The Bleeding Season (12 page)

“Oh, man, that’s fucking nasty!”  Afraid I might be sick, I struggled to my feet and brushed the pine needles from the seat of my pants.  “Why the hell would I want to see something like that?”

“She likes it,” he said again.  “Look, on the last page he unties her from the chair and she—”

“You’re fucking deranged, dude,” I said, forcing a cavalier laugh.

Something changed in his expression, and he gave a subtle shrug.  “Nice tits, though, huh?”

I nodded.  “Yeah, I guess.”

“You
guess
?”

“Well, fuck, man, she’s probably older than my grandmother by now.”

He closed the magazine and slid it back into the bag.  “You think Julie Henderson’s tits are that nice?”

“They’re not as big as those,” I said, relieved to see he was putting the magazine away.  “But much nicer, not even close.”

Julie Henderson was 19 and gorgeous, the older sister of Brian Henderson, one of our classmates.  Everything alive and male lusted after her, and we were no exception.  To make matters worse, Julie jogged through town in late afternoon wearing short-shorts and a skimpy top almost daily, so of course it was not unusual for us to stop whatever we were doing and make sure to be on the street to see her pass by.  From this simple event, which usually took all of fifteen seconds, countless discussions arose regarding all things Julie—most typically locker room in nature, of course—which only further fanned the fires of our sexual fantasies.

Bernard crawled across the fireplace and stuffed the plastic bag deep inside before replacing the loose stones.  He stood up and hopped down next to me.  “You know she runs right by here, right?”

I hadn’t known that but didn’t want to appear ignorant of her route.  “Yeah, sure.”

“Sometimes I hide behind the fireplace and watch when she goes by.”

“Yeah, OK, perv-boy.”

“Sorry I’m not a fag like you.”

“Shut up, asshole.”  I pushed him playfully, and not with much force.  “Yeah, I’m a fag just because I don’t hide in the woods and beat-off watching some girl run by.”

Bernard staggered a bit, laughed then straightened his eyeglasses.  “You watch her just like everybody else does.”

“Yeah but not out here.  I mean, if I’m outside and—”

“
If
?  Oh, yeah—right!”

“Fine, so I make sure I’m outside when she runs by.”  We were both laughing now, and although I felt better, the pictures in that magazine kept appearing in my mind.  “I look and I smile and she ignores me like always and jogs right by.  Then I go inside and that’s it.  I don’t fucking wait out in the woods and hide like some jack-off.”

Bernard looked at me like the thoughts occupying his mind were more important than returning my put-down with one of his own.  “You know,” he said softly, “if you wanted to do something with her…this would be a good place to do it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Julie can’t wait to come out here and fuck you, Bernard.  She’s probably home right now, all playing with herself and shit just thinking about it.”

I expected him to laugh, but he didn’t.  “Maybe she wouldn’t want to at first.”

“Try ever.  Shit, if you were the last guy on the planet she’d probably go lesbo.”

“I’m being serious, dick-weed.  She’s going away to college in September, you know.”

“So?”

“So, if we’re gonna do something with her it has to be before the end of the summer.”

“Bernard, listen to me.  Julie Henderson would never do anything with you.  Get a clue, dude, she probably doesn’t even know who you are.”

He walked toward the path leading out of the forest, then stopped and looked back at me.  “I was talking to Rick about it.”

“About Julie Henderson?”

“Yeah.  He said it would be funny if we waited out here one day, then when she ran by one of us could stop her and start talking to her.”  He was smiling again, like he might be kidding.  “Then one of us could sneak up behind her and pull her shorts down real fast.  She’d be all embarrassed and stuff, but we’d get to see her.”

I moved closer and a shaft of sunlight cut the trees, causing me to squint.  “Rick said that?”

Bernard nodded.  “See, that way if she got all mad we could just take off running like it was a big joke…but if she doesn’t get mad, then we could try something else and see what happens.”

“
Rick
 said all this?”

“Yeah.”

Another Bernard lie.  “Bullshit.”

“We’re going over his house in a couple minutes,” he reminded me.  “Ask him.”

