Wide-Eyed

Startled at the sudden commotion Owen grabbed for the lamp, raising it up high to better see the intruder. Was that an owl up there that had startled him so? Just a damned old barn owl? As the creatures will, it had found a high, unnoticed hole where time, weather, and woodpeckers had worn away at the rough-board siding. The nosy thing had rustled it’s feathers through the tiny opening and then secreted itself away into the highest, deepest-dark rafters. Only the gleaming eyes of it were left to see, the rest having faded magically into the shadows. The dimness of the lantern's light reflected back down from those eyes sluggishly, as distant light reflects from across the heavy, black water of a stagnant pond. His hand trembling, Owen re-hung the lantern on the exposed end of a 2x4 joist and set back to work, trying his best to still his racing heart, and to ignore the owl's unsolicited intrusion.

It was an old, moth eaten horse blanket he found; much too small to conceal the entire body, but it was at hand. The soft brown hairs from her head pushed out from one end of the blanket while dusty bare feet and calves hung from the other. Nevertheless, Owen sealed the ends tight with duct tape as if packaging a large rug. She was heavier than he had expected, but being strong he pulled the flat cart into the barn and hoisted her aboard. In retrospect he should have taken a moment to strap the cargo down, but time had seemed of the essence, so he did not want to waste it. He was pulling the loaded cart toward the barn doors when the owl startled him again. This time it flashed down from the darkness to light on top of the cart's load. From this perch it examined Owen with wide, disappointed eyes, it's somber countenance shivering down the man's spine. Owen sprang at the thing to shoo it back up to the darkness where it belonged. He was not a superstitious man, but this was not good. There was death here, and murder; nerve trying things, these. Where those things dwell, witnesses are not welcome, not even a curious night fowl.

After hooking the cart to the tractor Owen set off on his macabre mission. The tractor noises seemed unusually loud in the veiled moonlight as it chugged and clanked over the unplowed fields, sounding for all the world like an alarm claxon screaming for anyone and everyone to hear; or worse, to investigate. Twice he was forced to stop the tractor in order to re-center the wagon's load, as tractor and field worked in tandem to bounce it towards the edges. Both times he cursed himself roundly for not taking the time to tie it down. At the lowest point of his southernmost section Owen stopped the tractor once more. This was the furthest point from the highway, and the furthest point from any curious neighbors, so it was here that he cut the engine, but it's echoes continued to rumble through his guilty mind until the lesser hisses and pops of cooling steel finally overcame them. But even those sounds seemed plenty loud enough in the stillness of the moonlit field to reach the Good Sheriff's ears over in Buxley Springs. It had been a long time since Owen Grimes had done anything wrong, much less anything bad. He was a frightened man.

Working quickly, Owen was two or three shovel's full into the loam when something buzzed past his head, inspiring him to duck. Low and large it came, it’s silvery wings pummeling the heavy night air, the wings’ feathers curled up on the ends beneath the air's weight. So quickly was it come and gone, like the palest, shyest of apparitions, that the man would have distrusted it had been at all had he not seen those familiar eyes gleaming reproachfully as they streaked by him in the thin light, the eyes easily recognizable as being the same ones from the barn. Like the streak of a comet through the stars the owl had come and gone; a phantom swooshing through the darkness to steal Owen’s breath, and as suddenly vanishing. He lifted the shovel in anticipation of another pass, thinking to swat it away from his frayed nerves, but only silence found him from the darkness; not a cricket’s song to spoil it, not a truck on the highway, nor even the high, steady drone of an Atlanta bound airliner far, far overhead. All was perfectly still. He looked over to the cart behind the tractor… still as death, in fact. He had best get to work.

* * * * *

The thing about manual labor is that it leaves the mind free to wander. While Owen dug her hole the girl named Shelly haunted his thoughts. She had wandered up from the highway uninvited. “The curious ones, the courageous ones; they are always young and pretty, aren't they?” He thought aloud.

Is it a wonder that the homely wear their lives indoors like a comfortable sweater, while the beautiful venture forth to try life on like a pair of risqué high heels? And why not? For them the possibility of finding goodness and love is real; even likely. But that is never guaranteed, is it?

Owen recalled that he had been welding a broken stabilizer bar on the combine when he first saw her meandering up the drive. She came on cautiously, stopping now and then to close her eyes as she breathed in the honeysuckle growing along the fence line. He knew what it was she was doing, as he had done the exact same thing many times himself, the honeysuckle smell being much different than the normal smells Owen was likely to come across in the course of his days. He did not stop his welding. Rather than reaching up he nodded his head crisply, jolting down the face guard so that he could finish the job before she arrived. The gravel drive from the highway up to the farm was a long one. He had time.

