The Chosen Page 2

  Clarice breathed in the sweet summer night air. There was something surreal about coming home after all the craziness she’d experienced over the past several years.

  “Running to something or from something?”

  Clarice looked over her shoulder and noticed Peter. He held two beers in between his fingers. He offered one to Clarice. She refused.

  Peter placed it next to her anyway and leaned on the same railing.

  “Why do you ask?” Clarice questioned.

  Peter snapped off the bottle cap and took a sip. “No one comes back home without calling unless they’re in really big trouble or they’re after something. So, which is it?”

  “Perhaps a little bit of both,” Clarice replied with a cheeky smile.

  “How so?”

  Clarice looked back to the ranch, wondering what she could tell him that he would understand.

  Peter broke the silence. “No, I get it. You have your reasons. But it’s good to have you back. Things haven’t been the same since you left. Mom and Dad fight a lot more. Luis hides out in his own ranch across town. I’ve been the same, more or less.”

  “You still working for Dad?” Clarice asked.

  Peter took another swig. “Yep. I’m herding farmhands now. We could use more help around here, honestly. We have a lot of land Dad ain’t using. We’re due for some new projects.” Peter pointed out into the darkness. “I was thinking we could plant corn there.” He pointed to another spot. “We can get another cattle pen there. We’ll treat ‘em good and sell fresh steak. People go crazy for that natural stuff.”

  “You got big plans,” Clarice commented.

  Peter finished off his beer. “Yeah, well, we’ll see if Luis doesn’t muck it up. Dad’s planning on giving him the ranch after he passes away, but he doesn’t know that Luis is more interested in starting his own legacy. I can see this land’s potential, though. With enough hard work, we could have cows and horses transported across the whole nation. Holburg Farm would be a household name within years.”

  Clarice smiled at him. “You have a lot of ambition for a guy who’d be dead before forty.”

  Disturbed, Peter’s eyes widened.

  Clarice elaborated. “You always said you wanted to die young.”

  “Oh, right,” Peter said. “Sorry. Death jokes are a little more serious around here nowadays.”

  A look of concern flushed over Clarice’s face.

  Peter changed topics. “For real, though. Tell me what happened to you.”

  “I saw the devil,” Clarice replied.

  Peter smirked nervously.

  Clarice glanced over at him and smirked back.

  Peter chuckled and sipped his beer. “Okay. Don’t tell me.”

  Clarice turned her gaze back to the tranquil ranch, but no matter how hard she tried, it couldn’t calm her spirit.

  After cleaning up dinner, Luis and his bunch decided to call it quits for the night. Clarice gave them hugs as they headed out the door and loaded into a large luxury SUV.

  As he drove away, Clarice said to her father. “He’s done well for himself.”

  Davis nodded proudly. “The boy has a good eye for investment.”

  Peter overheard the comment and was abnormally silent. He decided to head home too.

  The house got quiet when it was just the three of them. Clarice announced that she was going to bed. She grabbed clean clothes from her duffel bag and took a shower.

  As she washed, the hot water ran down the large scars on her back. Some were twelve inches long, three centimeters deep. Other were just shallow holes. It was like her back was a painting canvas that someone sent a rake through. Each groove in her flesh told a story she’d much rather forget.

  She exited the shower and put on fresh clothes. They were wrinkled from being in the travel bag for so long. She wrapped the towel around her hair and headed out into the hall. On her way back to her room, she noticed Hannah sitting in the lounge. The sixty-year-old woman had a book on her lap, but her mind was elsewhere. Clarice noticed her bloodshot eyes and puffy cheeks. She’d been crying.

  Clarice approached.

  Hannah broke from her daze and glared at Clarice.

  Clarice crossed her arms, making herself small. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you I was coming home.”

  “But you thought I’d say no,” Hannah finished the thought.

  Clarice felt her blood pressure spike. “I never said that.”

  “Why are you back, Clarice?” Hannah asked, her face glowing red. “How long do you plan on staying?”

  “I don’t know,” Clarice replied.

