I wake with a start, my thighs slamming into the underside of the steering wheel. Dammit! I rub my soon-to-be-bruised legs and reflect on why I have been jolted from a deep sleep. It’s the regret and the irrepressible feeling that I have done something wrong and unnatural. I rationalize that it’s not really my fault, that the Other is to blame, but no matter what I tell myself, the shame and paranoia persist.

The sunlight pouring through the windshield is blinding. I feel like shit but, then again, a good night’s sleep is hard to come by crammed between a faux leather seat and steering wheel. I reach for the door handle, escaping into the fresh morning air. The trees are a healthy green and the birds are in full swing. Their incessant tweeting sounds as if they are auditioning for a choir, each trying to outdo the other’s showmanship. It’s a New Hampshire spring on the cusp of summer.

The Other’s potential to get me into trouble means I always have to think ahead. I’ve learned to spot warning signs and created rules. I will not hurt women. I will not hurt children. My longevity depends on playing it smart if I’m to keep eluding the state police. In nature, the hunted often becomes the hunter and the predator becomes the prey. I know I do not want my story to end like that.

As I gaze into the surrounding forest, I hope that last night was just a bad dream. But the undeniable evidence is right there on my hands and under my fingernails. I can’t help but feel like I am being watched? Are the police on to me? I listen intently for the sound of police sirens approaching in the distance. This is how most days start. It’s not just the Law I have been running from. It’s the guilt. Alone in my head with only the Other as company I inevitably end up think of her:

My mother.

She represents the last of my humanity. After her death, I turned my back on my hometown, the yellow wallpaper of my kitchen, the safety of my childhood bedroom. I’ve been living like a vagabond ever since. I’ve been in Bartlett, New Hampshire longer than I’ve stayed anywhere.

I walk to the edge of the thin stream that runs a few feet from my parked car and study the face reflected up at me. It’s the face of a broken man. A man that has witnessed too much awfulness and pain. I do not see a young man on the edge of thirty, youth still on his side. I see only sadness behind his green eyes and dried blood around his mouth. I wipe my lips and study the crimson flakes on the back of my hand. Another failure. I’ve learned that escaping the Other’s hunger is impossible. How do you run from something when it’s a part of you?

###

The state of my dirt covered body brought me to the shower where I take my time rinsing off the sweat that smells of evergreens and death. As I step onto the cold bathroom tiles a knock sounds at the door.

“Use whatcha got in there now, Billie. I put some fresh towels in your room for next time. Okay, hun?”

“Thanks, Darlene.”

Her footfalls pad down the hall and disappear into the kitchen. Darlene is a sweet woman. She took me in without hesitation when her husband brought me home for dinner one evening after my shift at the convenience store. I had applied for a job at Gus’s store, Every Penny Counts, after realizing the small reserve of cash I keep in my glove box was dwindling. I had no work history or references, but I must have looked like I could handle the work. Afterall, I drive an economy car and comb my hair to one side like everyone else. Gus hired me. I guess finding reliable employees is difficult in a small town like Bartlett. Minimum wage jobs seem to be reserved for teenagers in need of summer pocket money and help is slim to none when school starts back up.

I worked hard for Gus and Darlene. I stocked shelves, carried heavy boxes and pumped gas like a law-abiding citizen. I did whatever they asked of me. Over the next few months they came to rely on me. One night the old man invited me to dinner at his house behind the convenience store and up the hill. “He’s a good boy and hardworking.” I’d overheard him say to Darlene when I’d excused myself to use the bathroom. “I don’t think he has anywhere to go. No family. No friends.” She’d pouted and shook her head. When I returned they offered to let me stay in one of the storage closets in the store. It was just big enough to cram a cot in. There was a toilet across the hall and, as a bonus, I could use their shower at the house whenever I needed. That was almost two years ago. I guess having people care gives me just enough of a reason not to pack my bags and run again.

Darlene is at the kitchen table with a Home and Garden magazine and steaming mug of tea in front of her. “Billie,” she says, perking up at my entrance. “Kettle’s still hot if you’d like some tea. I picked up some more chamomile in town. I know it’s your favorite.” A strand of white hair falls into her eyes. She tucks it behind her ear.

“You’re too good to me, Darlene.”

“Nonsense,” she replies, returning her attention to the magazine.

But it was true. Her and Gus are too good to me. I don’t deserve to be in a home like this. Darlene is no slouch of a homemaker. The house is always pristine. Adorned with doilies, watercolor paintings of birds and antiques, the place feels more like a Victorian mansion than an old farmhouse.

“I’m going to pass on tea this time. I’m late for my shift.” The truth: I did not deserve chamomile tea with murder so fresh the scent seemed to cling to my skin despite my furious scrubbing in the shower.

“Oh,” she pouts. “I was hoping you’d sit with me for a bit.”

“Next time. I promise.” I bend to plant a kiss on her cheek.

“You’re a good boy, Billie,” she calls after me as I shut the storm door.

###

Every Penny Counts is the only convenience store and gas station within a fifteen-mile radius of winding country roads. Bartlett rests on the edge of the White Mountain National Forest and has a population of just under 3,000. It’s a small town that doesn’t have room for big box supermarkets. If you’re looking for that, you need to drive twenty minutes to North Conway. That being said, Every Penny Counts sees a fair amount of foot traffic. Gus stocks all the staples of nutrition along with all the blow-your-hard-earned cash items like alcohol, cigarettes and lottery tickets.

