A Family Gathering
Taylor woke to the sound of a distant gunshot. Early morning sunlight streamed in. Silence.
Outside the bedroom window, a robin began a tentative song. Damn, I must’ve slept through the night. Just like a Sunday. It feels so peaceful, he thought. But Vivian isn’t here. A lump formed in his throat. Dear Lord, give me strength to get through the day.
He noticed the alarm clock next to the bed had stopped. He got up and checked the TV—it didn’t work. A quick trip through the house confirmed his suspicions—no electricity or phone.
A volley of gunshots in the distance brought yesterday back. Even though this house is made of brick, he thought, I’m a sitting duck. One firebomb—poof—it’s all over. I’ve got to get away, to some place safe until sanity returns. The local Metropark, that’ll do. It was a place where he and Vivian had spent many happy days hiking through its densely wooded areas.
By the end of the day, Taylor had packed his Jeep and a small trailer with necessities. Valued items he couldn’t take, he wrapped in a plastic tarp and buried in the sandy soil on the top of the embankment of the Rocky River behind his home.
It was after midnight when Taylor left. He drove his Jeep through deserted streets lit by a partial moon, dodging wrecked and abandoned cars. He turned down the road to the Metropark, where branches hung low, hiding the moon.
I can’t see a damn thing, he thought.
With only the daylight running lamps on, the overhanging tree branches loomed like menacing giants. Anyone can see me, he thought, and I can’t see them. He took a deep breath and drove on, nerves on edge.
Taylor saw two bright spots ahead and slammed on the brakes.
A deer, its eyes glowing from the Jeep’s lights, turned and fled.
I’ve got to find the West Branch of the Rocky River. That’s where there’s a trail through the thickest part of the woods.
A stonewall appeared.
Ah, the bridge. Now I know where I am. Overgrown briars and dogwood hung over the metal gate closing off the trail’s entrance. Good, he thought.
He pulled onto the graveled edge of the road. He got out of the Jeep, taking a shotgun and bolt cutters. He tiptoed through the grass to the gate. Dew slicked off his boots with a barely audible hiss. His breath caught the moonlight and glowed like steam. Every shadow took a shape and became a menace in his mind. He stood still and listened. If anyone’s here, he thought. I’m sure they can see me.
The wind whispered through the trees. Branches groaned and clicked. A lone owl hooted mournfully.
As Taylor’s night vision sharpened, the menacing shapes faded into trees and shrubs. He cut off the gate’s padlock and returned to the Jeep. He drove through the gate and stopped to put a new padlock on the gate. He drove on, gravel crunching under the Jeep’s tires. The trail narrowed and became dirt. He stopped, unable to see where the trail went as it entered the shadows of a dark stand of pines.
This is nuts, he thought. I’d better wait for daylight.
As Taylor sat up and looked around, pain stabbed his ribs. Sunlight glinted off the tips of dew-laden pine needles. The reddish-brown clay of the trail held no fresh tracks.
Good, he thought. No one has come this way. He started the Jeep and inched between the tall, pink trunks of Scotch pines. After negotiating between two large trees, he saw the trail veer left, out of the pines. Ahead, the trail rose steeply, winding through an area of tall, silver-limbed maples.
Finally, Taylor thought. Indian Hill. He unhitched the trailer and parked it in a thicket of dogwood. He drove the Jeep up the rutted trail until a fallen branch barred his way. He reached for an ax and hesitated. This sucker will make a sound that’ll carry. I’d better use the bow saw. He got the saw.
“’Scuse me, d’you have any food?” a high-pitched voice asked from nearby.
Taylor grabbed his shotgun and whirled around to point it at a tall, gangly teenager with a dirt-streaked face who stood barely a dozen paces away, shivering. The youth had a pale angular face, an aquiline nose, and a small mouth, raggedly cropped hair, and wore a loose-fitting blue cotton plaid shirt stuffed into faded jeans.
Taylor guessed the teenager was a male, sixteen or eighteen years old. That clothing couldn’t conceal anything, except, maybe a knife. “Hold it right there.” He raised the shotgun and glanced around. He felt a tremor run through his hand.
“Don’t shoot me, please, mister. I only want something to eat.” The teenager started to back away, hands raised.
“Don’t move.”
Tears appeared in the young person’s eyes.
“Who’re you?” Taylor demanded. “What d’you want?”
“I’m Chris Kucinski,” the teenager said, “I haven’t had anything to eat for two days. I’m starving. Gimme something to eat, please.”
