The Brand Ch. 08

Two hundred or so yards further, the road became rutted and grown over with tall grass. Then the memory came, unstoppable, whirling up between the grass and the brake lights of Simon's Mercedes like so many windblown dead leaves: the dead end street of her childhood, the weather beaten shell of an abandoned house, Samantha, Maddie, Shailo; their evil eyes, their smearing mouths and their strong hands.

Victria burst from her vehicle and ran to Simon as he opened his door.

"Who else knows about the dolls?" she asked; drawing her weapon and leveling it at Simon as he drew up to his full height and closed his car door.

"They all know about it; "answered Simon; seeming not in the least concerned, "The other senior execs you've stuck your pins in, and Cheevers."

"I don't believe you."

"You should. And; you should hand me your gun. If you care anything at all about remaining as the company's senior risk manager, you'll hand over your weapon. I mean, I'm with you. Risk has its allure, its beauty. But, ask yourself Victria: will shooting me really be worth it? All that you've worked for; all that you've fought for; all the time and investment you've made, you will shit on just for the sake of seeing me die? Give me the gun."

"The dolls were just a fucking joke Simon!" shouted Victria, "You're making something out of nothing!"

"Pretty much." Simon agreed, "But, your stupid dolls are something enough I can exploit. And because I have Coleman's confidence, as you well know, we can see to it that you never work again."

It was the truth. Simon, by virtue of his having had Cheevers trust, had beenVictria's ace in the hole. Without his support, the company's CEO never would have hired her as its chief risk officer.

Victria remained where she was: her gun's barrel pointed at Simon's forehead, her arm's straight, her stance solid, her sights aligned. You shit, she thought. You had this all planned and you knew exactly how you wanted it to turn out. She remembered believing that her fire arm would be the ultimate decisive factor; the final means to getting the drop on the prick that thought he'd get one over on her in the places where she was supposed to be safe. But, there, out in the open, Simon had shielded himself with shrewd and cruel armor.

There he stood: cool, at ease, no sweat, smug as a bug in a rug, calling her bluff. Then the words came into her head, she couldn't tell from where. She only knew they weren't her words. Delusion is the aphrodisiac of desperate focus. Stupid God damned dolls. Victria knew they had much in common, her and Simon. They were cut from the same rough cloth; bold with the colors of calculation, manipulation, ruthlessness, audacity and guile. He might have made a good friend, if he hadn't exploited her stupidity and wasn't about to make his ultimatum.

Finally, surrendering, she made a show of her submission; an impotent self-indulgent act, her last measure of control over the situation. She lower her weapon, slowly ejected the magazine, tucked it into a back pocket, racked the slide open, dropped the chambered bullet into her palm, tucked it into her denim jacket's front left pocket, and then handed the clearly empty gun to Simon. Approaching her, he took it, thumbed the breach closed, and then tucked it inside his jacket.

Suddenly, he was in her face; thoughtful, confident narrowed brown eyes, angular jaw, vaguely stubble, gentle musk cologne, a man's scent beneath; like, strangely enough, a fairly decent cheese and freshly baked bread. His imposed proximity was much much too close for her comfort, though he blocked most of the wind. Then, as he reached gentle fingers to grip her chin and raise her face to his, Victria's eyes went wide with pure contempt.

"Now," said Simon as he stepped closer, "I have this philosophy."

Eyeing the man warily, Victria tried to push back the hair the wind was still blowing back against her face. It had swelled to a din. Their open jackets flapped between them. The shade of clouds passed quickly overhead, causing her to squint from the bright sunlight in their wake.

"Oh yeah? She said loudly; forced by her contempt for him and by the roar of the wind, "What's that?"

"Life," Simon said with a smile, "Is just something that happens between blow jobs."

As the wind died back down temporarily, Victria wagged her head.

"You're all the fucking same." She told him, trying to look away.

"So are you. You women fight for your right to compete, to succeed. Half of you fight to bare children and the other half to murder your children before they hatch. All those hard to do things, take all your energy things to get over; we get over it as soon as we can. Why? Because we're practical. Thinking too much is the providence of the fairer sex. Getting to the fucking point; is ours. Now get on your knees and suck my dick."

"Put that thing near my mouth, and I will Bobbitt you with my teeth mother fucker."