Owen was old enough, wise enough, to know what it was she wanted, what she was searching for, even if she might not be aware of it herself. She was searching for what every girl her age is searching for, and every boy. There had been a time when Owen Grimes had looked for it himself, but he had long since given it up as being too painful. The welding done he popped the mask up, wanting to make sure. Yes... she was definitely closer. He could make her out now. She wore white cut-off jeans, white canvas sneakers, and a light blue t-shirt, the pink writing on the front still too far off for him to make out the words. Her long, brown hair shimmered in the sunlight, sparkling above her coppery skin as it flounced side-to-side with each step she took. It was a beautiful color for hair, and for skin. He felt a welling in his breast as he watched her come, like the longing he felt when he saw one of those new Case IH, Puma tractors at the dealer's over in Buxley, a tractor the likes of which he could never afford. The girl saw him now. She was coming along quicker.

Closer up she was not as pretty as he had first imagined, but it did not matter that her eyes were a little close set, or her chin a bit weak. Even with that she was still young, healthy, and clean looking, and he was not so much older than she was. In his mind she was already “the one,” making those other details unimportant anyhow. By the time she reached where he was working he had already imagined the two of them married, and her pregnant with his child. The idea that this fantasy should "be" was so strong that his confidence rooted to the dream. He looked across the farm with pride; the little white house, the cavernous barn, the rolling green hills. He knew that land and property were no small things to a woman, and Owen Grimes had them, even if he had done nothing to earn them but to be born into them. He took off his helmet and forced a smile as he stepped from behind the combine.

“Welcome, Neighbor!” He called to her in a voice that sounded loud for the short distance.

“Hi.” She had stopped walking to stand uncomfortably in the gravel drive, her feet slightly toed-in. The discomfort in her posture carried over to the corners of her mouth, which drooped downward from the sudden and dreadful presentiment that she had wandered too far from home. The farm was not so picturesque as when viewed from the road. The house itself was untidy, the equipment rusted, the barn unkempt... and he did not look like a nice man, not in the way her father did.

* * * * *

The back-filling done, Owen found himself back in the present. The eastern sky was graying with morning light when the tractor finally rumbled up to the barn. Fortunately the ground had been soft, but it was necessary that the hole was dug deep, requiring time and effort. Exhausted from the digging and the lack of sleep, Owen made his way to the shower. Long he lingered there, allowing the hot water to wash away the dirt, and sweat. His hope was for it to cleanse the horror and guilt as well, but some things water and soap cannot rinse away, so he finally turned off the water and toweled himself dry with the dirty towel hanging on the cheap, plastic bar by the tub. A pair of cotton coveralls laid tossed on the rocking chair in his bedroom. They did not look very dirty, so he stepped into them, zipping them up sans underwear, or even socks. He made a pot of coffee before settling into the Lazy-Boy, but the events of the previous day re-played in his mind over and over, rendering sleep impossible.

He had not intended to hurt the girl, but she had hurt him first, hadn’t she?

"Welcome, Neighbor!" He had said.

"Hi." She responded.

"Owen Grimes, here. This is my place." (He made sure to add that he was the owner.)

"Hello, Mr. Grimes. I'm Shelly."

"Saw you sniffing the honeysuckle. I like to do that myself. You like my farm, Shelly?"

"It's very nice."

Proud, he took a couple of steps closer. "I have sixty-three prime acres."

"That sounds like a lot."

"It is a lot for one man with no one to help. You could stay here and help, if you wanted to."

"What?" She had asked, the confusion clear on her face. "Why would I do that?" He had misunderstood her look of astonishment. He understood that now, but it had not seemed so obvious at the time.

"You could be my wife," he said, surprised by his own boldness. In explanation he added, "you could keep the place up whilst I work. You could cook for me and such, have young'uns. You could stay on. It’s a nice life, comfortable, and it could be yours."

She had backed away then, back towards the highway, her eyes never leaving him. What she saw was a large, middle-aged man with thinning, un-curried hair which failed to cover his early pattern baldness. Owen Grimes was a heavy man, dressed as he dressed every day of his life, but for the color of the coveralls. Today's were light-green, short-sleeved, cotton coveralls. Beneath them were gigantic feet pushed into size 16, leather, zip up farm boots. He wore nothing else. This particular pair of coveralls were a size too small, pulling up disgustingly on his crotch, and riding up over one boot-top, exposing a pasty-white calf, but these were things that a man like Owen Grimes would never notice.

