42
ATTICUS
I had no more questions for Mark Porter. I felt both relieved and disappointed that he seemed to pass all of my tests. I didn’t want to kill the man; I didn’t want to add another death to my count. Each one sent me further into hell, made me feel less like a human and more like a savage.
Yes, I was relieved the stranger passed my tests.
The disappointment I felt came from being wrong about Mark Porter. How could I have been wrong?
“Are you all right?” Mark asked; he looked back at me from the center of the small trail.
I shook the thoughts from my mind.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I started moving again.
“Thought I’d lost you there for a minute—how far does this trail go out?”
“Half a mile at least,” I answered unemotionally. “There’s a rock bridge just up ahead; it leads over a creek. And a dirt road just beyond that. I’m sure you can find your way from there.”
“Thanks, man,” Mark said, walking in front of me. “There aren’t many good people out there anymore. You and your wife are a rare breed.”
My wife…
I said nothing. We kept moving.
Why am I still walking him?
“She’s…a pretty thing.”
I stopped cold, and rounded my chin, felt the bones in my fingers stiffening, the tick in my brain ticking.
Mark looked back at me.
“Hey, I uh…” he stepped closer by one foot, “…well I was thinking…I have something you didn’t see in my pack. Thought you might want to take a look at it.”
I stood motionless, like a tall, stone statue covered by shadow and purpose. Tick. Tick. I clenched my jaw. I listened. I waited.
Mark reached inside a hidden pocket on the side of his backpack and pulled out a black bandanna, the four corners tied into a knot at the top like a little pouch; its sides were full. With both hands, he worked the knot loose and pulled away the fabric, letting the corners drape over his hand. A little mound of sparkling jewelry sat on display in his palm.
“All real gold,” he said, his dark-circled eyes gleaming over the stash. “Some silver. And a few diamonds and one ruby.” He prodded the tip of his index finger in the tangled jewelry.
I looked at it. I looked long and hard.
“Yeah?” Mark traded his smile for a wolfish grin. “Thought that might catch your interest.”
I raised my eyes from the jewelry and looked at the dead man holding it.
“What are you proposing?” I asked; I was no longer gritting my teeth; the bones in my fingers were no longer stiff; the tick in my brain was no longer ticking.
I smiled at the stranger, vaguely, just enough to display my fallacious interest, my willingness to bargain, just to see him show his true colors.
Mark’s dirty fingers collapsed around the jewelry, and then he let his arm drop at his side.
“Well”—he shrugged—“I was thinking half of it for…an hour with your wife?”
“Hmm.” I crossed my right arm over my midsection, raised my left hand to my mouth where I dragged my fingers across my bottom lip contemplatively. “The thing is…well, my wife would never agree to it”—I held up a finger—“But…she’s worth more than half. And if you’d be willing to pay me what she’s worth, I’d be willing to overlook her begging me to stop you.”
The moment of truth.
The moment of truth…
Mark took deep breath, looked down into his hand again, the bandanna still covering the contents, and then he nodded.
“I’ll try not to hurt her,” he agreed.
The tick in my brain had stopped ticking a long time ago because it had become a vociferous pounding in my ears. My jaw had stopped grinding and the bones in my fingers had relaxed because I had already made up my mind. Everything had been set in motion; everything was waiting for the moment of truth, when Mark Porter would seal his own fate.
The jewelry fell to the ground; gold and silver and gemstones reflected the moonlight stark against the black soil. Mark Porter struggled as the crushing weight of my arm snared his neck, crushed the side of his body against me; the heavy weight and bulk of Mark’s backpack attempted to topple him in the opposite direction, but I held him in place. The jangling of the chain attached to his pants was muffled in my ears, like the swish of our clothes rubbing against one another, the stomping of our boots heavy and chaotic against the ground, the wild rustling of dead leaves being tossed about beneath our fighting steps—all muffled by the sound of swift retribution, the fire pumping through my goddamned veins, the pounding…the pounding…the pounding…
Forgive me…
Mark’s thrashing body slackened; his hands relaxed and tightened on my arm crushed against his windpipe; his eyes opened and closed in his bloated, purplish head; the choking and gasping and spitting quieted.
Grinding my teeth, pain shot through my face; I gripped tighter; my breathing became deeper, faster, louder with every exhale, and each time I sucked in the humid night air it stung my lungs. Through clenched eyes I should’ve seen blackness, but through them the only shade I saw was red.
Relaxed and tightened. Opened and closed.
Red. Crimson Red. Murderous Blood Red.