“You guys could get in major trouble doing something like that, man.  Seriously.”

“She wouldn’t tell.”  Bernard’s eyes narrowed.  “They never tell.”

Something in his tone caused my stomach muscles to clench.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Girls usually don’t tell when stuff like that happens to them,” he said.

“How the hell would you know?”

“Saw a show about it on TV.  That’s what they said.”

“Whatever.  I wouldn’t do anything like that anyway,” I told him, still not certain he was serious.

“You wouldn’t want to make it with Julie Henderson?”

“Of course I would, but…but, Jesus, I’d want her to want it too.  If she doesn’t then it’s assault, dude—
rape
—that’s what it is.”

“So what?”

“So I don’t want to fucking rape her, what’s wrong with you?”

“But if she never told on you, and no one knew…then would you?”

“She’d know,” I answered.  “
I’d
 know.”

“
She’d
know,” he said mockingly, holding his chest like he was dying and repeating in a high-pitched voice, “
I’d
know!
I’d
 know!”

“You asshole.”  I laughed and threw a fake punch at him.  “I thought you were serious.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Yeah, and maybe you aren’t,” I said as we turned and together, headed out of the forest.

“Besides, being a huge homo, you wouldn’t know what to do with a girl anyway.”

“OK, gay-boy, whatever.”

Our laughter echoed through the trees.  As we followed the path on our way from the forest, we continued to insult each other with homophobic phrases and endlessly creative uses for profanity, as most teenage boys are wont to do.

In that regard, my memory of that afternoon seemed in no way out of the ordinary.  Confronting Julie Henderson in the forest never came up in conversation again, and I dismissed it as nothing more than Bernard’s wishful thinking.

But I now found myself questioning what until that point had seemed a harmless discussion between two boys huddled over an old porno rag.  Had Bernard simply been trying to work through his own sexual awakenings, confusion and desire like the rest of us, talking typical teen male bravado and pretending to be something he wasn’t?  Or had it been a signal I’d missed—a warning that something else existed in him even then?    Something dark…diseased…deadly.

She wouldn’t tell
.
They never tell.

I hadn’t thought about that afternoon in a very long time, yet the images that remained most vivid were also the most disturbing; even after all these years.

Glancing at the desk, I noticed three more empty beer bottles sitting in a neat row.  I scooped them up, tossed them into the gym bag then propped my feet up and tried to get as comfortable as one can in a hard plastic chair.

A misting rain had replaced the snow.  The night had grown darker it seemed.

My belly warmed with brew but my mind still reeling, I closed my eyes and searched for more memories, more clues.

*   *   *

It was just after two in the morning when I saw her.

A thick fog had rolled in off the water, making visibility a few feet at best.  The street was quiet, hadn’t seen another living soul or even a car pass in more than an hour, and I was digging through my gym bag for another beer when I noticed movement from the corner of my eye.

I stood up and looked more closely at the fog, a small lamp and a night security bulb over the interior showroom provided the only nearby light.  Two powerful beams on the roof sliced a canal through the fog, illuminating portions of the lot and the rows of cars.  At the very edge of the property was a woman—a woman just standing there—thin arms dangling at her sides, vines of slow-moving fog curling about her, cradling her with ghost-like fingers.

I returned the unopened beer to my gym bag and moved around the side of the desk, never taking my eyes from her.  Slowly, I slid closer to the showroom window.  She was looking right at me, everything but her eyes masked in night and mist.

And while gazing into those eyes, it came to me.  She looked like the woman with the little boy at Rick’s apartment building.
You here about the plumbing?

She looked exactly like her, from what I could remember.  I moved so close to the window that I was able to place a hand against it.  Had to just be some hooker out wandering the streets in the middle of the night, I told myself.  In that neighborhood—even at that time of night—it wouldn’t be unusual.  But the woman looked sickly, and New Bedford was miles from Potter’s Cove.  It seemed wildly far-fetched, and yet, deep down, I knew it was the same woman.

And from the way she was staring at me, she recognized me too.

Curiosity won out over fear, and I made my way to the door.  I unlocked a series of deadbolts on the front entrance, the sound of them disengaging unsettling somehow in the otherwise quiet night.

