Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,14

the left of the sink was a small amount of counter and a few simple cabinets painted robin’s egg blue. The small butcher block countertop smelled vaguely of red wine and garlic.

A short hallway ran off the kitchen to two bedrooms. One had a small bed with a pine night table. There was a painting over the headboard that looked original. It portrayed a northwoods harbor empty save for a few small boats. It looked cold and gray.

The second bedroom was nearly empty save for a few guitar cases, a steel folding chair and a small stereo. There was a bathroom between the bedrooms. I peeked inside and saw that it was small and cramped but impeccably clean.

I walked back to the living room tried to imagine Jesse Barre, a talented guitar-maker, daughter of a talented musician, working all day in the shop, then coming up here to relax. When? Did she eat in the studio or up here? What time did she finish? Dinnertime, or later? Was she a night owl? The living room looked hardly lived in. There was no television. No stereo. Just the couch, the rocking chair, a lamp and the books. Did she spend all day laboring over the machines, the grinding and cutting and sanding and shaping of wood, then retire up here with a glass of wine and a good book?

Not a bad way to go, really. Awfully solitary, though. Was she anti-social? Working all day alone, then coming up here alone? How often did this Nevada Hornsby come by?

I looked around the living room for pictures, spotted a small shelf to the left of the rocker. I crossed the room and studied them. There were about seven all together. All very small frames. There was one of Jesse who at the time looked to be in her early twenties with a woman who was considerably older. Her mother. Where was Clarence? I studied the pictures and saw two with him, one younger and one probably a couple years ago.

I heard a footstep behind me.

I picked up the picture and started to say to Clarence who had probably gotten tired of waiting in the car, “So tell me about this picture—”

The blow came out of the darkness, sent pain shooting through my middle, my kidneys flattened and I instantly sank to my knees. I tried to turn my head but a walloping smash that felt like a brick being broken over my head toppled me over onto the floor. Instantly, my attacker was on top of me. He had on a mask. A knife flashed in front of my face and then I felt its razor sharpness against my throat. I could feel his breath on my face, it smelled like beer and hamburger.

“Where is it?” he asked.

I tried to answer but my tongue and brain weren’t connecting. Some kind of wiring had been rearranged.

“Don’t play dumb motherfucker. I’ll split you in two right here.”

I saw the flash of teeth through the fabric of the mask. I tried again to speak, but nothing came out. I felt blood in my mouth and there was an enormous pressure against my eyes. My head was going to explode, I was sure of it. Suddenly, he grabbed the neck of my shirt and dragged me across the floor.

“You’re going to tell me where it is or you’re going to fucking die. Those are your choices.”

His voice was raw and angry. He was slightly out of breath. I tried to fight him, tried to raise my arms, but my vision came in bursts, followed by oceans of black. My limbs were numb and useless. I felt myself falling, banging off the stairs, the wall, the handrail leading down into the shop. I saw snapshots of wood and plaster, felt stabs of pain in my back, shoulders and face. Everything went black. But it was only for a second, because a blurred canvas of colors washed across my brain before I heard his steps and then felt his hands on me again.

There was a roar in my ears and he pulled me into a sitting position, pinning me against a base cabinet. Now, the roaring was closer and louder. One of my eyes must have already been swollen shut because I couldn’t see anything to my left. All I could see out of the other one was the rounded edge of a woodworking machine. He grabbed my right arm and pulled it toward him. He changed his grip,