Cleaving Souls

  CLEAVING SOULS

  A Novel

  CHAUNCEY ROGERS

  Copyright © 2017 Chauncey Rogers

  All rights reserved.

  Dedicated to all my readers, but especially Jazz, Stacey, Sam, Shannon, and Greta.

  Thank you.

  cleave [kleev] – verb – cleav(ing); cleav(ed) archaic: clave

  To adhere closely; stick; cling (to)

  To remain faithful

  To split or divide by or as if by a cutting blow

  To cut off; To sever

  PROLOGUE

  Detective Ambrose ducked beneath the police tape and cut across the yard. After a few steps, he began wishing he'd followed the sidewalk—the lawn hadn't been cut in weeks, and now the bottoms of his pants were darkened with dew.

  He shrugged it off. The meteorologists predicted that today would be another scorcher. His pants would be dry soon enough. He'd just have to wait until the sun came up in earnest.

  Ambrose stepped up onto the porch and pulled a wad of Kleenexes from his pocket. He unwrapped one and then re-wrapped it around his nose before trumpeting into it, hating this summer head cold.

  He jammed the tissue into his back pocket, then looked around the porch. Garbage had been either blown or tossed into one corner, much of it red-and-white checkered paper from the nearby Fine N' Dine. The wicker chair against the wall held itself together by spider webs and dust: the seat had nearly ripped out and one of the arm rests wandered sideways, completely busted. He sniffed and looked back across the yard. The lights from the two patrol cars caught themselves wonderfully on the dew-spangled grass, giving a lively bit of red and blue to the green. The porch's railing held up several earthen pots, between which a stream of black ants marched continuously. The pots held nothing but dirt and dried-up stalks. By the bits of pottery shards and chunky black dirt that had been kicked towards the garbage mound, he guessed that one of them had fallen some time ago.

  He pulled out another Kleenex and sneezed into it, then saw that he had dropped a few in his rush. As he bent to snatch them up, the screen door behind him opened creakily.

  “Still have that cold?”

  Ambrose tried to put on a pleasant face before he looked at the speaker. Sergeant Syed watched him with deep-set dark eyes. Ambrose ignored his question.

  “What do we know?”

  “A fair amount, actually. His name's Chris Kestler. I’ve had to come around here a couple times this past year for different things—neighbors calling to complain about him and his trash. Guy was a real jerk. Been dead a while now. Maybe a week. It's not pretty.”

  Ambrose grunted and stepped towards the door. “Just what I like,” he muttered. “Nothing like a July corpse that's left to stew.”

  Syed stepped out of his way, moving out onto the porch. “The neighbors called this one in, too. Complaining about a smell. I think, maybe they’d started to wonder....”

  “Yeah,” Ambrose said. Even through his packed snot, he could get a whiff of the stench. For those whose sinuses weren't backed up, he guessed it must be truly spectacular.

  Ambrose stepped into the front room. Syed moved like he might follow, but hesitated, probably because of the smell. “Why don't you look around back?” Ambrose suggested.

  “Sure,” Syed said. “I'll just wait back here if there's nothing.”

  As Syed disappeared from the porch, Ambrose's eyes continued adjusting to the dark. Lights out, curtains drawn, and early morning made for a pretty dim room. He pulled out a flashlight and clicked it on. As he floated the beam around the room, he saw the tell-tale flicker of fleeing carapaces: a cockroach infestation. His skin crawled over his flesh from his wet pant-legs up to his thinning scalp, and he shivered. Based on the cleanliness of the porch, there was probably already a healthy cockroach population before a dead guy started hanging out here. By now it would be a full blown party.

  Four pizza boxes were stacked atop a coffee table in the center of the room. The bottom box sagged with mold, but the top one betrayed no signs of decay. He stepped closer and shined his flashlight on it. The ticket sat next to it: July 4. Just eight days ago.

  He pressed his lips tight together and moved back. The dead cockroach half submerged in the garlic sauce was a bit much, even for him.

  “Detective.”

  It was a credit to Ambrose that he didn't jump at the sudden voice. The house not only disgusted him, but its state of ruin frightened him, too. He turned, passing the circle of light over more discarded garbage, stains, and skittering cockroaches. Then it shone on Sergeant Donaldson, his face gray and stiff.

  “The guy's back here,” Donaldson said, thumbing the air behind him. He too held a flashlight in his hand.

  “Lights?”

  Donaldson shook his head. “Didn't Syed tell you? Guy was fiddling with his breaker box. Apparently had no idea what he was doing, since he was jamming a screwdriver into it.”

  Ambrose grunted, then said, “Show me,” nodding towards the dark hallway.

  “Yeah. Just hold on to your breakfast,” Donaldson said.

  Ambrose followed behind him. He wanted to look everywhere—on the walls, in both rooms they passed, in the closets of those rooms—but he had to push down his inquisitive urges for now and focus on the floor. The place looked like a landfill, there was so much junk. As he moved down the hall, the smell got even worse. Donaldson raised a hand up to his face, as if he could ward off the ferocious reek. In the light from his flashlight, Ambrose could see the last hues of color leaving Donaldson's neck, draining down through his uniform and turning his skin from newspaper gray to printer-paper white. The man was going to be sick, right there, in the hall, on top of all the garbage.

