BORRASCA - Bagian 5 - Chapter 11 (English)

I slept very little that night awakening well after 11am, groggy and aching. Kimber didn’t say a word to me as I brewed pot after pot of stale, motel coffee. We spent most of the morning and early afternoon in a stretched, uncomfortable silence. I thought maybe she was nervous or scared and today was just the silence before the storm. But as the afternoon wore on I caught her sliding calculated, angry glances across the room as she pretended to read book after book. And that’s when I realized she knew.

“What?” I said, finally ending the charade. I hadn’t wanted to say it. I’d hoped to spend a few more hours with her before the end because I knew that from this point onward Kimber’s last memories of me would be betrayal and deceit. I braced myself for the coming fight.

“You left the room last night. You were gone for hours.” She said. I didn’t reply. There was no point in denying it.

“And that package you got yesterday from Chicago,” she continued. “More fucking heroin?” My heart cracked at the pain in her voice. Kimber was starting to understand what I was doing to her.

“Are you going to deny it?” Kimber asked. And though her voice was angry I heard the plea underneath. Please deny it! Please!

“It was drugs, wasn’t it? What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you doing this, Sam?!” Kimber screamed, flinging her book across the room where it hit the wall behind my head. “You couldn’t fucking handle it, could you? You couldn’t be there for me when it mattered more than anything in the world. You’re weak, Sam. You’re fucking weak!”

“I’m sorry.” I whispered.

“Where did you go? Where did you go last night, huh? Did you park down the street where I couldn’t see? So I couldn’t stop you?”

“Kimber.”

“You’re a piece of shit and I wish it had been you instead of Kyle! It should have been you!” I had often thought the very same but hearing it from her hurt so much more.

“Me too.”

My quiet admission seemed to sober her. Kimber squeezed her hands together to still the anger and fear that were spawning wild electrical currents throughout her body that manifested as violent shudders. She knew this was the end, and for the first time since we’d crossed into Missouri both Kimber and I were well and truly alone – we didn’t even have each other anymore. We didn’t have anything.

“Prescott won’t talk to me anymore.” She said, more calmly this time as she tried to compose herself. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

“Yes.” I answered.

“So you’re planning to leave me behind, Sam?”

I took a deep breath and then answered her honestly. “Yes.”

“Well that is not going to happen. I need to be there when he dies. I deserve to be there.” Her voice was still dripping in acid but she seemed to be steady.

I knew Kimber was right – she did deserve to be there. In a better world she would see him slain and watch the light leave his eyes. But I refused to risk her safety. I couldn’t watch Kimber die; she had suffered so much already.

“I need to be there to choke the truth about Kyle out of Jimmy Prescott. And I fucking will be.” She stood up and whipped her long hair out of her face. “When are we leaving for the mine?”

“You’ll die if you go.” I said quietly.

“I don’t give a fuck, Sam.”

We stared at each other. There was no point in challenging Kimber – she never backed down. Never. “3am.” I said finally.

“Fine. Perfect. I’m going to shower and you are going to sleep since you were gone all fucking night. Later you can shoot up the rest of your heroin so that you’re useless up there. But hey, at least you’ll die high.” Kimber gathered her clothes and threw a contemptuous look back at me as she stomped down the little hallway to the bathroom. I studied her, hoping to remember all the details. This was the last time I would ever see my best friend because even if I somehow lived Kimber would never forgive me for this. But I would slay her demons for her just as I had slain mine in this very room days before. I prayed she would turn around just once before shutting the door. I just wanted to see her face one last time. But she never did.

I had hurt her again, this time mercilessly. Everything that was left of what could have been called my soul was scorched to cinders. Thank God I didn’t have much longer to live because I’d be limping across the finish line as it was – my heart and soul burned out.

I stood up and placed the Beretta onto the bedside table. Using the cheap motel stationary I wrote Kimber a last letter, just like her mother had 10 years before.

I took the car. There is a red pickup that’s been parked next to us for a week. I swiped the keys, they’re in the drawer. I programmed Seth’s number into your phone. Call him when you hit the border and he’ll tell you where to go. He knows the plan and he’ll take care of you.

I placed the note under the gun and prayed Kimber would heed it. I could taste salt and ash as I let the motel door click shut behind me and I realized that I knew the feeling well: regret. I walked around the building and climbed into Kimber’s old Mazda. I’d wanted to leave her her own car but it would have been too risky to transfer the guns from the Mazda to the red pickup, especially when the Dodge’s methed out owner could sober up at any time. I pulled out of the parking lot and merged onto the highway going west. There was just one more errand to run before I made my final trip up the mountain.

My heart sunk lower with every passing mile – and there were precious few between the Prince Ridge and my old house. And before I’d even decided if going home was a good idea after all I was pulling into the driveway of my old home.

The house was very different than I remembered. My parents had built an addition onto the dining room and had widened the windows into bays on the bottom floor. Why they felt they needed extra room when their children were dead or as good as was beyond me.

It was odd to climb the familiar patio stairs and ring the bell as if I were a stranger. The chime inside was different, too; more lilting and melodic. I waited a few minutes, rocking foot to foot, wondering what I would say to the woman who had raised me when she opened the door. If she opened the door. I was beginning to doubt that anyone was home.

Since I had nothing left to lose anyway I decided to try the front door – it was locked. I knocked hard on the window next to it.

“Mom?” I said through the door. “It’s Sam.”

Nothing. Was she home? Asleep? Still locked in Whitney’s room wailing away her grief after all these years? I jumped over the patio railing and walked into the backyard. My parents’ had built a giant wooden deck where the back porch had been, complete with hot-tub and wet bar. They’re certainly living it up without us, eh? I felt ire and indignation seething just below the surface but I held it in check – a superpower I had only just recently acquired.

Walking up the deck, I tried the sliding glass door to the kitchen. It caught on something but with a hard yank I was able to free it and the door slid open, allowing me access to the house. There were more upgrades inside including mahogany floors and top of the line kitchen appliances. And why not? What else was he going to do with his kids’ college fund? I thought bitterly.

“Mom?” I called again and stepped over the threshold. As I waited for a response my eyes began to wander around the room. Most of the walls hosted art of some kind but now and again I found beautifully framed photos hung reverently among them. I went room to room studying the framed pictures – all of which were hung on the most propitious part of the wall as if in worship. And, of course, all of the pictures were of Whitney. He will never leave her be. Never. I wanted to hit something.

As I wandered through the house I began to realize that some of the pictures were duplicates, as if my father hadn’t had enough photos of Whitney to cover the entire house. There were no photos of my parents – or me.

I walked upstairs and it was more of the same. My old room housed only a flat screen TV and a tanning bed, while Whitney’s was exactly the way she’d left it. I couldn’t bear to go into my parents’ room. Everywhere I looked, I saw Whitney. No. I will not let this happen.

I collected the photos from every room, foyer, and hallway, and then dumped the pictures – including glass and frame – into the deep, marble sink in the kitchen. I then pulled a bottle of whiskey from the outside bar and poured it liberally over the sheriff’s shrine. I took out a cigarette, lit it, and brought the lighter down to the alcohol-soaked pyre where it erupted into a pyramid of hungry flame. I would burn it all. I would burn him, too.

While I smoked the Marlboro and waited for the smoke alarm to trigger I heard a familiar sound from down the hallway across the room – someone was opening the garage. I didn’t know what I would say to her but she needed to answer for all of this. I had to know what she knew – about her daughter’s death and her husband’s crimes.

I heard the door open and then she was walking down the hallway toward the kitchen. I flicked my cigarette into the dying blaze and started toward her. But it wasn’t my mother who emerged from the darkness.