Cross The Line

Bernard Cross smacked at the shreiking clock on the nightstand. Silencing the clocks screams, he threw his feet over the side of the bed and began to sit up. His head erupted in a quick spasm of pain before he was fully upright and he froze. Propped on one elbow, he stayed in that position for a minute, waiting it out.

         Narrow bands of light and dark painted Bernard's face as the morning sun probed a window on the bedroom's east wall, interrupted by the wooden slats of an almost shut blind. He kept his bloodshot eyes in the shadows, avoiding the alternating slashes of glaring sunlight.

         He stared at a nearly empty bottle of Dark Eyes on the nightstand beside the clock. It was on its side, the remaining vodka forming a narrow canal along its lower length. Between attention robbing throbs of pain, he tried to recall last night. He surely hadn't drink the whole bottle. He peered over the side of the bed. Maybe some had spilled from the upended bottle, but even as he looked he knew better, the headache was clue enough. He had imbibed quite heavily and well, what of it? As more of the previous night came to him, he remembered he had had himself a grand old time indeed. Besides, he'd shake it off like a declawed kitten around his ankle. At thirty one, he was still young, and a hangover was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. It was eight AM and by noon he'd feel ready to run a marathon.

         He saw that he had stripped from his blue jeans before going to bed, but still wore yesterday's t-shirt. Usually he slept in only his underwear and this dismayed him somewhat. He had never before blacked out but could now remember nothing of going to bed.

         He pulled open the night stand's drawer and grabbed a Tylenol bottle. He fished out four pills and was about to go to the bathroom sink, when he again eyed the bottle and the remaining double shot of vodka inside.

         "Dog hair." He said as he grabbed the upended bottle and popped the pills, chasing them with two quick gulps.

         He laid back down to wait for the pills to work. Although portions of last night were hazy, he thought he remembered most of it. He'd been with Lydia for the biggest part of the night, and thinking now, he could recall that quite well. Of coarse he could. Time spent with her was always unforgettable. He briefly wondered how she was feeling this morning. Certainly worse than him he thought smiling, though unlike his hangover, her aches promised to persist well past the morning hours.

         He had tried some new things with her; risky things. He had been taught patience from an early age, but he knew the alcohol had nearly precluded that virtue last night. She had pleaded with him, had even mocked him at one point in a desperate attempt to enrage him. She was clever, he had to give her that, and he had almost done it. Had almost allowed himself to engage in the definitive act, best laid plans be damned. He would have enjoyed it too, but she was approaching perfection after all. Acting on this primitive urge would have denied him that potential. Having invested over three months of his time in this latest work, completing her before her time would have been unfortunate indeed. He was proud to have resisted.

         He had been raised by a great man. A man who taught him from a very early age that this life is what you make of it, and if you don't make of it what you want, no matter how forbidden that want is in the eyes of "them",  then you were a goddamned fool. Bernard W. Cross was no fool. He knew exactly what he wanted, and by God, he went out and got it.

         What he wanted was to carry on the family tradition, and with number three in the basement, he was doing just that. He was refining his methods, adjusting his timelines. He was working to create what papaw had called ghastly beauty. This unique lifestyle made Bernard feel quite privledged, and he greatly appreciated what little tutoring in this craft he had received before papaw's tragic death.

         Bernard finally stood, his headach still there but now manageable, and shuffled toward the bathroom. Lacking a window, the room was dark except for the amber glow of a night-light plugged into an outlet beside the toilet. In the weak yellow light Bernard caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He stared at it, puzzled. Like a poorly drawn map, large dark continents and tiny islands dotted the woven cotton ocean of his t-shirt.

         He flicked on the three frosted globe lights above the mirror, revealing the stains in more detail. As he feared, they were the crusted hue of dried blood. There was another small smudge high on his forehead, and even his underwear was dotted by a dozen or more small crimson islands. He thought again about last night. Of coarse there was blood last night. There was always blood. But this? This seemed ominous. These stains suggested perhaps his recollection of his time in the basement might not be as clear as he first thought. He hurriedly pissed, washed his hands, and with his thirst suddenly awakened at the sight of the flowing water, cupped the flowing fawcet and gulped deep swallows of the cold water.

