Cruel Justice

10

CARLEE CRANE WATCHED AS her husband, Dave, introduced their two sons to the joys of whittling.

“It’s like this,” Dave said, carefully demonstrating how to open and close their pocketknives. “Put your knife in your right hand, and hold the block of wood in your left. Always stroke away from you, not toward you. Understand, Ethan?”

Ethan, who had just turned six, peered up at his father with his usual inquisitive, somewhat skeptical expression. “Why?”

Dave’s eyes soared toward the heavens. It was an inquiry Ethan had made with increasing frequency during the past year.

“Because you don’t want to hurt yourself.”

Their other son, Gavin, an elder sage of eight, volunteered an answer. “If you stroke toward yourself, Ethan, you’ll end up cutting off your hand or poking a hole in your stomach. Knowing you, you’d probably kill all four of us with a single blow.”

“Gavin,” Carlee said, “don’t talk to your brother like that.”

“I’m just trying to keep him from slaughtering us, Mom, like that guy who kills all the campers in those Friday the 13th movies.”

“Gavin,” Dave interjected, “your brother is not Jason.”

“I don’t know,” Gavin said. “He looks pretty scary in a hockey mask.”

Carlee smiled. This was her family, God help her. It was too late to trade them in now.

She reached over and turned on the portable radio they had brought with them. It was tuned to the NPR station. Terry Gross was finishing an interview with yet another jazz musician.

“Let’s continue the whittling lesson,” Dave said.

“Aw, gee, Dad,” Ethan said. “Do we have to?”

“Yes, you have to,” Dave said emphatically. “You don’t want to hurt yourself, do you?”

There was no immediate answer forthcoming.

“Of course you don’t,” Dave answered for him. “Smart campers don’t hurt themselves.”

Here we go again, Carlee thought. Since they had arrived at their Turner Falls campsite in the Arbuckle Mountains two days before, Carlee had heard Dave indoctrinate his children on his own personal code of forbidden camp conduct, which could be titled What Smart Campers Don’t Do. Don’t swim for an hour after eating. Don’t build a campfire without a protective ring of rocks. Don’t pitch your tent on a slope. All these lessons and more were reinforced with the injunction “Only stupid campers do that.” Presumably, Dave believed that nothing would mortify the boys more than being thought stupid campers. In truth, Gavin and Ethan would probably be more attentive if he threatened to take away their Game Boys.

Fresh Air ended, and a local news update began. Carlee turned up the volume. “… commenting on the impending trial of Leeman Hayes ten years after the heinous killing occurred. Hayes is accused of murdering a Peruvian woman in the caddyshack at the Utica Greens Country Club.”

“Hear that?” Carlee said. ‘That’s where I used to work.”

No one heard her. The menfolk were all focusing their full attention on their knives and blocks.

“A murder at Utica Greens,” she murmured. “I’m surprised I don’t remember it.” Even as she said it to herself, though, something struck her as not quite right.

She glanced at her watch. It was almost time to fix supper, which meant deciding which of several cans she was going to open. Dave had made some noise about “roughing it” and learning to cook such campfire delicacies as steak Diane and foil taters. When all was said and done, however, she was the cook, and the cook was on vacation. There was a reason God made canned food, the cook announced, and this was it.

She knew she should get started, but somehow, she couldn’t quite work up the energy. It was so peaceful here, watching her family, feeling the wind toss about her long hair, seeing the sun slowly dip behind the Arbuckle Mountains.

Nah. The cans would keep.

“Now, first,” Dave continued, “you need to decide what you’re going to make. What are you going to make, Gavin?”

Gavin blinked several times. “Gosh, I dunno.”

“Well, what does your block of wood look like to you?”

“Well …” Gavin stared at it intently. “It looks like a square.”

“It is a square, but—” Dave’s face tightened. “Don’t you have an imagination?”

“I guess not,” Gavin replied. “Least not when it comes to blocks of wood.”

“It’s Nintendo that’s done it,” Dave said, glancing at his wife. “Nintendo and MTV. Pollutes their minds. Feeds them everything. Before long, they’ve forgotten how to use their imaginations and they can’t tolerate anything that takes longer than three and a half minutes.”

“Maybe you could teach them by example,” Carlee suggested.

“Wow, what a concept,” Dave murmured. “I see now how you got that degree in secondary education.” He picked up his knife and block. “Okay, craft lovers, watch this.”

“Will it take long?” Ethan whined.

“Why, have you got a date or something?”