Victria leveled her eyes at Simon's. She saw his mistrust, suspicion, his calculation.

"Fine then." Simon said as he reached back to open the driver's door, "Go in the glove box and take out the bottle of lube."

"You keep fucking lube in your car?"

"I like to be prepared for anything. Now just do it."

Victria eyed him scornfully as Simon gestured toward the open Mercedes door like some premier hotel valet.

She passed him, climbed into the Mercedes, fished through the glove box, found the lube, and then climbed back out of the car. As a tumult of emotion raged under the hateful mask she wore, Victria held the bottle tightly in her fist. Then, she moved numbly as Simon herded her toward a patch of shorter grass. Remaining behind her, Simon undid the snaps of her jeans, and then thrust them to around her knees. A few seconds passed without event, at least nothing more than a rustling of clothing behind her. Then she saw the rope come down before her eyes, felt it go against her chin, against her neck, and then she felt the noose go tight; or at least tight enough. Victria got the point as Simon dragged her jeans and panties down the rest of the way.

"Hand me the lube please." Simon said.

Victria did as she was bid. Once both hands were free, she did not feel the sensation, inside her fists, of her nails biting into her palms. She did not hear the grinding as her teeth clenched nor was she aware of the flaring of her nostrils. But, she did feel as Simon's hands gripped and probed her exposed, most private flesh. Still the winds blustered and raged as Simon coiled his serpent fingers around, over and in between; first dry, then moist, slick, with the fabricated lubrication.

Her ears full with the wind's whistling drone, Victria felt her ass being parted and prepared for Simon's way. Then, after the first finger and the second finger, he forced himself in. It wasn't that he wasn't gentle. He was, at least Simon knew he was being gentle. But, Victria knew that it wasn't his ass to fuck. So, in spite of herself, because of herself, she fought it. In response, as his hard cock filled the space that his fingers had just left, Simon pulled her noose, choking her, cutting off her air in fits, startling her. Melody, she thought, because there was nothing more to think. My beautiful girl, my sweet. And still the winds blew, lashing her hair against her face; spreading her tears across her cheeks; tears that hadn't fallen in years.

Meanwhile, throughout, under and overhead, was the rest of the world. A thing of beauty, the rest of the world; distant, remote, yet always just within sight or reach. Masked by the wind was the song of fledgling birds, a brood of house wren hatchlings, their egg casings cleared from the nest, their mouths ever upward and opened for their mother's bounty. Beneath their nest, was the crotch of a high, thick, branch? Beneath the branch, was the rest of the tree; straight and strong, an oak, perhaps a hundred or more years old.

Beneath the tree, a common male homosapian stood behind a female. Neither one of the creatures, locked in their courtship, were aware of the tree, its age, its stature. To them, it was but an insignificant, inconsequential, tree; one in a forest of many. So, the wind blew as the wind has always blown ever since the first dawning of the sun's warmth upon the face of the earth, after the moon became caught in her gravitational field, the ocean's tides began their ebb and flow and her forests grew lush green and tall.

It was to be a special moment for the little wrens, as their mother postured and preened, she too oblivious to the human man far below; nearly finished with the woman. The woman, who was weeping, had worked so vigilantly, spreading and strengthening her wings for a flight that was to take her far above the prospect of such a terrible thing happening to her. But, apparently, the work not being enough to stop the day, on that very day, it had come time for the birds to leave their nest.

Mother Wren poked them one by one, with her benevolently intended beak, out of the nest. There were five birds ready, or not, to take flight. The first was immediately carried off by the furious Wind. He spread his little wings, because after all, that is all a bird has, and finds a new perch on the branch of a nearby maple. The second little bird was too, forced from the nest, and the wind too carried her. She faltered, spiraled, weaved, was lifted, batted around by the wind, but ultimately found purchase on a swaying limb of a small sassafras tree. The third fledgling feared its mother's pointed beak, and so tumbled out of the nest and plummeted until it was picked up by the great wind, righted itself, and then found that it had landed on the forest floor. Then, as the mother wren herded the remaining two of her brood toward the edge of the nest, she could hear the first crack, the second and then the third.

