Chapter 8
It shouldn’t be difficult to get to Clarence’s house and, subsequently, his landline. The sheriff hadn’t gotten more than a few minutes down the road before the car went careening through the trees.
I make the mistake of trying to wipe the sweat on my forehead away. The scrapes that weren’t stinging before certainly are now. The back of my hand is light pink with diluted blood.
If only Ellis could see me now. I can just imagine it: him watching news coverage splashed with my bloody, frazzled face.
“Can you believe I let her keep her job? She’s a cop killer. Entirely unboneable.”
Not that the likelihood of boning was high. It’s just nice to be considered, is all.
I drop the leash and let Ripley trot ahead. Now that we’re not in a stranger’s house she doesn’t need to be by my side. Ripley glances back with her mouth wide and her tongue lolling. The image is so immediately funny that for a second it overwhelms the unending dread of the moment.
I stop when we come upon a small cleared area.
There’s a firepit and a wooden bench facing the creek.
A well-worn path leads from the firepit up the slope to what must be Clarence’s backyard.
How many times did Clarence and his wife walk this path to sit by the creek?
How many times did he do it on his own before I walked into his home and got him killed?
I shake my head, take Ripley’s leash in hand again, and begin the trek up the path. When we reach the top, I have to lean against a tree to catch my breath.
“That wasn’t fun,” I say to Ripley, clutching my chest.
My heart is thumping a quick rhythm against my rib cage. She grins up at me, tongue lolling, and for her I guess it was pretty fun.
I stop at the tree line to peer out at Clarence’s yard. It’s quiet, or at least as quiet as it can be with cicadas shouting their song in my ears on a constant loop.
The picket fence is low enough that I can lift Ripley up and set her on the other side. The first touch of my hand on the back-door handle is salvation. The fact that it doesn’t open is hell. It’s locked. Of course it is.
Shit. Okay. That’s fine. Life in a trailer with a crappy sliding door has prepared me for this exact moment.
I slide the edge of my hatchet into the bottom seam between frame and door.
It gives a plastic creak when I rock it.
There is no “good” quality when it comes to sliding doors—just shitty and less shitty.
This one is less shitty. Still, it pops open the fourth time I shift it in its frame.
The landline rests in its cradle in the living room. I’m half expecting it not to work when I pick it up. Wouldn’t that just be my luck?
The dial tone is so surprising, I can’t hold back a crow of “Ha!” when I hear it.
I know I’m supposed to dial 911. That is the best, smartest thing to do. That’s what my internal Emma would advise. Instead, my fingers start to tap out my mom’s number.
Before I can finish, I stop.
She doesn’t know this number, which means the likelihood of her answering is basically nonexistent.
An unknown phone number, to her, is the equivalent of Schrodinger’s debt collection agency.
Even if she did, it’s not like she can do anything.
She’ll just be stuck in Columbus scared and unable to help.
No, this is a bad idea. I know it’s a bad idea. I should call 911. I dial Emma’s number instead.
She answers immediately. “This is Emma.”
“I’m in trouble.”
There’s a pause, then, “Lou?”
“Like really big trouble. I’m fine. I mean, I’m alive. Ripley is alive. But I fucked up.”
The landline is rattling against my ear, and I realize it’s because my hand is shaking.
“Lou, I want you to take a deep breath, okay?”
My lungs have been shooting out short, staccato breaths that have gone straight to my head. I blink past the fuzzy-brained feeling and take a second to breathe in sync with Emma.
“Okay. Now tell me what’s going on.”
I do. I tell her about the coyote; about the hole drilled in my tank. I’m rushing to get the words out, so I don’t know if I’m even making sense—not that any of this makes sense in the first place. The last thing I tell her is Clarence suggesting we call the sheriff.
“Are you calling me from the station? I can be there in like two hours to pick you up.”
My face is hot and wet, and oh shit, am I crying? Why am I crying?
“Lou.” Her voice is stern. She’s not angry at me, but she is angry. “Where are you?”
“I’m at Clarence’s. The sheriff came. Cory. He said he wanted to take me to the station. We were about to go and Clarence was gonna follow, but then the sheriff shot him.”
The last part is a whisper. Like it’s so absurd, so horrific that it can’t be said at a normal volume.
“I was already in the car. He drove off and I kind of freaked out. We crashed and I ran.”
I stop there because it’s the bad part. It’s the part that might make her stop being my friend.
“What happened to the sheriff?” Her voice is strained, which makes sense.
“I … I slammed a car door on his head until it was mush.”
Silence, and then Emma’s hoarse voice breaks it. “Dude, what the fuck? Like, literally, what the fuck?”
I sit on Clarence’s couch and let Ripley jump up beside me. I can see the driveway from here. There are other people involved in this whole situation. If they come, I’ll see them.
“And then I went back to Clarence’s, and now I’m calling you.”
She’s quiet.
“You think I’m crazy?”
She mutters, “Well, there is a certain precedent.” She gathers her words in the following silence.
“No, I do not think you’re crazy. First things first: fuck that cop.
I’m glad he’s dead. Second: you need to hang up and call 911, okay?
You call, tell them why you’re out there, that someone sabotaged your truck, you wound up at Clarence’s, and then someone killed him and tried to abduct you.
