Tightwire: Mystery Short Fiction By Lance Dean

As the cars passed, hot monoxide blew into Tracy Grey’s face. She leaned forward, peeling her back from the seat to let the air blow the sweat dry. Wind off the cab of the Subaru Brat whipped her sandy brown hair. The seat-belt dug into her shoulder. She tugged her Angels baseball cap down tighter onto her head.

Lithe, tanned, and dark-haired, her cousin Sybil Delroy affected a nonchalant pose. She called to her cousin over the buffeting wind. “Lean back, you’re getting all tangled.”

Tracy slouched in the seat, watching the passing traffic. Sybil had a pea shooter hidden in her hand, a section of white tubing from a ball-point pen. She lifted it and let the spit-wad fly. It arced high and landed on the roof of a Volvo, two cars back. Tracy gave Sybil a hidden high-five when the Volvo passed.

Tracy slouched in the seat, watching the passing traffic. Sybil had a pea shooter hidden in her hand…

“You’re good.”

“I’ve been practicing every vacation trip for three years. I have something more interesting planned for this trip though.” She adjusted her hip-sack and smiled her naughty smile, the one the boys liked.

Tracy smiled back, doing a passable impersonation of Sybil’s expression. Back in Anaheim, Beatrice called her Tracy Paper, after the way she mirrored people to fit in.

The smile felt good. They were growing closer again. Like last summer, when Sybil lived just six miles away. They had talked every day. Sybil wanted to know every detail of Tracy’s life: where Tracy went, who her friends were, what she ate for dinner.

Tracy’s grin stung her sunburned face. It dawned on her that she was really smiling, not pretending. Her first unforced smile in over a year. Since that night.

Her smile froze on her face. She shuddered despite the heat. Images from that night jarred loose and collided. She was outside, so groggy she couldn’t focus her eyes. Flames lashed and licked at the sky. Red lights flashed. Sirens howled at the blurred moon. Charlie yapped and barked, running in panicked circles.

Remembering Charlie got her thinking of the dogs painted on the sides of buses that delivered her to an endless succession of nowheres. That in turn reminded her of the greyhounds mom always drank.

Air heavy with smoke and settling ash. Each breath abraded her throat. Cut into her chest. An oxygen mask was placed over her face.

Firemen everywhere. Beatrice in tears, pushed her oxygen mask away. She screamed, “Patty!”

Patricia Hearns (maiden name Reese, formerly Patricia Owens, Patricia Grey, and briefly Patricia Gladwell) was Tracy’s mother. Everyone called her Patty. The police, the social workers, even Detective William Blaine. His jowls and dark round face reminded Tracy of a giant sad puppy.

His sad puppy face told Tracy it was suicide. A half-gallon of Vodka was evenly distributed around the room before ignition. Patty was laying on the drenched mattress. Her bedroom door was locked. A chair was braced under the knob. The outside door had a double-keyed deadbolt. The bolt was thrown, and the key broken off in the lock.

Charlie was okay. That was something at least. Charlie was sleeping with mom, but he got out the doggy door.

Tracy had no idea her mother was that depressed. She seemed blue sometimes. Money was short, but she always found enough for vodka.

But it was that bad. And worse.

Detective Blaine hated having to tell her, but he didn’t want her to hear it on the news.

It was more than suicide. It was attempted murder. Patty had drugged her. It was probably the spaghetti sauce. Beatrice stayed over that night. Bea wouldn’t touch the sauce, she hated mushrooms. She ate noodles with margarine. Patty never noticed.

Beatrice wasn’t drugged, so the smoke alarm woke her up. She dragged Tracy out of there, but she couldn’t do anything about Patty.

No one ever seemed to be able to do anything about Patty. Not help her, or get through to her, or change her, or put up with her. Sometimes it was hard for Tracy to love her. Now she didn’t have to try. She would never have to worry about her again. The burden of responsibility for her mother had been lifted.

Detective Blaine said he felt real bad for her, that she was brave and such. All those meaningless things well-meaning people said when there was nothing they could do.

Maybe Tracy was better off. She lived in a better house. Went to a better school. Went to the same school for a whole year, that was a first. She lived with Sybil. Beatrice took care of Charlie. Everyone was in a better place.

Tracy opened her eyes.

Sybil was studying her. “What’s the matter?”

Tracy shrugged, forced her smile back into place. “Nothing.”

*****

     Sybil strapped on her hip-pack. “Mom, Trace and I are going to look around.”

“What?” Hammer in hand, Mrs. Delroy looked up from the tent stake. A striking beauty, in a pale and distant sense, she seemed like an actress playing the part of camping. Her chestnut hair was piled like a crown in an elaborate twist atop her head.

“There’s an hour of light left. I’m going to show Trace around.”

“I could stay and help you set up.” Tracy blurted.

“Oh no dear, you two go and explore. We’re almost finished.” She tucked a stray lock behind her ear. “Watch out for rattlesnakes.”

Sybil sighed. “Of course.” Muttered, “You tell me that every year,” as she walked away.

“Thank you Aunt Elizabeth.” Tracy added.

“Tracy, we’re on vacation. We don’t have to be so formal. You can call me Aunt Liz. Or better yet, Aunt Beth. Yes, call me Aunt Beth.”

Tracy ran to catch up with Sybil, stumbled her way down the bank of a dry wash, and followed her across the sandy bottom of the dead creek.

