Dismember (17 page)

What did you do?
An image of heavy boots flashed in Dave’s head, and he quickly looked down at himself, sure he’d find the things laced to his feet, but he saw nothing down there but his own pair of shoes.
Okay, but something still feels wrong here. I would never hurt Georgie. Would I?

He felt the sudden weight of the dog on his back and the animal’s hot breath on his throat. He whipped around, managed to fling Manny away from him and onto the ground beside Georgie. Then he dove at the girl and grabbed her arm, pinching the knife between his palm and her bicep but not cutting her. Not yet.

“Okay,” he said and felt he’d managed to regain at least some control of the situation. He backed a few steps away from Georgie and Manny. The girl reached over and scratched him on the back of his hand, and he did nothing, though the attack brought back painful memories of the crummy kitchen where he’d killed Georgie’s old mother.

“Cut out the shit,” he hissed at her, “or I’ll cut out your eye.” He flicked the knife in front of her face for emphasis, and she went deathly still.

“Georgie.”

The boy had both hands plastered to his face and rolled back and forth on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Dave said. “I shouldn’t have hit you—daddies don’t hit their boys—but if you don’t stop your mewling and get up and help me, I
will
hurt the little girl.”

The girl, who had already tensed, now became so rigid she might have been carved from marble. The dog growled, moving uncertainly from side to side, but no closer to Dave. That was good, a situational step in the right direction.

Georgie took one hand away from his face and lifted his head to look at Dave. His scalp had split just beside the abrasion he’d gotten in the tree fort earlier in the day. The blood had run horizontally across his forehead and now caked in his eyebrows and down the ridge of his nose.

“You wouldn’t hurt her,” he said, sounding pained, but obviously trying not to show it. “You’d better not.”

Dave raised his eyebrows, looked down at the girl’s face, and brought the knife up in a long, sure swing. Like chopping off the last quarter inch of a snowman’s carrot. The tip of the girl’s nose arced up through the air and then fell to the earth. It bounced once and rolled for about a foot. When the little button of skin and cartilage came to rest, it didn’t look like anything that had ever been attached to a human body.

The girl’s first shriek, one of surprise at the crude plastic surgery, the nose job from Hell, ended when the pain, which had to be tremendous, kicked in. Her shriek became an ear-piercing wail. For a second, the blood didn’t drip, it poured, as if Dave had opened some ghoulish faucet on her face. The girl reached her free hand to the stub, probably meaning to hold in the blood, but ended up brushing against the raw wound and only hurting herself worse.

Georgie screamed too, and Manny had gone crazy. He hopped from side to side, a nonstop stream of barks pouring out of his muzzle while the blood continued pouring similarly from his former mistress.

Dave looked at Georgie and didn’t have to say anything.

“Oh my God,” Georgie said, “I’m so sorry.”

Dave couldn’t tell for sure but thought the kid might be crying. Just a little. Dave knew the words weren’t directed at him, that Georgie was apologizing to the girl, and that was just about enough to make him want to knock him down again, but he played it cool. “Apology accepted. But you’d better start helping me out here, bud, or it’ll be more of the same.”

Georgie glared at him, and Dave knew the look well. If Georgie’d had a weapon, he’d have used it on Dave, would have used it to the death if it came to that. After this was all over, Dave and Georgie would have to do some serious talking. He didn’t want Georgie thinking he was the bad guy. He was only doing what was necessary. Surely Georgie would see that once they had a chance to sort it all out, but Dave didn’t have time to explain anything now.

“You wearing a belt?” he asked.

Georgie shook his head.

“Hey, girlie.” He shook the girl and turned her partway around so she could look into his face. “You got any kinda leash inside?”

The girl wouldn’t look at him. She’d quit screaming but started bawling. Her mouth opened wide, and the blood from her nose dripped into it, across her teeth and the tip of her tongue.

Dave shook her again and sensed Manny’s charge soon enough to pull himself out of the way like he was his own matador’s cape. The dog flipped over in the air and landed on his side in the dirt. He scrambled back to his feet and resumed his bark-a-thon, but he didn’t try another rush.

“Get inside the house,” he said to Georgie. “Find a hunk of rope or something. Anything. Take the sheets off their bed if you have to. I want Manny tied up until we can get him calmed down.”

Georgie stood still, but Dave didn’t think he’d dare defy him for long, and he was right. Still holding his head with one hand, Georgie gritted his teeth and moved.

“I know you’re still a touch confused,” Dave said, “but don’t you go thinking anything stupid inside that house. Get me? If you’re not back in five minutes, I’ll start with the rest of her nose.”

The girl wiggled in his grasp, and he squeezed her that much more tightly, his second knife still sandwiched between his hand and her arm.

Georgie limped past him, shoe clapping, and Dave grinned.

Manny whimpered. He was a good dog. Dave couldn’t blame him for what had happened here today. After all, they hadn’t seen each other in twenty-three years. He’d get the dog some good snacks—maybe a steak or a roast—and they’d be buddies again before the next afternoon.

The hand the girl had scratched tingled a little. He looked down at it—red but not bleeding—and wondered about his face.

It wouldn’t especially matter if he had scars, he guessed, but that didn’t mean he wanted them if he could avoid it. Vitamin E was supposed to help. He remembered that from his mom, who’d always kept a bottle of the capsules in the cabinet over the fridge. Dave had no vitamin E now, but it wasn’t exactly plutonium, he’d get his hands on some sooner or later.

Manny quieted but continued to stare at Dave and his hostage. The dog’s eyes glowed a little, reflecting light from somewhere, though Dave didn’t know enough about such things to tell from where. The stars maybe, or the couple of lights on in the house? Who knew? Regardless, the glowing eyes creeped him out. Dave tried to remember if the original Manny’s eyes had done the same thing but couldn’t.

