Adam's Woods (27 page)

"You see. White trash, that's all you are. Your mother was a whore, and you're a whoreson. Get up. Such a big man, big football player. You're nothing, Groves." He spit on JT, who lay writhing on the ground, his breath coming in short hitches.

Eric tried to think. If he attacked Arnie, he would be shot. In Arnie’s agitated state, he held no doubts about that now. And then he heard the whining of the dog in a duet with the ringing in his ears, its nails scratching furtively on the wood of the closed door. Shut, but not locked. He didn't look, fearing Arnie would see, but he did take a small side step in that direction. Arnie stood over JT's bulk, his small frame reduced in comparison even with the larger man moaning in pain on the ground. He looked like a mad hunter that had finally brought down the great bear that had tormented and eluded him, and wanted to savor its agony and defeat. Eric took another step, but Arnie was lost in his victory, taunting JT, urging him to get up and fight now that the fight was done.

Only a few steps now from the door. He noticed the lock on the ground. The whining had ceased, replaced with the growl, a reaction to his approach. Eric paused, not sure the dog knew who the enemy was. Without his master to hold him back, would he seek vengeance on them both? Arnie kicked JT again, and this time he only flinched, seemed beyond any further reaction. Eric knew he had to take the chance, couldn't allow this to go any further. He steeled himself for whatever would come, stepped quickly to the door, and turned the knob. The door opened inwardly, so there was no chance to hide behind it. The dog launched from the interior, ignored Eric, paused only to get his bearings, then with chilling efficiency closed the distance between itself and Arnie in a few deadly bounds.

Arnie lacked the time or awareness even to put up his hands in protection. Lee lunged for his throat, locking on as they toppled and shook his head furiously on impact with the earth. Eric was glad for the night's concealment, so that the deed registered as only dark shapes and blurred motion. Fisk never made a sound, simply died.

Eric slumped to the ground and sat against the cabin. He crossed his arms over his knees and buried his face into them. He needed to get help for JT, but required a minute for the shaking to stop and the aced to settle back down into his stomach. His muscles ached with tension as though he'd aged ten years since leaving his house to follow Burroughs.

He felt hot breath on his arms and slowly raised his head. Lee stared at him from inches away with undeclared intentions. Eric slowly put out a hand and the dog tensed, then craned its head forward and sniffed. The tongue flashed out once, and Eric felt the wetness and wiped it on his pants without looking, not wanting to know what mixture of Leed’s saliva and Arnie's blood it contained. It occurred to him that if writing this scene, he would have included spouting blood and mangled flesh in graphic detail, didn't know if he could ever do that again. The dog trotted back to JT and sat down next to him, whining.

Eric got up slowly and approached them. John Thomas lay still, but moaned almost inaudibly, maybe not unconscious but gone to somewhere inside to escape the pain.

Lee growled again, and Eric looked down to see him staring into the woods. The dog stood up, body rigid in preparation to defend his master again. Isaac, Eric thought, and saw the gun a few feet from Arnie's body that lay face down in a dark pool that looked like an oil spill. He reached down to pick it up, wondered if the dog would respond to his commands and almost ordered him to attack. But he still wanted, needed, to know why. He had learned much, but not enough. He could kill Isaac if necessary, but would rather take him back to the police. He had seen enough killing tonight. For a lifetime.

The shape of a man resolved from the gloom, from the direction that Arnie had come. A large, bulky shape, wider and shorter than JT. Not Isaac. The figure clutched a hunting rifle at port arms and moved cautiously.

The dog's growl increased, and Eric said, "Quiet, Lee." The noise ceased and Lee sat down next to JT, his eyes fixed on Paul, ready to attack if required.

"No need for the gun, Paul. There's been enough shooting tonight. Isaac's gone. The pastor and Arnie Fisk are dead. I need your help getting John Thomas Groves out of here and to a hospital."

Paul stepped close enough for Eric to see his anxious face. He stopped at Arnie's corpse and stared. He still held the gun close to his chest. He looked at Eric and said, "The Pastor?"

Eric pointed at the cabin and Paul stepped to the open door and looked inside. He stood on the threshold for a full minute, then turned around. Hadn't dropped the gun. Would he do as Fisk did, see the desperate chance in killing them, maybe throwing all of the bodies into the cabin and torching it? Or burying them all and quietly dismantling it? Eric was too far away to stop him if the gun went to his shoulder. Lee might listen to him but seemed to have forgotten about anyone except JT. He had lowered his head and begun to lick his master's hand.

"Paul? We need to get him to the hospital. Arnie hurt his leg pretty bad. He's in a lot of pain. The police need to know about Isaac. There were more kids than my brother, Paul. We can't let him go. There might be even more if we do. Let it be over."

Still Paul did nothing. The moments stretched out until Eric wanted to scream at him. Either shoot or help. He was tired of them all, of this. So tired.

Paul put the gun down, leaned it barrel-up against the cabin, and Eric released a held breath.
Thank you
, he thought.

They fashioned a litter out of tree branches and their shirts, gently removed JT's as well. It took nearly an hour to drag him through the woods, with the frequent stops due to his weight. He moaned as they bounced over depressions and pulled him through low branches that lashed out in response. They spoke only when necessary but not about what lay behind them. Lee trotted alongside, seemed to understand they were helping and didn't react to his master's sounds of pain, except to whine in empathy and lick his hand.

At the edge of the woods, and on the service road at the other end of the field from where Eric had entered, they set their burden down. Eric's muscles and back announced their refusal to pull any further, was relieved when Paul said an ambulance would be able to get back here.

"Go on up to the house and call, Eric. I'll wait here with JT. You're younger than me. I’m spent."