And then black—everything went black.
Silent.
Motionless.
Lifeless.
I was on the ground with Mark Porter’s body still pressed against me, my arm tight around his throat. On the edges of my sight I saw Mark’s tongue hanging from his mouth. His eyes were open, empty, glossed over. The smell of urine rose up in my nose. And sweat. And rancid breath.
I felt the heat from the ground coming up to meet me, pushing its way from the back of my legs and my bottom, spreading throughout every limb, filling every pore and line in my skin. Heat. But it was not the heat of summer; it was the heat of damnation, another demon I had let in, and this time I knew it would stay with me forever.
The pounding in my brain reduced to a tick once more, then to a soft murmuring, like a faint voice reminding me of my transgression, haunting me. How could it both mock and pity me? But it did—and it loved me and forsake me, laughed at me and wept for me.
I cried out, and heaved the dead man into the leaves. Tears shot from my eyes. I tried to stand up, but my legs were too heavy, my mind too heavy to will them, and I fell back to my knees against the hot, desecrated ground. And I wailed into the night, teeth clenching, fists clutching, until my body fell forward, and my hands ground against the earth. I vomited and then wiped my mouth with the bandanna that once held the jewelry. Then I wiped the tears from my face with the bottom of my palm.
I sat there, staring up into the sky, seeing only the scattering of stars above me, but no moon for the trees.
THAIS
An hour had passed since Atticus left me alone in the cabin. I was beyond the point of worry. I paced the floors from one room to the next, but always found myself back in the kitchen where the window overlooked the backyard. Any second now I thought I might see his shadow before him, but I saw only the shadows of the trees crisscrossing the grass. I became desperate to see his face, to know that he was still there, still alive, that I hadn’t been left alone in the world without him. Oh, to be alone in any world without him…
The gun I no longer held in the back of my pants—it was in my hand. Waiting. Ready. For what, I did not know, but Atticus would have wanted me to be ready, I told myself. Atticus would have wanted me to be…
Why am I thinking of him in past tense?
I placed the gun on the windowsill and opened the back door, and just as I was shoving my feet down into the oversized hiking boots, hell-bent on setting out to find him, I glimpsed a moving shadow.
I stopped.
I sucked in a sharp breath; my heart filled with relief and pain—I was so happy to see that Atticus was alive.
But why did he look like that? Why was he staring at the ground, his arms heavy at his sides, his boots no longer moving over the grass toward me inside the cabin waiting for him?
Atticus stood on the fringes of the trees. I got the distinct feeling he did not know I was watching, that he was not only oblivious to me, but to everything around him.
Suddenly, even the sound of my breath quieted; the world went silent, unmoving and dead. With realization, I felt my lashes sweep my face; my bowed fingers relaxed and slowly uncurled from my hands. Raising my eyes from the floor, I looked at Atticus once more before closing the door to leave him with his thoughts. I wanted to go to him; I wanted to know the truth I already knew, but I could not. He wouldn’t have seen me if I stood in front of him.
With a heavy heart, I stepped out of the boots. Taking up the dinner plate we’d used as a candle tray, I carried it down the hallway, four tiny flames lighting the dark passage, casting an orange glow against the walls. I placed the candles on the floor near the mattress. The window was open, and I was thankful for what little breeze that pushed through it. Stepping out of my pants, I stood by the window in my T-shirt and panties, looking out at the black trees in the front yard. I thought about the skeleton on the front porch, the mother and son buried on the side of the cabin. Will that become us one day? Will that man in the rocking chair with his peaceful view of where his wife and son used to play, one day be Atticus? Will he bury me in my own grave and drape a ribbon around my marker?
I laid down on the mattress and drew my knees up, hugging my arms against my chest, and I laid there for a long time staring toward the open window, feeling the warm breeze on my face. And I never moved; not when I became uncomfortable and needed to readjust; not when I wanted to go back through the kitchen and make sure Atticus was still outside; and not when I finally, after another hour, heard the back door opening and Atticus’ boots moving over the hardwood floor in the living room.
All became quiet again.
I never heard the familiar sound of springs creaking in the sofa, or the rustling of Atticus’ heavy body moving against the cushions. I wondered what he was doing; I imagined him standing in the living room, staring intensely at something, but seeing absolutely nothing. I wanted to cry, but more than that, I wanted him to lie next to me so I could allow him to cry.
I got up and went slowly down the hallway.
I had been right—Atticus stood in the center of the room, staring intensely at seemingly nothing; the outline of his tall form loomed in the darkness, silhouetted by the borrowed moonlight pouring dimly in through the windows.
