on the rig that’s drilling your well, is an elder in the Blackwell Coven.”
***
A near-full moon lighted the highway on our return trip to the drilling rig that night, questions about pagans, cattle mutilations and possible human sacrifices resounding in our heads. The last two weeks of June had seen record rainfall and chilly temperatures. That all had changed with the first week of July. The RV’s air-conditioner worked overtime as we pulled onto the location. It was after nine, sky dark as I parked the large vehicle and turned off the engine.
Sated by chicken fries and mashed potatoes, Ray and Anne prepared for some light reading, followed quickly by bedtime. Not so lucky, I left to retrieve my samples. What I found was a moon-bright location and not a single roughneck in sight. Far across the wheat field, a coyote bayed at the moon.
The late seventies drilling boom featured three things—fast money, prominent drugs and rampant inexperience. The most experienced roughneck on the night tower had less than a year of oil field work under his belt. The rest, well. . .
My samples weren’t waiting for me at the usual place, and I climbed the stairs to the drill floor in search of the driller. Instead, at the top of the flight I found an empty doghouse and a fresh joint of pipe turning slowly. There was no one in sight. Above the pungent odor of burning diesel fuel, I smelled something wafting up from below: the unmistakable scent of pot. I started down the stairs toward the smell. Following my nose to the mud bin, I found two of the roughnecks. They were young, early twenties, and from the look in their disjointed eyes, both stoned.
“Did you fellows forget to catch my samples?”
The two young men answered me with nervous giggles. Realizing I wouldn’t get much more information from them, I walked around the drilling rig in search of the driller. A large rotary rig, powered by twin diesel engines is extremely noisy. Most oil patch workers have significant hearing loss after only a few years on the job. A drilling rig is also a decidedly dangerous place to work, roughnecks with missing fingers a common sight. Fingers aren’t the only things lost on a drilling rig. Those that aren’t careful often lose larger limbs, and even their lives. High pressure gas spewing uncontrollably from a broken wellhead had blown a man’s head off that same year. Though I hadn’t witnessed the accident, I knew the man’s father.
As I rounded the drilling rig, a heavy steel cheater bar tumbled off the rig floor, missing my head by inches and bouncing as it hit the ground. With my heart racing from a rush of adrenaline, I glanced up to get a glimpse of what or who was responsible. Seeing no one, I raced up the steps, finding the doghouse and rig floor deserted. When I retraced my steps down the steep ramp, I found my missing samples had miraculously appeared in their normal place, tied to the bottom rail. Feeling I would get no satisfaction as to how the accident had occurred, I started back toward the RV. Waiting for me at the vehicle’s door was a large pentagram, painted in the sand with oil. On the front step was a headless chicken, its muscles still twitching.
I rushed into the RV, my heart racing. “You’re not going to believe this,” I shouted to get Anne’s and Ray’s attention. “Quick, come see.”