The murderer was already taunting me with
visions, not only of
my own death but of
the deaths of others. I
fantasized their
bodies constantly: one of
the Guys from the Brown House,
anonymous, in the
Long Orchard;
my mother, who
lived in a
trailer off the
grid with her
abusive boyfriend;
my father, a
devout Christian.
In the woodshed off the garage, where, after abaloneing, he hung his wetsuit, itself the shape and size of his body. Splinters of kindling beneath his dangling feet.
He was left there for me to find.
They had coasted the pickup down the driveway, popping the clutch at the bottom of the hill, crossed the highway and climbed out. The pickup rolled empty to a stop against the embankment of the irrigation pond. To trick me into believing I was home alone, while his body rocked heavily against the windowless frame, facing out over the pasture. To trick me into finding him as I looked for the cat, who had heard, when I had not, the struggle. They’d wrestled him off the porch as he sat down to lace up his work boots, stiff with dried mud.
The corpse was nearly barefoot. It wore browned athletic socks.
I
forced myself to look, knowing
what I would find. Instead, on the ground,
only the splinters,
on the hook, only the wetsuit.
My
breath eased out.
My heart and my hands still shook. The
immediate danger was over, but I felt
disappointed.
Laura’s
cat scrunched through a gap in the
pasture fence, leaving a patch of black and white fur on the wire.
“
Here,
Kitty.” I leaned to the ground,
rubbing my fingers together.
The sooner it happened the better.
from The Book of Revelation
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