         Forgetting all about getting dressed now, he quickly went downstairs to his office. The room was large, with a roll top desk positioned more or less in the center. The walls were dressed with mahogany-toned paneling, which along with the chocolate shag carpet, gave the room a cavernous feel despite the twin double windows on the north wall. A grizzly bear stood upright in one corner of the room, eternally frozen in mid snarl by the taxidermy art. A coat of fine dust blanketed its outstretched arms and snout.

         He turned on the desk lamp next to the computer monitor. He nearly knocked it over in his rush, catching it by the thin, leathery shade at the last second as it tilted precariously. He exhalled heavily and sat in an oversized swivel chair behind the desk. He switched on the monitor and clicked his way to the camera viewing software. Entering his password he leaned forward, waiting for the camera's view to be projected on the LCD screen.

         When it finally did, Bernard stared dumbfounded. "No." he mouthed silently, a tide of indignation rising from deep within him. His face grew warm and turned a mottled shade of red, diminishing the contrast between the dried blood on his forehead and his skin.

         On the screen was not the answer to the unexplained blood on his shirt, but instead a hateful message from Lydia. Written on the cinder block wall of her cell in wide uneven swipes of mortal ink were three words. BURN IN HELL. Below them, in an angular, naked heap, was Lydia. Both of her arms were outstretched purposfully toward the camera, exposing jagged wounds in the flesh of both wrists. Pools of corrupted blood had soaked the packed dirt floor beneith them. Her face was turned toward him, lifeless eyes open and looking toward the unflinching camera. She seemed to be almost grinning, a look of victory somehow on her gaunt face even in death. Her thin lips were encrusted in blood, like lipstick applied by an overzealous child. Stuck to one cheek near the corner of her mouth like a macabre band-aid was a small scrap of flesh, roughly matching the shape of the wound on one wrists.

         Bernard stared in disbelief. He felt violated. Goddam it, he had exhibited incredible will power and patience last night when he had denied himself what he so very much had wanted. He had placed his hands around her fragile, slender neck, had felt her blood flow under them, and had squeezed. He had squeezed and hadn't wanted to stop. The rush was incredible and he so easily could have let his mind and body explode in the climactic act, and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Instead he had relaxed his grip at the last minute settling instead to watching her gasp and wretch in a gloriously beautiful, pathetic scene, promising himself he'd have his ultimate soon.

         Now he had been robbed of this promise. Three months of dedication, and it was now not to be. He sat back in the chair, studying the lifeless heap on the cell's dirt floor. God, she was beautiful. As beautiful now as she had ever been. He saw a cresent shaped wound on her left theigh and the blood on his shirt was no longer a mystery. He now remembered. They really did have quite a time last night. He could only hope the next captive would have her strong spirit.

         He had already been planning her replacement. He hoped to have her before this very day was over actually. Now, with Lydia gone, nothing had changed. He had always had the next project ready before completing the prior one. Now, good old Lydia had altered that little bit of tradition, but only barely. Of coarse if things go ass over teakettle and he has to delay today's plans...He didn't want to think about that right now. Too many other things currently had front and center.

         As he looked at the monitor he suddenly realized that she had, in her act of defiance, given him something precious. Though he hadn't shared in its creation, she had presented to him a nearly unimaginable beauty. She had created a work of malleable art that he could manipulate as he desired. So, no, not all was lost. On the contrary. Half the fun was in the journey, and though the destination had changed he began to grow excited about this new one. He was nearly trembling with excitement now. He would enjoy one last amazing time with her. He would have have his ultimate moment, if only in modified form. He leaned forward, grabbing the computer mouse with a shaking hand.

         ""What do you say to a bit of foreplay darling?" he said as he clicked the rewind arrow on the screen, his headache forgotten.