Eric wanted to protest, but then decided that if Paul had planned to kill them, he would have. JT needed help, couldn’t wait until they settled their differences. And Paul would have to deal with the dog.

He walked along the gravel. It curved around the back of the field and then turned at the edge of the next pasture to rejoin the road. He could see the lights from Paul's house as a yellow glow just over a rise. Fireflies danced amongst the cornstalks in abundance; beauty amidst tragedy, love and hate, salvation and murder mingling side by side here as it did everywhere. He stepped through the unlocked door and called 911, asking for both an ambulance and the police. Fortunately the dispatcher knew Paul's farm, as he couldn't provide the name of the road or answer as to if they were still in Lincoln Corners.

He stepped outside to wait for the emergency vehicles and couldn't help but think of what the Pastor had said about Arnie. How he wanted to protect the town. And what the town would now suffer because of his actions, how much more sensational the story. No one would ever forget Lincoln Corners after this. Like Columbine, or the location of any other event too bizarre and horrible to scrub out of the collective consciousness. A rare feat in the rapid fire, report and forget-it modern media.
Hats off to you, Arnie.

Just when he thought he heard the first siren, and strained his ears to confirm it, he flinched at the single gunshot. He sprinted down the road, cursing himself for leaving JT with Paul. But then he realized it had sounded from further away, and slowed. Probably from the cabin, where Paul had left his rifle. For just that purpose.

With a heavy heart, Eric walked to meet the ambulance cresting the rise and painting the fields red with flashing lights, mixing their colors with the fireflies that blinked on and off with indifference to it all.

Isaac was gone. The only trace of him found was the leg iron used to chain him to the ringlet set into the stone in the cabin. He had found a hacksaw somewhere and freed himself of this last remnant of his captivity. Eric tried to stay in the house in Lincoln Corners, but the media had descended like locusts to devour the town. He had moved in with Mary, and occupied a spare bedroom upstairs in her two-story home in a rural area outside of Drake City. Still, some reporters had managed to find him, and he gave one brief statement before informing them that they would be considered trespassers from that point on, and then headed back inside.

He had called his parents, and listened to silence at the other end after telling the tale to his father. He didn't want to, but preferred they hear from him rather than a breaking news story scrolling across the bottom of the television. For now they planned to stay in Arizona. Eric thought that wouldn't change even if they caught Isaac. Returning to the place Adam had been murdered was hard enough. Returning and knowing that friends - or at least neighbors trusted and respected - had deceived them might prove impossible.

Mary still had a business to run, and he spent long hours alone sitting in a wooden Adirondack chair on the back porch staring at the woods behind her house, accompanied by Lee while JT recovered from his surgery. The dog sometimes sat next to him, but never relaxed. More often, Lee moved through the back yard in a quick gait, testing the air for the scent of his master.

He appreciated the serenity offered by Mary's place, and began to listen again: to a pileated woodpecker loosing its shrill and startling cry, to the crickets in the grass before the treeline of the woods, to the thunder boom as a storm approached and the wind flattened the last of the goldenrods turning from bright yellow to rust. The leaves had changed completely, and he meditated on yellows and reds and the autumn air filled with clouds like an armada overhead that gave the skies such depth. He could almost, sometimes, forget. But in doing so it made it harder when reality closed back in on all sides. If not for Mary, he would have left. Mary, and Isaac. If they caught him, he wanted to be there.

Eric also replayed the last words of Pastor Burroughs, going beyond the initial outrage and looking for his answer.
What if Adam had killed?
And he had to concede that if the people, location, and opportunity had existed, he might have considered it. Could his love for his brother, coupled with the ability to ensure justice in a fashion, drive him to build his own cabin? And even if ultimately he answered in the negative, couldn't he at least understand it? He could. Maybe because he had spent his life concocting plots that embraced the unbelievable, but he could. He could believe that Burroughs and Paul meant no harm. Arnie was a different matter, one Eric didn't wish to think about, but could even understood his motives up to a point. He had heard from Mary that only one of his sons had attended his funeral. Tony. And very few others. It angered him that Arnie shared the same burial ground as his brother. Paul's farm would be put up for auction, the lumberyard up for sale. Fisk's wife had gone to live with her son. The church needed a new pastor. Eric hoped they found someone strong and compassionate to help in the healing. And he thought, with sadness and revelation, that they needed another Patrick Burroughs. He knew then that while the pain and confusion and betrayal would linger, he had begun to forgive the man.

Mary and Eric walked into the private hospital room holding hands. JT smiled at their arrival, a genuine smile that seemed out of place on his face. Even as children, his smiles had always lacked something, as though mimicking what others did without understanding the reasons.

"Eric, Mary. Thanks for coming. Sorry it couldn't have been sooner, but I've been so whacked out on those sweet painkillers I wouldn't have known who you were. Have a seat."

The pulled up uncomfortable chairs and made the best of them. JT needed a long hot shower to unstick his hair from his skull, and his face was still drawn from the pain or its memory, but Eric thought he looked well. But for other reasons, like the smile.

"So how are you feeling? Were they able to fix your leg?"

"They say I'll never walk again without a cane, and that only for short distances, but I plan to see about proving them wrong. I've beat their predictions before. A big part of it is right here." He tapped the side of his head.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Mary said, and got up and quickly gave him a kiss on the forehead, a gesture that from Eric's perspective seemed to surprise them both.

"Hey now," John Thomas said, "No trying to peek under the sheet. They didn't have any of these damn johnnies that fit me, so there's more showing than there ought to be." He joked, but Eric could see the depth to which her kiss had touched him. Mary sat back down blushing, but she smiled at his comment and met his eyes, and something appeared to have been repaired between the two of them. But she wasn't finished.