I’m halfway up the hill and half my stuff is in the trailer below, he thought. What a pickle. Maybe I can get a measure of this “Chris” and get the Jeep up the hill at the same time.
“Okay, Chris Kucinski.” Taylor pronounced the teenager’s name exactly as he had heard it. “I’ll give you food, after you help me clear the trail so I can get to the top.” Taylor pointed up the hill. Something about Chris struck him as odd. Then again, he thought. I don’t have kids—they all seem weird to me.
“Yes, sir, I’ll help,” Chris said.
“My name is Taylor MacPherson. Call me Taylor, okay?”
“Yes, sir, I mean Taylor, sir.”
Taylor gave Chris the bow saw. He picked up the shovel and slung the shotgun over his back.
A shovel, he thought, makes a damn fine weapon at close quarters. As he filled the gullies in the trail, he noted Chris worked diligently. He became less apprehensive after they dragged several logs off the trail. He saw the teenager didn’t have anywhere near his strength.
“I’m going to try it,” Taylor said. “Wait at the top.”
Head hanging down, Chris walked up the trail without a word.
The Jeep crept slowly up the hill, wheels spinning from time to time. It crested the hill, engine roaring.
“Yes.” Chris dragged out the “s,” and made a downward punch to indicate victory. “All right.”
“Let’s unload the supplies over there.” Taylor pointed to a small clearing on the south side of the hill’s plateau.
“Do I get to eat?” Chris asked after they’d emptied the Jeep.
“I’ve got more stuff at the bottom of the Hill.”
Chris pouted but said nothing.
It took Taylor several tries to get the trailer up the hill.
“First things first.” Taylor handed Chris an empty plastic container. “Get some water from the river. Clear water, no mud or debris in it. I’ll get the food started. Make sure no one sees you.”
“I hear you.” Chris’s voice quavered.
After Chris returned, Taylor boiled water on a camp stove and made a bowl of instant oatmeal.
Chris wolfed down the oatmeal. “I’m still hungry,” Chris said, eyes glued on the remnants of food in Taylor’s bowl. “Sir, can I have more food?”
“Nope. And my name isn’t sir. It’s Taylor, remember? We’ve got more work to do before we eat again.” He’d read that starving people got sick if they ate too fast. “Coffee?”
“Yes, Taylor, thank you, Taylor.” Chris looked away.
Taylor studied the hill. Its flat top had a dense plantation of mature pines with a perimeter of red oaks, beeches, and scrubby dogwood. Its north side sloped steeply down into a grove of maples. On the south and west sides were vertical cliffs formed by erosion of the Rocky River, which lay almost a hundred feet below. To the east, the former course of the river had formed a swamp. In the distance, the park road crossed over the river, just past the merger of the river’s east and west branches.
It’ll do, he thought. It’ll have to do.
By late afternoon, they’d stored the supplies off the ground under plastic and bent boughs. They erected Taylor’s pop-up tent. During this time, they shared few words other than those to work together.
“Chris, get me some pine branches.”
“What kind? Ones with needles on them?”
“No, dry, dead ones for a campfire. It’s time to eat.”
“It’s about time; I’m freaking famished.” Chris got the wood.
Taylor built a fire that burned hot with little smoke. He sautéed a package of meat in a large pot and when the meat was browned, he added several cans of vegetables and seasoning.
“Okay,” he said, stirring the pot. “How come you’re in the woods by yourself?”
“I got separated from my family.” Chris’s voice became quieter, subdued. “I was afraid to go back to Cleveland.”
“How did you get separated from your family?”
“My father …” Chris started to cry.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me the whole story.” Taylor could see Chris was on the verge of losing control. “Look.” He softened his voice. “Look, if you’re going to eat with me, you’re going to have to level with me. Okay?” He paused. “So, why don’t you tell me about it?”
Chris took a deep breath. “My father was killed. Murdered.”
Taylor’s heart lurched. A lump formed in his throat and his mouth felt dry. “How did that happen?” he asked.
Poor kid, he thought, I do know what you’re going through. Oh, God, I do know it, only too well.
“They killed him when he tried to stop them from doing things to Mom and Sis.”
“And?” Dear Jesus. It’s worse than I feared.
“They shot him, and then …” Chris gulped. “They beat my Mom and Sis. I’m not sure, but I think the big guy killed my mom, too. He hit her so hard she didn’t get up. Then he took her clothes off.…” Chris’s voice faded.
“Where did this happen?” Taylor stared at the pot of food. Bubbles started to rise. He stirred it.
