Jan Burke - Sweet Dreams, Irene

He stood over me and stared at me. “Were you cold last night?”

I found some part of myself rebelling against my plan. My plan was to kill him, as surely as their plan was to do the same to me. But I was not practiced in it, and they were. Devon had kept me from Raney’s excesses. Devon had held me and helped me rinse my mouth when I was sick. Devon had brought me a blanket so that I wouldn’t be so cold.

Stop it! I told myself. Devon brought you here, kicked you, held you so that you could be beaten, whipped you with a hose, took part in the murders of two people and will make yours the third. Survive.

He was watching my emotions play on my face, though I had tried to hide them. He seemed wary for a moment, then grinned again.

Suddenly he reached down and pulled the blanket from me, tossing it aside. I shivered, not entirely from the cold. He dropped down on the mattress, straddling me. To my dismay, he grabbed both of my wrists, pinning them near my shoulders. Keep your head! I told myself.

He leaned down and kissed me. My lips hurt as it was, but my revulsion was stronger than my pain. I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat.

“I’m going to have you, Irene. I know you don’t think you’ll like it, but you will. It’s going to be great. You’ll see.”

“Help me get away from here,” I tried again.

He laughed. “I told you. I can’t.”

“You can. Please, Devon. Things will be better for you if you do. We can be together.”

He laughed and let loose of my left wrist and hit me hard on the side of my head. I hadn’t expected the blow, and it jarred me.

“You must think I’m a real moron. That’s too bad. I know you’re that cop’s woman. You go ahead and think about that cop when I do it to you, Irene. I don’t care. I just want to have you.”

“He hasn’t done much for me lately, has he? He’s useless.” Forgive me, Frank, I thought. I needed Devon to be off-guard. “But you’ve been kind to me. I’ve lain here thinking about you.”

“Liar,” he said. He reached down and grabbed my blouse, ripping it down the middle. He used the same hand to unfasten my bra.

I had to get control of my fear. I had to. I took deep breaths again. He mistook the meaning of those deep breaths, and I gained my first advantage.

“Goddamn, you are excited, aren’t you?”

I reached up with my left hand and caressed his neck.

He smiled. He let loose of my right hand, and placed his hands on my breasts. It made my skin crawl, but I willed my face into a smile, or as much of one as I could manage through my puffy lips. I reached down and took hold of the shard, moaning to distract him as I pulled it loose. With his arms as they were, I would not be able to do it.

“Please, Devon,” I said, and he had no idea what I was really begging for. I ran my left hand along his chest and up on to his shoulder, then to his neck.

“Get ready, baby,” he said. I was.

He moved his hands down to my waist, and fumbled with the snap as he leaned over me. Now, I thought, now.

With all my strength, I drove the shard into his throat, thrusting it in with my right hand as I pulled his neck down with my left. I stabbed into the place my left thumb had found only moments before, the artery near his windpipe.

The shock on his face was complete. By the time he reached up to grab his neck, he had lost too much blood to remain conscious. He fell forward onto me, the life spilling out of him.

I HAD KILLED A MAN.

HIS LIFELESS BODY lay bleeding, pressing me beneath his weight. I managed to move him over enough so that I could breathe. I fought down the urge to be sick. I wanted nothing more than to get out of that room, to run out of the cabin, but I was too weak. I cursed that weakness, then calmed myself as much as I could, and moved my arms and legs beneath him. Gradually, I was able to position myself so that I could roll him off me.

The effort left me trembling. I drew deep breaths, trying not to think about the smell of his blood all over me, trying to concentrate on what must be done next.

Don’t cry, don’t waste any of your energy. Don’t look at him. Get out.

I had no idea how long it would take Raney to return from Las Piernas. I got up from the mattress and hopped over to the door. I was shaking as I opened it, but felt a sweet release of emotion as I moved outside of that room for the first time.

I was in the kitchen. There were three other doorways off it. One led outside. The others led to a small living room that was obviously being used for Devon and Raney’s sleeping quarters, and a tiny bathroom. A quick look did not reveal the location of my coat and shoes. Devon’s feet were larger than mine and I decided a big loose shoe would be more of a handicap than a help. It may have been my way of talking myself out of having to go back into that room, or having to touch him again.

I hopped over to the sink and washed my face with cool water, drinking it right out of the faucet. I was so thirsty, it was heaven. The desire to take a shower – to rinse Devon’s blood off me – was strong, but I was too afraid to take the time. I grabbed a paring knife, the only one I could find in the poorly furnished kitchen, and the set of keys Devon had left on the table. I took his denim jacket off the back of a chair and put it on. I saw a broom in one corner, and turned it upside down to use as a makeshift crutch. I put the knife and keys in the jacket pocket, and made my way outside.

Using the broom was awkward, and being barefoot didn’t help. I worked my way over to the truck. I took the keys out of my pocket and tried each one in the door.

Nothing.

I tried them all again.

Nothing. Devon didn’t have a key to the truck.

I howled in frustration and pounded on the door of the tall vehicle, causing myself to lose my balance and fall hard to the ground. It hurt like a son of a bitch. I started to get up, when it occurred to me that I could at least make it harder for Raney and the Goat to catch up to me. I pulled out the knife, reached up under the truck, and cut the brake line.

I pulled myself up again, literally and figuratively. If I went down the drive to the road, it would be easier going and I would probably encounter other people sooner. The problem was that Raney and the Goat were very likely to be those other people.

I decided to follow the creek down instead. It would be less obvious. People liked to build their cabins along creeks, I told myself. There would be water to drink and sooner or later it would lead me to someone who could help me. I hoped.

When I got to the back of the cabin, I almost changed my mind. The cabin sat about twenty feet above the creek. The slope from the cabin to the creek was steep and covered with leaves and pine needles.

My decision was made for me when I heard the sound of the Blazer coming up the drive. I began my descent. I slipped and slid a couple of times, but made it down to the creek. I heard the doors of the Blazer slam shut. I crawled until I was under a bush that I hoped would hide me from their view, and waited, feeling myself break out into a cold sweat.

Within minutes, I heard an almost animal cry, a screaming wail of denial and grief that I knew was Raney’s. He sobbed Devon’s name again and again in loud cries. I felt it go all the way through me. I had killed Devon to survive, but I didn’t rejoice in it.

Soon I heard his cries turn to rage. “I’m going to kill that fucking bitch! I’ll kill her! I’ll kill her!”

Another voice, the Goat. Lower, calmer. I couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Raney began screaming again. “Fuck you! Fuck you! This is your fault! This is all your fault! Oh God, Devon!”