  “To which question?”

  Clarice was silent.

  Hannah scoffed. She sniffled and rubbed her nose with a crinkled tissue.

  Clarice opened her mouth but made empty noises. She was over thirty, but it was still hard to talk to her mother. “What’s wrong? Apart from me being here.”

  Hannah dabbed her wet eyes. “You don’t know?”

  Clarice shook her head.

  “You remember Ben Clawford?”

  Clarice found a smile. “Yeah.”

  Ben had helped her out before. He was a good soul, perhaps someone she might want to catch up with again.

  Hannah replied. “He went into Sunshine’s Diner yesterday morning and shot Jesse Tucker.”

  Clarice felt light-headed. Ben and Jesse were as thick as thieves. Peter helped build Jesse’s house all those years ago. Jesse always treated them right.

  “Why?” Clarice asked.

  Hannah shrugged. “Just randomness, it seems. James’s boy had to watch the whole ordeal. Imagine what that child is going through?” She put aside her book and got up.

  “Did Ben shoot anyone else?”

  “Himself,” Hannah replied. “Though not until after aiming at the other person in the place.”

  “He was planning on killing everyone?” Clarice asked, disbelieving.

  “Looks that way, but he’s gone now.” Hannah went to bed without saying goodnight.

  Clarice headed to her room. She shut the door behind her and rested her back against it. She processed the news. Violent crimes like that never happen in Jasper.

  Suddenly, the Christmas lights on her walls flickered. The plug was halfway in the socket. Clarice pulled it out the rest of the way. The Christmas lights cut off.

  She lay down for a few hours, until she knew everyone in the house was asleep, then got out of bed and tiptoed down the hall. Without making a noise, she snuck out the front door. She moved quietly across the dewy grass and climbed into the car. She started it and grimaced at the low rumble of the engine. She reversed out of the long driveway and pulled onto the street.

  She turned on the radio, listening to a late-night talk show. Clarice zoned it out. In the front of her mind were memories of the murders she’d witnessed. She could still feel the hot blood running down her skin. She shuddered and shook the memories away. She needed a clear mind. It was her most valuable asset and had to be guarded completely.

  She rolled through the small main street of the town. Many of the buildings were built in the fifties and sixties when families decided to leave behind the chaotic city for a simpler lifestyle. Since then, the town hadn’t experienced much growth. Clarice reached the chrome dinner/gas station hybrid near the edge of town. It was at a crossroads. One half had empty fields, and the other pointed into the small town. Clarice pulled up in front of the diner. Police tape crisscrossed the front door. The gas pumps were covered and currently shut down.

  Clarice checked the time. It was it was 2:54am.

  She turned off her headlights and waited six minutes.

  When it was 3am, she shut off the engine and stepped outside. Her tongue mindlessly tapped the roof of her mouth as she approached the diner window. She kept her hands buried in her pockets. The nippy air bit at her cheeks. She neared the window and peeked inside. The nearby streetlight gave her dim visibility of the interior.

  Nasty b
urgundy stains sullied the diner’s checkered floor. One was a red blotch near a stool. The next one was a splat near the front door. Clarice’s tongue-clicking quickened as she scanned the diner. The logical part of her mind told her that it was just another case of mental illness and there was nothing to be found here. Clarice’s gut told another story. Her eyes fell upon something in the back corner of the room.

  As soon as Clarice caught sight of it, chills exploded over her body. Her heart raged.

  4

  Shattered Lives

  Clarice’s tongue started tapping faster, soundlessly clicking on the roof of her mouth. She stared the thing down as a shadow fell upon her.

  She quickly turned back and got blasted by a bright light. Squinting, she saw a man silhouetted in front of her. He lowered the flashlight, revealing his spiffy police uniform.

  Clarice set her jaw.

  The officer stared her down. He had one brown and one grey eye. He must’ve been around Clarice’s age, but he looked a little younger with his pointed, soft chin. “What are you doing out here?”

  Clarice glanced back over her shoulder.

  The diner was empty.

