“Shhhhh….”
The voice in her ear was soft and soothing and she felt hands stroke her hair.
“Shhhh. Everything’s going to be fine. It won’t hurt forever. I promise.”
Matt was framed against an open door that led down into the cellar and he looked over the old woman’s trembling head at his wife. Glancing up from the catalog, Mona smiled and winked at him as she jiggled her breasts like a go-go dancer. Shaking his head slowly, Matt suppressed a laugh before turning his attentions back to the injured woman in his arms. He felt, rather than heard, the wet gurgle that bubbled in her throat and her hands gripped his shirt as if it were the only thing anchoring her to life.
“It won’t hurt forever….”
Mary gasped as her own paring knife sliced into her gut. The pain traveled quickly in an arch, almost as if a smile were being carved into her gut. She pulled away from the man and wrapped her arms around her belly as if she could keep the wet, slippery organs from spilling through the gash. There was another flash of pain as Matt rammed the knife into her upper abdomen. Buried entirely up to the hilt, the knife stuck out of her body like some bizarre handle and scraped at the edges of bone that it was wedged between. Staggering backwards, she felt the hands again. On her shoulders this time. They yanked her around so roughly that her teeth snapped against one another and then she was pushed backward again.
The old woman toppled over the stairs with her arms pinwheeling in the air and Matt felt the house shake as her body bounced and rolled down each step. After a few seconds of this, there was a final thump as her body struck the concrete floor of the cellar. The door above then creaked shut, leaving Mary Gruber to die alone and in the dark.
SCENE THIRTEEN
The pages of the scrapbook appeared in Daryl’s mind like rapid-fire recollections of a nightmare. He saw Mona with her dark hair and cherubic face, looking absolutely gorgeous in a tight, black tee shirt that clung to the curves of her breasts as if the fabric itself wanted nothing more than to fondle them; wearing red lipstick, she smiled for the camera as she held the head of a bearded man as if it were a trophy. His eyes were wide and round, his mouth opened in a silent scream, and the cut along his severed neck as clean as if it had been taken off with a single blow. In the same cursive script that had spelled out Mona’s Secret Delights were the words Frankfurt, Kentucky. Another page, this one labeled Rock Hill, SC: the living room of what appeared to be a middle class suburban home, a woman tied and gagged, kneeling in front of a wall splattered with blood as Mona held a pistol to the side of her head. Locks of blood-matted hair taped to pages, newspaper articles detailing brutal slayings, and pieces of road map with bright blue Xs that marked the towns where each snapshot had been taken. Entire families lined side by side, men and women who were either dead or about to die, drivers licenses, Matt in the woods and holding a rifle with his foot propped on some fat guy as if he were a big game hunter who’d just taken down the trophy of a lifetime. One page even containing a blood splattered letter, this one written in a shaky scrawclass="underline"
I am about to die and this is a testament of my sins. I slept with my wife’s sister and stold money from work. I once paid a hooker fifty dollars for a blow job, beat her up afterwards, and took my money back. I am not worthy of life….
Page after page of violence, bloodshed and death. Picture after picture of Mona and Matt looking smug, happy, even one with the bare-chested woman glaring seductively at the camera as she straddled a business man whose tie had been cinched so tightly around his neck that the flesh overlapped the black silk.
And these monsters were with Mama. Alone in the house.
Daryl knew they were tied up, that there was a good chance they were even still knocked out. But that didn’t stop the fear from gripping his stomach as securely as that dead man’s necktie. What if they somehow got loose? What if Mama found herself face to face with these butchers? What then?
True, they weren’t exactly angels themselves. But somehow, for reasons Daryl couldn’t quite put into words, what they did was different. And by the time Mama had her chance to play with the things they brought home, Earl and Daryl had always made sure there was no chance that she could possibly be in harm’s way. There were the ropes, the nails, the handcuffs, and leather straps. But those had always been normal people. They were shop clerks, drifters, and housewives… not psychotic thugs who, judging from the pictures in the scrapbook, didn’t have an ounce of compassion in their cold, dark hearts.
All of this went through his mind in the time it took for the cop to bark and order and pull back the hammer of the gun pointing at him.
“I said drop the weapon, mother fucker!”
Daryl’s knees felt as if they were seconds from buckling out from under him and nausea rumbled through his intestines. Somehow, he felt as if he were growing smaller. As it was if the barrel of the cop’s gun emitted some sort of magic ray that burned away everything inside him. The longer it was pointed at him, the more he deflated and the more he became like that small child who had shivered in the darkness of the closet.
He looked at the tire iron in his hand and almost seemed surprised to see it there. How could he have actually thought he had what it took to be the hero? Who the hell was he kidding anyway? He was nothing more than a stupid crybaby who pissed himself in the dark. Just like Earl always said. Like Mama always said.
He would never be a good boy.
Would never get his chance to shine
The metal rod fell from his hand and disappeared into the snow with a thump. Taking this as his cue, the cop raised slowly from his crouch. The man braced the wrist holding the gun with his other hand and his aim remained steady and true as he stood to his full height.
“On your knees! Hands behind your head!”
Daryl lowered himself to the ground and kneeled in the snow. With fingers clasped at the hem of his ski cap, his shoulders slumped and the features of his face seemed to grow longer, almost as if they were made of putty that was being pulled tightly. His eyes never left the gun trained upon him; but as the cop sidestepped his way closer, everything began to waver as warm tears slid down Daryl’s face and soaked into his mustache.
He’d killed Mama. He was sure of this. When he and Earl didn’t come home, she’d get worried. And that would cause her to be distracted. He was certain that’s all it would take. The young couple would somehow manage to get free and they would kill her as viscously as they had all those people in the photos. And it was all his fault.
The cop had closed nearly half the distance between them now and he no longer gripped his wrist with his free hand. It had slid to the waist of his belt and fumbling with the radio that was clipped there.
“Calling for backup.” Daryl thought.
From behind the cop, Earl staggered to his feet like some prehistoric beast pulling itself from a tar pit. For a moment he seemed to simply loom there with his hands cuffed behind his back. But then he charged with a guttural roar that would have made an African lion stop in its tracks.
The cop’s face drained of color and he spun around just as Earl’s bulk smashed into him with such force that the man’s feet were lifted off the ground. The cop fell backward as both his weapon and the radio flew from his hands. He landed on his back in the snow and was trying to scramble to his feet when the Earl fell upon him like a man doing a bellyflop at a pool.
The air whooshed out of the officer’s lungs and Earl drove his forehead into the bridge of the man’s nose. His head smacked down again and again, piston-like in its assault, but rather than fighting back, the cop seemed to be trying to squeeze his arms beneath the layers of Earl’s fat. Finally, he yanked his arm free and there was a small, black cylinder in his hand.