         





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Audrey waited on the front porch swing. Ringo lay at her side, his snout parked contently on her thigh. She scuffed the mutt's drooped ears as she watched a trio of bronze and yellow hummingbirds dart among the Geraniums pouring from a hanging wicker basket. The June breeze shifted slightly, bringing with it the faint scent of honeysuckle. She closed her eyes and inhaled the perfumed wind. When she opened them she looked toward the horizon. She saw an oncoming truck in the distance and tried to discern if it was Brett's dull orange F-150. It wasn't and that was fine. No hurry, they had all night and she and Ringo were doing just fine at the moment thank you.

         Two weeks past her old life at Singleton High and two months in front of her new one at Western University, Audrey intended to make the most of what she expected to be her last peaceful-easy-feeling summer for years to come. So far, she'd done an OK job of it. Tonight, for example, should be exceptionally peaceful and easy; a late evening lawn chair adventure.

         Brett had asked her to Tabor's lake for an evening of fishing and she had accepted with one condition; that he bait the hooks. He had smiled at that, informing her they would be using raw chicken livers, rather than the night crawlers she had expected. Even still, she had told him, he would be expected to be a gentleman and handle all duties of a gross or disgusting manner and raw liver cwrtainly qualified. He had readily agreed of course, though Audrey was certain that being a gentleman would begin and end with hook baiting detail. He had mentioned bringing a couple of blankets and cold beer after all. She was no party girl by any stretch but a few beers at the lake and a little fooling around with Brett wasn't beyond her moral limits. Well, at least not tonight anyway.

         Her off and on again boyfriend of two years, Brett Rivers was almost two years older than Audrey. She thought she might love him, was pretty sure he loved her, but also knew that their time as a couple was quickly winding down. She had to be realistic. A full day's drive would separate them two months from now, and young love isn't patient love. Since graduation last year Brett has been the third Rivers in Rivers Heating and AC, along with his father and uncle. It was a good job and he enjoyed it. Audrey knew that would be his life and she was happy for him. He seemed satisfied and who knew, somewhere in the future, after she had accomplished her goals and the letters D and R preceded her name, they might even pick it up where they would soon leave it. Not likely, she sadly knew, but what's wrong with a little self deception in the name of enjoying their remaining time together?

         When his truck finally popped over the hill, its orange paint nearly matching that of the bloated evening sun, she checked her cell phone's digital readout. It was just shy of eight o'clock.

         







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Bernard Cross eased his Dodge Dakota into a small opening in the woods. He had been driving for thirty minutes, the last five on a rutted, twisting path leading to the overgrown south bank of Tabor Lake. He pulled about thirty feet beyond the tree line and stopped. He checked to time. The girl would be here soon.

         She was being brought to him by the boy. The all American, apple pie eating, soon to be rotting boy. The boy who had planned a night of fishing and fucking under the stars. Had the boy not asked her out on their little date while in the check-out line at Breaker Food Mart, had he not completely laid out the night's itinerary, right down to the make of the lawn chair that the girl would be planting her ass in, had he not mentioned the locked gate and their guaranteed privacy, Bernard would not be sitting in his truck behind Tabor Lake right now.

         The boy had done those things though. Bernard had stood in line behind them and the boy had given him all he needed. His none too subtle remark of bringing a large blanket along, and the little giggle and kiss they shared at that was when Bernard first thought that maybe there was an opportunity here. It was then that the girl had turned toward Bernard and smiled ever so slightly. Bernard instantly felt the warmth in his face and knew his cheeks were as red as the plastic grocery basket he was holding. He had been too close, trying to hear every detail of their planned date. The girl has sensed this and turned around, her uneasy smile a silent request to please give some space. He did, quickly stepping back and snapping his head toward the gossip magazines as though the latest on Brad and Angelina was his upmost concern. She turned back around, facing the boy again, and he had exhaled the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

         He had begun planning the minute he had left the grocery store. He had only that night and the next day to think it through but he thought it was doable. He knew the lake, well enough anyway, and the boy was certainly right enough about the seclusion. A quick reconassance of the area on the way home and some serious stratagizing the rest of the night and it could work.

