The Changeling's Fate

Eight: The Aftermath

Steve barged in while I was spewing up my guts. Turns out, he had been in the field repairing a broken fence line, not far from the barn, and when he'd heard the yelling and the frantic cries of disturbed cattle he'd gone to investigate the commotion. He must've run twice as fast as I had, to come in only seconds behind me. Leaving the screen door flying, his face crumpled at the sight before him. He pulled off his hat, wringing it in his hands, before extracting a flip-phone from his faded Levi's and calling 911. As he spoke to the operator, he sunk hesitantly to his knees, as if no longer certain his legs would support him.

I'd about finished puking around the time Steve ended the call with dispatch. Stomach empty, I fall to the ground beside him and freeze, both of us mute figures in a tableau of grief. My ears feel thick with cotton, my joints stiff, but I manage to crane my head when I hear crying from outside. Just outside the kitchen window is Samantha, Jayden's sister. Despite fighting her own tears, she holds back a screaming Cynthia, keeping the younger girl from entering the farmhouse. Good. Neither of them needed to carry the memory of what I saw before me.

The early morning light paints Judy's body in a perversely peaceful glow. There's blood already gathering in a puddle beneath her. The pool seems to small, too innocuous for the desecration that has been inflicted on her body. The flesh on her neck has been ripped out in chunks, and pieces of viscera that must have once belonged to her throat litter the floor in a wide spray around the body. Her chest is broken open, bits of bone that were never meant to be exposed shine in the fluorescent kitchen light in a manner that seems almost obscene. The chest itself looks caved in, as if someone had taken an ice pick and just pushed and pushed and pushed until it broke open, rather than hacking away. But it is the bloody sockets that were once her eyes that draw my attention and keep it. I did not give the room more than a cursory glance upon my entrance, but I did not see the eyes themselves among the carnage and I wonder if her killer took them with him.

I wonder who hated her enough to prompt such a savage act. This is no impersonal murder, no burglary gone wrong. It is a ravaging. It is an atrocity that took multiple minutes and, to my uninformed eyes, multiple tools to complete. Was it an ex foster child? A disgruntled farm-hand? Who could have done it? Who would have done it?

The minutes pass in silence. The crying fades away and the only sound that remains is the clock, high on the wall. Tick tock, Tick Tock. It taunts. Time obstinately marches on, refusing to acknowledge the gravity of what has taken place. Should not the world pause and reflect the reality that our normal has ended? That this event has flipped some irrevocable switch in our lives, so that, no matter how desperately we plead, things cannot return to the way they were? But time ignores such things as the pettiness of human grief and supplication, even in the direst of man's circumstances.

Finally, the police and EMS arrive; Emergency response times in the county tend to be slow, but Judy must've had some remarkable goodwill in the community because they've come in only 15 minutes, rather than 30. Steve and I haven't spoken, but one of the first things the officers do is separate us before they lead us from the scene. A male officer draws Steve out through the dining room, careful to avoid the remains, while a female officer who looks at me with pitying eyes pulls me out the side-door and into the little garden Judy keeps – kept – just steps from her kitchen. The kids are resting on the patio furniture further back, huddled in emergency blankets and talking to their own set of officers and emergency personnel.

"Ma'am." it takes a monumental effort to pull my eyes up to meet the officer's. I feel weary, tired, as if the events of the past few minutes have aged me to something ancient, something beyond the realm of human understanding.

"I'm Officer Chiles. I know this is a difficult time for you, but if you could answer a couple of questions for me we can move this process along more painlessly and allow you to make arrangements." The words prompt my memory of the police investigation into Liza, her disappearance forgotten in the wave of grief that had struck me upon discovering Judy, and I'm just now realizing how much I may have lost.

"Yes." My voice still comes out firm, unshaken despite my inner turmoil.

"Do you know if Judy had any thoughts of self-harm recently?"

The question surprises me, and I'm brusque in my reply. "Of course she didn't."

"Alright," the officer replies, cordial expression staunchly in place in spite of my rudeness. "How about any changes in behavior recently, any depressive episodes, emotional outbursts, withdrawal from her social and family life?"

"What? No. None of those things." I'm losing my patience with this line of questioning and anger clips my words. "Why are you asking this? Are you treating this as a suicide?"

"Ma'am, we investigate every death we're called to for suspicious circumstances." The officer's reply is in a soothing, placating tone – she's switched into damage control mode.

"But you are investigating it as a suicide?" My voice is rising but it's not from hysteria, I'm in control and I'm pissed. "Look –"

Steve lays a hand on my shoulder, having drifted over from the front yard with Officer Chiles's male partner trailing behind him.

"Alexandra," Steve's normally smooth voice is gravelly and hoarse with grief, "Don't make this harder than it already is, kiddo." He leans in closer and murmurs, careful not to let Cyn or the others overhear. "We both saw what happened. It's damn well not likely someone else came in and used that antique muzzleloader on her. You and I both know she kept that varmint rifle in the gun-safe downstairs so the kids couldn't get to it. And the only two people who have both the key to that cellar and the knowhow to open that safe are myself and Judy."

"Judy," Steve pauses, closes his eyes and inhales deeply before continuing. "Judy never told me about the pain she was carrying, and it had to be hard on her, that sharp mind in a failing body. Alexandra, it's probable that she saw the end of her years approaching and just wanted to go on her own terms."

"I don't know even know how you could be so certain there were bullet holes in that mess, Steve, but that wasn't a suicide. Her throat was cut open Steve. Cut open. Not shot!" I hiss back, incredulous at the turn the conversation has taken. I knew of the muzzleloader he was talking about – an antique piece that took a time and a half to load and was thus rendered totally useless as a pest gun. Steve took it out twice a year religiously, to clean and maintain it, and that's the only times I'd caught sight of it. I hadn't seen it in the kitchen just now. I sure as hell hadn't seen what he was describing – a self-inflicted shooting. Had I missed something in the shock of the moment? Had I misunderstood what I'd seen?

Steve's face hardens, not in anger, but in grief and, with a nod from Officer Chiles, he starts walking me towards the front of the house. "Judy's death is hard on all of us, Alexandra, and I don't want you to over strain yourself worrying about this on top of all the other things going on in your life. Why don't you get some rest, and I'll call you later with any updates."

I stiffen, refusing to be budged. This was pure insanity – how could it be possible for me to see something entirely different from what everyone else saw? And it had felt so real, appeared so detailed. But . . . maybe the violence in the kitchen had shocked my already overtaxed system. Between Liza's disappearance, work, and school, the sight of what was surely a violent suicide may have forced my brain into protection mode, caused me to misconstrue the traumatic details for something else.

Loosening my shoulders, I let go of my stubborn anger and relent, moving back to my car. Steve pats my back and sends me off with a heartfelt "Call me if you need anything, and I mean it." Under the watchful eyes of a few officers securing the scene, I shift into reverse and pull out of the yard heading back towards my motel. First Liza, now Judy. Consumed with grief and a sickening anxiety for all the things I've lost and those I might yet lose, my control slips and I cry for the first time in years.

By the time my weeping had succumbed to intermittent, hiccupping sobs, I'd reached the door of my motel room. Upon opening it, shock put an immediate halt to all crying. A rush of adrenaline, brought on by surprise and a hint of fear, pushed out my grief and left room for nothing but thoughts of survival.

On the bed, staring into my eyes with an inscrutable experience and an uncharacteristic lack of spark to his eye, was Robin. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth, initiating a sequence of events that would change my life forever with just four innocuous words: "I can explain everything."