“When things got crazy in the city, we went to the Nature Center in the Park. Dad had packed our van full of food and clothes and stuff.” Chris looked up, face owlish with eyes surrounded by grime. “We came here ’cause Dad thought it’d be safe. That was two days ago.” Chris sniffled. “Two men ambushed us. They looked like bikers, y’know, wearing black leather jackets, long hair, and tattoos. One was huge, a real gorilla. The one with scars on his face did most of the talking. He’s the one who killed my dad.”
“How did you get away?”
“The scar-faced man wanted Cathy, my little sister, to, uh, do things with him. When she wouldn’t, he beat her.”
“I’ve got the picture.” Taylor shook his head.
“It was awful. Mom tried to stop him from hitting her, but the big guy hit her so hard she didn’t move any more. I couldn’t watch. While they were doing things to Mom and Sis, I ran away. I should’ve done something to stop them. But I didn’t do anything.” Chris sniffled some more. “I really should’ve tried, but I was too scared.”
“You probably couldn’t have done anything, anyway. If you’d tried, they would have killed you, too.” Taylor spooned steaming stew into a bowl. “Here, eat. You’ll feel better.”
Afterwards, they cleaned up with few words. As the light faded, Taylor saw Chris shivering. He got an insulated hunting jacket from the Jeep. “Here,” he said. “Put this on.”
“Thanks.”
Taylor felt bone weary and saw Chris yawn. It had been a long day. “I think it’s sack time.”
Taylor woke with wet feet. He opened his eyes and saw water dripping from the peak of the tent’s opening. A northeast wind had loosened the tent’s door. Outside, under swiftly moving gray clouds, branches glistened dark, wet and waving.
He got up and started a fire. Upwind, he still could smell smoke, acrid smoke. He sniffed several times. Smoke from locust wood burning. Hmm, he thought, we’re burning pine.
“Well, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” He got guns out of the Jeep, including a Colt AR15. “Chris, do you know how to use a shotgun?”
“Er, yes,” Chris said. “I used to go hunting with my Dad.”
Taylor handed the shotgun to Chris. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Like where? Where’re we going?”
“We’re going to check out the Nature Center. To find out if those men are still around.”
“Do we have to?” Chris stared at the ground, feet stirring pine needles and mouth pouting.
“Yes,” Taylor said. “Let’s go.”
“If you say so.” Worry pinched Chris’s face.
“In front.” Even though Taylor’s instincts told him Chris was okay, he wasn’t going to be stupid. On the way down the hill, he saw Chris held the shotgun like a hunter.
The rain eased. Water continued to drip from gaunt trees. Squatting below the skirts of stunted hemlocks near the Nature Center, Taylor could see shadowy shapes behind its windows.
“Look.” Chris pointed. “That’s Mom and Sis.”
“Y’think so?” Taylor said. “How come you didn’t see them before?”
“I was freaking scared those men might be here. Their van’s still here.” A shiver ran through Chris’s thin body.
“I understand. Let’s wait and see if they’re alone,” Taylor said. “It doesn’t pay to be too hasty.”
Inside, every now and then, someone moved. Misty rain began to drift through the quiet woods. Water trickled down Taylor’s neck. “Chris, go to the Nature Center. If there are men there, drop your gun, act frightened. Got it?”
“Do I have to?” Chris’s pupils dilated.
“Look, we’ve been here for almost an hour. Have you seen anyone else inside other than your mother and sister?”
“Well, no, but—”
“You’re scared, right? That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m scared, too. We’ve got to find out if it’s just them.”
“If you say so.” Color drained from Chris’s face.
“I’ll back you up.”
Chris slid out from the cover of the hemlocks and walked slowly toward the Nature Center, gripping the shotgun, knuckles gleaming white.
Taylor raised his Colt rifle. He peered through its telescopic sight, aiming it at the front door of the Nature Center, chest-high. He released its safety.
If anyone tries to hurt that kid, came an unbidden thought, I’ll blow them away.
The door opened a crack. A pale face appeared for a moment.
Chris lowered the shotgun and stepped inside. A moment later, the door reopened. Chris leaned out and yelled, “It’s okay, it’s just Mom and Sis.”
Taylor moved forward, rifle at the ready.
“Mom, this is Taylor MacPherson. Taylor, this is my Mom, er, Mrs. Franny Kucinski.” Chris gestured toward a stocky, dark-haired woman. Two blackened eyes peered out from fine-boned features. “This is my sister, Cathy.” Chris pointed to a teenage girl with torn clothing. Her face was bruised, too.