  Sweet mercy.

  Ambrose grabbed Donaldson's shoulder and stopped him. “Why don't you get some fresh air?”

  “I'm fine,” Donaldson said. Beads of sweat had formed over his forehead.

  “I know,” Ambrose said. “Just do it.”

  Donaldson nodded, then sidestepped past Ambrose and moved on down the hall. Ambrose pulled out the Kleenex from his back pocket and dabbed at his nose with it, wiping away the wet tickle. Then he moved to the last room down the hall.

  As he stepped into the doorway, a dark cloud blurred the beam of light from his flashlight. It sounded as if someone had kicked a beehive or hornet nest, so many flies buzzed into the air. Then the sound died away as the swarm descended to the floor once more.

  Ambrose’s guts tightened, cramping up at the sight.

  “Good God, Kestler....”

  Cody’s remains were crumpled up beneath the breaker box, staring up at him from a face that danced with maggots.

  Ambrose backed away with forced composure, then willed himself to stop and carefully open each window before joining Syed and Donaldson back outside.

  ACT I

  1

  Kat stared into her cup of tea, watching the steam rise from its surface like a twisting silvery snake. She blew across its face, and the snake silently exploded away from her, then reformed a second later to undulate once more. She could imagine it being substantial—something that she could reach out and touch, an actual serpent dancing over her mug, and not just the rising vapor that it was. But she didn't try to touch it. She knew the difference between reality and imagination.

  She blew the snake away again, then let it reform as her thoughts wandered, as drifting, scattered, and formless as the serpentine vapors.

  Brakes hissed and whistled outside, drawing Kat from her reverie. She stood from the small kitchen table and moved to the front room’s curtained window, pushing the drapes aside to peer out as an ’81 Toyota pickup bounced up onto the driveway and then squealed to a stop.

  Kat's eyes, which norm
ally sparkled at the sight of the returning truck, hid their typical luster behind a thick fog of worry. She turned from the window and sat on the couch, then drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. A minute later, the door opened and her husband, Alex, crossed over the threshold, carrying a small luggage piece.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice tired. He stepped to the window and drew back the curtains, then switched off the lights. “Probably be good to keep down the electric bill.” When she didn't say anything back, he turned and actually looked at her, then paused.

  “Honey? Are you okay?”

  “I—” She stopped, then cleared her throat, released her knees, and allowed her feet to return to the floor. “I'm fine. Did you just get back?”

  He looked at her, then the door, then back at her. “Yeah,” he said, drawing it out like a question. “Kat, are you alright?”

  “You didn't get in early this morning?” Her eyes didn't move, but a shiver ran through her lip. Alex stepped around the armchair and sat down beside her on the couch, dropping his bag onto the carpet.

  “Kat, what's going on?”

  Her eyes jumped back and forth between his for a moment, then she leaned into his chest and buried her face there, wrapping her arms behind him and drawing up her feet once more. Alex laid an arm around her and waited for the sobs to begin, but they didn't come.

  “Kat?”

  “Someone came in our house last night.”

  He paused for a moment, as if words had caught up in his throat. He gently leaned her back, pushing against her shoulders, then looked into her face. “What?”

  “Someone came in our house last night,” she repeated. When Alex didn't respond, she continued. “I thought it was you. I was in bed already. I woke up, and the hall light was on.”

  “Are you sure you didn't just leave it on?”

  “Yes, I'm sure,” she said, a note of pain leaping into her voice at his question. “I turned the light off, and when I woke up, I thought that it was odd that it was on. But then I heard somebody in the room. Just— Just changing out of their clothes. And I though it was you.”

  He waited for her to finish.

  “I just tried to fall back asleep. I thought, maybe, you'd gotten back earlier, or something. Or maybe it was later in the morning than it felt or something—you know how tired and groggy pregnancy’s made me. So I just shut my eyes. Whoever it was eventually just turned the light off and....”

  “And what?”

  She shook her head.

  “And what, Kat?”

  “And got into bed,” she finished in a whisper. “I was basically asleep by then, though. I mean, I'm just really not even sure what happened at all.”

  “Are you sure that anything happened? Are you certain it wasn't just a dream or something?”

  “I don't know,” she said. “I mean, it seemed so real. But....”

  “Did they touch you? I mean, did you—”

  “No,” she cut in. “I really was almost asleep.”

  “Well, have you noticed anything missing from the house? Anything out of place?”

  She shook her head, then sat quiet for a moment—long enough for Alex to think his way to his own conclusion. He rubbed his palm across her back and squeezed her shoulder.

  “Hey, I'm sure it was just a dream.”

  She’d been waiting for him to say that. Hoping for it, even, but something inside her fought against the idea. “But it seemed so real,” Kat said. “And I don't feel like I'm remembering a dream. But, it doesn't quite feel like remembering something normal either, I was so tired. I just....”

