Shames Revenge

He had never been afraid of the dark until the night it whispered his name. He had never suffered from insomnia either, but the sun was setting on his third day without a wink. How could this be? After 30 years? He paced from the table to the bottom of the stairs and back again.

Aside from beef jerky, some cheese and crackers, and endlessly brewing pots of coffee, he had barely eaten or drank anything. When he raised an arm to lean on the kitchen entryway, he caught scent of himself and flinched. You stink. You need to wash. You need to get a hold of yourself. Shuffling an about-face, he returned to the coffee pot and refilled his "Captain Ahab" mug with the lukewarm brew.

He knew. Of course, he knew. If he slept, he would see her again. If he slept, he would remember what he did. If he slept, the darkness would bring her back.

His nerves were shot. At work, he'd been a terror, barking at employees without cause and snapping at his secretary to cancel meetings in town. When the poor girl had asked when he'd like them rescheduled, he growled at her, "When I'm good and goddamned ready, that's when!"

He had done all he could. The police cleared him, but the people of his hometown never did. They whispered. When he couldn't bear the sideways glances and words behind covered hands, he'd packed his boat with his few belongings, left Port Orford, Oregon, and migrated where the unwanted and to-be-forgotten to go—Alaska.

By the time he'd reached Cordova, it was with a new name; Lucius Darringer was no more. He took his mother's maiden name, Beckett and moved his middle name to the title—Charlie Beckett was the captain of the new commercial fishing vessel, 'Clearwater' in Copper River. Over the next three decades, Charlie Beckett became one the most respected fishermen and residents of the small Alaskan town in the shadow of Eyak Mountain. Cordova and the salmon gave Charlie a new life, leaving the past one long behind.

If he hadn't been for that brief, confusing and chilling encounter three days ago, he might have forgotten altogether, but the face looking back at him in the frost-coated pane of his front window had other ideas—that face was most definitely Lucius Darringer.

The Salmon season was over, and the Clearwater was in dry dock, getting a new driveshaft, prop, and ice maker. He could hole up another week if he had to, but sometime between now and then, he'd have to sleep. "You're a stupid old fool. There's no way it could have been Delia—you know that." Charlie told the wearisome face in the glass. He raked his fingers through a mass of salt and pepper hair, then rubbed his eyes. Then what about the whisper? Who else could have said your name—Lucius?

"Shut up!" Charlie snapped, fogging up the window.

He walked to the coffee pot and filled his mug. His stomach clenched at the thought of drinking more. His tongue felt woolly and tasted sour. Leaving the cup on the counter, he shuffled to the living room, turned the TV on loud and slumped in his recliner. His eyes fell shut before he could change the channel.

***

The cherrywood twist of hair bouncing above the tan and black jacket caught his attention. The woman had stepped out of Ester's Esoteric Artifacts onto the sidewalk ahead of him. She was slim, wearing a much too fashionable jacket to belong to a local, and her knee-high black boots wouldn't be found in any store north of Anchorage. Tourists are staying longer each year, he thought. They had no idea that getting out of Cordova was no guarantee. If a storm blew in, they might well be temporary residents until spring.

He wouldn't have given the woman a second thought until she stopped at the corner, reached up and tugged her earlobe, looking which way to go. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. Shortly after the last time he'd seen that, Delia Walker had disappeared.

Startled by the vision, he followed the woman who'd turned left down Bushnell Street, but when he rounded the corner, she was gone.

The town was busy with homesteaders coming to stock up on supplies before winter locked them away, isolating them in their cabins until the spring thaw. Small groups gathered before shop doors and vehicles, a last chance for social gatherings before saying goodbye to company for the long months ahead.

Handshakes and tugging arms pulled him into the fray. "Charlie! How was your season? All stocked up? Got the boat squared away for the freeze? Feels like winter is coming in early and rough this year!" He stretched, peering over heads and around shoulders, but the woman was out of sight.

He felt a light touch on his shoulder, and his peripherals caught a blur of wine-coloured hair. "Is it true?" the words fell in a whisper across his ear, "Are you really 'luscious Lucius?'"

His throat clamped shut, and his back went rigid. He turned on his heel, but it was only Burt and his wife Margie behind him. He spun left and right but saw no woman with red hair. No strangers—only those he called friends. Only those who knew him as Charlie Beckett. He asked his friends if someone had just walked by—a woman? Reddish hair, pale-yellow jacket? None had seen any such woman. Margie said he looked as though he'd seen a ghost.

