Sweet Little Lies (3 page)

I heard the footsteps on the stairs.
Silently climbing. The third stair from the top creaked a single
screech when you tried to step to the side. He took to the middle
of the riser. He’d been informed.

Two more steps and he’d been in my sights.
My hand didn’t shake. The gun was steady, pointed at the man’s
heart. I’d only have one chance to make this shot.

“Honey?”

I fumbled with the weapons. My husband. I
was safe, fine.

“Robert? Jesus, I almost shot you. What the
hell are you doing here? I thought you were in Seattle.” I
holstered one weapon in the small of my back, set the other on the
table, covered it with a magazine. I’d distract him and slip it
away in a bit—now there were two of us to keep safe. How was I
going to pull that off? We couldn’t leave; the wind would chase us
down. This was the spot for the last stand.

I went to Robert, kissed his neck. He buried
his nose in my hair, held me tight. I finally got claustrophobic
and pulled back to look out the window again.

Robert understood. I wasn’t the most
demonstrative woman. Minimal touching. He’d accepted that about me
early on.

“Honey, I called three times. You didn’t get
my message? Are there any candles? The bloody lights have blown,
the storm is here.”

I laughed, surprised when my voice came out
shaky and rough. Adrenaline. That and the fact that I’d nearly
murdered my very own husband.

“They’re in my top desk drawer. I didn’t get
your call, the phones must be out too.” Of course they were, I’d
cut the line forty-five minutes ago, after my agent had rung me,
breathless and sad. “So why are you home early? Everything alright
with the McGinnis account?”

There was the flick of a match. The room
glowed in an eerie light. Robert, lit by the blunt stub of wax, was
holding my 9 mm Glock. It was pointed at my chest. How is this
possible?

He has come for me.

He is the man I love, the man I thought I
knew.

“I love you,” he said, and fired.

I hardly flinched when the bullet entered my
chest, pierced my heart. I felt nothing.

DREAM WEAVER

Flashing in the Gutters 2006

I squirmed in the too hard chair. I really
needed a bathroom, but the judge was intoning something, and the
jury was filing back in. My lawyer reached over and squeezed my
hand. It just made me think of my bladder, and I wished I’d wake up
already so I could drag myself through the dark to the toilet.

But this was one of those dreams that goes
on and on and on, with no end in sight. I crossed my legs instead,
admired my black patent Louboutin pump. The red sole winked at me.
I smiled back—they had been a steal at Barney’s last season.

Judge Blowhard was talking again. “Ladies
and Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

A mousy middle-aged frump with a gray bun
stood, holding out a piece of paper, which Barney Fife walked over
to the judge. He started up again, his deep voice gravelly and
intense. My lawyer pinched my forearm. I stood tall.

“In the case of State of Tennessee vs.
Davis, we the jury in the aforementioned case find the defendant,
Lisa Davis, guilty of murder in the second degree.”

There were gasps from the audience. I turned
and saw my mother, weeping softly into a white linen handkerchief.
On the other side of the aisle, Buck Davis, my father-in-law, was
smiling broadly. He gave me one of those looks and spoke,
loudly.

“You bitch, you shot my son. Now the world
knows he didn’t kill himself. I hope you rot.”

He turned and swept out of the courtroom.
The heat rose in my chest and I was blinded for a moment, furious.
This was bizarre. I searched the crowd. Where was Troy? My golden
haired boy man, the one who’d swept me off my feet, loved me true.
It’s only a dream, silly, I chided myself. You’ll wake up and Troy
will be lying next to you, warm and solid. You’ll make blueberry
pancakes and read the paper. You’ll tell him about your dream and
he’ll laugh, shaking his head like he does when he finds your
excitement intoxicating. Like he used to.

I turned back to my lawyer, who was making
murmuring noises in my ear. Something about minimum security, a
psychiatric hospital. Promises to come see me soon. Then I was
handed over to the bailiff, cuffed and walked from the room.

The panic began in a slow well. The
handcuffs were tight, biting into my flesh. I started to thrash,
trying to force the dream away, but the bailiff pulled my right arm
down hard enough that the shoulder joint popped and I hissed in
pain.

“Knock it off, girlie. We’re going for a
ride.”

Before I could protest, he pushed me through
the doors of the courthouse. A distant roar started in my ears.

