Blood Mountain

like a busted water pipe, and in her crotch. Her eyes opened after the first hit but she didn’t make a noise until he pierced between her legs and when he did, she moaned the way she always did when she was on his thing and telling him what a good little boy he was. He pushed the knife as far inside her as he could and when he removed it, his hand and most of his forearm were soaked in blood and strands of internal tissue. She died with her eyes on him. She was no longer breathing but life resided still in those eyes. They shone through the darkness like ghost lights. He stabbed each of them and then went about the messy business of cleanup.

There were a million things he could do wrong but he he was content. No, he was much more than content: he was liberated and empowered. He wrapped her body in her bloody bed sheets and dragged her down to the garage. Even after he cleaned up the blood trail he made down the stairs, he knew there would still be microscopic traces of blood, perhaps something more substantial than mere invisible specs; there would be plenty for cops to find and use against him. Hell, after he finished chopping her body into foot-long pieces, the concrete garage floor was so stained that he would have to paint the floor to cover it and that subterfuge would be easily surmounted during an investigation. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to get caught. This is what the universe wanted. This was his destiny.

He was so assured that he would never be caught that he simply toted a garbage bag worth of severed body parts into the woods behind the house and scattered them as he sauntered on a three-hour hike. He made sure to mark the tree where he placed her decapitated head. Three weeks later, he tracked back into the woods but the head was gone. Some animal had carried it off. That made Victor smile. In fact, he found only a small section of bone, either from her arm or leg, that had been stripped clean of flesh. He kept it. It currently sat on the windowsill behind the kitchen sink.

He could have brought her up here. Scattered her across the mountain. But that would be an insult to the sanctuary of these woods and the trees that steadily bled a deep red sap. He had done the right thing. Killed her and cast her away.

All of that had been years ago and Victor hadn’t so much as spoken to a cop about his mother. She hadn’t had any friends, just on-line perverts. People who knew her, avoided her, so her absence meant very little. If anyone bothered to wonder about it for more than a few seconds he or she would conclude that if something had happened to Mrs. Dolor, her son Victor would have reported it. Thinking any more darkly than that was out of most people’s capabilities.

Victor had gotten away with murder. He thought of that now as he ran through woods that he had traversed thousands of times. Gotten away with murder. It was his initial kill, his initiation into his future. He had not hesitated to do what the universe asked of him and for it he would be rewarded. He would get to Mercy. Track her down. Kill her. He would not fail.

Like Daddy.

He would not think about that. He would not let such things weigh him down. Daddy’s failure was cast down into the darkest pit in Victor’s mind and he was not about to exhume it so it could destroy him too.

But you knew this might happen. That’s why you went there. The universe called you there.

“Bullshit,” he said through clenched teeth.

You can’t escape your fate. Your destiny is not what you think.

“Fuck you!” he screamed and that’s what broke his focus.

His feet tangled on something, perhaps a branch or root or simply each other, and he fell. The world blurred while he fell and he thought in a flash that he was going to keep falling down, down, down, straight to Hell.

Daddy will be there.

Before he could retort, his face hit the ground and the world went black.

FIFTY-SIX

When you run, you run. Coach Phillips stayed with her. He pushed her to run faster, dig deeper, find that strength and run, run, run. He was a song stuck on repeat and that’s exactly what Mercy needed.

She slipped many times but did not fall. Her balance threatened to topple her but she powered through the runner’s vertigo. Sweat slipped into her eyes and she wiped it away without missing a beat. Her legs cramped and invisible knives stabbed at her sides but she breathed deeply and found the other side of pain where the hurt was dull and harmless.

Crickets made their noise seemingly all around her and two owls hooted back and forth. Perhaps they were talking about her. She was the nighttime entertainment. Maybe they would place bets. She saw owls wearing green, plastic visors exchanging money with wings as adept as hands.

When you run, you run.

Yes, coach.

“Focus, Mercy,” she said. “You want to die?”

Hoot! Hoot!

With every deep breath, the heavy aroma of rotting compost filled her nose. If she fell and Victor caught her, she would add to that compost. Bugs would eat her flesh. Worms would breed in her guts. In a few short weeks, fungus and plants would grow out of her back. She would be part of the glorious rebirthing of the mountain in springtime.

She ran harder. Breathed deeper. The cold air burned at her throat. Her body was flush with heat and sweat but the night had gotten colder and colder. She was removed from the night as if it were a backdrop and she was running through some other space, some other vast existence like outer space where it seemed like she was moving but she was really pumping her legs on some invisible treadmill.

Branches clawed at her face and rocks scraped the bottom of her feet. She clutched the keys in her hand. They would keep her focused and grounded, not let her drift into space.

Her hands closed against empty palms.

She glanced down at her open hands and thought, The keys! Where the fuck are the keys? before moonlight glinted off the silver key ring and then she tripped on something and fell forward. Her hands saved her face but the keys had come loose.

This time her palms really were empty.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Victor came back to consciousness like a hard slap across the face and knew exactly where he was and what he was doing. He got to his feet and stopped in mid-crouch, hands out before him like spider arms. Something was under his right hand. Something cold and flat. It could have been a rock or even the ground, but he knew better.

He wrapped his hand around it and didn’t even flinch when the blade of the knife pierced the insides of his knuckles.

He had lost this knife so long ago. Before he had killed his mother. Before he had truly embraced his calling. He had thrown it at a deer and never found it. He had discovered how his trail intersected with the main path and he had met Caleb, just standing there with camping gear on his back like some dumb tourist, but Victor always wanted his knife back.

Hours of retracing his steps, of stalking a blood trail. All in vain.

Until now.

And that was all Victor Dolor needed to get back to his feet and run as hard as he could. The universe wanted him to do this. He would be rewarded. He dropped the Maglite and the work knife. No longer needed. He didn’t worry about tracking that knife. This mountain was a magical place. It took and it gave. He merely had to trust it.

The wooden handle of the knife against his palm assured him that he would catch up to Mercy and have the chance to slice the bitch’s throat. He was barely aware that the two fingers Mercy had almost torn off were clenched around the handle too, as if the knife had healed them. Maybe it had.

The cold air whistled between his broken front teeth and the pain was immense but not enough to slow him