The Word of a Liar (25 page)

CHAPTER twenty-three

Ellen feigned a smile as she greeted JD and Tess. She thanked the girl for picking up JD after school and then, after a quick trip upstairs, asked Tess if she could stay and watch JD a while longer. She explained that for the first time since they’d been dating, Mason had invited her to dinner at his house and she hated to disappoint him. Tess eagerly agreed since Ellen paid well.

Shortly after, Ellen stood in the driveway of Mason’s ranch-style home. She found the key exactly where he’d told her he kept a spare, and then she let herself in. Flicking on the kitchen light, she glanced about the quiet room. Its dated cabinets and appliances looked like something out of the eighties. The mauve and blue country decor didn’t fit Mason’s style, but at least it appeared clean. She opened the refrigerator in search of some wine but found only a six pack of beer. That night she’d force herself to drink one. She flipped the tab and drank half the contents. Setting the can on the counter, she decided to explore his home while she waited.

In the living room, blue jacquard drapes blocked any invading natural light. A distressed leather sofa and matching chair screamed masculinity along with a coffee table littered with ammunition, motorcycle parts, and empty beer cans. The only thing the room needed to make it an official man cave was a flat screen TV mounted on the wall. Ellen wondered where Mason was hiding it. She scanned the books on the large bookcase in the corner, impressed with the selection his small library offered.
At least he didn’t lie about being a book lover
.

Next she went in search of Mason’s bedroom.  She found it at the end of the hall. A king-size bed took up most of the space. A gray satin comforter hung precariously over the edge of the unmade bed.  Ellen closed her eyes, blocking out the vision of Desi and Mason cuddling beneath the sheets. Stepping into the room, she slipped on an
Easy Rider Magazine
. She picked it up and tossed it on the bed. She noticed Mason’s Sons of Thunder cuts draped over the back of a chair. Drawn to the prized piece of clothing, she went to it and ran her fingertips over the patches. The skull and flaming motorcycle weren’t so ominous now. Picking up the vest, she breathed in the leather punctuated with Mason’s sweat and cologne. Her lips trembled, but she held on to her reserve. Returning his colors, Ellen thought about how much she’d miss seeing Mason wear them.

Moving over to his bureau, she looked at a framed photograph of Mason. Spider and Mad Dog stood beside him; Road Tramp, in the rear, poured beer over Mason’s head. All the men in the picture laughed hysterically. She sighed. The room made her feel like an outsider. She went back to the living room.

Sitting in the worn leather chair with the image of Mason kissing Desi tattooed to her brain, Ellen’s shock abated and she started to cry. Bitter tears spilled down her cheeks, and hot, malignant rage burned deep in her belly. She wanted Mason to hurt as deeply as she did. How could she get even? What, if anything, did he love and cherish?  She flopped back in the chair, indulging the tears, until that one thing—that one precious thing—came to her.

She went back into the kitchen, splashed cold water on her face, and then removed a paring knife and butcher knife from the wood block sitting on the counter.  She opened the side door to the garage, fumbled for the light switch, and then stepped inside. Walking over to Mason’s custom Sportster, she tore off the nylon cover like a rapist disrobing his victim. The chrome beauty shivered under the light as her attacker hovered, armed and dangerous. Ellen breathed deeply. Sweat slipped down her back like an eel trapped in her blouse. Mason had told her the premeditated crime she was about to commit was one no biker would forgive. Ignorance of the law would be no defense if she later wanted to recant her actions.  But he had shoved her passed caring, and that made her lethal.

With the skill of a demented surgeon, she used the point of the paring knife to scrape an
L
into the face of the voluptuous blonde hand-painted on his gas tank. The bike screeched in pain as Ellen peeled the skin of her victim’s breasts down to the metal leaving an I-shaped incision. An
A
ripped through the blonde’s thighs, and an
R
desecrated the shiny red pumps adorning her feet.

