Page 11 of Scatter the Bones

There’s still so much more work to do.

Time’s tight. Anyone could come down here and see what I’ve done. Sure, they’re more likely to drop to their knees and start praying than call the cops but I’d rather not test out that theory.

There’s a slop sink down here and a barrel of lye out back just waiting for—fuck.

I glance at the slop sink. Old steel and rusted seams—useless. Lye would eat through it in minutes, spilling him out onto the floor before the skin’s even melted off of his carcass.

A slight ringing in my ears remains from the gunshot. But no guilt or remorse weighs me down. No, I can’t stop seeing Jezzie’s small body fighting under my father’s hand. How long has he been using drowning as punishment? Was that the first time he did that to her? The tenth? Hundredth?

It’s over now. She’s safe.

The tub in the barn. That’s a much better vessel. It’ll be a pain in the ass to haul my father’s body out to the barn but worth the effort.

I hurry through the maze of rooms in the basement and find an old, rough blanket on the floor of one of the cells. My stomach recoils at the traces of blood on the walls, little slashes in patchy dark red—like someone with tiny fingers tried to count how many days she’d been locked down here. Was it Jezzie? Another kid on the farm? One of my father’s “wives?”

Are they even still alive?

Forty minutes later, sweat slicking down my back, muscles screaming, I finally heave him into the barn. His lifeless form thuds onto the bench in front of the makeshift pulpit—the very spot he preached hellfire and punishment morning after morning.

The large white tub waits silently for me in the center of the room. Still half-full of the water he used to almost drown my sister.

Her terrified gasps replay in my head as I approach the tub.

A grunt escapes me as I lift one end. Water gushes onto the wood, seeping through cracks and grooves, staining the floor dark. Without a glance at my father’s still form, I shake off the chill racing down my spine and stalk to the back of the barn. Fifty-pound bags of lye are stacked right where I remember.

I’m not an expert but three bags should be enough to complete the job. I yank the collar of my shirt up to cover my mouth and nose as I dump the bags into the tub. My eyes sting and my nostrils burn as the fumes sear through fabric of my makeshift mask.

Behind the stacks of lye, I find the rusty propane heater. A pair of old goggles and a set of ragged gloves rest on top of the heater. Wish I’d seen these earlier. I slip the goggles into place, pull the gloves over raw knuckles, the ragged material tight and itchy against my sweaty skin.

Steam billows around me like thick, suffocating smoke as I pour scalding water into the tub. The goggles help but my nostrils still burn. I cough hard, throat raw, and turn away from the tub.

Prep work complete. Time for the main event.

My muscles strain as I heave his corpse into the tub. His body sinks into the bubbling solution with a thick hissing sound. Violent foam froths over the water, welcoming him into the deadly brew. In a few hours he’ll be nothing but bleached, brittle bones.

The acrid smell sears my lungs. Bile rises, scorching the back of my throat.

No prayers. No farewells.

Just chemicals devouring the monster who tortured his children.

The irony hits me—sharp, satisfying. He tried to kill his only daughter in this tub.

Instead, his son will use it to strip his bones clean.

Back inside the house,a fearful group of my father’s disciples have gathered in the kitchen and dining room. Wary eyes dart around as if they’re in need of direction from someone or they’re waiting to be punished. No sign of Jezzie. Ruth is the only person I recognize.

She’s aged a lot since I last saw her, and I can only imagine the horrors inflicted on her by my father over the last few years. Especially if he figured out she was the one who helped me escape.

Careful not to attract any attention, I walk up behind her and lean down. “Meet me in my father’s office.”

She whirls around, the long fabric of her dress rustling around her ankles. A sharp gasp breaks free as her wide eyes lock on my face. Her lower lip trembles like she’s staring at a ghost. “Jensen?”

I nod once, then turn away from the dining room and head toward my father’s office.

Ruth’s soft steps follow behind me. Inside the office, I quickly close the door behind me.

“Jensen? It’s really you?” Ruth whispers. “Your father told us you died.”

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