  “Ma’am?” the officer asked again.

  Clarice cleared her throat and put on an awkward smile. “I just wanted to see what happened.”

  “At 3am?” the officer asked.

  Clarice shrugged. “It's the witching hour.”

  The cop wasn’t amused by the cryptic joke.

  Clarice noticed the officer’s name tag. It read L. Matthews. “Could you tell more about what happened here, Officer Matthews?”

  “Murder/suicide,” Matthews replied suspiciously. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

  As he talked, a small black blob peeked over his shoulder and then quickly hid behind him. Clarice had a few guesses as to what it was. “How are the victims’ families?”

  The officer didn’t take his eyes off her. “They’re surviving.”

  “Did they say anything about the killer? Maybe something strange about the way he acted or talked?” Arden probed.

  Matthews switched the flashlight to a different hand. “Have you been drinking?”

  “No, sir.”

  The cop studied her for a moment. “It’s late. You should be going home, ma’am. You don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.”

  “Yeah. Thanks,” Clarice replied. “Have a good night, Officer.”

  Clarice fished out her keys and unlocked her car. She closed the door and drove out of the lot.

  Matthews’s multi-colored eyes stayed locked on her until she was out of sight.

  Clarice got back home in fifteen minutes. She snuck inside, glad that no one had locked the front door behind her. She stepped into her room and saw the Christmas lights were on again.

  Clarice froze, knowing that she previously unplugged them. She did so again and crawled into bed. On her back, she stared at the ceiling. Her mind raced. There was so much more to this murder/suicide, and she planned to find the answers.

  After a night of restless sleep, Clarice dressed in her scuffed jeans, women’s cowboy boots, and button-up shirt. She brushed her hair and took a moment to spin around in the mirror. She like the rural country look. She was pretty sure that she’d never go into a city again, and that was okay with her. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many open doors.

  Clarice headed down the hall, taking a moment to acknowledge her childhood photos on the wall. Peter was three years older than her and Luis was six. Being raised with older boys meant she spent a lot of time fighting, getting muddy, and causing trouble. Growing up, Clarice was more interested in getting a G.I. Joe than a Barbie.

  She headed into the kitchen. It connected with the living room, which connected a ladder leading to the loft. Her father had gotten too old to go up and trusted Luis and Peter to keep it clean. Davis sat at the table. There was a plate of pancakes and a covered fry pan full of scrambled eggs.

  “Sleep well?” Davis asked and gestured to the food.

  “Eh.” Clarice took a seat at the table.

  Davis took a seat in front of her and watched her eat.

  Clarice stopped.

  “You’ve changed,” Davis said.

  Clarice stopped chewing. She swallowed her bite. “How so?”

  “You look more like your mother when she was your age,” Davis said.

  Clarice pursed her lips.

  Davis gave her a sympathetic grin. “She’ll come around.”

  Clarice cast down her eyes and nodded.

  “Chin up, girl!” Davis shattered the tension with overextended optimism. “You’re home.”

  After she ate, Davis took Clarice out to the stable. She walked through the stalls, taking time to acknowledge every horse. An American Paint horse stood in the last stall. It was black and white. Davis called him “Rorschach.” He was the same breed Clarice used to ride as a kid.

  “Ready to get in the saddle?” Davis asked.

  Clarice opened Rorschach’s gate. The beautiful horse nestled against her shoulder. Clarice brushed her hand down his bristly fir. “Good boy.”

  “He likes you,” Davis said. “That horse don’t like nobody.”

  Davis put a saddle on its back. Clarice took the reins and walked Rorschach out into the morning sun. A moment later, Davis exited with an old Clydesdale. They mounted up and troughed past Hannah, who was doing laps around the track. Davis waved at her. She slowed down and watched them gallop down a dirt trail. Clarice matched her father’s pace as she got used to the feel of the horse. Each horse had its own stride and rhythm. Clarice held on to it lightly and enjoyed the scenery. For a moment, none of her past or problems mattered.