She had known, since the afternoon her suitor had shown her the nest he'd built in the hollowed cavity he'd so proudly stuffed with sticks and straw, that there was an unsettling draft of air coming in from beneath. The couple had squabbled over the issue, and the female wren had gone so far as to drag a few sticks out from the nest and dropped them to the ground below in protest. But, he had built it, and he was a fine, very nicely feathered male, so she settled in for the season.

It had begun sometime after the dawning of that new day that the wind became strong enough to make their tree sway. Presently, the mother wren realized a new source of light coming into her nest, from somewhere below the network of straw and twigs. Still, the crack cracked and the shaft of light brightened. And, unlike the woman's filled crack, the fissure in the branch was emptying, disconnecting. The tree was bound to lose its limb. But, that was one of the miracles of a tree. A tree feels no pain in its dead winter sleep nor does it care if it loses a dying piece of itself. It will live on for another hundred years or more, of course, so long as no common homosapian chops it down.

With a sudden sense of urgency, mother wren pushed the last two of her brood to the edge of the nest. The second to last of her offspring spiraled and tumbled head over tail until it righted itself just in time to crack its little skull against Victria's passenger window. It bounced away, neck broken, and fell limp to the ground. Then, as the mother flew off, as the man grunted his pleasure at being stuck inside the woman's behind, the last fledgling stared about itself as the branch finally snapped free from the healthier part of the oak. It was not until the last little wren felt that the nest had gone sideways that it spread its wings and stared fearfully at the ground below. The man, still grunting, his head back and his eyes closed; and the woman, hands on her knees, her eyes shut tight, her face wet, are distracted. They saw nothing. They heard nothing; the wind still blustering, masking the snapping and cracking of the great oaks dead limb.

Victria realize that she had to trust the scumbag that happened to be fucking her in her ass in that moment. What else could she do? The corner was blocked in with Simon's ultimatum. For all she knew, her work life would be over on Monday morning. She'd walk into work; dressed in her best, security would inform her of her having been fired, and then escort her out. Perhaps though, as Simon happily drilled her ass, there would be a chance.

Sobbing, her rectum in pain, Victria tried to think only of Melody; her eyes, her sweet smile, her beautiful body and her lovely obedience. It hit her then. She was grateful for the woman's presence in her life. She couldn't ask for a better partner. If only she wasn't so sappy though.

Abruptly, the tall healthy oak's great dead branch fell, time suspended over the oblivious man and woman below. Time is fleeting; passing quickly and quicker still as the great branch fell, a randomly contingent event, falling ever downward, until...

A sudden blast of wind from a different direction whipped the hair around Victria's face. Then there was a rushing sound, the great thud coinciding with the sudden extrication of Simon's prick from her ass, her painful screaming and turning quickly around in time to see Simon being forced down as a huge branch crashed against his face.

Wide eyed and fixed to the spot, Victria stared in disbelief as Simon bit off the tip of his tongue, sending it flying onto his chest. From there, the small piece of flesh was then shaken off by Simon's flailing about, arms and legs akimbo, his erection spouting geyser ropes of semen up to his lapels, down his chest, and then down upon itself. Why the fuck- what the fuck- Why hadn't he pulled the noose. Why hadn't- She reached a hand to cover her mouth as the limb, its network of branches and their clusters of drying leaves, settled into quiet. With her other hand, Victria reached up to feel the rope around her neck. Now that hand joined the first, covering her gaping mouth, her eyes still fixed on Simon.

"Holy...fucking...shit." She gasped.

Quickly, her jeans and panties still around her ankles, Victria sidled toward the fallen limb. Simon's head had been crushed, his nostrils pointing up at the sky, his brain matter spread out like so much spilled chunks of cauliflower, his skull cap and scalp like the broken half of a coconut. Then, after lingering her gaze back to the ejaculate that oozed down the length of Simon's dead white erection, Victria leaned over to vomit bile. She hadn't had much breakfast that morning, having been too nervous about her meeting with the man to really enjoy a plateful of Melody's banana chocolate chip pancakes.

Her vomiting over, Victria began to take deep sputtering breaths. She regarded the splashes of bile on her thighs and knees and wanted to find something to wipe herself off with. She moved back toward her car, her steps confined by the clothing gathered around her ankles. In spite of herself, Victria continued to stare at Simon's lifeless body and his shrinking, now left leaning, erection. She thought that if only the branch was smaller, she would have tried to lift it away from him. The thought struck her as inane, ridiculous, and absurd. There was never going to be a smaller tree. The world made sure of that.

