Damaged Goods (35 page)

“Can you start today? I need to arrange all this stuff.” He swept a hand out at the furniture. “It has to be easy to see for the people who want to buy it.”

“We start now,” Eduardo said.

The picture of Silvie that was stuck in Hershel’s mind was the last he’d seen her, as she looked at him before climbing into Castor’s pickup. Her hair, golden-blond, had ruffled in the breezy sunlight. She wore his flannel work shirt over her jacket and jeans, as if she had just stopped by the nursery to pick up a rosebush and would be home planting it soon. Though she had been more than fifty yards away, he believed he could see the blue of her frightened eyes. Those same haunted eyes that belonged to the girl in the photograph.

This was the vision he had as he closed his eyes at night,
the image that persisted in his mind, both sleeping and awake. He knew that she was scared, but was it because she’d killed Kyrellis or because she feared Castor? Why had she claimed to love Castor if she hadn’t wanted to go with him? Had he missed something? A hidden message to follow? To rescue? Her words were spoken with such clarity he knew that to believe anything but what she’d said would be a fabrication.

She’d said she
loved
him. How could she
love
him?

Hershel sat up in bed, swung his legs off the side of the mattress, and pressed his feet against the cool floor. The clock glowed twelve forty-five. He could estimate the sleep he’d managed over the past three days in mere minutes. If he continued this way he’d die of exhaustion. And yet sleep evaded him.

“Why didn’t I shoot?” He gripped his temples in his hands and squeezed. “I should have just killed him. I could go kill him now.” Hershel went to the window and peered down at the yard and his dark truck. “I can still kill him.”

The sale barn was quiet on Tuesday morning. Too early for bidders to preview the sale that evening. Eduardo and Manuel had done a good job the previous day, arranging the furniture so that it could be appraised properly by potential buyers. He had instructed them only once on the goal of their task, and they managed from there, though Hershel had stepped in and worked alongside them. The two seemed nervous about this in the beginning, as if they thought he didn’t trust them. Quiet glances bounced between them, then furtively at Hershel. But it was his business, and he had always taken a hands-on approach. There was no reason to stop now, and every reason to continue. He needed the physical work more than they could possibly know.

He sat at his desk, sifting through the mail that Carl used to manage for him. He sorted the envelopes into piles, dreading the coming evening. He was too tired to think straight. But at least his
clerk would be back tonight. Stuart had surmised that Marilyn had made a speedy recovery in response to the ease with which Hershel had found her replacement—a good-looking replacement, at that.

He considered firing Stuart. The man was vile. He couldn’t be trusted. He leered at the women when they weren’t looking and sometimes when they were. The man offended his customers with his trashy mouth, and made Hershel look like an imbecile every opportunity he got. But he saw something of his former self in Stuart. It was both repulsive and endearing. He couldn’t throw the man away for these things.

He opened his safe and sifted through its contents. The wooden box was familiar, but he didn’t remember what it held, so he dragged it out and placed it on the desk, then examined his keys for one that might work. When he’d found the right one, he opened the lid and withdrew a jumble of papers. He pressed the first one flat across the surface of the desk and a prickle raced over his scalp. It was Albert Darling’s insurance list—the Winchester rifle proudly called out on the first line. Why had he kept this? He leafed through the others, all damning evidence of past gun sales. Why? Had he planned to blackmail the buyers?

Hershel’s phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello.”

“Any guns in the sale tonight?”

Hershel froze. Was Kyrellis alive? No, the voice was wrong, too high. Younger. Another man, familiar and unfamiliar in that frustrating way.

“Yes,” he said. “Two small pistols. Did you see the ad in the paper?”

“That’s all?”

“I advertise all my guns.”

The man snorted. “Since when?”

“Since today.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“I file my paperwork as required by law. If you’re looking for something else, you won’t find it here.”

“If you say so.” The man’s voice was flat with disappointment as he hung up.

Hershel dropped the phone back into its cradle. How many of these men were out there? How often would he have this conversation?