  A dark cloud grew in the distance, faster than any other. The cloud was unnatural and seemingly alive. It moved like a swarm of locus and poured black across the sky like God had tipped over his inkwell and stained the atmosphere. The dark cloud stayed at bay for a moment before cruising off somewhere else.

  Clarice kept her eyes in that direction. “Tell me more about the shooting.”

  “Oh, that,” Davis said dreadfully. “Just bad all around.”

  “Was there any bad blood between Ben and Jesse?”

  “There had to have been. I didn’t notice, but what else would cause a man to kill like that?”

  “How is Mrs. Tucker holding up after Jesse’s passing?” Clarice asked.

  Davis shook his head. “It’s been hard for her. We’ve been sending our prayers.”

  “And the Clawfords?”

  Davis frowned. “Can’t say. One of their own spilled blood. That’s something Jasper can’t easily forget.”

  Clarice didn’t reply for a moment. “They still live in the same homes?”

  Davis let out a short chuckle to break the tension. “This is Jasper, Clarice. Some things never change.”

  After the ride, Clarice fed Rorschach and walked him back to his stall. She asked her father if he still a phonebook at the bottom of his nightstand.

  “It's outdated. Probably by a decade,” Davis said with a grin. “You want it?”

  “I’ll take a look.”

  Clarice waited for him to bring it out to the porch. Clarice flipped through the pages.

  “Anything else?” Davis asked kindly.

  “That’s it. I might try to see some old friends today. I’ll probably be back for dinner.”

  “Do whatever you’d like,” Davis replied.

  After he’d gone inside, Clarice flipped through the pages of the book and found the addresses she needed.

  Taking the phone book with her, she climbed into her Challenger. She took a drive through town, soaking in the rural 1950s aesthetic. The sidewalks were mostly empty at this time of day. An old farmer sat outside of the general store. His droopy eyes followed Clarice’s car the whole way down the road. She eventually turned onto a single-lane street that shot out into the prairies.

  A small home stood in the midst of the wheat fields. Cl
arice followed the gravel driveway to the front door. The house construction was simple and suitable for an elderly couple. It had a covered porch with rectangular pillars, and was painted sunny yellow.

  Clarice hung her aviators on the neck of her button-up shirt. She knocked on the door before burying her hands in her pocket.

  A plump, older woman in her sixties answered. She wore a flowing shirt over her flowing pants. Her hair was parted down the middle. She had a red nose and puffy eyes from crying. Her meaty hand clenched her tissue. “Yes?”

  “Hi, Mrs. Tucker. I’m Clarice Holburg. I just wanted to stop by and say how sorry I am for what happened,” Clarice said kindly.

  “Most people just call, but thank you,” Mrs. Tucker said.

  Clarice smiled softly. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Mrs. Tucker shook her head.

  “When Jesse built this house, he enlisted my brother’s help. I tagged along. I was a little girl at the time,” Clarice explained. “I used to sit on that fence over there while the boys worked.”

  Mrs. Tucker’s face lit up. “Oh, you’re the one who always snuck into my pantry.”

  Clarice’s grin widened. “I’m afraid I am.”

  “Well, you’ve grown into a pretty young lady,” Mrs. Tucker complimented.

  Clarice glanced past the woman and at the messy house. “It looks like you could use some company.”

  Mrs. Tucker’s mouth scrunched to one side. “That would be nice… but the place is kind of a mess. I haven’t cleaned since… well. It is what it is.”

  “Would you like a hand?”

  Mrs. Tucker brushed off the idea. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “You shouldn’t have to bear this all on your own,” Clarice kindly persisted.

  Mrs. Tucker thought about it. “I could use some help cleaning out the dishwasher and maybe washing the dishes, too…”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tucker.”

  “No, thank you,” Mrs. Tucker said.

  Clarice entered the house. There were shelves of homemade old wooden bowls and little glass angels. Photographs of landmarks in the western United States testified of the couple’s love for travel. Two matching recliners faced the TV. Their cushions were imprinted, and the armrests were faded. The Tuckers probably slept there most nights for the last fifteen years.