Evangeline Read online

  But we digress.

  “G-G-Gottshit... G-G-Gottshit...”

  The Asshole pressed his twisted smile closer, screwing his features into the most grotesque expression manageable, then came at Angeline again.

  “G-G-G-Gottshiiiiiit.”

  The bell was now ringing for next period but Sister remained paralyzed at her locker. There was nothing she feared more than Billy Quinn, but arriving late for class and having to explain her tardiness before a roomful of snickering classmates ran a close second. For a painfully shy human being with a stutter, that was pure torture. So Angeline summoned courage and tried opening her locker again. This time The Asshole waited until she’d gathered her books before slapping them from her hands.

  As the pack howled and rubbernecking students hurried past on their way to class, Angeline’s eyes remained fixed on the books and papers scattered at her feet. She didn’t dare bend to pick them up either. Experience had taught her that.

  “C’mon, Billy, we should go, man.”

  Sister snuck a peek from the corner of her eye and spotted The Asshole’s little brother, Caleb. I always thought that seventeen year-old looked more like a California surfer than a kid raised in East Bumfuck, Nebraska. He had ice-blue eyes and a pleasant face framed by a thin goatee and shoulder-length dirty-blonde hair. The youngest Quinn certainly wasn’t pretty-boy handsome, but he wasn’t hard to look at, either.

  “Carlson’s gonna shit if we’re late,” said Caleb, catching Angeline’s eye for just an instant. She quickly looked away.

  Billy considered his brother with that half-cocked smile, then bent closer to Sister. “Think my little brother likes you, G-G-Gottshit. What do you think about that, huh? Wanna fuck him?”

  “C’mon, man, that’s bullshit,” Caleb fumed.

  “Looks like Caleb’s got himself a new girlfriend,” Billy announced, jerking his thumb toward Angeline. His three toadies chortled through mindless grins.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Caleb muttered.

  “Whatever” mocked Billy. He gave his brother a playful slap on the cheek then started down the hallway trailed by his dick-sucking sycophants.

  Once the pack moved on, Angeline knelt to gather her belongings from the floor. She tucked the scattered papers back into their binders and was reaching for her Trigonometry book when her body stiffened at the sight of scuffed work boots beside her. When she raised her head she found herself looking into the piercing eyes of Caleb Quinn. The boy was squatting on his haunches, extending the textbook to her.

  “Sorry about Billy,” he said with an apologetic smile.

  Sister was transfixed. For her this was totally unfamiliar territory. Except for the taunts of The Asshole and an occasional, “get the fuck away from me” from some of the other boys at school, no student with testicles spoke to her at Willowdale High.

  “Better take it,” Caleb smiled, wagging the book playfully. “Wouldn’t do me much good. I suck at trig.”

  An awkward moment passed before Angeline accepted the textbook, pressed it against her chest and hurried away like a whipped dog.

  She glanced back only once, but the boy had already moved on.

  Angeline didn’t head home after the final bell. Instead she piled into the truck and drove for the Middle Branch neighborhood where Harland Lee Wade had taken up residence. The address wasn’t hard to find, and Angeline parked across the street under the shade of a cottonwood tree.

  14 Meadowview Lane was a ranch-style home crouched behind overgrown bushes stripped of leaves by pests and drought. The property was set at the end of a cul-de-sac flanked by modest, blue-collar homes with single car garages and dead lawns. The pervie had burrowed in among these hard-working Nebraskans and the injustice of it made my stomach turn.

  I found myself wondering how the good people of Meadowview Lane could tolerate such a neighbor. Did they constantly fret about their children? Keep drapes pulled at night? Were they prisoners in their own homes, living in fear of the man at number fourteen? It seemed so unfair, that their life, liberty and pursuit of happiness could be upended by this pervie in their midst.

  After a half-hour watching the house with no sign of Harland Lee Wade, Angeline grew restless. I knew her mind, of course. The girl wanted to peek in the windows but was nervous about it. What she needed was a mental shove, and I was happy to give her one. Given that shot of courage, Sister tucked the keys beneath the bench seat, took a deep breath and climbed from the cab.