Charlie wondered if he had.

***

It wasn't like she was out of his league; they'd just never shared the same field, but fate is resourceful. That's what Lucius was thinking as he drove up the narrow woods road to Sawmill Falls with Delia Walker sitting beside him.

Still, this girl had him spinning. Dark hair that was more reddish than brown lay like a sash over her perky chest. A bare shoulder and long, slender fingers twirled the soft, stray hairs behind her ear. She had lively green eyes, a narrow, slightly upturned nose and a strong jawline. She had a lovely mouth, two sharp peaks up top and a plump "very kissable" bottom.

The lads dubbed Delia "No Way-Walker" for her staunch refusals from every boy who'd asked her out. She masked her appealing figure with baggy sweaters and oversized jeans. Even in gym class, Delia stuck to her jogging suit, regardless of season and indoor or outdoor activities made no difference. She'd worked so diligently at not being looked at that she sailed through to her senior year practically unnoticed.

Now, thanks to an afternoon spent in the public library, where they'd randomly met while both happened to be searching for the same novel, Marjorie Morningstar and ended up chatting and laughing until the Librarian ushered them out a closing time, Delia Walker, "No Way-Walker" had agreed to go on a date with Lucius.

After the movie, Delia sat looking at him, tugging at an earlobe, clearly contemplating a decision. Finally, in a sweet, breathy voice, she answered, "Take me somewhere, Lucius—I don't want to go home just yet."

He couldn't help but be in awe of how pretty she was. Things were leading up to what looked like the most exciting night of his life. He turned the key and drove.

Delia became amorous once they'd arrived at the lookout over Sawmill Falls. After several minutes of excited, passionate kissing and exploring hands, she playfully asked, "Is it true—what the girls say in the locker room—are you really 'Lucious Lucius?'"

She'd grabbed him, pulled him from the old, patched-together truck, and led Lucius to the overlook. "So, do we just lay down on the rocks and moss and do it right here, or have you got a secret spot where you bring all the girls?"

He blushed but did not back away from her challenge. Until now, he'd only brought one other girl up to the falls. "Well, there's an old hunting blind not far off," he shrugged. It's called the Sugar Shack. We could go there if you want."

Delia pressed herself against him and kissed him with such deliciousness that the back of his ears turned hot. "I want to. Show me!"

As he led her through the woods on the narrow trail running above Sawmill Creek, he wondered if Delia was no different than the boys and wanted to leave her virginity behind with high school. If she'd decided he was the lucky guy, he wasn't about to talk her out of it.

Inside the sugar shack, things progressed frantically, and Lucius found himself stunned a second time as Delia stripped down her jeans and removed her sweater to reveal a stunning figure.

He'd brought the woollen blanket from the back seat of his truck, and she took it, laid it down, and crawled beneath it. Lucius stood silently, watching as Delia's slender, freckled arm poked out, the bra and panties dropping from her fingertips. "Get undressed, Lucius," she had said with a heady but quivering voice, "And don't rush. I want to watch you."

He'd never imagined things could go so wrong so quickly.

He was working his jeans past his knees when the small wooden shack boomed with fierce pounding on its walls. "What are you little shits doing in there? Filthy, damn kids! This ain't your goddamn land!" The angry, deep voice hollered from outside. "Can't you read none? Signs say 'Private Property!'"

Delia screamed, pulled her underwear back under the blanket and wrapped it around her. Lucius knew this place and had never seen any signs. No one lived up here. Not that he knew. Scared, angry and worried, he shouted back, "There's no signs! This is public land. Get outta here and fuck off!"

A sinister laugh fell into the shack through the cracks in the wall and gaps in the roof. "Then you didn't see the one saying, "Trespassers Will Be Shot! But don't worry, I ain't gonna shoot ya."

Delia was dressed and up, standing behind Lucius. It had turned dark out, and in their euphoric anticipation, neither had brought a flashlight. The door of the shack boomed from kicks. Lucius reached behind him, holding Delia close. Then everything went silent. No more pounding. No yelling. Inside the shack, the pair turned in a circle, waiting for the next assault.

Outside, leaves and twigs crunched and cracked, the sounds invading the darkness now thoroughly engulfing them. An orange glow seeped beneath the gap in the rough plywood door. The smell of burning leaves and pine followed. "C'mon outta there and take your licks, or y'all can burn inside, you filthy little pricks!" It was a sing-song, yodel-like howl from outside, somewhere behind the shack.