Victria's eyes darted over the scene once more, wide and rapid like the eyes of a child, as if someone would blame her for Simon dying in such a way. Could they, would they blame her for his death? She laughed suddenly, a small, crazed, twitter bubbling from her lips. Her naked ass hit the cold metal of the passenger side of her big pink Lexus. As she opened the door, she looked down to see a little dead bird in the grass. Victria stared at it as she fished beneath the seat and withdrew a packet of wipes.

Cleaning herself, she continued to regard the creature. Its head on its side, its wings slightly spread, it stared back at her with its lifeless black eye. Finished wiping herself off, Victria glanced from the bird, to the large fallen limb, to Simon's pale half naked body, and then up to the great tree above the scene. She saw its scar, as high as sixty feet up, a diamond shaped patch of light brown bare wood, adjacent to a small dark cavity, a tuft of dry brown grass spilling from its edge. A chill came over her, across her shoulders, along her back, and then down to her exposed buttocks and legs. Victria glanced one more time at Simon's body, his penis, it too finally down for the count, before reaching down to pull her panties and jeans back up.

She slowly stepped away from her car, and, as she began to walk a wide perimeter around the scene, she deliberated as to how she should proceed. Then it hit her. She stopped then, and stared about the woods, through shrubs and between trees. The woods were still. The wind no longer blustered. Instead, a gentle breeze blew, pulling only two or three strands of Victria's hair.

Who's out there, she thought. Legba was out there. The Virgin Mother was out there; a spring beneath the ground, a shallow brook, fish eggs dropped from the feet of birds passing overhead, growing, nourished in the sweet water, little fish in little ponds, in a bird's nest, babies hungry and mommy sowing pre-digested food into their gullets. What wonderful mother's birds were; warming their eggs, cleaning the nest after her young hatch, feeding them until they're strong enough to leave, and then booting their little birdy asses out because nothing good can happen unless the fledglings have learned to fly.

Victria pulled her cell from a pocket. Where the fuck am I anyway? I think the last sign I saw said we were in Putnum. Should I get my gun back first? What's my story going to be? Let's assume Cheever's has reviewed the tapes for himself. It's still all just so stupid; nothing. Yeah, but Simon's dead. Victria recalled the pin she'd stuck in the head of Simon's doll. Yes, she thought as she glanced at the body's skull cap, he's dead alright. This is bull shit. I have appointments I need to get Melody to. Fuck it. Let the scene be the story.

"Seriously God?" she said; looking up into the blue skies over head, "You're really funny; I'll give you that. Fine then! Thank you. Now; what the Hell do I owe you?"

Silence, was her answer. There was only the bright sun, the calm breeze, the fallen limb, the hair atop Simon's crushed head being ruffled by the wind, a sudden cackling of crows in the distance, but getting steadily closer. Victria pocketed her phone. I don't know where this is, she thought. I have to drive out of here first. I'm sure my leaving won't disturb; the scene. The truth, she decided, would be the truth; especially after she got back home to destroy the evidence. There was absolutely no chance in Hell that the others; Ricchio, Duffy and Rancourt would suffer their own strange and untimely demises. It was preposterous. Victria was no Francisca Botchwey. She hadn't cast any spells or thought bad wishes on her colleagues at the office. She just; had very little respect for men, especially men at her level.

Then, filtering through her thoughts until it couldn't be denied, came the sound of droplets falling into a pool. It came from behind Victria as she was just about to take a first step back to her car. She paused, not turning. Again, it came; a quick cascade of water into water, as if, perhaps, wrung from a wash cloth. Pivoting on her heel finally, Victria first saw, in the middle of her nowhere, twelve or so feet behind her, and the gleaming white enameled edge of a vintage cast iron tub.

As her eyes moved toward the left, Victria took in Francisca's naked kneeling body, her long brown arms, the wash cloth in her hands, wringing it out over the full tub. In the next instant, Melody's lovely light brown hair and sun bright body slowly rose from the water. Pushing the drenched hair from her eyes, she regarded the black woman at her side, smiled, and then turned to notice Victria. Melody reached long beautiful fingers to touch the gleaming platinum collar around her throat.