The woman was still there; arms now folded across her sunken chest.

The weight of the nightstick on my hip reminded me of its presence as I pushed the door open and stepped into the fog.  The air was brisk, a bit cooler than it should have been, and the fog seemed to dissipate somewhat.  The steady thud of my heart echoed in my ears.  I slowly, casually dropped a hand to the nightstick, felt my fingers wrap around the handle and tighten.

I’d either had more to drink than I realized, or the recent events combined with an overall lack of sleep and the recurring Bernard nightmare had finally taken their toll.
Or
, I told myself,
all of this is actually happening
.

“Ma’am,” I said through a hard swallow, “you all right?”

The woman gave no discernable response.

“Are you OK?  Do you—you need some help, ma’am?”

Without saying a word, the woman let her arms drop back to her sides and left them dangling there, swaying as if broken and no longer of any use to her.  But something in those eyes changed.  They seemed to be imploring me, beckoning me.

My legs shuddered and I broke eye contact long enough to glance quickly across the front lot.  I needed to know she was alone.  The lot and street beyond were empty and still.  My eyes returned to the woman in the fog.

“Can’t be the same woman,” I mumbled.  “Can’t be.”  I clutched the nightstick at my side but left it in my belt.  “You live around here?”

Again, no response.

“You lost, lady?”

The woman turned away and drifted off.

I stood there, frightened, despising my weakness.  “Are you lost?” I asked again, louder this time.

The woman continued on and slipped away into the fog, one final glimpse of her visible through the rolling clouds before they swallowed her completely as she reached the other side of the street.

With a deep breath, I held the nightstick tight and started across the lot after her.

CHAPTER 7

The fog thickened and embraced me from every direction, a giant specter with no beginning, middle or end.  I moved to the outskirts of the lot, aware that the dealership was well behind me now and that from somewhere back there the two showroom roof lights were cutting the darkness and fog.  Yet, what little light I could discern seemed to be coming from a solitary streetlight just across the width of road separating my position from the beginnings of the abandoned factory.  I hesitated, waited for my eyes to adjust, and listened.  There was no sign of the woman, and although the normal din of the city was still evident in the distance, it was quiet here, and but for the slow rolling fog, utterly still.

I held my ground for a moment and listened to the argument raging in my mind, wanting to forget all this and return to the relative safety of the dealership, but knowing I wouldn’t, knowing I couldn’t.  I slid the nightstick free but kept it down against my leg as I stepped from the curb and crossed the street.

The fog parted, and I continued on to the far curb and what had once been the factory driveway.  An old security and information hut sat boarded up and slowly dying a few feet from the beginning of the property, a long section of heavy though rusted chain still run across the lot entrance to prevent trespassers from driving too close to the abandoned building beyond.  I pulled my flashlight from my belt, flicked it on and gave a slow sweep of the area.  The beam was powerful but did little other than illuminate the fog, so I switched it off, returned it to my belt and allowed the streetlight to guide me.

Once I’d reached the chain I crouched and walked under it.  The dark, ominous carcass of the factory stood before me, most of the long vertical windows blown out, the few panes still intact covered with the impenetrable filth of years of neglect.  Decades before, those same myopic windowpanes had been blurred instead with sweat, while shadows, faceless and vague, submitted in silence.  But I was certain those ghosts were long since exorcised.  Something else was haunting this place now.

Or perhaps, only haunting me.

The thin layer of snow still blanketing the area had begun to melt, trickling and dripping from the factory to the pavement below.  The windows on the first floor were boarded shut, but the large front doors had rotted and mostly fallen away, setting the mouth of the building in an eternal yawn.

I leaned closer to the opening.  A partially rotted wooden plank that looked like it had fallen from above and landed there ages ago was wedged diagonally across the doorway. From within the enormous vacant structure I heard the echo of dripping water followed by a faint scratching sound.  I reached again for my flashlight, aimed the beam at the plank and darkness beyond.  Squatting at one end of the plank was an enormously plump rat.  Making odd grunting noises, it sat back on its hind legs, reared up and bared its teeth.