“It’s okay, buddy,” he said. “I’m here to take you home.”

The dog cocked his head and bared his teeth, but only for a second. The girl’s sobs intensified.

“I’ll get you a ball that fits your mouth,” he said, frowning at the girl.

He looked at the house. Georgie should have returned by now. He readjusted his grip on both the knife and the girl and touched the point of the blade to the girl’s throat.

“Scream,” he said.

She sobbed and tried to say something Dave couldn’t make out.

“Don’t talk,” he said, poking her hard enough to draw a bead of blood. “Just scream, or I’ll give you something to scream about.”

He expected something pathetic, a croak or a soft moan, but what he got instead was the product of what had to have been the most powerful set of lungs in all of existence. The screech exploded out of the girl’s throat, and after a second, the echo came rippling back at him from the distant mountains.

Not bad
, he thought but didn’t say. He removed the blade from her throat.

Georgie tore out of the house, a long red cord dangling from his fist. He ran at them fast but slowed when he got close enough to see Dave had inflicted no further damage.

“I found a leash,” Georgie said angrily. “Now let her go.”

Dave remembered the way the boy’s voice had sounded in the kitchen that afternoon: high-pitched, girly. He didn’t sound that way now. His voice was as low and commanding as Dave’s own.

“Put it on the dog,” Dave said, not letting go of the girl’s arm.

Georgie did, and Dave was thankful Manny didn’t fight him, didn’t try to pull away or snap at Georgie. In fact, the dog almost seemed happy about the leash, associated it with going on walks probably.

“Wanna go for a walk?” Dave asked, inspired, trying to sound like the good guy he was.

Manny’s tail wagged so slightly that it was almost impossible to see. Dave guessed that neither the girl nor Georgie saw it at all with their comparatively poor eyes.

“Yeah,” Dave said. “We’re going for a nice long walk.”

He let go of the girl, and so much visible tension left Georgie’s body that the kid almost appeared to have fallen asleep standing.

“We’re gonna need a head start,” he said, looking carefully at Georgie. “I don’t suppose you cut the phone lines for me in there.”

“Uh, ye—” Georgie started but then seemed to think better of it. “No,” he admitted.

“Didn’t think so. Then I guess this is your fault.” And without warning, he whacked the girl in the back of her head. She dropped flat on her face, still breathing but otherwise motionless.

Manny barked, and Georgie screamed, “No!”

“Come on,” Dave said. “Lead us back where we came from. The night’s not over yet.” He could tell Georgie wanted to disobey, wanted to hurt him, but the boy finally clutched the leash and walked away from the fallen girl. Dave slipped his knives back into his pockets.

Manny didn’t want to leave at first, fought hard to get back to the spot where his former mistress lay, but Georgie finally got him moving, and the three of them walked up the dandelion hill together.

Beth opened her eyes some time later. Dirt filled her mouth, muddied by the blood still oozing from her savaged nose. She spat and tried scraping her tongue on her shirt, but the taste remained. Sitting up, she looked at the trees where the man and the boy, Georgie, had come from. They had disappeared, and Alfred with them.

More tears came, but she fought them. She had to get help first. It might not be too late. She would have time for crying later.

Straining only a little, she got onto her feet and hurried into the house.

Before she reached the kitchen phone, she noticed the wooden block where they kept their knives. It was tipped onto its side, and one of the slots, the biggest one where the butcher knife should have been, was empty. The phone lay on the counter, the cord curling back up to the base, which was screwed to the wall. The phone beeped a disconnected signal.

He tried calling for help
, she thought.
Probably didn’t get through before that maniac made me scream for him.

She picked up the phone, tapped the disconnect switch to get a dial tone, and then poked at the keypad.

While she waited for someone to pick up on the other end, she moved to the sink to wash the gore from her face. A woman’s voice came on the line and asked her what her emergency was. Beth spoke, and the words poured out of her mouth like blood from a whittled nose.

E
IGHTEEN

D
ave stood over the chopping stump, halving logs and then quartering them. Mr. Boots sat on a pile of already-split wood with a burlap sack between his feet, watching, silent. Dave wasn’t sure what he had in the bag, but it was moving.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

Dave had been counting the number of logs. He was up to forty. If he got to fifty and Mr. Boots hadn’t told him to quit, he’d ask if he was done. He might get smacked in the head for it, but he might also get a smack if he
didn’t
ask. With Mr. Boots, it was always hard to know the right thing to do.

Chop. Chop. Chop. Forty-one.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

“That’s enough,” Mr. Boots said. He got up and helped Dave stack the new wood with the rest. He left the squirming bag in the dirt.

When they had stacked everything Dave had split, Mr. Boots stood with his hand on the boy’s shoulder and stared off into the woods, sometimes stroking his beard, sometimes only breathing heavily and blinking.

After five years, Dave had learned not to interrupt these silences. He might have to stand here for an hour, tired from the chopping and ready to collapse but too scared to move. Moving too soon would mean a lashing.

“You reckon there’s anything worse than death?” Mr. Boots finally said.

Dave didn’t remember everything from his old life, but he was sure there hadn’t been these kinds of questions, these kinds of tests.

“I don’t know.” It was his usual answer.

Mr. Boots turned his attention from the woods to the boy. “There is,” he said. “There’s plenty of worse things.”

“Okay.”

Mr. Boots took his hand off Dave’s shoulder and picked up the burlap sack. He untied a length of twine from the bunched top and reached inside.

The rabbit he pulled out looked like it should have been dead. One of its hind legs was gone. The ragged, gaping wound where it had been dripped blood and strings of fatty tissue. Its eyes were black, unreadable. But it wasn’t dead; it was foaming at the mouth and trying to bite and scratch at Mr. Boots’s hand and arm.