“Atticus?” I spoke softly from behind.
He did not move and no answer came.
His back was bare—I glimpsed his shirt on the floor—and as I drew closer, as I felt the heat emanating from his skin, even in the summer heat it only made me want to touch him. And so I did, first with my hand where I pressed it against his back, then with the side of my cheek as I rest my head where my hand had been, absorbing his warmth.
“Thais,” he said without moving, “go to bed. I’ll be sleeping on the sofa from now on.”
I shook my head lightly against his spine. “No,” I whispered, “I won’t sleep without you—I can’t sleep without you. I only feel safe with you next to me.”
“Well, you shouldn’t.”
“But I do.”
“Thais, go to bed.”
With my cheek still against his back, his heartbeat thrumming in my ear, I drew my arms around his waist and enclosed my fingers. I felt his shoulders rise and fall, and then his large hands touching my small ones, carefully pulling them apart.
I let him reject me; my hands fell to my sides, but my cheek remained on his hot skin.
“Thais—”
“If you won’t sleep in the bed with me,” I said, “then at least stay with me until I fall asleep.” That was not what I wanted, but I would’ve said anything to get him in the room with me, and then hope he would choose to stay.
Without another word, I left him standing in his grief, and I went back down the hallway toward the flickering light beckoning me from the bedroom.
I lay alone, until finally Atticus came into the room.
He wouldn’t look at me when he sat down on the edge of the mattress. He wouldn’t look at me when I raised my body from it, attentive to him. He wouldn’t look at me when I moved closer to sit beside him and swept my lips over his shoulder. And he wouldn’t look at me when I laid my head against his arm.
“Did you kill him?”
ATTICUS & (THAIS)
It was such a dark question coming from the kindest voice, I thought, and I closed my eyes.
“Yes,” I answered.
I felt her warm, wet tears moving down my arm.
I shuddered, forcing my own tears down. More than hating myself for killing another man, for killing that much more of myself, I never wanted to hurt Thais, or frighten her, or make her see me…as the person I was. But I wouldn’t lie to her. She deserved to know the man I was, even if it meant losing her.
“I’m sorry, Thais…I…” I couldn’t finish; the sound of her weeping tore me up inside and stole the words from my mouth.
I cupped her face in my hands, (and I looked into his eyes brimmed with moisture. I felt him trembling. Candlelight gave soft color to his features, made his harsh eyes more intense; the hair that grew on his face, darker.)
“I’m so sorry…please don’t cry…” I said; I couldn’t hold the tears back anymore.
“Oh, Atticus,” she said with emotion, shaking her head within my trembling hands. “Atticus…you don’t understand, do you?” She reached up and cupped my face as I was doing to hers. “I’m not crying for that man…I’m crying for you. My heart is breaking for you.”
I let out a choking shudder.
THAIS
His gaze fell from mine; his hands fell from my cheeks. Quiet sobs shook his body, and I took him into me, wrapping my arms around him, squeezing him, choking on my own tears as I tried desperately to take on his pain, to force it into myself.
I felt his body harden; heard his teeth clenching in his mouth; his hands, balled into iron fists, shook between us as if all of his pain and anger and hatred for himself and the world and the man the world created was being contained there. They were his burden, the boulder he pushed up the mountain every day of his existence. And he fought to keep it all contained, and it took everything in him to hold it all inside.
But I could not bear to let him. I knew it eventually kill him if he could not let it go.
With my arms still wrapped around his body, and with more emotion than I had felt since I held my dead sister in my arms, I said against his ear, “Let me take on some of your pain, Atticus…I am yours to do with what you will, what you need to. Take me—”
He raised his eyes to mine, and the rage they contained might’ve frightened me a long time ago, but not anymore.
He pushed himself away from me.
Refusing to lose him in this moment, I reached out and grabbed his neck on both sides, and I shook him. "You can’t do this anymore!” I cried, forcing him to look at me. “And I can’t go on, day after day, being with you, falling in love with you, and watching you destroy yourself!”—I could not see through the tears—“Why can’t I shake the feeling that the only reason you’re alive anymore is for my sake? To get me to some…safe haven we both know probably doesn’t exist? It hurts!” I yelled into his tortured face. “It hurts me every night I lie beside you and feel your arms wrapped around me and all I can think about is the day you won’t be there—I can’t be without you…you have to know this…I can’t be without you!”
Atticus traded sobs for anger, and he pushed himself to his feet. I looked up at him from the floor.