He gathered up the papers and slipped them into a large manila envelope. He would carry them home and burn them today. He would turn his business and his home upside down in the week ahead, searching for evidence like this, and destroy it. His mission was simple—eradicate the man who had once possessed this place, this body. This soul.

He dialed the phone.

“Hello,” she answered.

“I’ve changed.”

She drew an audible breath.

“Please don’t hang up. Please.”

She seemed frozen, and Hershel didn’t know what more to say. He simply wanted to hold this connection like a fragile, beautiful glass thread.

“I’m different. Why don’t you want anything to do with me?”

“I—I can’t.”

“I don’t remember what happened.” He expected her to hang up, but the line was simply quiet now. Was she still there? “I don’t remember a lot of my life before. It’s gone. I’m … I’m different.”

She sniffed hard, and he heard her muffled sob. He was breaking her heart. He was killing her.

“I need you, Mom,” he whispered.

She hung up.

Silvie slept for hours, days—maybe even weeks. She’d lost track. Time wadded up around her like a thick, dark cocoon. The room was light. Then dark. Then light. Now dark. She staggered to the bathroom, squinting away from the harsh light, and peered at her reflection. Her face was puffy and red. The worst of her bruises had begun the slow migration from purple to green. The least of them had yellowed. The swelling had finally gone down. Her hair hung limply around her shoulders, oily. When had she last bathed?

“Silvie?” Jacob called.

She closed her eyes against his voice. “I’m in the bathroom.” Her voice was hoarse with fatigue.

Once she’d emptied her bladder and washed her hands, rubbing at the deep grooving around her wrists that was still visible, she returned to bed, feeling exhausted. Jacob sat on the edge, waiting. He pulled the covers back for her and waited as she climbed in. Then he drew the blankets up around her again and kissed her forehead. He smelled of alcohol still.

“Take this,” he said, reaching for a tablet and a glass of water.

She shook her head.

“Do like I ask.”

“Please, Jacob. I’ve been sleeping too much.” She rubbed her hands over her puffy, hot skin. “When can I see my mother?”

He looked at her sadly. He had deep creases under his eyes, and he looked older than she remembered. He’d always seemed old, but now he
looked
old. After a moment to contemplate her request, he pressed the pill into her palm. “Take it.”

“Jacob?”

He waited patiently. He was in one of his caretaking moods, when he treated her like a child, seeing to her every need. This was the Jacob she had missed, though now she couldn’t quite grasp why.

He hadn’t even waited until they were back in Wyoming before he began the beatings. The first few hours of the trip, she’d huddled against the passenger door, wiping away silent tears. Those Portland streets, the wide band of interstate that curled its way through the heart of the city—a city radiant in its cloak of green velvet that sunny day—were unreal. It was as if time had suddenly stopped. She felt numb, her mind unable to grasp reality. She’d killed a man. It was shocking in such a way that it simply wouldn’t stop surprising her. At every turn, every light, she realized again, as if it were the first time, that she’d killed a man.

But, as the city faded into the background and the Columbia River Gorge opened its arms to them, the fear that she’d carried with her when she arrived in Oregon crept back. She glanced at Jacob from time to time, trying to get a sense about things. Was it okay that he’d found her? She’d missed him. What would he do? How angry was he? Had he had time to yearn for her before he’d come? She studied the side of his face, working at reading his mood. But that was just the problem; she’d never been able to do that. He startled her with his affection and he startled her with his brutality. She never saw either one coming.

He waited until Idaho Falls, some ten hours on the road, before he began to question her. She turned her face to the window to deal with her tears and simply remained silent. He didn’t persist, not until they’d reached the motel.

“I’m sorry for what I did,” she said, holding the pill in her hand, stalling for time.

He nodded, almost to himself.

“When can I see my mom?”

His eyes came up to meet hers, but they were guarded and unreadable. He’d been drinking consistently since they returned. Her stomach instinctively clenched down on itself. He set the water glass on the nightstand.

“Why don’t you have a bath? You can take that later.” He took the pill back and set it next to the glass.

“How long have we been home?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Just take a hot bath. Take your time. Get cleaned up.”

