The Savage(53)

Angus took that first step down the basement steps. Creaks shifted and bounced. Eyes adjusted with glints of light scraping through the cracks. Making out objects, webbed and rusted along the joists above. Traps, rungs of fence wire, machete, axe, and hammers lay on a wooden workbench attached to the wall. Light came from the rear of the basement. Seeped and burned over legs spread, arms strapped by reeds of leather, and the body were that of a female. Marred with bruise and filth. Panty and bra removed, strewn on the floor. One eye swollen like a bee sting. Nostrils pasted with crusty fluid. She shivered, but not from cold. It was shock. Trauma. A loaded deck of all discrepancies.

Looking to the rear of the basement, where outdoor light sprayed from double doors, he saw a vehicle sat on blocks. A Ford Explorer stripped of its tires. Doors open. Angus walked toward it, glanced inside. The gas gauge was half-full. Inside, garments strung. A map spread on the passenger’s side. Routes outlined. The smell of cigarettes from a tray of stubbed-out butts. Empties, wadded and thrown about the floor.

“Please—”

The female’s voice behind him, Angus ignored it. Searched the area.

In the back corners of the basement, buckets were stacked. Blue plastic drums lined the walls. More than likely, rainwater collected from eaves, then boiled and cooled, Angus thought. Shelves on the walls held bags of dried beans and brown rice. Several sealed drums were labeled fruit.

Angus thought of the storms raging and tearing the Midwest a new asshole. Fu taking stock of what was about to transpire, Angus knew there would be a price tag upon the head of the man who’d murdered McGill but also upon those who robbed the ’Brook. But once the surrounding world began to crumble and bake with the loss of work, Angus believed all would fade to a myth. Fade to little importance. Be forgotten. But seeing this female, and the so-called prophet sacrificed from the tree … maybe nothing would be forgotten.

“Please … help me.”

Angus turned. Face-to-face, he tasted the cankerous air that wafted from the female. Felt the ache of his forearm. He needed fuel and medicine. Approached what had once been a workbench where sharpened blades, pistols, and shotguns had possibly been cleaned, wooden shelving constructed, Angus slid the pistol into his holster. Unsnapped his Buck knife from its holder. Cut the leather from the female’s outspread wrists and ankles that’d been looped and knotted through U-shaped nails. Placed the knife back in its case. Took in her features, reminded him of damaged fruit. Matted hair. Eyeliner was smeared watercolors. Crust that rimmed her nostrils. He knew she’d become a piece of meat for sampling and resampling. Amusement for those without a moral compass. But there was something more. She was familiar and she asked, “David, Daddy? We have to find them. Help them.”

Angus kneeled, grabbed her clothing. Laid the garments beside her, hands twitched as she snatched up the clothes as if an orphan who’d never owned clothing.

Angus turned his back for her to dress. Walked out into the daylight. Listened to her sob. “Bastards!” she screamed through pouting lips of gritted teeth. “Fucking bastards!” Dignity, Angus thought to himself, stripped of what she once had. He tried to ignore her tone. Felt the drama of her words glide through him.

Grass grazed Angus’s knees as he stepped out into the daylight; tan and wild, the property appeared unkempt with the passing of months. He thought of those evenings after logging timber, sweat-soaked and dusted by wood chips. Sipping the custard-like foam from a cold Pabst. Watching other workers he employed, some staying on long enough to collect a week’s wage, move on. Others stayed for an entire job and a few were regular labor. Studying them each and every: they were all people that time was passing by. Men whose minds were full of bad things ’cause of what they’d seen or have to entertain to get by another day or for what they wanted but could not afford. Angus’d take a swig of that beer, knowing if he wanted to survive in this canker sore of a life, he’d need to get the hell out while the gettin’ was good. It was one thing to earn your keep by an hourly wage, but if you live long enough, you have to ask yourself, was it really worth all the renting of yourself, of your time for another man’s riches? Angus went from logging and bare-knuckle boxing to cooking meth and then belly-up.

A strong breeze rattled the leaves off in the distance. The land sunk, then rose and flattened to where a wilted barn sat. Chipped paint with discolored wood. Decorating its front was a man, arms outstretched as if he were offering a gigantic hug to the surrounding acres. Bullet holes centered each palm. And from behind, a quaking hand grabbed Angus’s shoulder.

Reaching, he turned and pinned the palm to his shoulder. Removed his pistol, twisted, pressed the .45 into the female’s right eye. Her orbs glistened like jewels. Angus released her. Lowered the pistol. “My apologies. It’s instinct.” The girl sagged, her energy lagging as she shook and cried, “David, we gotta search out David.”

Angus holstered his pistol, thought about what was behind him, off in the distance, hoped to place a wall between her vision and what he’d just seen, knowing he needed answers. Asked, “What is your identity, your namesake?”

She blinked her one good eye. The other was mashed potatoes. “My husband and me, only persons I knew I’d acquire safety with was Daddy,” she said. “Savages came, Daddy told us all things’d be okay but they separated me from David, from my daddy and—”