“I have to go.” As she pivoted and started away she heard his boots crunching the gravel behind her. Her shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow when his hand landed on her shoulder. It squeezed until she stopped walking, and turned to face him. When he looked at her she felt troubled.

He was looking at her now.

His was a tobacco stained smile. Some of the tobacco had gathered into a small, black clot between his upper front teeth. She had the impression that the clot was always there. "You come all this way. I'd be obliged if you would at least come look at the house before you leave. Might give you something to think on."

She climbed the steps with him directly behind her, his hand still on her shoulder. She tried to stop at the door, afraid to enter, but his hand nudged her in. It was worse inside than out. Inside it was a hoarder's haven of junk; tools, clothes, empty Swanson TV dinner trays, and cats of every description, so many that the room seemed to restlessly crawl of it’s own volition; cats left over from when Mother was alive and somehow multiplying, though Owen neither fed nor watered them.

"I don't have many visitors."

"No?"

"You can see it needs a woman."

His hand loosened on her shoulder, giving her the opportunity she needed. She broke free, and through the screen door. She ran for the barn, thinking to find a weapon, or to hide. She was not very fast, but she ran hard; as hard as she could. She could do it! She could get away! The barn seemed even larger once she was inside, truly cavernous. She ran towards it's rear, racing past stalls filled with farm implements and rusted tractors rather than animals. There was no rear door, but there was a ladder going up to somewhere. She climbed it quickly, her shaking legs causing a busted shin, but she ignored the pain and continued to climbed steadily until she reached a straw-strewn loft with a pitch fork lying on the floor amidst the loose straw. She grabbed the fork up before backing herself into the furthest shadows. She heard nothing, but still she waited, and she waited. While she waited she examined the fork's prongs, wondering if she could summon the strength and courage to use them if the time came, and knowing she would have no choice.

* * * * *

It was a scream startled him awake, a banshee-like scream coming from just outside the opened window. He first thought the scream was from a nightmare in which the girl had returned, but it did not stop when his eyes flared open. Frightened, he jumped up from the recliner and ran to the window to see, but there was nothing there. The darkness outside the window was surprising. He must have been very tired, to have slept the whole day away. The terrible screaming was stopped, but he could see headlights on the highway down near the driveway turn-off; a parked car, with the dome light on.

Wasting no time Owen Grimes pulled on his boots and scurried outside to the barn. He did not know who was in the car, but he expected the worse. A quick glance inside the barn showed no signs of a disturbance. From outside came the unwelcome sound of tires crunching gravel. He had one more quick glance around, then took a deep breath before heading out to see who it was coming up the drive.

It was as he suspected; a patrol car. Owen's heartbeat slowed. He found himself gulping for air. With no sign of hurry the sheriff climbed from the car. He was a handsome, dark-haired man, crisp in his starchy brown uniform. Owen fought a rising panic. He was not ready for this, in fact he was woefully unprepared. One thing about farm life is that it is sheltering. He couldn't remember having ever spoken to a policeman before, and now was not the best time to start.

"Howdy!" The sheriff seemed friendly enough.

"Howdy." The word came out remarkably calmly, so Owen tried some more. "What brings you out?" The question ended shrilly, but the sheriff was used to people being unnerved when he showed up unexpectedly in the night, so some nervousness meant little to him.

"There's a girl lives down the road didn't come home last night,” the sheriff told Owen. “Her name is Shelly Greene. Wonder if you might have seen her?"

"No. No I haven't. Girl you say? Youngster?"

"Teenager. Eighteen."

"Hmmm. Don't get many visitors out here. Especially not young ladies, if you know what I mean." Owen smiled when he said it, but the sheriff didn't react to the poor humor.

Without awaiting a response, before he even raised the question in fact, the sheriff started for the barn. "Mind if I look around?"

The panic returned. Owen was sure he had rights, but he did not know what they were. Hundreds of episodes of "Cops" were not enough to educate him for the situation, or were they?

"Shouldn't you show me a search warrant, or something?"

The sheriff turned on him quickly, his irritation apparent. "Do I need a damned search warrant?"

"No, no. Sorry. I guess not. I've just never had the police out here before."

