Chapter Twenty-Seven

Mike Miller

After Mike left the diner, he drew a deep breath, stunned. For an instant, he’d come close to telling Vicky what had flashed through his mind. He’d already told her more about himself than he’d told anyone in his whole life. She was like a friendly vampire, sucking out people’s life stories before they realized what was happening. He shook his head as he headed to his pickup. Hell no. There was no good reason to say a thing. No way. He had simply taken care of a problem. There was no way to tell what would come of it if anybody else knew. Or knew he knew.

****

One night thirty-odd years ago, when Mike was still a teen, he’d been spying—as he often did—on his pa and several other men behind the lodge. It was obvious they weren’t there to go hunting or have a barbeque. A box-truck drove in. No headlights.

The driver killed the engine. Mike heard, then saw, movement at the edge of his vision, on the far side of the lodge. The men at the truck didn’t react. Most of the building was between them and the disturbance.

Mike followed the sounds of a struggle—branches breaking, angry human sounds with no words, then running footsteps thudding through the woods.

Heavy breathing and grunts grew louder as he neared the creek. He crept close enough to peer through the underbrush. The moon shone a bluish spotlight on two forms grappling and struggling in a clearing thirty feet in front of him.

Mike froze, trying to comprehend what he saw. A man straddled a woman, his hands at her throat. Her legs kicked frantically. The man was twice her size. Neither made a sound.

He recognized the man. Joan’s father, that lowlife Bill Beck, who sometimes did jobs with his pa. He was strangling some poor woman. Mike was about to stand when he saw, near the creek, a pale movement. A tiny wraith in a flowing long gown, arms upstretched, wafted up behind Beck.

Mrs. Beck. Harriet.

Joan’s tiny mother lifted a large rock with both hands over her head, then slammed it down on her husband’s head. He slumped to one side with a loud grunt.

Wow. She bashed his head in. That little old lady.

The woman—girl—on the ground struggled out from under Beck. She got to her feet, stumbling, swaying, gulping deep breaths. It was Joan Beck. He used to see Joan roaming the woods when they were kids. She’d seemed as at home in the wild as he was. She always pretended not to see him.

Joan picked up the bloody rock her mother had set down. She knelt next to her father and stared at him a moment. She lifted the rock overhead and smashed it full force into his face. Mike could hear the dull thump of cracking skull and soft tissue. She said, “You.” She raised it and bashed his face again. “Fucking.” She lifted the stone a third time and slammed it into what was left of his head. “Bastard.”

She let the rock fall and crawled to her mother. They embraced.

For several minutes Mike listened to the night. He could hear the hushed whisperings of the women, not well enough to know what they were saying. The creek streamed silently, slowly. Even the insects were noiseless.

Joan and her mother carefully stepped on the fallen log to cross the creek and trudge back to their house.

Damn. They whacked him. Beat his head in. That tiny old lady. And Joan. Wow. Well, he deserved it.

He waited until he could no longer hear them swishing through the dry grass. He emerged from the brush and edged toward the pile of shit that was Joan’s father. Or used to be. Bill Beck was a miserable excuse of a human being. A bully. He’d threatened Mike, hit him more than a few times, and made fun of him for being serious about studying. And he wasn’t even family, just did business with his pa and the sheriff.

The asshole deserved to die. Mike didn’t get there in time to help finish him off, but he could do something now.

Mike kicked at the old man to make sure he was good and deceased, then put his foot against the body and shoved it onto its back. Christ, the man stank, and not only because his bowels let go when he died. He stank of filth and booze and cigarettes and just sheer meanness.

Mike pulled the bottom of Beck’s T-shirt up and wrapped it tightly over the man’s gruesomely distorted head to keep blood smears to a minimum. He didn’t want to see that face again.

He grabbed the collar of Beck’s jacket and dragged the body the few feet to the creek. He left it midstream while he cleaned up. He brushed out footprints and scuffle marks, those he could see in the moonlight. He threw dirt and leaves on the bloody spot. He carried the brain-splattered stone with him as he stepped back to the body. Dirty creek water washed away the remains of its life.

Mike studied the moonlit silence. No signs left of Harriet and Joan Beck finally ending their misery. He dragged the body behind him down the creek. He knew the perfect place.

Jesus, he was heavy. The water was knee-high when he started, which helped some with the weight. By the time the creek shallowed out and became one with the swamp, Bill Beck was dead weight. Mike chuckled to himself at the thought.

He dragged Beck behind him deeper into the swamp. It was getting close to daylight, though the sun never touched much of this place.

He arrived at the spot he had in mind as the perfect final resting place for Bill Beck. He stopped again to survey his surroundings. Moist air, mossy old trees draped with vines. Dark shades of green, water thick with the smell of rot and decay.

Mike tumbled the body into a deep pool under an ancient water tupelo tree. He found a thick branch to tuck old Bill away nice and deep. He made several trips to collect large black rocks to drop on top of Bill, to keep him in place for the turtles and fish and other denizens of the swamp. Move enough rocks around here and you could hide anything. Mike was good at covering tracks. Bill wasn’t going anywhere, ever.

Satisfied, Mike looked around him as he left. The places he and Bill had touched were already slowly filling in and springing back. Swamps had welcomed and absorbed death for eons, and this one was already obliterating all trace of his actions.