Page 19 of Snow Creek

On my way to my car, I feel the size of a gnat. I’d spoken the truth, of course. At the same time, I’ve frightened them. I did that once before with my brother when I ran and left him in foster care. I’d miscalculated the impact of what I thought was best.

And every day since, I’ve paid the price.

Seven

It had been two days since the pickup truck crashed downward from the logging road into the woods. While Regina Torrance had done all she could to obscure it from discovery, she knew that in time someone would come. She also did her best to keep Amy from worrying.

“I’m going to get the body and get rid of it.”

“Just leave it.”

“No. If they find it then we’ll be ground zero for a murder investigation. Can you imagine how that would play out? The police would harp on us; the media would come calling for a quote. The world would find us.”

Amy finally agreed. Begrudgingly, but consented, nevertheless.

Regina completed her morning routine, and left Amy with eggs and bacon served on her mother’s dishes, Franciscan Ivy pattern. She remembered how one of their moving helpers had dropped the box with the dishes, breaking a big platter and sending Amy to bed in tears. Regina fixed the platter, making the spiderweb cracks barely noticeable.

She could fix the problem of the dead body too. Indeed, it might even be an easier endeavor than the platter. It still showed some cracks through the green of the ivy pattern.

The woods were not nearly as muggy that morning. The forest floor had dried like a kitchen sponge left on a counter for a couple of days. It smelled of living things. Regina was grateful about that. Mud would be an unnecessary complication, literally mucking up what she’d set out to do. As she snaked her way down the trail, Regina shifted her armload of supplies: a hacksaw, a bolt cutter, plastic garbage bags, an old tarp and painter’s respirator.

Approaching the vicinity of the truck, she reminded herself to breathe through her mouth when she went about her business.

Her effort at concealment had been effective. She squinted her eye to make sure she was headed right to it. A deer had passed through the area leaving tiny chiseled hoofprints in the now-drying mud.

Nothing else.

No one else.

She stripped off her clothes, put them inside the plastic bag. She spread out the tarp and stood naked over her tools. She halted her breathing and listened with all the concentration she could gather.

No one was there.

Just birds.

Only squirrels.

And the dead man.

Pulling off the cover of branches and ferns over the body, she gave it a careful look. She hadn’t made time for that when she’d made the discovery and considered the implications of what might happen if someone found it. It was badly burned, but she could tell it was a man. His shoulders were broad, and hips narrow. Not a woman. Her eyes traveled downward for further confirmation. She found it. A nob of charcoaled flesh indicated what was left of his penis. He wasn’t very tall, as men go. Maybe five foot eight. His clothes had melted onto his skin or had been completely incinerated. In a few places he wasn’t burned as badly. He was white. It appeared that he wore glasses because lines seared around his eyes bore the distinct traces of frames. Regina made a note to look for them when she was finished.

She put the respirator on and bent over the body, hacksaw in hand.

I’m doing this for me and Amy. I didn’t kill him. I’m only doing what I know I must do to protect us. This is ugly, but it isn’t wrong when so much is at stake.

Regina started with the head because all of her years butchering animals on the farm had taught her that was the most difficult area to work—physically and emotionally. It took some doing, but she managed to sever the head just where the neck met the shoulders. She knew that blood cooked in the fire oozed rather than splattered.

Thank you, God.

She put the head on the tarp, face down. No need to look at the face. Even though she didn’t know him, it felt invasive. Too personal.

Regina took air in through her mouth. The hands were easily snipped off at the wrists with the bolt cutters. She deposited them on the tarp with the head. She took in a another gulp of air and listened. Nothing.

I can do this!

She tried the cutters on the arm bones, but the dead man was too large for the blades. She reverted to the hacksaw. Up and down. Up and down. The blade wasn’t as sharp as it needed to be for efficient cutting, yet it worked. In time, Regina butchered the increasingly fetid body into manageable pieces. By the end of it, her hands and arms were covered in blood and body fluids. Some spatter even freckled her face. That was fine, she thought. She could wash away everything in the outdoor shower. Her clothing would never betray what she did and how.

Amy didn’t need to know how far Regina would go for love.

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