“Don’t you ever say that to me! Don’t you ever say that to me again!” He put his back to me.
“Say what?!” I cried out, my body shook with the words.
He whirled around at me, dropped to his knees in front of me, grabbed my face and shook me harder than I had shaken him.
“That you’re falling in love with me—never fucking say that to me, Thais!” he roared, and in his voice I heard the shudder of tears tap-dancing on his vocal chords.
“But I am!” I roared back, staring intensely into his anguished eyes. “I have belonged to you since the day you took me from that city, Atticus”—my shouting voice softened, but it never lost its strength—“I cannot change or hide how I feel. I will not. I am yours…and my strength, what there is left of it, is yours.”
“No,” he dropped his hands from my arms and fell on his bottom in front of me; refused to look at me. “No…” was all he could say.
“Yes,” I countered.
His head shot up.
“You’re not mine, Thais,” he said, “because you weren’t given a choice. If you had been, you wouldn’t have chosen me. You wouldn’t have fucking chosen me! Not if you’d known the things I’ve done…”
I moved closer to him, fitting my small fingers on his large ones, and unclasped them. Then I moved to sit between his legs. I kissed his lips.
“I don’t care what you’ve done. And I did have a choice,” I said and kissed him again. “I chose to trust you and not Naomi. I chose not to leave that room when you told me I could go. I chose not to pull that trigger when I put that gun in my mouth”—(Atticus trembled)—“I chose to leave the city with you, and I chose to trust your judgment with the family at the farm. I’ve chosen you every step of the way, in every breath, with every bit of my broken heart and my broken soul, and I choose you now, and tomorrow, and every day after it!” I ruptured with sobs.
Our red-rimmed eyes held locked on one another for what felt like an eternity.
ATTICUS
I wanted so much to say things to her, so many things, but my conflicted mind refused me any reprieve. The demon that had burrowed itself beneath my flesh, it screamed at me: She’s not yours and she’ll never be! You belong to me, Atticus Hunt; murderer, sinner, a weak man who could not even save his own family! Bastard, you belong to me!
I clenched my jaw and my fists and I screamed something indecipherable through my teeth; I felt the veins in my neck bulging.
But then something extraordinary happened, and I felt the weight of that demon lighten on my shoulders as Thais looked deep into my eyes, completely unafraid of me; as I smelled her natural scent, as I recalled the taste of her lips, the touch of her wetness beneath my fingertips.
“Please, Atticus,” she whispered with such anguish, “let me ease your pain. Please…”
A suffocating silence filled the space between us.
THAIS & (ATTICUS)
Atticus grabbed me and kissed me feverishly, pushing me down onto the mattress, driving open my thighs with one forceful hand. Ravenously we kissed, and I became breathless beneath him; every part of my body opening up to him, wanting him, needing him, no matter how roughly he might take me—I knew it would be rough. I cried against his mouth as he kissed me hungrily, (unlike I had ever kissed her before. Unlike I had ever kissed any woman before.)
One of his hands tore at my panties blindly, snatching them over my thighs and off my feet. Seconds later, his pants were off and I could feel his hardness so palpable between my legs that I gasped. I moaned into his mouth when he rubbed himself against me, pressed his length between my legs. And my hands were already clawing his back, my fingers digging into the flesh without breaking it, because I needed him and I would do whatever I had to, to make him take me all the way.
The weight of his body nearly crushed me, but I wanted it to. The heat of his flesh suffocating me nearly made me faint, but I wanted that, too. I never let go of him—I gripped harder as he drove himself deep inside of me, thrust after painful thrust. I clamped my shaking thighs around his body, wanting him deeper. Nothing ever in my life had hurt so much, yet felt so right, so good, and I sobbed quietly into the crook of his neck until I heard him groan and felt his body stiffen.
His hips reduced to a slow, hard thrust, once, twice, a third time, so deep inside of me I thought I felt him in my womb. His lips were parted and from them came his panting breath, hot against my neck. With my eyes closed I searched for his mouth, and he kissed me with so much passion and love that he never would’ve had to say he loved me for as long as we lived, and I would always know that he did.
He held himself inside of me. I could feel him there, still swollen, still needing me: my warmth, my body, the salvation only I could give him. And I opened my eyes and looked up at the man I knew I would die for one day, and my heart, as always, was full.
ATTICUS
I kissed her tears, and then I kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her neck, and then her mouth again. I slipped her shirt off and kissed her heart. And I looked into the eyes of the woman I knew I would die for one day, and my heart, as it always was when I looked at her and only her, was bursting.