Wishing Well(79)
We were nearing the well when a distant sound drew both our attention, and before I could react by holding Maurice back, he’d taken off at a dead run. It was nothing more but a startled cry, it could have been anybody, really. But Maurice had Penelope’s voice dedicated to memory, the pitch of her tone a siren’s song that called to him. I was sure he heard her voice in his sleep, was sure he could sniff her out like a dog does a rabbit when on the hunt.
The next scream that cut through the silence of a day turning to night was far more compelling, far more distressed than was normal for a woman playing around. I couldn’t run fast enough to keep up with him, couldn’t yell loud enough to make him stop.
All hell broke loose when Maurice crashed through a grouping of distant bushes to find Penelope limp on the ground, her attacker standing above her with rage darkening his face. I only caught a glimpse of the gouges across Barron’s face before Maurice was on top of him, only caught a peek of the blood that wept from the wounds. If only Maurice had been more in control, those wounds would have been our salvation.
But as it happened, as the fury overtook my brother and he lost the ability to understand reason, Barron was on the ground screaming as Maurice became more dangerous than a wild animal, beating on and breaking every bone in Barron’s face. At the time the fighting began, this portion of the garden was empty, but as any loud noise will do, as any terrible fight will cause to happen, the battle between the two men drew attention. As guests ran over to see what the noise was about, I was attempting to jump in and drag Maurice off the man he was beating to a bloody pulp.
The crimson stain was everywhere. On the ground, on the bushes, on my clothes, on Penelope where she lay much too still to be alive and breathing.
Barron managed to break free of Maurice for an instant, long enough to run in the direction of Penelope’s body, to fall on top of her, to sink down as Maurice tackled him again. In the fight between the two men, Penelope’s body was also being crushed. There was nothing I could do to stop it. My clothes were ripped like theirs, my body, face and hair covered in the blood of Barron and Maurice both. All three of us had wounds consistent with a battle.
The fight was far too brutal, the ripping of skin, the crunching of bones, the viciousness of a man gone mad, creating a scene that caused the guests to scream as they witnessed it, for them to grab their phones and call the police.
Bones protruded from Barron’s body, his face unrecognizable as human, and when Maurice made sure that Barron was no longer breathing, he flung me off his back and crawled to Penelope.
As far as the guests had witnessed, the gathering of people who would attest to the facts of what had occurred, my brother and I had killed a man as well as the woman who was with him. They didn’t know what caused the fight to occur, they hadn’t heard the muted cry of a woman fighting off her attacker. They didn’t know that Barron had caused her death with a blow to her face, or by breaking her neck. In truth, and when all the examiners and doctors had their chance to detail the injuries of her body, they wouldn’t be able to opine which one had been the blow that killed her.
The sun was setting over the garden, the distant horizon lighting up like a painting over the endless sky, and in the distance, sirens were tearing through the warm spring evening, blue lights swirling within the reds and golds, pinks and violets of a sun sinking beneath the horizon.
On my knees, I watched as Maurice lifted Penelope’s limp body from the ground, a roar escaping his chest and mouth as he cradled her to his chest, his lips pressing to hers with a gentleness that brought tears to my eyes. Pulling away, he roared again, the sound that of a man who’d just lost everything. I’d never heard such deep sorrow and pain, and in my entire life, I never wanted to hear it again.
Behind me, the drum of running feet approached, the hurried voices of guests explaining what they’d seen, and in a panic to protect my brother from what I knew was coming, I rushed toward him to make it appear as if I’d been the aggressor. The police had me by the arms, their grip crushing as they dragged me away from a broken man clutching his broken doll, tears streaming from his eyes.
Before they could approach him, I screamed the only words I could think to say. “It was me! Okay? That son of a bitch thought he could fuck her behind my back! My brother tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t let him!”
Yes, I’d flipped the roles we’d played, but with the injuries, the blood, the carnage that covered us both, it could have been either of us that had been the one to kill.
How stupid had I been to scream the first words that came into my head when it would have been easier to use logic and explain calmly what had happened? To lay blame at Barron’s feet? To go against everything the guests were claiming they’d seen so that I could protect us both from being arrested?
However, instinct isn’t always stupid.
As it turned out, it was my immediate confession that had been the only thing protecting my brother from being taken into custody, from being tossed to the ground where he would have fought to the death to get back to Penelope.
Perhaps that’s why emotion had clouded my better judgment in that instant: I knew Maurice would have been killed by not listening to a single instruction the police gave him.
I could only be thankful that my hotel manager had come running as soon as he heard the report there was a fight in the garden, that he’d been smart enough to bring the drugs that would neutralize Maurice and keeping him from fighting the police who wanted to take Penelope’s body from his arms.