“They’re taking her out the back!” People
were scurrying about, flashbulbs started going off. A white van
pulled to the curb, and the bailiff pushed me inside. I smacked my
forehead on the door frame, felt the bruised lump start swelling.
The guard just leered.

***

It felt like we arrived within minutes. The
lawns were green and long; the building at the end of the drive
looked more like a Victorian mansion than a sanitarium. At least my
dream weaver has good architectural taste. The van jogged to a stop
and the guard grabbed my forearm again.

“Put those panties back on, girlie,” he
grumbled in my ear. “They’ll catalog your clothes and we can’t have
any missing.”

I’d try the trick that’s worked so many
times before. “Sure, whatever. Can I use the bathroom now?”

“Once you’re inside. Thanks for the
lay.”

“Not a problem.” We exited the van, the
sunlight stinging my eyes. A shadow moved across my frame. I
squinted…

“TROY!” I launched myself into his arms. “I
can’t wake up. Will you help me?”

“Sure, babe.” The dark, gaping hole smack in
the center of his face moved again, shreds of blood and tissue fell
to the ground. “You’re going to like it here. I’m sorry I can’t
stay. I have to get back to the graveyard. I miss you, sugar. But
everything will be all right now.”

“Don’t go.” I snuggled in close. “Troy, they
tried me for murder.”

“I know. It’s perfect, isn’t it? I needed
some way to keep you safe, darling. This way, you’ll always be
taken care of. I love you.”

And with that, he was gone. I looked at my
new home and smiled. Troy would never let me be alone.

DRIVE IT LIKE IT’S STOLEN

Flashing in the Gutters 2006

“Are you done with the mascara yet?”

“God Jules, yes already. Quit grabbing for
it.” Tara handed the green tube to her best friend.

“Thank you. It’s just that we don’t have all
day, you know?”

“Shhh, Jules.” Tara glanced over her
shoulder. The bathroom door opened and the rush began. A line
formed behind them, innocuous women and children, just searching
for a little relief on the side of the road. Tara caught one woman
staring at her and narrowed her eyes. The woman looked away,
intimidated or uninterested. Tara chose intimidated, happier with
the idea.

The truck stop was as anonymous as they
came. Side of a highway, somewhere in Godforsaken Timbuktu
Tennessee, a McDonald’s attached to the side. The smell of the
fries made their mouth water when they rushed through the door,
trying to get to the bathroom unnoticed. They’d succeeded.

Tara turned back to the mirror and watched
Jules swipe the little wand across her transparent lashes, wishing
for permanence. Maybe she’d help her dye them one day, when they
had a little more money. Things might be tight for a while. Tara
told Jules over and over again that it was going to be okay, and
Jules believed her. It was the way things were with them.

Time to go. Tara pulled a brush through her
hair and handed it to Jules, who scooped her long blond curls into
a fist and wadded them through a tiny black rubber band. She looked
older with her hair up, everyone told her that. Taking the idea to
heart, she prepared complex swirls and twists and bought tortoise
shell hairclips to fancy it up. They’d left those things at
home.

Women were shuffling toward them now, trying
to get to the sinks, to wash up and head on. Tara glanced around as
they shoved their accoutrements back into a plastic tote bag Jules
had purchased at the Dollar Tree. Hairdryer, makeup bag, brushes,
clothes. A woman with nappy hair and thick rimless glasses cleared
her throat, impatient.

Grabbing the bag, Tara pulled Jules away
from the sinks, toward the half-open door. The line was growing.
She felt Jules tense under her hand, looked back through the door.
The old woman was peering into the trash receptacle to the left of
the sinks. Reaching a hand in…

Tara put her hand in the middle of her
friends back, pushing her out through the McDonald’s entrance.
“They’re looking. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Quit pushing me,” Jules hissed.

“Hurry the hell up, then. That woman
saw.”

The two girls broke out the door and hustled
to a mid-nineties Toyota Camry, silver, with a dented hood. Tara
reached through the open window, picked up a canvas bag, and
sauntered three cars down. A slate gray Porsche Boxster, ragtop
down, gleamed in the sun. Tara flicked the visor down, caught the
keys. Throwing her second smile of the day at Jules, she nodded to
the car.