         He got out of the truck and looked back in the direction he had came. Dual swaths of crushed weeds led straight to him and he felt a sudden rush of anxiety. There was no doubt he was taking a bigger risk than usual tonight. He was breaking from routine, and in doing so, was breaking the first rule. Papaw would not be proud. He had repeatedly stressed to Bernard the importance of being exhaustive with his planning and of never hunting in your own back yard. Some rules could be broken on occasion without dire consequences, but these could not, according to papaw. Staring at the tracks his truck made in the weeds, he considered calling it off.

         Except Lydia was gone, the chamber now empty. He had quickly forgiven Lydia for her act of defiance. He even appreciated the signifigance of the gift she had given him, accepting that he wouldn't have been inspired to enjoy his creation in the exciting ways he had if she had not taken her own life, but she was gone now and that was too bad. He needed another subject to work with, and tonight, if he was careful, he would have it.

         He stood beside his truck, thinking. If he somehow fucked it up, he'd be without a girl for more than just tonight. In an ironic reversal of fortune he would become the captive, the one in a cell. He'd probably end up strapped to a lethal injection table, lamenting the very desision he was about to make. He enjoyed life too much and had too much yet to accomplish to seriously risk that. So where did that leave him? Call it off after all? No. He was already here for christ sake and absolute perfection in the form of the Food Mart girl would soon be here.

         He turned in the direction of the lake and started walking. The deeply shaded woods were cool and peaceful. He heard the rapid-fire bark of a squirrel somewhere to his left, quickly answered by another bark to his right. "Don't worry my bushy tailed friends," he said "I only hunt big game." He checked his watch. It was not yet seven. He was right on schedule. A half mile hike, get in position, and wait. Nothing to it. He envisioned the attack as he walked, looking for potential problems. He found only a couple. The obvious one, cell phones, was always Bernard's first concern. He figured if he was ever caught, the responsible party would be either ATT or Verizon. He envied papaw. The days of avoiding being seen and not leaving prints ensured a suceessful outing were long gone.

         Feeling a sudden heat he smacked at his forehead and looked at his palm. A small red smear of blood was centered in it. "Damn it." he sighed. He knew now more than ever, he had too little time to prepare for this. He wondered what else he'd forgotten besides the mosquito repellant. He stopped and looked around. A dankness was in the air and he spotted a pool of stagnant black water a few yards to his left. He felt another lit-match announcement on his neck. It was a humid june day and Bernard wore only a dark green t-shirt above his black demin pants. On his bare forarms Bernard was repulsed to see an entire community of the blood suckers probing his skin with their tubular daggers. He brushed at his skin and hurried his pace, carefully weaving through whip-like branches of wild blackberry, their needle sharp talons grabbing at his clothes and skin with any sudden movement.

         Cursing, he scanned his immediate area. He was forced to backtrack, the mosquitos attacking mercilessly as he carefully plucked one embracing limb after another from his pants and arms. Moving east a dozen yards or so he found an opening in the briered fortress and resumed his trek to the lake. He picked up the pace to make up for the time. Except for the continuous mosquito sorties, the going was a little easier now.

         A dozen bites later he rounded a (NATIVE BUSH) and could finally see the lake. A few yards closer and the flat open area where the boy and his girl would soon set up camp came into view. "Perfect." he said, almost giddy. He knew Tabor lake, but had never actually been here. Google Earth had given him the bird's eye view he had used for planning, but he knew he'd need to see it up close before he could be totally confident in his plan and now, he was. The small glen was surrounded in all directions by trees and steep hills. He could see the cattle gate at the top of the far hill blocking access to the winding path that led to the lake. Bernard found a spot behind a spot of thick (NATIVE PLANT) and sat down. He was ready.