Taylor saw the older woman’s eyes were unfocused; her stance slack as though exhausted.
Mercy, he thought, she’s had the crap beaten out of her. What do I say to her? “Er, Mrs. Kucinski, how’re you?” Taylor felt awkward as he offered his hand.
The woman stepped back. The front of her shirt was torn, partially open. “Go away,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
“Mom, listen. He’s not like those other guys, really.” Chris’s voice broke the awkward silence. “Look, he gave me a shotgun. I can protect you now.”
The woman’s eyes watered as she grasped Chris’s hand.
Taylor felt his skin crawl. I’ve never seen anyone beaten like this, he thought. What should I do?
Something he’d read came to him: All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. I just can’t run away from everything. If I do, I might as well kill myself. Taylor made up his mind. This family needs help. Now.
“Let’s go up to my camp,” he said. “It’ll be safer there until things get back to normal.” If they ever do.
“I can’t.” Tears started to pool in Franny’s eyes. “I can’t leave Stosh, not in his condition.”
“What d’you mean?” Chris said. “Mom, Dad’s dead.”
“No.” Franny motioned toward the back door. “I just can’t leave him here. Not like that.”
“Where is he, ma’am?” Taylor said.
Franny moved stiffly to the back door and pointed outside. “There. There’s my Stosh.”
The man on the ground had a gray face, a bloated stomach, and was missing the back of his head.
Revulsion welled up in Taylor. “We’ll give him a decent burial.” He swallowed hard. “I’ll get the shovel. I’ll be right back.” Dear merciful God, and this, too.
Chris and Taylor dug a grave that overlooked the Rocky River. As the hole grew deeper, Taylor silently cursed the tree roots they encountered. Three hours later, tired, sweaty, and rain-soaked, they placed Stosh Kucinski’s body in a four-foot deep grave.
Raindrops mixed with the tears that ran down Cathy’s cheeks. “They hurt me, too, Daddy,” she said in a small voice as she placed a bouquet of wildflowers and hemlock boughs on her father’s body.
Taylor offered up prayers vaguely remembered from his parents’ funeral. In his mind, he said them for Vivian, too.
Chris filled the grave, shoulders heaving between each shovel of dirt.
Franny wept and said not a word.
As Chris finished smoothing the top of the grave, a distant voice called, “Stosh, are you there, Stosh? It’s me, Fred.”
Taylor grabbed his rifle.
“Uncle Fred, over here.” Chris waved at a group of people barely visible through the conifers.
A heavily built man with black curly hair and a woman with long, dark hair approached. Two teenagers ran ahead to greet Chris and Cathy.
“So, where’s Stosh?” The man gestured with his thumb at Taylor. “Who’s this guy?”
“Um.” Chris gulped and looked at the ground. “Dad’s dead.”
“Huh? What did you say?”
“Dad’s dead.” Chris’s voice cracked.
“Jesus Christ. What the hell happened?”
No one spoke. Franny continued weeping.
Chris pointed silently at the grave, eyes watering.
“I’m Taylor MacPherson. I don’t know the details, but these folks have been through a terrible experience.”
“I’m Fred Del Corso and this is my wife, Maria.” His mouth tightened. “What did you say your name was?”
“Taylor MacPherson. I’d like to help.”
“Oh, yeah?” His frown deepened. “Like how?”
“First, we’ve got to get away from here.”
“What’s wrong with using this here Nature Center?”
“It isn’t safe—it’s too close to the road. And …” Taylor took a deep breath. “It’s got too many bad memories. Stosh was killed here. Franny saw it happen.” He pointed toward the grave. “We just finished burying him.”
“My God.” Fred’s weather-beaten face went pale. “Stosh, poor Stosh. He was a good man, he was good to Franny.” His voice choked. “She’s my sister,” he said.
“Let’s go to my camp.” Taylor pointed up the hill. “We can talk there.” He hesitated. “I need to eat something.”
“What about all the stuff Stosh said he’d bring?”
“The van’s gone,” Chris said. “With everything in it.”
“Aw, no,” Fred said. “I got robbed, too.”
Taylor felt weak and almost irritable. He knew he needed food. “Let’s go. I’m sure you’re hungry and I haven’t eaten today,” he said. “I’ve got meat thawing and I’ve got to cook it before it spoils.”
“All right,” Fred said. “Let’s go.” He gestured to his family. “C’mon, Fran,” he said softly. “Let’s go.” He slipped his hand into hers. “Freddy will take care of you.”