You got away and locked yourself in the house.
You don’t fucking tell them it was the sheriff.
It was just some guy. Do you understand? You don’t tell them it was a cop.”
A wave of pure relief flows through now that I have someone to take control; to tell me what to do. Every single muscle in my body relaxes. I sink bodily into the couch, and Ripley leans more heavily into my side.
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Ask for them to send the fire department. Lie—tell them the last time you saw your truck it was smoking or something. Tell them you’re hurt and need an ambulance. Just try to get someone other than the cops there. I’m leaving right now, okay? Do you know the house number?”
I tell her no, but she can follow the directions to the address I sent, then give her a description of Clarence’s house.
“Try to call me when they get to the house. I’m going to call my professor. He’ll know a lawyer.”
“What about Ripley?”
She pauses. There’s rustling, then a door opening and closing. She tells me to hold on while the phone switches to the car’s Bluetooth.
“Honestly, I’d leave her at the house. They’re not going to let her in a hospital and we don’t want the cops to get their hands on her.
Put her in a bedroom or something. Leave a few bowls of water, maybe some food, if there’s anything she can eat, and a note explaining she’s friendly and it’s an emergency.
I’ll pick her up. If I can’t, I’ll figure something out. ”
The thought of leaving Ripley in this house, of leaving her behind, makes my stomach gurgle.
“Can you text my mom? Let her know I’m okay?”
Emma pauses again. This time it’s longer and quieter than before.
“Did I lose you?”
“No, sorry. Don’t worry about that right now, alright? The only thing that matters is getting you somewhere safe. We’ll deal with everything else after.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Normally, that’d be a monumental task. I can’t remember when I started measuring my decisions by the metric of how they’d impact my mom. Maybe because I always have. Will it help her? Will it hurt her? Always in my mind. Always the deciding factor.
But right now? When my current circumstances have hurtled far past monumental into the territory of colossal? I can manage it.
“When you hang up, you’ll call 911, right? Right away.”
“I will. Right away.”
I don’t want to hang up. I don’t want to sever the connection to normalcy. I want to keep listening to the whiny feedback from the car’s Bluetooth speakers. As long as I do, nothing that bad can happen, can it?
I dial 911 as soon as the call ends.
Two beats and a woman’s raspy voice answers. “911. What’s your emergency?”
This might be a massive mistake. I just planned this call with Emma. What if it sounds like it’s been planned out? I need to sound like I’m scared.
You are scared, Emma says in my head.
“I need help. I’m in Russell Township on Harmon Road. A guy just tried to kidnap me. He shot the man who was helping me. My phone isn’t working and I can’t get any service. I don’t know what to do.”
“Ma’am, what’s your name?”
“Lucie Moore.”
“Lucie, you said you’re in a house. Do you know the number?”
“No, no, I don’t know. It’s—There’s only two houses on this road. It’s older. There’s a deer statue by the road. The man who lives here—his name is Clarence. He was really nice. I think he’s dead.”
“Are you injured, Lucie?”
I look down at myself. At the dirt smeared across my jeans, at the puffy red patches where the world has scraped against my skin. I almost say no, then remember.
“Yes. I need an ambulance. There’s a lot of blood. My dog is with me. She got pepper spray in her eyes. That’s probably pretty bad. I don’t know. She’s friendly.”
“Thank you for telling me, Lucie. Authorities have been dispatched to your location. I want you to stay on—”
“I need an ambulance!” Ripley whines. I’m yelling. I quiet my voice and stroke Ripley’s head nervously. “Not just the cops. I said I think Clarence is dead, but I don’t know. If he isn’t he needs an ambulance like right now.”
“They’re on their way. Can you see him?”
“No. He’s outside.”
“Okay. Stay inside and stay away from the windows. They’ll help him if they can when they get there. Can you tell me about the man who tried to kidnap you? Do you know where he is?”
“No, I don’t know. Middle-aged. White. Brown hair. Blue eyes.” Inside my head is a buzzing, blank space. I hope I’m doing a good job. I hope she’s not just sending the cops. I hope they don’t shoot my dog if she does. “Do you know when they’ll get here?”
Moving toward the bay window is a bad idea. I know that. It pulls at me anyway.
The 911 operator’s voice comes from a distance. She’s asking if I knew the man who shot Clarence or if he was a stranger.
Blood stains the collar of Clarence’s flannel and his neck. Dark-colored splatters mark the grass around where his body lies crumpled in the yard.
Was that in him? I think numbly.
Coagulation, my brain supplies.
What if he’s alive? The side of his face turned toward the house is undamaged. The only sign of injury is the blood itself. It’s too far away to see if he’s breathing. What if he is and I’m staring uselessly while his life seeps out into the ground?
What if—
His hand twitches. Maybe I’m in shock and seeing things. Maybe I’m projecting what I want to be true onto the situation. Or, maybe Clarence is still alive and his hand just moved.
“I have to go outside. I think he’s moving.”
“Ma’am, wait for the—”
“I won’t hang up, but I have to go outside. If he’s alive I have to help him.”
“Don’t—”
I don’t hear the rest. I lay the phone on the ground and open the front door.