![]() ![]() One of Wilcox’s colleagues collects it, dropping it inside a little plastic bag where the romantic token becomes another clue to the gruesome events that have unfolded here. A present to a girl who no longer exists. On the third step lies a discarded heart on a broken chain. All around, the house unfolds like a scene in a pulp novel. They follow him as he heads back downstairs. He closes his eyes, but the images cling to him, trapped behind his lids. What’s happened here stains the carpet and the walls with red and reeks. ![]() ![]() But this? This is what animals do to each other-and in the bowels of the forest, not in some fancy house. A car wreck, maybe, the odd wood-chopping accident. Palming his chin, he takes in a scene rarely witnessed in those quiet parts of the county. Yellow teeth in need of cleaning peek from under his chapped lips. He smells of coffee, the foam of it hemming the bristles of his mustache. His eyes are full of questions as he tries to take in what happened here. A shiny badge reads “Deputy Wilcox”-black letters etched on brass, the O almost scratched into another C. They belong to a police officer with a Burt Reynolds mustache. ![]() Gradually, a few words rise through the pandemonium of noises- victim, unresponsive, Jesus Christ. It spreads with voices, which shatter the silence further. Through the open front door cold sneaks in and rushes up the stairs. It begins with the silent heartbeat of blue lights pulsing through the windows, before the outside world invades the space with thuds and footsteps. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |