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Authors: Raen Smith
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bring you crawling to him, but that didn’t seem to work, did
it? Not going to rescue Sister Josephine, after all?”
I shrugged my shoulders; he
obviously missed the backpack slung on my shoulders. I was ready to leave, and
if the man responsible for Father Haskens's death and
the threats to Sister Josephine was anything like the cowboy standing in front
of me, it wouldn’t take much to find and get rid of him. I would be in and out
of the states before the Appleton Police Department or the FBI had a chance to
take a sniff at me.
“So I came here to get you,” he
said with a grin.
More silence. Just a few more
inches, and I could reach him.
“You hear me? I’m taking you out,”
he said as he took one step closer to me.
I kicked my foot up again, landing
the second blow to his groin in the same night. He stumbled back, fumbling with
his gun before I kicked his arm, sending the gun into the grass. I swept back
behind me and snagged up my knife, slashing the blade through the air and
connecting with his gut first. He doubled over, grabbing his stomach before he
fumbled toward the gun. I beat him there easily, snatching up the gun and
holding it steady with my left hand.
I held my finger on the trigger,
ready to pull before I stopped. The noise would wake Ryan and quite possibly,
the neighbor a mile down the road. The mountains created a valley where the
slightest bit of noise travelled endlessly. So instead, I tucked the gun inside
my pants and thrust the knife forward again, this time higher in his chest. He
moaned an awful sound, staggering back as I gripped the knife tighter and then pulled
it out. I waited for his body to give out, his legs clamoring desperately
beneath him until he collapsed in the grass. I stood over his body, waiting and
watching the blood spurt from his mouth as he took his final breaths. I lowered
the knife one more time into his chest, putting him out of his misery.
His body lay still in the grass,
his front oozing with the red liquid I had poured from his body. I couldn’t
leave him here. This was a mess I couldn’t let Ryan deal with himself. So I did
the only thing that I knew to do. No one would be looking for the cowboy; no
one knew he came here.
I dropped the knife and looked to
my right. The dolly Ryan used to haul his fishing equipment appeared next to
the cowboy’s body. I turned back to the cowboy, but now his straw-woven hat was
replaced with a fedora. A spark ignited in my chest, electrifying the rest of
my body as I moved toward him.
So I pulled the cowboy on the
dolly, wrapped the thick red strap around his chest and lugged him past the
house, through the backyard and down the sloping hill until I heard the rush of
water. The creek behind Ryan’s house was running high, especially for summer.
It should take him out to the sea by the end of the day. The mouth of the creek
was isolated, populated by dense trees and poor water for fishing. It should
give Ryan enough time to leave.
He could sell his boat. Leave the
house. It wasn’t exactly what I had planned, but the cowboy left me no choice.
I loosened the straps and shoved
his body into the current, the body bobbing in the water separate from the
fedora that had disappeared into the blackness. The body flipped around, the
face now turning to haunt me.
That’s when I saw it. The lifeless
face of Sister Josephine, her skin a pale translucence in the moonlight, headed
out to sea.
I screamed, but no sound came out.
A dream, I chanted. A
dream , I begged.
6
June 15, 5:30 p.m .
Oshkosh, Wisconsin
Fred Sullivan sat at the dining
table with a Scotch in his hand, ready to feel the cool amber burn down his
throat. He lifted the glass and the ice cubes clinked together in a sound he
had missed for over a decade behind bars. It had been six months since he
regained his placement as a sexual offender in society.
He was a free man except he didn’t
really feel free with the whole neighborhood keeping tabs on
it? Not going to rescue Sister Josephine, after all?”
I shrugged my shoulders; he
obviously missed the backpack slung on my shoulders. I was ready to leave, and
if the man responsible for Father Haskens's death and
the threats to Sister Josephine was anything like the cowboy standing in front
of me, it wouldn’t take much to find and get rid of him. I would be in and out
of the states before the Appleton Police Department or the FBI had a chance to
take a sniff at me.
“So I came here to get you,” he
said with a grin.
More silence. Just a few more
inches, and I could reach him.
“You hear me? I’m taking you out,”
he said as he took one step closer to me.
I kicked my foot up again, landing
the second blow to his groin in the same night. He stumbled back, fumbling with
his gun before I kicked his arm, sending the gun into the grass. I swept back
behind me and snagged up my knife, slashing the blade through the air and
connecting with his gut first. He doubled over, grabbing his stomach before he
fumbled toward the gun. I beat him there easily, snatching up the gun and
holding it steady with my left hand.
I held my finger on the trigger,
ready to pull before I stopped. The noise would wake Ryan and quite possibly,
the neighbor a mile down the road. The mountains created a valley where the
slightest bit of noise travelled endlessly. So instead, I tucked the gun inside
my pants and thrust the knife forward again, this time higher in his chest. He
moaned an awful sound, staggering back as I gripped the knife tighter and then pulled
it out. I waited for his body to give out, his legs clamoring desperately
beneath him until he collapsed in the grass. I stood over his body, waiting and
watching the blood spurt from his mouth as he took his final breaths. I lowered
the knife one more time into his chest, putting him out of his misery.
His body lay still in the grass,
his front oozing with the red liquid I had poured from his body. I couldn’t
leave him here. This was a mess I couldn’t let Ryan deal with himself. So I did
the only thing that I knew to do. No one would be looking for the cowboy; no
one knew he came here.
I dropped the knife and looked to
my right. The dolly Ryan used to haul his fishing equipment appeared next to
the cowboy’s body. I turned back to the cowboy, but now his straw-woven hat was
replaced with a fedora. A spark ignited in my chest, electrifying the rest of
my body as I moved toward him.
So I pulled the cowboy on the
dolly, wrapped the thick red strap around his chest and lugged him past the
house, through the backyard and down the sloping hill until I heard the rush of
water. The creek behind Ryan’s house was running high, especially for summer.
It should take him out to the sea by the end of the day. The mouth of the creek
was isolated, populated by dense trees and poor water for fishing. It should
give Ryan enough time to leave.
He could sell his boat. Leave the
house. It wasn’t exactly what I had planned, but the cowboy left me no choice.
I loosened the straps and shoved
his body into the current, the body bobbing in the water separate from the
fedora that had disappeared into the blackness. The body flipped around, the
face now turning to haunt me.
That’s when I saw it. The lifeless
face of Sister Josephine, her skin a pale translucence in the moonlight, headed
out to sea.
I screamed, but no sound came out.
A dream, I chanted. A
dream , I begged.
6
June 15, 5:30 p.m .
Oshkosh, Wisconsin
Fred Sullivan sat at the dining
table with a Scotch in his hand, ready to feel the cool amber burn down his
throat. He lifted the glass and the ice cubes clinked together in a sound he
had missed for over a decade behind bars. It had been six months since he
regained his placement as a sexual offender in society.
He was a free man except he didn’t
really feel free with the whole neighborhood keeping tabs on
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