“Get in.” Tara took the driver’s side, Jules
the passenger. They strapped in, Tara shoved the car into gear and
they spun out of the parking lot. They were gone, north on the
interstate ramp, before anyone registered the blood.

***

Detective Frank Barbary chewed on a
toothpick, contemplating. The crime scene folks were milling
around, done photographing and taking samples, waiting for the call
to close the scene. The body was zipped into a plastic Cobb County
Medical Examiner’s pouch, the protruding knife pitching an obscene
tent. The widow was crying plaintively in the living room.

Barbary was comfortable with what had gone
down, felt he had a handle on the day’s events. Spike Hamilton
shouldn’tve been boning his daughter in the first place. He didn’t
blame that girl a bit for offing him. Doubted a court would either.
They just needed to find her. A BOLO was in place for Hamilton’s
Camry. Find the car, they’d find the girl. He might just shake her
hand when they found her.

Word was she’d taken off with her best
friend. Barbary shifted the toothpick to the opposite check. How
far could two thirteen year olds get, anyway?

DELAY

Flashing in the Gutters 2006

“Poor, stupid fucker.”

Delay stood over the carcass of the
deer.

“I’m soory, y’hear? I didn’t mean to hit ya.
Ya just ran out in front of me like that, and I didn’t know what to
do. I couldn’t hit the brakes, there’s that bag with the eggs in it
in the backseat. And she’d kill me if I came home with broken eggs,
you know? And you’re a cute little thing, aren’t ya. Aww, hell. Now
I’m gonna feel bad all night. I didn’t mean to kill ya. Ended your
life before it ever began. Ya still gotch ya spots on ya side.
Little Susie’d cry all night if she knew you were dead by my hand.
She don’t conscious with that killing of animals, ya know. Think
she’s even started talking about becomin’ a vegetarian, one of
those freaks who don’t eat meat. Now, that oughta make ya feel
better. Not one of yer brethren being ate by my little girl. Sounds
like we might have ourselves a deal, ya think? I’m so sorry, little
fella. Ain’t so little, though, are ya? Man, you put a nice dent in
the front of my F-250. Cost me a pretty penny, ya know, but the
dealer was right. He tole me that them women hang out by the Home
Depot, looking for a man with a big truck. Couldn’t afford the 350,
that woulda been nice, but the guy said the 150 wouldn’t get me any
tail. Ah, hell, I didn’t mean that, ya got a cute little tail, all
white and fluffy. Susie sure would like to see ya, but I couldn’t
take you home like this, she’d never understand. Ya know there’s a
football player lives down the street, now he got hisself a 650.
That fucker’d tow a house ya wanted it to. Man, I’d love to have me
a truck like that, all shiny chrome and Mack details. Wow, that
would be the life. But the 250, now that’s a workin’ man’s truck,
cause that’s what I am, ya see, I’m a workin’ man. That’s what I
was doing when I hit ya, little fella, I was headed home from work.
Kinda cold to be roofin’, but it’s better than those 90 degree days
when ya feel like you’ll slide right off them shingles and slip
into the tar below. Hotter’n Georgia asphalt, hahaha, get it? I
guess that’s not so funny to you now, laying here in the dirt. Aw,
I’m sorry, little fella, I was trying to make a joke and I’ve gone
and hurt ya feelins. I wish there was something I could do to help
ya now, but it looks like yer all gone. No more light in those
pretty brown eyes. Well, I guess it’s about that time. I need to
get ya off the road so no one comes by and smacks ya one, and the
missus, well, she’s waiting for those eggs.”

***

“Poor, stupid fucker.”

Billy Dean had been with Rescue for a little
over four years now. It amazed him. For a rural stretch of road, a
straight line of black nothingness—no hills, no curves—Route 3
attracted nearly all the accidents in the county. Most had no
apparent cause. Something invisible jumped out, caused these
redneck idiots to slam on their brakes with such violence that
they’d fly right out the windshield. None of the stupid fuckers
ever wore their seatbelt. Now Billy Dean was on his knees in the
gravel, trying to pump some life back in to Delay, getting creeped
out because the man was staring at the deer he’d hit like it would
talk to him. Billy Dean pumped, but the life left Delay, left him
lying on an endless stretch of blacktop next to a dead deer. What a
way to go.