Next, Ellen picked up the butcher knife. Grasping it in both hands, she plunged it deep into the tough leather skin of the seat until she felt the internal foam give way to metal spine. She jerked the knife downward, disemboweling the innocent.  Sweating profusely, she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.  Still clutching the knife, Ellen knelt down beside the mutilated victim, determined to finish her off. With all her strength, she drove the knife into the back tire and then repeated her deadly action on the front. Ellen stood back and listened with a cold heart to the dying bike wheeze and gasp. The marred condition of the target of her revenge didn’t satisfy. She rummaged through saddle bags. Retrieving a bottle of motor oil, she drenched the violated Sportster.  The life-giving blood dripping from the deadly wounds Ellen had inflicted finally appeased her murderous heart.

She left the empty bottle lying on the garage floor, went into the house, and then turned off the garage light. At the kitchen sink, she carefully scrubbed the motor oil from her hands but left the murder weapons on the counter for Mason to find. She finished the beer she started, and then got another from the fridge. Turning off the light, she went into the living room. Exhausted, Ellen plopped down into the leather chair and opened the other beer. She took a sip and grimaced but forced herself to finish it. Setting the empty can down on the hardwood floor, she listened to the furnace kick on. The November wind howled behind the heavy drapes. The first snowfall of the year had been forecasted. Dry-eyed, Ellen waited for Rambo the Enforcer to arrive.

***

Mason pulled into his driveway; a light snow covered the pavement. He hit the garage door opener. The chain clanked as it heaved open.  Light illuminated the interior. Mason’s hands froze to the wheel. His mouth dropped open. His pulse boomed in his ears. He turned off the truck, leaving the keys dangling in the ignition. An alarm beeped, as he opened the door and stepped out. Reaching inside to silence the vehicle’s warning, he tossed the keys on the seat but left the door ajar.

Slowly, he entered the garage. His senses heightened at the first burst of adrenaline.  Approaching the mutilated corpse of his motorcycle, a deep moan escaped his lips. His stomach lurched. His breathing quickened. The heavy odor of motor oil saturated the air. The word LIAR carved into the gas tank struck out at him as if he had unsuspectingly stepped on a rattlesnake.

Jumping back, he took a deep breath. Who would be capable of such a crime? Jack? One of his brothers? He noticed an oily footprint by the side door. Whoever it was waited inside. Wrath ignited. He pulled his Glock from the back of his jeans. Kicking the door open, he stepped inside, using both hands to steady the pistol. He listened while his eyes adjusted to the dark. Moving further into the kitchen, he spotted the murder weapons.

With the stealth of a highly trained soldier, he continued to sweep the house. Nearing the living room, he detected movement.

“Fuck you, you mother fucker!” he shouted as he stormed the room, pistol pointed, ready to fire.

The perpetrator gasped. Dark brown eyes rounded in fear, and the color drained from her face.

Mason’s arms went limp.

“Ellen, what the fuck are you doing here? I could have killed you!”

The horrible thought hammered his brain. He tucked the gun back into the waistband of his jeans and then flopped down on the sofa, his legs weak. He looked at her. She stared at him with cold, emotionless eyes. Mascara blotted her cheeks. It hit him like a tsunami crashing against land that Ellen had committed the crime in his garage.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked, not believing she could be responsible.

Ellen didn’t answer.

Angered by her silence, he shouted. “Answer me, god dammit!”

She didn’t flinch. Her eyes remained aimed on him.  The clock in the kitchen chimed six. Ellen cocked her head.

“I didn’t know you carried a pistol,” she said in a flat, emotionless voice.

“Why’d you do it?”

“To hurt you.”

He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers, trying to stay calm. “I don’t understand.”

Ellen got up from the chair and came over to the sofa. She swept her arm over the coffee table. Parts clanked to the floor as bullets spilled from their boxes and rolled to safety against the woodwork. She sat down.  The calculated coldness in her eyes baffled him.

“I saw the two of you. I was there. Watching from across the street as you kissed Desi.”

Stunned, Mason swallowed and began to explain.

Ellen put out her hand.

“Don’t speak,” she warned, shaking her head. “Let me finish.”