“Keep an eye on those damn kids, Billie,” Gus whispers from the cash register. “They’re always tryna steal my cigarettes and beer.” I don’t need to see his hand to know he is caressing the pistol he keeps under the counter just-in-case.

I give him a wink. Gus is convinced that every teenager that has ever stepped foot in his store is a kleptomaniac. I don’t see the teenage boys as a problem. They are still young, more likely to pocket a candy bar then run out with a six pack of beer.

I continue stocking shelves, unloading box after box of canned soup and macaroni and cheese. The bell above the door jingles. I look up to see the teenagers leaving, fistfuls of candy in their hands as expected.

Gus begins whistling. I resume my work. After each box is emptied, I use the razor blade I keep in the back pocket of my jeans to breakdown the cardboard. Darlene purchased these jeans for me last week. She doesn’t do things like that often, but when she does, I’m made aware there’s little I can do to repay her kindness.

Gus and Darlene never had children. They are a mixed-race couple (if people are even still calling it that). Gus is some type of European mix, Darlene African American. Although they grew up in New England, their families frowned upon the idea of mixed children. A ridiculous prejudice that kept them from fulfilling their dreams of having a family. Both now in their late sixties, it’s a little too late to try. In a way, I think I give them the opportunity to imagine what it would have been like to have a son. And believe me, if I was younger, I would gladly have allowed them to adopt me.

When I first met Gus, he spoke to me like I was a run away. Where do you come from? Are you lost? Where are your parents? Your family? At twenty-seven I was too old for those kinds of questions. Regardless, I don’t talk about my past. I’m not sure what he eventually decided my life’s story was. Perhaps he thinks I was a hippie, living out of my car and trying to travel the world. Perhaps I was a recovering drug addict caught in a spree of back luck. Either way he could never imagine the truth.

The bell above the door jingles again and Gus’s whistling halts. “Hey, Jim. How’s it going?”

“Not bad, old man. How’s the Missus? She better be feeding you good.”

“We can’t complain. Not since we have our Billie here helping out.”

I glance up and throw a wave at the fat balding man that smiles back. I open a new box, this one packed with pickles and secure my razor blade.

“I’ll take a pack of Marlboro Lights,” he says, turning back to Gus. He hinges himself across the counter, the top of his butt crack peeking from his khakis. “I’m glad you have someone around here to look out for you.” The man hooks a thumb back towards me. “Granted everything that’s been happening around here.”

Gus furrows his already wrinkled brow. “What are you blabbing on about now, Jim?”

The bell above the door sounds again. A young woman enters, diverting to the back of the store where the freezers are located.

The balding man’s voice drops almost to a whisper. “You haven’t heard about the lunatic cutting people’s throats and leaving them in the woods?”

My heart leaps. I edge closer to the man, pretending to busy myself at one of the shelves. Surely, I must have misheard him.

“The most recent one makes four bodies so far. Each have been found in the woods only a few miles from the busier neighborhoods. The police issued a warning this afternoon on the radio. They want people to avoid being outside after dark and they’re warning folks to be on the lookout for anyone suspicious. If you spot something, just dial 911. No hero stuff.”

“Jesus. They think all four were murdered by the same guy?”
“That’s the rumor.”

“What about an animal? Maybe a bear? It’s getting to be that time of year now.”

“Not likely if what they’re saying about the bodies is true.”

“And what’s that?”

“I heard all four people had their necks snapped and their throats cut with some type of blade. I don’t know many bears that carry a knife around. Do you?”

“Guess not,” Gus says.

“Whoever this guy is, he’s one sick bastard.”

“Sounds like it,” Gus replies with a faint quiver. “So much for the animal attack idea.”

“These are random acts of violence,” Jim scoffs. “Things like this aren’t supposed to happen in a little town like Bartlett. The last big death I remember around here was back in ’89 when Mrs. O’Neil fell into that well. And she wasn’t murdered, she just goddamn tripped.”

The woman customer had grabbed a few frozen meals and approaches the register. The balding man glances back at her. “Anyway, Gus, I’ve got to run. It’ll all be in papers tomorrow morning. Check it out for yourself.” He squirrels away the pack of cigarettes in his pant pocket and heads for the door. “And remember: be safe,” he calls as the bells above the door chime.

###

“Billie. Hey, Billie.” Gus waves his palm in front of my face.

My eyes bounce around the store. The woman has left. It is just the two of us.

“Jesus, boy. Where were you, space? I’m not paying you to be Buzz fuckin’ Aldrin.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. I bend down lifting the half-unpacked box of pickles.

“You hear any of that?” he asks.

I nod, desperate to clear the stars that swarm my vision. Bodies found. Throats cut. Police on the lookout. My hands tremble, rattling the glass jars.

“Can you believe the world these days? The people in it? That’s some real sick shit.”

My mouth is too dry to form words. I can hear my pulse drumming in my ears.

“I’m going to close up early tonight. Need to go tell Darlene the bad news.”

“You’ll scare her,” I blurt, my pulse quickening. The box of pickle jars nearly topples from my arms.

“Maybe so, but she’ll find out eventually. Most likely in tomorrow’s paper. My Darlene’s a tough cookie. Men are always trying to shield women from the world’s pain. But if you ask me, imagined horrors are always worse than the real thing.”

“Not always,” I reply. Heat rushes to my face like I’ve been caught in a lie.

“I’ll see you later. Make sure you lock up out back,” Gus says as he snatches his keys from the counter and swings open the front door. The bell gives off its final chime of the night.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3