  He smiled for her, but it looked forced. “I'm sure it was a dream,” he repeated, giving her shoulder a final squeeze. “There's lots of creepers on this planet, and I'm sure that this town has its fair share of them, but I don't believe that there's a single one that would break into a home just to spoon. Right?” His forced smile widened. “Besides, I'm sure Geegee would've barked if somebody had been sneaking in here. It's just our little friend giving you weird dreams,” he said, patting her stomach. “That baby's just really taking you on a trip.” He pushed himself off the couch and offered her his hand. “Hopefully, once we're into the second trimester, it'll calm down.”

  She gave him a half smile in return and took his hand. He pulled her to her feet, and she hugged him around the waist, resting her head against his chest once more. “I'm glad you're back,” she said. “The truck held up alright?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Whatever was making that thumping noise in the engine stopped just after we hung up.” Her hair, just beneath his chin, had the semi-sweet smell of stale shampoo. He kissed the top of her head anyway, then grabbed her shoulders, slowly pushed her away, and looked her in the face. She still looked worried, but she was obviously trying to let it go. “How about I put my stuff away, then I'll make you some breakfast while you shower?”

  “I stink?”

  “No. But I think it'll make you feel better. What are you hungry for?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, I'll make an omelet, then. I'm sure that'll change your mind.”

  Kat shook her head. “No. Maybe just toast.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Toast it is.”

  He released his grip on her and bent to pick up his bag. Kat didn't move, but continued looking out the open window. Alex walked past her and into their bedroom, where he set the bag upon the bed and began unpacking it, throwing most of it into the dirty laundry hamper by the door. In the front room, he heard Kat draw the curtains closed again, then pad her way into the bathroom. Alex stopped and listened for the shower to kick on. Once it had, he moved to the side of the bed and threw the covers back. His gaze swept down the bed, and then back up and over to the nightstand. Then he dropped to his knees and looked under the bed.

  He stood and shook his head. Only a dream, he told himself. And what was he looking for anyway? Fingerprints?

  With a small, nervous laugh, he went back to unpacking his bag.

  2

  Alex strode down the cracking sidewalk, letting the plastic bag thump gently against his exposed skin every few steps to add a slow, crinkly rhythm to his stroll. His border collie companion beat a fast, light staccato at his side with her feet, and his low humming made the melody. The song came from his garage band days, back in high school, when his dreams had far outstripped his talents. But it had been fun.

  A few unclaimed patches of grass had managed to escape the most recent bout of mowing and weed whacking, and now they swayed methodically in the northern breeze, dancing to his slow song.

  I can't be everything for you,

  But baby I will do what I gotta do.

  Just give me one more chance,

  To prove to you I can romance.

  The music had seemed inspired at the time. Now, it just reminded him of the good old days, when Kat had pretended to like his band. They’d all been pretending, back then.

  The houses of their neighborhood rolled past on either side. Normally it would be too hot for a walk. July in Illinois was an uncomfortable, sticky ordeal, especially if one left the sanctuary of their air-conditioned home. But occasionally there were days like today—overcast, with a light wind—and such days, Alex believed, should not be wasted.

  Kat had seemed disturbed the rest of the morning. He couldn't blame her, but he couldn't relate to her, either. She had vivid dreams, and sometimes they were bad. He'd known that before they'd gotten married. It didn't really surprise them that, so far, being pregnant seemed to ratchet up the vividness of those dreams. It was annoying at times, but at least it would pass.

  A small dog across the street rammed itself against a chain-link fence, then began barking at Alex and Geegee. Geegee turned her head and let her tongue drop out of her mouth, but didn't bother barking back, a tribute to the amount of time that Alex had spent training her.

  Kat hadn't wanted them to get a dog at all, originally. She only relented to Alex when it
became very clear that he would be completely responsible for her, that she had to be well trained, and that she would always go with Alex whenever he went to work hauling trailers across the country.

  Of course, those rules had gradually crumbled into dust. Geegee was well trained, and that much Alex had accomplished alone. Kat took care of her plenty now, though, especially since she'd started keeping Geegee home with her when Alex left for his multi-day drives, so that Kat wouldn't be too lonely.

  He stepped off a curb to cross the street, still humming. He thought he'd tour the country with his band. Instead he toured it in his big rig.

  The little dog's barking faded behind them and then stopped as they passed the last two occupied houses, one that was perpetually for sale but never sold, and the sometimes-occupied rental that stood beside their own home.

  Alex kicked the head off a dandelion on his way up to the door. He doubted that Peascombe, Illinois had ever thrived, but it certainly had done better than it was doing now. It remained. Endured. Refused to fade and die, mostly because there were still people living there with nowhere else to go. And, truthfully, it wasn't that bad. It just wasn't much good, either.

  He stopped humming when he noticed that the curtains were closed again. With a sigh, he opened the front door and stepped into the buzzing electrical light within. Geegee followed after and ran into the kitchen to lap at her water bowl.

  As Alex slipped out of his worn tennis shoes, he heard Kat call out his name.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I got that scraper thing. Listen—it was a little more than I guessed. Hope that's okay.”

  “At this point, I don't really care,” she said, stepping into view down the hallway. “I just want that hideous wallpaper off so we can get this nursery ready.”

  “It's in here,” he said, raising the bag. “Why don't you take a break for a minute? Let's just see how well this works.”