  She crossed Meadowview Lane and started up the driveway at number fourteen, passing a battered Chevy Cutlass with a sun-damaged vinyl roof and Kansas plates. A glance in the windows spotted nothing of interest.

  At the side of the house a border of evergreens screened Sister from the abutting neighbor. There were two windows; one with the shade drawn, the other with the sash thrown halfway open. Sister approached this open window cautiously, pushing past branches then pressing her face to the screen, one hand shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun.

  This was the kitchen. On the wall to the right, blue painted cabinets rested above a Formica counter crowded with unwashed dishes and a sauce splattered microwave. Beneath the window rested a card table and two cane-thatched chairs. A television was running in another room.

  Angeline left the window and headed toward the rear of the house. The backyard was penned by corroded chain-link and she had to pass through a gate that groaned as it opened. A rusted swing-set stood in dead, knee-high grass at the corner of the yard with the swings removed. I figured the house was a rental, but that was only a guess.

  The three windows in back had shades drawn, so Sister returned to the kitchen and pressed her face against the thin veil of wire mesh to squint inside.

  There he was!

  Harland Lee Wade was standing at the sink, so close I could have spit on the sonofabitch. Angeline ducked on impulse and crouched beneath the window, fighting to calm her racing heart. It took a long moment before she gathered courage enough to raise her eyes back above the sill. The man was still there, standing beside the humming microwave that rested on the counter between him and my sister.

  His hair was trimmed shorter than in the mug shot and he’d grown a close-cropped beard, but that was him all right-- the same scumbag that had raped his little girl and posted it on the Internet. I felt the blood beginning to boil, rage rising up through me until it filled my head and pounded in my ears. For a fleeting instant I had wild thoughts of tearing through the screen and killing that pervie with his own unwashed cutlery. But the microwave timer interrupted my fantasy with a beep-beep-beep and Harland Lee turned and spotted Sister peeking through the window.

  “Hey!” he shouted at her.

  Angeline bolted like a spooked buck, crashing through bushes and branches in her haste to escape. Down the driveway and across Meadowview Lane she dashed before jumping into the cab of the pickup. The keys were dug from under the seat and fumbled into the ignition. Sister snapped a quick glance across the street as the engine roared to life. The pervie was stepping through his front door. She slammed the column shifter into gear, spun the wheel hard and hit the gas. The F-100 lurched in a tire-screaming U-turn around the cul-de-sac then roared out again as Harland Lee Wade watched from his front stoop.

  Meadowview Lane soon fell behind and Angeline sped north toward Hainesville. As I watched Sister’s eyes flit nervously to the rearview it occurred to me that, while she and I were equals when it came to smarts, I was stronger than her in every other way. Where my sister’s panicked brain had been jammed by a single overriding impulse--to flee for her life--my synapses had continued firing with absolute clarity.

  Dear friends, a sharp mind in a cool head, atop the shoulders of someone with a serious grudge, made for a very dangerous package-- one I couldn’t wait to unwrap for that bottom-feeder at number 14 Meadowview Lane. My course was clear at last… it was now just a matter of execution. But no matter the method, this I knew as sure as a pig’s ass is pork; Harland Lee Wade, d
iddler of little children, was a dead man.

  chapter three

  For nearly two weeks Angeline monitored the comings-and-goings of Harland Lee Wade, baffled by her strange obsession with the man yet compelled to shadow him by the ramrod strength of my will. Thanks to Sister’s outstanding reconnaissance, I learned that on Sundays, Mondays and Tuesdays the pervie stayed home with the shades drawn. The rest of the week he was employed as a garage mechanic in the city of O’Neill.

  In the morning Angeline would follow her quarry from Middle Branch to the service station where he worked, then pick up his trail again at the end of the school day. A creature of habit, Harland always made a pit-stop on his way home, dropping into a dive bar called “Pete’s Canteen” that sat out on the Power Line Road. The man arrived like clockwork around quarter past five, drank and shot pool, then hit the road again before sunset.

  My plan was to snare that rabbit at the bar then gut him at a remote location a few miles north of Middle Branch. It was a spot Angeline had accidentally stumbled upon that summer while searching for a farmer’s produce stand. Instead of finding the stand, the girl ended up following a rutted dirt track that terminated in a corn field near an abandoned railroad spur.

