Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,68

that Enrique had pointed me out, and they had followed me up here because the fire was, in hindsight, pretty fucking suspicious. “Just what do you—holy shit. Holy shit. Get on the ground right now. Bill, call the cops. Call somebody!”

“Elien,” I said.

“Zahra isn’t the hashok,” he whispered to himself. “How can it not be her?”

III

At night, when a person is passing along a trail or going through the woods, and meets the Hashok Okwa Hui'ga he must immediately turn away and not look at it, otherwise he will certainly become lost and not arrive at his destination that night, but instead, travel in a circle.

- “Myths of the Louisiana Choctaw,” David I. Bushnell, Jr.

ELIEN (1)

The worst part wasn’t the hours I spent in the interview room, answering the same questions over and over again, explaining that I hadn’t killed Zahra. The worst part wasn’t the array of misdemeanor charges and having to wait until Richard could bail me out. The worst part wasn’t even facing Richard again, smelling the cheap cologne that was still on him from the other guy. The worst part was Dag’s face right before they separated us, and knowing that I’d screwed up his life again, maybe worse than ever.

Richard drove us home from the New Orleans police station; it was late morning by then, and both of us were exhausted. Richard’s mouth was a grim line. Sunlight flashing off the lake illuminated the bags under his eyes. His carefully combed hair was mussed, and I could see how very thin it had gotten on top. He looked old. I watched him. I watched the fields of corn flick past us. Pheasants pecked among the chaff. I could still smell the hotel room, Zahra’s body torn open. Like the smell in Ray’s apartment. Like the smell in David’s trailer.

When we pulled into the garage, Richard touched the remote, and the door clattered down behind us. We sat there for a while, and Richard scratched the thick hair on the back of his arms.

“Well,” I said, “I guess that open relationship wasn’t just for my benefit.”

“I really don’t think that’s what we should be worried about right now.”

“I should have known,” I said. “I should have fucking known. I told you I didn’t want an open relationship. I told you I didn’t need one. And you insisted. You said it would be better for me. You said it was important that I feel free. And I never fucking took advantage of it, which was such a fucking mistake, because you were lying to me, picking up street trash, fucking whoever you wanted.”

“Your behavior recently has been worse than erratic, Elien. I’m worried about you. Frankly, the way you acted last night makes me think that you haven’t been making any progress at all with Zahra, and—”

“Well, she’s dead, Richard. Somebody butchered her in that hotel room. So it’s not like I can ask for a refund because she didn’t fix me.”

“This would be a good time for you to practice your breathing—”

“You lied to me. You both lied to me. A conference? Jesus, that is the oldest one in the book, and I still fell for it.”

“All right,” Richard said. “I suppose we should talk about that. Yes. I lied. That was not good behavior. But you’ve been frightening me lately. I needed space. We both agreed that an open relationship—”

“No.” I started to laugh. “You are so full of shit. Don’t do that. You know I didn’t want that.”

“You certainly didn’t seem to mind when you were humping that deputy on my fucking couch.”

The garage wall swam in my vision; I blinked to clear my eyes.

“All right,” I said and got out of the car.

Against one wall, Richard had a pegboard with tools and sporting equipment. Leaning up against it was a baseball bat. High end, of course, because everything Richard bought was high end. Not aluminum. Not wood. Reinforced carbon fiber polymer. I swung it once, and it whistled through the air. I felt like I could smash my way through a tank.

“Elien, put that down.”

I swung it again. I liked the resistance as it cut through the air. “God, I just can’t believe how stupid I am.”

“Put it down.” Richard was standing behind the car door, watching me. “If I think you’re going to start hurting yourself again, I will call the police.”

“Richard, sweetheart, get a clue: I never fucking stopped hurting myself. I just figured out better ways to do it.”

Then I