She dropped her hands to her knees and continued, “Did you know Desi was the calendar girl for Fortunate Sons Auto Dealership? I heard she’s even made TV commercials to advertise the place. Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence that you and she work at the same establishment? You leaving your job at the mill to work there makes it quite convenient for the two of you.  Tell me, does she know about us, or are you deceiving her as well?

“Ellen, that wasn’t what you thought it was. I was only—’’

“I told you not to speak!” Ellen snapped.

Teeth bared, she stood up and removed a small box from her jacket pocket and tossed it into his lap.

“It’s the necklace you gave me. I won’t be needing it any longer. I’m done with you.”

She turned away, moved to the center of the room, and then looked at him.

“I give you credit. Your lies were incredibly smooth. If I hadn’t seen what I saw today, I would have kept on believing you loved me. I was completely convinced it was love we were making.”

She went to the door. Eyes narrowed, she lifted her chin and smiled.

“Did you get the same kind of perverse pleasure deceiving me, Mason, like I got from destroying your fucking motorcycle? In my world, lying is an unpardonable sin, so let’s call it even.”

Ellen turned the door knob.

“It’s a good thing you were pointing the gun. If it had been me, I would have killed you.” 

Mason jumped up and slammed his hand against the door, hindering her departure.

“Will you please listen to me?  It’s not what you think.”

“No! I won’t listen. I’m going home to my son.”

Her dark fierce eyes dug to the very depths of his soul. The pain he inflicted played out in the tight lines around her mouth. She cast her eyes on his hands.

“Get out of my way!” she hissed between clenched teeth.

He dropped his arms to his side. Ellen pulled open the door and then stepped out into the cold November night. Light, fluffy flakes struck the hard frozen ground. She walked down the sidewalk. Mason ran after her and caught her arm.

“Don’t do this.” His words crystallized in the air.

Ellen stood like a stoic statue in the lightly falling snow.

“Do what?” she screamed. “Salvage a shred of dignity?”

Tears rolled down her frozen face as she jerked her arm free. She sighed.

“Go to Desi tonight, Mason, with my blessing.”

She turned away and started for home.

Mason watched her go. Helplessness seized him by the throat as the snow falling from the gray, dark sky blanketed the dead leaves huddled along the curb. Ellen disappeared from sight. The snow erased the footprints she left behind. Mason shivered. He went to his truck, started it, and then pulled into the garage. He hit the button on the remote control, and the rattling chain lowered the door.

Anger and frustration trampled his heart. He kicked the empty motor oil bottle across the garage. It disappeared under an old army blanket covering an antique lady’s chair Mason had bought for Ellen.  He walked over to the gift and removed its wool wrap.  A couple of weeks ago, they had been out shopping. Ellen had spied the chair in a shop window, but when she had seen the price tag, she had quickly dismissed buying it. The proprietor had told her that the chair was close to two hundred years old and had refused to dicker. The next day, Mason had returned and had bought it. He’d been waiting for a good time to give it to Ellen. Now, there never would be.

The chair’s curved back, slender legs, and the floral needlepoint covering the seat reminded him of Ellen. Her simple beauty matched that of the antique. He could easily picture this gift in Ellen’s Victorian home. But the sight of it intensified his seething rage. Seizing the fragile chair, he launched it across the room. It struck the garage door. A loud bang reverberated throughout. He walked over to the crippled chair, its back legs broken, and grabbed its graceful back. Roaring like a Viking warrior going into battle, he slammed the dainty antique to the concrete. Chunks of wood flew in all directions. He continued until only splintered pieces of kindling remained.

Breathing heavily, he went to a cupboard and gathered rags to sop up the oil pooling like blood around the corpse of his Sportster. With great care and diligence, he wiped the brown sticky substance from the handle bars and chrome pipes. In the morning, the bike would be clean. He’d stay up all night if he had to.  The next day he’d order a new seat and tires. The problem was the gas tank. The man who’d painted it was dead. Mason bit down on his bottom lip to keep the sobs rising in his throat buried.