“No … but I am getting kinda hungry. …”

Dave bit down on his lower lip. “Just watch for a minute, okay? Good. Now, I think my block of wood looks like”—his eyes wandered about, then lighted on Carlee—“… your mother.”

“Mother!” Both Gavin and Ethan cackled with laughter. “Dad thinks you look like a square block of wood!”

“How flattering,” Carlee said.

“It’s not that it looks like her now,” Dave said. “But see what happens when I do … this.” He sliced his knife through the block, curling off a sliver of wood.

“Hey,” Gavin observed, “shouldn’t you be stroking away from—”

“Shush and watch,” Dave said. He continued cutting. “And then I do this … and this … and—ow!”

Dave shouted, then dropped the knife and block. Both boys jumped into the air, startled.

“What happened?” Carlee asked. “What did you—”

The answer was evident before she finished the question. Violating his own code, Dave had stroked toward himself and cut his hand.

“How bad is it?” Carlee blanched. Blood was spurting from the wound. Dave squeezed down on it with his other hand, but the blood spilled out through his fingers.

“Get the first-aid kit!” Dave shouted.

Carlee continued staring at the blood streaming from his wound. It smeared his arms and dripped onto the ground, making gruesome dark puddles. A sickly sweet odor permeated the air.

Carlee felt a wave of nausea sweeping over her. She put down a hand to steady herself, but was unable to take her eyes away from him. She saw her husband clutching his hand, covered with blood, and—

And then she saw something else. Some … where else. She was still outside, but she was … looking through an open window. She was looking into a building. No, a room. She was looking into the corner where a woman stood against the wall. The woman was covered with blood, blood was spurting everywhere, blood was soaking her clothes and the walls and the floor. …

“Carlee, are you going to help me or not?”

Carlee heard his voice, but it seemed far away, distant. Unreal. What was real was what she was … seeing. That poor woman, backed into the corner. The woman was crying, screaming, and … and …

Something struck the woman again, this time in the neck. A bloodcurdling howl was choked off and replaced by a death rattle. Blood spurted again and splashed throughout the room and the color and the smell and the sticky wetness was all over everything and …

Carlee screamed.

“Carlee, what is wrong with you? You’re scaring the kids!”

Carlee clenched her eyes shut. The woman in the corner faded away. Carlee reopened her eyes slowly and saw her husband hovering over her. Somehow she had ended up on the ground, flat on her back.

Dave was still gripping his hand, but the flow of blood had subsided. “Are you all right?”

“I—I think so.” She licked her lips. Her throat was dry. “I don’t know what happened.”

Dave’s forehead creased. “I’ll get the first-aid kit myself.”

“Oh, but—”

Too late. He was gone.

When Dave returned, about a minute later, his hand was wrapped in white gauze. “It isn’t serious,” he informed his family. “It bled like crazy, but it was just a superficial cut.” He sat down beside his wife. “What about you? Are you all right?”

It’s not superficial, Carlee thought. Her eyes were closed. It’s everywhere. The blood is everywhere.

“Carlee, did you hear me?”

“She needs help,” Carlee said aloud. “That poor woman needs help.”

“Carlee?” Dave took her by the shoulders, favoring his injured hand. “What are you talking about?”

Carlee shook her head, then brought her eyes around to face him. “I—I—” She didn’t know where to begin.

“What happened to you?”

“I—I guess it was the sight of all that blood. …”

“You were acting like—I don’t know—like you were in a trance or something.”

Carlee was suddenly aware that their two boys were standing around her with very concerned expressions on their faces. “I’m fine, everyone. Really I am. I was just … I don’t know. But I’m fine.” She took Dave’s hand and examined his wound. “Looks like you’ll live.”

“Yeah.” Neither Dave nor the boys moved away from her. “We’re more concerned about you. You said something about blood, and—a woman?”

Had she? She didn’t remember saying that. She didn’t remember speaking at all. And yet, she knew Dave wouldn’t lie. And she had seen something.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember, but nothing came to her. It was gone.

“I was just … daydreaming,” she said, doing her level best to sound convincing. “Probably induced by hunger.” She slapped her boys on the back. “I think it’s time for dinner. Any takers?”

“I dunno,” Gavin said meekly. “Is it Beenie Weenies again?”

Carlee laughed and guided them back to the designated mess tent. She tried to remain chipper while she fixed dinner, and tried to avoid doing anything that would alarm the children. She could tell Dave was watching her, though. He knew something had happened to her. Something serious. And it bothered him.

Which was only natural, she supposed, because it bothered her, too. What had happened was incredibly strange. In fact, it was unlike anything she could—

Remember.