Blood Crimes Book One

1968

Folks were scared of Wayne Lee Garrett. Nobody could quite remember how long he’d been around, maybe five years and change. People said he was an outsider, a “flatlander,” come from a gaming town in the low desert. He’d been drafted, sent to Viet Nam for a couple of tours, went wrong in the head like a lot of the other boys. Anyhow, Garrett had moved way up into the hills to get away from the world, kill his own food and just be alone. That’s what folks said.

Wayne Lee was a big man, sunburned and sweaty, inclined to wear overalls and muddy work boots. He scowled a lot, always crinkled up his eyes, but it wasn’t from laughing. Had a pair of thick eyebrows looked like beetles about to mix it up. Later on, trying to say something nice about him, young Reverend Grass allowed as to how Garrett was always in church come Sunday, mumbling to himself, following right along with Biblical passages like a man who’d done some studying, lots of praying, maybe even some preaching of his own.

Now, along about 1966, a local spinster named Mary got herself in a family way. That kind of thing was considered shameful back then, not at all like it is today. About thirty seconds before the baby dropped, old Wayne Lee up and offered to make her an honest woman. Mary, figuring it was better than being mocked for the rest of her life, agreed to get hitched. Young Reverend Grass did the honors.

Wayne Lee took her high into the mountains to live with him. He delivered her baby with his own two hands. Garrett had bought this land for pennies on the dollar, and probably didn’t think to ask why. He probably should have. But by the time Mary arrived, he’d already built an old redwood cabin and an outhouse, run electricity to it; tapped a well to get some fresh water in the kitchen. Hell, even bought a used black and white television. It wasn’t much of a life, but it must have been decent, because the two of them popped out another kid right away.

Whatever happened that awful night had to have started a ways back. Wayne Lee Garrett and his family didn’t mingle much, mostly kept to themselves. They came down the 41 to buy groceries now and again, rode into town in an old Chevy that farted black smoke, Garrett looking neither left nor right, but did their business and left. He brought his family to church, but the never stayed for cookies and punch, not even once.

At first Mary, she was a bit different. Now and again she’d bring the children down in that Chevy – couldn’t hardly see her tiny face behind the steering wheel – and treat them to a cherry ice cream cone. She’d try to talk to folks, smiling and all, and most men would be polite, but a lot of the women didn’t care for her because of her past. They’d do that strange thing women do, where they are really nice in ways that cut you down at the same time.

Mary’s smile would stay frozen in place when they walked away laughing, but a sorrowful hurt crouched behind her eyes. She’d cringe like a whipped puppy. And after a time, she stopped coming to town at all. Meanwhile, Wayne Lee continued to attend church services, but all that last summer and fall he’d be there alone. Just sitting in the back row, rocking and whispering.

The devil’s breath was on the town late that fall, meaning the kind of bitter wind comes scratching at the window like a living thing, whips down the fireplace and turns your house ice cold. Now, here’s the thing. A tribe of Native Americans once lived high up in these same mountains. Legend has it they were called the Horse Humans. It’s said their elders believed that wind was the shrieking of an evil spirit called Orunde, a demon that drives men mad. Listening to that wind howling outside, it wasn’t a stretch to think they might have known what they were talking about.

And Wayne Lee Garrett’s little redwood cabin? It was built right on top of the damned Indian graveyard. See, that’s why the land went so cheap in the first place.

The night it all went down, Wayne Lee Garrett stood in the living room of his small cabin listening to a plastic 45 spinning on his record player. It was a Nashville outlaw tune called “Forty Years of Pain.” That song was a big hit back then, sung by some young country star or another.

“He was a man,” went the lyrics, “who loved as hard as he drank. Lord, she was trouble. You can take that to the bank…”

Wayne Lee Garret sighed. He turned and stared at his wife. Mary Garrett stared back. Wayne Lee whispered, “My sweetheart.”

The record continued. “She broke his heart, took another man’s name, and he died alone…after forty years of pain.”

“Our favorite tune, precious,” Garrett said, softly. “Our very own little baby making song.” Mary squirmed a bit in her chair, made an odd little whimpering sound through the dish rag jammed in her mouth. Garrett moved closer, stroked her skin. “I have to do this, Mary. You brought it on yourself by lying with another man.” She shook her head feverishly. Her mind raced, no no no I haven’t done anything I don’t know what you’re talking about please don’t no…Mary struggled against her bonds, watched with wide eyes as Garrett finished loading the Smith amp; Wesson 38. He produced a gentle smile. “I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands.”

Mary tried to scream through her gag. Garrett lurched closer, whispered in her ear. “Hush. Hush, now. You don’t want them to wake up for it, do you? I’ll make this as quick as I can. I promise.”

Torn, Mary struggled to contain herself as her demented husband walked heavily into the other room. A small girl’s sleepy voice. “Daddy?”

BAM! And Mary shrieked and fought and BAM the second shot killed her other child. Wild with grief and terror, Mary sagged in the chair and wept. A third shot as Wayne Lee finished one of them off, and his footsteps slowly trudged back into the front room. The record player continued, and a jaunty guitar solo made this slaughter by lantern light seem all the more macabre. “Forty years of pain…”

Oh, God, my poor babies, Mary thought in anguish. And her body trembled I am next, dear heaven he means to kill me, too.

Wayne Lee put the gun against her stomach. Mary struggled in the chair, almost fell backward. He steadied her arm. Looked down with compassionate eyes. “It’s time.” Terrified and broken hearted, Mary closed her eyes. At the last moment, Garrett found it in his heart to spare her more agony. He moved the barrel and placed it over her heart instead. A muffled shot, a spray of blood against the kitchen sink and Mary was gone.

“And he died alone, after forty years of pain…”

The song ended. The record player scratched and complained but failed to reset itself. Garrett walked to a kitchen chair, scraped it backwards. Sat down heavily, listening to the noise from the machine.

A small, wry smile crossed his face. “Forty years of pain,” he whispered, and stuck the 38 in his mouth. Seconds passed. Fear overtook him and he lowered the weapon. What happened? Where am I? What have I done? Mary!

His eyes widened. Silence. The voices had stopped their incessant whispering. Wayne Lee Garrett twitched in the chair, horrified and alert. He turned off the record player. The scratching stopped. The cabin was still and silent. For the first time his situation fully penetrated. They were gone. Garrett was a murderer. His wife and children had been slaughtered, killed by his own hand. A brand new life destroyed. Wayne Lee Garrett began to sob. Why? Why? God, what have I done this?

Outside, the wind wailed. Now it seemed to carry mocking laughter from the desolate hills. After a time, when the pain became too great, Wayne Lee Garrett put the gun back in his mouth. Nearly vomited but took a deep, deep breath and squeezed the trigger. This time he succeeded. The gun went off, and so did the back of his head.

BOOM. Grey and red matter splattered the record player and raced up the back wall. Meanwhile, the song echoed through the woods, carried on the wind, forty years of pain…

A constable found the family a few weeks later, from the stench of four darkened bodies, all fly-bloated and rotting. In fact, the smell was so damned ripe the place stayed empty for years. And naturally it began to get something of a reputation. “Go up there, you don’t see nothing,” the people said. “But you know what? You only think you’re alone.”

That’s what they whispered to their children, too, and those kids told the generation after that. Until finally it was just the one sentence, gave the whole story about that old Indian graveyard and the Garrett cabin.

“You only think you’re alone.”