  Ideal ground for a private execution.

  I decided to terminate that fucker on a Saturday which, depending on the shift schedule, was also Stepfather’s bowling night. Sometime mid-afternoon, he’d grab his ball bag and drive off to the Alley Cat Lanes in his Eldorado. After that it was a marathon session of ten pins and heavy drinking until the lanes went dark at midnight.

  Twelve o’clock was my deadline anyway; the witching hour when driving on Angeline’s POP license would violate Nebraska state law. If the Holt County Sheriff’s Department ever caught me behind the wheel after midnight, my sister’s right to drive would be revoked and all my plans would be screwed. I wasn’t worried about it, though. I figured I’d be off the road and back in bed well before the clock struck twelve and Ted returned to the farm, drunk off his feet.

  On the second Saturday in October-- a crisp fall afternoon-- with Mother locked in her room listening to her favorite Edith Piaf recording of La Vie En Rose, and Sister in bed reading Lady Chatterley's Lover, Ted grabbed his bowling ball and headed for the Alley Cat. No sooner had his Caddy left the driveway, than Angeline’s head was blasted by a thudding migraine. Those brain-busters were coming more frequently of late… and it was really no mystery why.

  I could be a pit bull when I really set my mind to something-- straining at the collar and impossible to hold. I’d been throwing off my leash for some time now, forcing Sister to bed with searing migraines so I could roam free while she slept. And after being cooped up inside all day who could blame me? The animal wanted out.

  Most of you, I’m sure, take for granted the experience of being one with yourself, the everyday sensation of living in your own skin-- of feeling physically alive and spiritually whole. But life was different with me. I can’t tell you what a treat it was to experience that total body rush. And when those rare moments came, I swear it was better than masturbation.

  Angeline soldiered on a few pages more before surrendering to my mental beat-down. Within minutes of setting aside Lady Chatterley's Lover, the girl was drifting toward sleep. And as she was punching out, your trusted servant was punching in-- easing myself into Sister’s mind, ever-so-gently, as if lowering my butt cheeks into a hot bath. Before long I was manning the throttle while Angeline dozed in back… just a slumbering passenger on the justice express.

  My first stop was the attic to retrieve Elvira’s dress, black beehive wig and makeup. Stumpy had come looking for that costume shortly after being discharged from the hospital. But despite the cuffing he’d given Sister, she honestly couldn’t tell him what had become of it. I knew where it was, of course; hidden inside an old trunk that sat in a corner of the attic where the chimney punched through to the roof.

  Among the bric-a-brac gathering dust in that angled space of brick and beams, was Grandma Ritter’s treadle sewing machine. Grandma had taught Angeline how to use that old Singer back when Sister was in grade school, and now I’d used those skills to take in the seam and lift the hemline on Elvira’s black dress. To land the big fish I was after would require dangling some sexy bait, and that meant taking advantage of what limited assets I had. Angeline wasn’t going to win any beauty contests, but she did have a decent pair of legs which I intended to fully showcase. When I was through sewing, that little black dress was so snug I had to wriggle into it, and the hem raised so high that my ass was practically tumbling out.

  I rummaged a scuffed pair of black high heels and a macramé purse bag, then headed down to Angeline’s bedroom to apply the makeup. Elvira’s cosmetics were complicated, no question, but not when you’d been practicing as much as I had. I had that vamp’s look down pat, from her blood-red lips to the false lashes framed by thick eyeliner. Once the makeup was applied, I added the piece de resistance, tugging the black beehive wig over my scalp until the bangs fell just above the eyes. And there she was, staring back at me from the mirror; my old friend Elvira… back in the game, and ready for some havoc.

  I was on my way downstairs when I checked my step and backed up to Mother’s door. For the past hour the woman had been wearing out her recording of La Vie En Rose. Well, curiosity had me by the short hairs, so I bent for a peek through the keyhole.

  Within my narrow view I could make out Grandma’s old Victrola across the room, spinning the scratchy ten inch shellac record as Edith Piaf crooned in French…

  “Il est entré dans mon coeur;

  Une part de Bonheur;

  Don’t je connais la cause…”

  As that forties love song played, Mother entered the picture, turning slowly in the arms of some imaginary dance partner. She passed from sight, danced through my view again then disappeared once more as the music played on...