She knew what this meant. She rose, having no choice but to comply. She couldn’t change the course of his plans twice, and she wasn’t foolish enough to try. She stepped gingerly into the bathroom again.

Silvie slid into the hot water, wishing she had taken the drug. She’d be asleep by now. Instead, she was preparing herself for him like a sacrificial lamb.

She wondered why Hershel hadn’t rescued her by now. And a bigger part of her wondered why he hadn’t shot Jacob when he had the chance. She’d seen him point his rifle at Jacob’s face as they turned around and started out of Kyrellis’s nursery. She’d watched the long barrel of his gun as it followed the movement of the truck. She’d held her breath, expecting Jacob’s brains to splatter across her lap at any moment. And then they were turning onto Scholls Ferry Road, her heart sinking. Jacob was reaching for her, pulling her closer to him, telling her how happy he was that he’d found her alive. She was struggling with the cruel realization that she didn’t want to go with him. She wanted to stay.

She wished, above all, that she hadn’t told Hershel she loved Jacob. At the moment, she had believed it was true. Or true enough that she didn’t want Hershel to kill him. But her parting words sounded so ugly now. He would never know that he had meant anything to her at all.

The phone rang, and Jacob answered it. Though the door was
open only a crack, she had always been able to hear him conduct his business from this room, even when it was closed.

“No,” he said. “I haven’t heard from her.”

Silvie perked up. Was he talking about her?

“I promise, Melody. The first I know I will call you.” There was a long pause. Silvie chased her breath, unable to catch it. “How are you doing? Do you need anything? Are you current on your rent?”

She cried out, a small moan. He was speaking to her mother. He was lying to her mother. Why, though? It wasn’t as if her mother didn’t know Jacob beat her. The first time it happened, Silvie went to her for help. It was the day before her thirteenth birthday. He’d hit Silvie before that, but this was a bona-fide beating with his fists that seemed to go on forever, until she threw up. When she showed her mother the bruises, Melody made indignant noises and horrified faces. She had sympathized, telling her daughter that he shouldn’t have done that. Then she made Silvie a cup of hot cocoa, sat her down, and explained to her that everyone had a cross to bear. Life was hard. We don’t always get what we want, and everyone has to do their part. Especially now that her father was gone. This was simply Silvie’s cross—and God wouldn’t give her more than she could handle.

“You almost done in there, sweetie?” Jacob called. “Silvie?” He opened the door and peered in.

“I’m still kind of tired,” she said, through slit eyes. The sight of him struck fear anew in her. She could imagine only one reason why he would lie to her mother: he was finally going to kill her.

He took up the large bath towel, holding it out for her, hugging her against him as if she were a little girl. He smelled sourly of some strange liquor. She was stiff in his embrace, and he ran his hands up and down her arms through the cotton shroud, as if to soften her.

“Come on,” he whispered. “I’ve laid out your nightie.”

On the bed, Silvie found a silky blue negligee with lace trim.
The bra was transparent and gauzy. The gown itself barely long enough to cover her rear. He would do one of two things: he’d have her dance for him, or he’d tie her up. Either way, he would masturbate first, and then they would screw. She would moan to make it all seem believable. That was the way it always went.

She turned to him, and he nodded at the outfit, his momentary softness now gone. She noticed the bottle on the nightstand. Moutai—a Chinese whiskey that he boasted to friends was 102 proof. She couldn’t see how much he’d drunk; the bottle was opaque white. The more he drank, though, the meaner he would be. He was a bad drunk that way. Her backpack was next to the overstuffed chair by the bed.

“Ready for me to dance, Jacob?”

“I have questions first.”

“I have a surprise for you. It’s in my backpack.”

He ignored her, binding her hands to the headboard with an electric cord. He then arranged her on the mattress in a position that was less painful than it was humiliating. He tied her ankles but left six or eight inches of slack in the line between them. He pushed her knees up over her breasts, then pulled them apart so that her hips opened and she was fully exposed.

“You’ll be here awhile,” he said, placing a pillow under each hip. “Might as well be as comfortable as possible.”