"Yea, well, you're watching too much TV."

Owen shut up. He followed the sheriff to the barn door, praying the whole way for the man to go. His fear ballooned inside him as the barn drew closer, until he was sure he might feint when the sheriff stepped inside. "There a light in here?"

"Naw… well, there is a lantern."

"Light it."

Owen hoped the sheriff wouldn't notice the match shaking in his hand as he struck it to the wick.

It was a typical barn, full of typical farming items. Nothing stood out as being unordinary. The sheriff walked the length of it, noticing how the lamp shadows stretched upwards, and into the rafters as he walked. Being observant he noticed the loft. "What's up there?"

"Nothing," the word came out quickly, too quickly, so Owen threw in more to cover. "I store hay in the winter, but it's empty now."

Satisfied, the sheriff started for the door. Relieved, Owen blew out the lamp. When he did so a terrible screech, like a child in distress, erupted from the rafters. The sheriff spun at the sound, drawing a flashlight from his belt, shining it's beam at the loft, and the ceiling. He could see nothing. When he dropped the light to Owen's face he was surprised at the fear it spotlighted there. “Well,” Sheriff Jackson thought. “The sound had startled the farmer, too.” But it was when he dropped the beam toward the floor to power off the flashlight that he saw something lying in the dust, partially hidden by an antique wheat thrasher. It was a sneaker. He walked over, shining his light into the back corners around the thrasher, searching for the shoe’s match, but he only saw the one. He picked it up. It was new, clean, hardly worn. "You ever see th..." The shovel's edge hit him in the back of the neck, slicing through his spine, and dropping the handsome sheriff to the dust like a rag doll.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! I didn't want this! I didn't want any of it!" Owen dropped to his knees beside the paralyzed man, a man who looked back at him from the darkness through horror filled eyes. Realizing the sheriff was alive yet, Owen raised the shovel and drove it into the front of the man's throat, nearly severing his already unhinged head.

It was all too much for a simple country boy. Owen sat down on the dirt floor of the barn, wretched in the darkness, trying to somehow digest the events of the past two days in his mind…

* * * * *

… after waiting a good while for the girl to come down from the loft on her own, Owen had finally climbed the ladder to get her. He found her up there with the pitchfork in hand, waiting for him, her jaw set with determination. While he tried his best to calm her she had jabbed the forks at him again, and again, ever closer until he finally grabbed at it, and wrenched it from her hands. When he did, she had screamed a shrieking, girlish scream, and then she had run. She ran away from Owen, and straight toward the loft's edge. She was still running when she went over, her feet reaching for a floor that had dropped from beneath her. It was a thirty foot drop. Owen watched her legs and arms continue pumping the entire way down as their attempt to get her away from one horror had carried her right into another. It had been an accident. He hadn't meant her harm, even though she had rejected him so cruelly. He was just lonely... so very, very lonely.

And now this! He picked up the sheriff's flashlight and shone it on the man. The dirt floor was dark about him, soaked with blood. "What to do?" Owen wondered. "What to do?" If he buried this one like he had the girl, another would come, and another...

From the upper rafters a furious flap of wings descended upon Owen, infuriating him. There was one thing he could damn well do! He could get rid of that owl!

Owen reached for the sheriff's belt, grabbing hold of the dead man’s pistol. Flashlight in one hand, Glock in the other, he hurried over to the ladder, and up to the loft. A startled screech told him where to shine the light. It was there! He saw it! He fired again, and again! He continued firing, and the owl continued screeching, until the gun clicked empty and the flapping wings stilled. As with most of his life, Owen Grimes had accomplished nothing. He cried then, ashamed of his weakness, but there was nothing left for him to do.

* * * * *

It was only a few hours until they arrived. They used time and caution, as they found the abandoned squad car in the yard, and soon after that the beheaded officer on the floor of the barn, his hand still clutching the missing girl's shoe. With that discovery the yard between house and barn quickly filled with squad cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and assorted other unmarked vehicles which together lit the darkness in a dizzying array of flashing red and blue strobes. The shoe in Sheriff Jackson's hand was the only sign of the girl they found, however, and they would never find another. The search for the killer took longer, as it was difficult to see the body swaying in the high shadows of the barn's rafters. It was not a place they would have thought to search was it not for the hideous screech that turned their flashlights up towards the hanging body, and towards the heart-faced owl perched upon it, the owl shrieking it's vigilant alarm to them from the dead farmer's shoulder.