Delia sobbed, her hands gripping Lucius' shoulders hard enough that she felt her fingernails cutting into his skin. "This guy is fucking crazy, Lucius! What are we going to do?" she said in wailing gasps.

Lucius turned to her and pulled her in close. It wasn't as much to portray courage as to keep his words barely above a whisper. "It's going to be okay, Delia—you'll be okay." He fished the truck keys from his pocket and pressed them into her palm. "I'm going to kick that door down and make a run for it—"

"—what?? You're going to leave me here?"

"Ssh!!" Lucius covered her mouth, "Quiet! He's probably listening! You'll be okay. I'm going to kick the door open and stamp out that fire. He'll come for me. I'll run. When he takes after me, you run to the truck and get the hell out of here!"

Trembling, Delia held onto Lucius and the keys. "What—what about you?"

"Don't worry about me. Run. Don't stop. Get to the truck and go. Get to the police. That psycho won't catch me."

"Unless he shoots you!"

Lucius gave a slight head bob. "I think he's bluffing. People come up here all the time. I don't think he's just hiding in the woods, ready to shoot people—he's probably just some whack job. I'll be fine." He took her hands and gently pushed them away. "Okay, are you ready? Hide behind the door. Once the fire is out and you hear me tearing out into the woods, you run—got it?"

Delia nodded. She kissed his cheek once and nervously asked,

"What if he doesn't follow you? What if he comes after me? I don't think we should split up. I don't think you should leave me."

"If you hear him following you, call out. I'll turn around and find you."

"And you won't leave me?"

"I won't leave you."

"Promise?"

"Yes, Delia. I won't leave you."

***

"Luscious Lucius!"

The whisper was so close he felt the words ringing in his ear. Charlie Beckett jumped from the recliner, stumbled forward and crashed into his coffee table, snapping the legs and flattening it against his living room carpet.

He'd slept. Exhaustion had won out. He'd only wanted to sit for a minute. Pulling himself up, Charlie lurched to the wall. He scanned the room, but it was the same—empty, cold and dark. Outside, he saw snow falling and a bright moon masked by low, fat, grey clouds.

"I won't leave you," the cold and callous voice mockingly called out. "You promised—Lucius. But you ran, didn't you? You ran and ran and ran like a little lost dog."

Charlie Beckett slumped to the floor. His eyes burned with hot tears. He spent more than half his life running from his shame, and now his demons were here to collect their due. "I got turned around, Delia! I thought I was going back up the hill but got lost. I only found my way to town by following the creek. I went to the police and told them everything. I—I looked for you—we all looked for you, for days—weeks!"

Charlie felt her fingers on his neck. He knew it was Delia; he'd never forgotten the touch of her long, light fingers. He couldn't raise his head to look.

"He took me, Lucius. Made it look like I went over the falls. He took me and ruined me. I was perfect and beautiful and ready to be yours. And you left me--you ruined me."

Charlie sobbed, "But, how—how are you here? Are you real? I think I've gone crazy—I—I can't sleep, can't think, I—"

"I, I, I, that's all I hear from you—poor Charlie Beckett ran away from his life and left Lucius Darringer behind."

Charlie flinched as he felt a hard, sharp fingernail pierce his neck and felt the warm flow of blood running down his chest.

"It took me a long time to find you, Charlie," Delia whispered. "It took me a long time to get away from him. Do you know where he kept me, Lucious? In a cold, damp, dark mine shaft far beneath the falls. He had a nice little spot down there, Lucius. I could scream and scream, but the waterfall washed my cries away."

Charlie yelped like a kicked dog when he felt a second, third, and fourth fingernail puncturing his throat. The dagger-like plunges made a hollow, burbling sound as she pulled them out. His head felt too heavy for his neck and began to weave and wobble on his knees.

A hand yanked his head up and shoved his back against the wall. Too tired to care and too tired to fight, Lucius looked up to see the blurry face of a woman who looked like Delia—the girl who had haunted his dreams ever since that fateful night.

A rueful smile came to his lip as he watched Delia rub her earlobe and look at him with cold, dead eyes. "What's left to decide?" Lucius spit out in bloody, bubbled words.

"Oh, just agreeing with myself that after all these years, it was worth watching you die, and it was luscious--Lucius."