  “C’est lui pour moi,

  Moi pour lui dans la vie;

  Il me l’a dit, l’a juré pour la vie…”

  Of a sudden Mother’s eye appeared in the keyhole, staring right back at me. Startled, I jumped back and nearly went head-over-heels down the staircase. Fortunately I didn’t break my neck, instead heading directly into the main room-- Stepfather’s nauseating shrine of self-idolatry.

  On the walls hung the mounted heads of a twelve-point buck and an American Bison slaughtered on local game preserves by the great white hunter. On bookshelves beside the television was an alphabetized library of DVD and VHS pornography with classics like Big Poles in Small Holes; The Texas Asshole Massacre and Yank My Doodle, it’s a Dandy. And finally, tucked into every possible nook and cranny of that private fiefdom, was Ted’s prized collection of bowling trophies. Because as talented as the bastard was at screwing the underage, he was an even better bowler.

  Of all those gleaming testaments to the man’s ten-pin prowess, his clear-cut favorite was a gold plated bowling pin engraved with the words; FIRST PLACE, HOLT COUNTY TEN-PIN CHAMPIONSHIP that stood erect and proud at the center of the fireplace mantle. That trophy was Ted’s Crown Jewel--the award he treasured above all others-- and it was Angeline’s job to keep it polished to a fine spit shine. Before he’d lost the greater part of his manhood, I’d sometimes imagine Stumpy all alone in that room with his precious golden pin, Budweiser in one hand and dick in the other, stroking his massive ego.

  But I hadn’t come to admire the man’s collection of bowling trophies. I was there to check out the antique firearms he kept inside a mahogany gun cabinet set against the back wall. The only thing that twisted sonofabitch ever gave my sister--besides a swollen sphincter--was his knowledge of that old weaponry. In fact, until my coming out party on Angeline’s sweet sixteenth, Ted had been giving her instruction on firing those six-shooters down at the range in Atkinson-- handy know-how I inherited by proxy.

  In the years before he’d vanished, Father was often fond of preaching, use the right tool for the right j
ob. And so, heeding J.D. Gottschalk’s sage advice, I opened the cabinet to peruse that collection of antique iron, searching for just the right tool.

  Inside were several rifles propped upright on their stocks, the most valuable being a 1949 Winchester Model 21-- a double barrel shotgun that Grandpa Gottschalk had bartered for ten dollars and a mule. That handsome twelve-gauge could do serious damage, but for the crusade I was about to embark upon, a more discreet firearm was required-- one that could pop a pervie up-close and personal.

  For that I had to go to the drawer beneath the rifles which contained Stepfather’s display of antique revolvers. Right away I dismissed the triple lock “New Century”. I liked that it fired the .44 Special, which Ted insisted was the greatest cartridge ever made, but the six-shooter had a six and a half inch barrel which made it a bitch to conceal. Likewise, I was a huge fan of the Rugers, but the .44 Blackhawk was a beast with a recoil that could knock your ass into next week, and the Single-Six required cocking each time the trigger was pulled.

  My gaze skipped past several other potential candidates before settling on a cute little number with a short snout. I lifted the snub nose .38 and felt the weight of it in my hand. The Smith & Wesson Model 10 was impractical for long-distance shooting but it hardly mattered-- I’d be operating at close quarters. Besides, that two-inch barrel made it a cinch to hide.

  So this was it; the right tool for the right job. With the six shot, double-action Smith & Wesson .38 at my side, I was armed and ready to smite the wicked of this world-- starting with the first name on Angeline’s hit list; the baby rapist himself, Harland Lee Wade. Taking the revolver and a box of .38 cartridges with me, I headed out to the barn where the truck was parked.

  Not unlike handling those firearms, operating that shitbox Ford came second-nature to me thanks to Angeline. I maneuvered it up the long, mud-rutted driveway and past the farm’s two-acre irrigation pond, its rusted pump now useless for watering soybeans that had long since gone to seed. Once clear of the driveway, it was south on County Line Road and another twelve miles to Middle Branch.