Sybil sneered. “What are you smiling about?”

Tracy’s smile froze. “I-I didn’t realize I was.” A rising flush stung her sunburned cheeks like a slap.

“It’s embarrassing watching you suck up to her like that.” As Sybil marched away she unzipped her hip-sack, and dug out a pair of soft black leather gloves.

“I was just offering to help.”

“She’s my mom, not yours.” Sybil poked a finger into her glove with each word.

“Yeah. I get it.”

Tracy lagged behind, watching Sybil’s back as they walked. Sybil stared at the ground. Tracy did the same, and looked for animal tracks. All she saw were tire tracks where mini-bikes and ATV’s crisscrossed the sand.

Tracy shadowed Sybil until she stopped where the dry stream bed narrowed between two mesquite trees. Sybil steadied herself on the tree trunk and dug a rock from her shoe with her index finger.

“This is the perfect spot.”

“For what?”

Sybil smiled. The glare of the setting sun turned her face into a blurred silhouette. The only details Tracy could make out were Sybil’s perfect teeth.

“For what?” Tracy repeated.

A teenage boy rattled down the wash on a dirt-bike. His helmet visor caught the setting sun and glowed like a single malignant eye. As he rode past, he whipped the rear tire to one side, which sprayed Tracy with sand.

“You bastard!” She spat out grit. Tried wiping her eyes, but just rubbed more sand in. “Did you see that? He did that on purpose.”

Sybil started to laugh.

“It’s not funny.”

“You’re such a baby.” Sybil laughed louder. A barking, forced laugh, that was intended to humiliate. She put on a childish sing-song whine. “Little baby doesn’t like to be laughed at. Did you laugh at me after you stole Bobby Mills? Did you?”

Bobby Mills. Tracy had forgotten about him. She met him two years ago, when Tracy visited Sybil during the summer. He was three years older. He always looked at her as if he was waiting for something.

Sybil had a crush on him, but she was gangly and awkward then. She tried to impress him by doing her trick of passing herself through an unstrung tennis racket.

It made him laugh, but failed to impress him in any romantic sense. Later Bobby confided that he didn’t like Sybil. He said she had a mean streak.

“I’m sorry about Bobby. Not everyone will like you.”

“Well no one likes you!” Sybil screamed. “No one wants you. Your mother wanted you dead. I wish you were dead.”

Tracy caught a blurry glimpse of Sybil’s fist, holding a rock. She tried to duck, but Sybil connected hard on her jaw.

Tracy went down. She scrambled back, blinded by sand. “Leave me alone.”

A rock flew past her head. Tracy looked up. Sybil had another stone, ready to throw. As Tracy watched the rock, Sybil dashed a fistful of sand from her other hand into Tracy’s face.

“Leave me alone!” Tracy screamed, drawing out the last word until her voice cracked. She scooted away, stumbled to her feet. Half-blind, she jaggedly ran back up the wash.

Sybil yelled after her. “Did you get sand in your eyes? Run away little baby. Run home to your mother in Hell.”

Tracy ran stumbling through the sand. She ran up the bank of the wash and plunged through the brush. She pushed through branches that scratched white stripes down her arms. Strings of brown moss was draped across the brush, it caught on her fingers, and clung to her clothes.

She could still hear Sybil taunting and laughing. She pushed on. The tears ran down her face until she tasted the salt. Her mouth worked wordlessly crunching sand. The exposed root of a manzanita tree caught her foot and pitched her face-first into a patch of sage brush.

The tears took her then, curling her into a tight ball, and washing the sand from her eyes. The sage brushed her face with the supple velvet of its leaves. She cried all the tears she had saved up from when was brave, and wrung out all the tears she had hidden in her pillow.

Eventually the flood dried up. She tried to push out a few more, but they would not come. The smell of the sage calmed her. She laid there in its branches for a long while and thought of nothing at all.

It was nearly dark before she finally picked herself up and made her way back to camp.

*****

     “Tracy, there you are. We were so worried.” Elizabeth gave her a fleeting hug, then held Tracy by her shoulders, at arm’s length. “Sybil told us how that boy sprayed you with sand. How you ran off. She ran after you. Did you know that?”

Tracy mutely shook her head.

“Well she did. She called and called for you. Didn’t you hear her?” Elizabeth looked hard at her.

“I didn’t hear anything.” Tracy admitted.

“She tried to find the boy and tell his parents. She just got back herself.”

Sybil yawned. “I couldn’t find him.”

Richard Delroy sat in an aluminum folding chair. He was a big guy, spreading towards stocky, with brown hair and tanned skin. “There’s hardly anyone here. How many campgrounds did you check?”

“All of them.” Sybil said with pointed exasperation.

“He was on a motorcycle. He could be anywhere.” Richard admitted.

“I don’t like the idea of you being alone out there. You have to stick together.” Elizabeth insisted.

“Mom’s right. By tomorrow night this place will be swarming with people. Stick together.” Richard reiterated.

“I’m sorry I worried you Aunt Beth.” Tracy mumbled.

Her forehead knotted. “I don’t like that. Call me Elizabeth.”

“I’m sorry Aunt Elizabeth.” Tracy said more clearly.

“It’s all right, dear. It’s all right.” Elizabeth squeezed her, rubbing sand into her sunburn. She plucked brown moss from Tracy’s back. “You have witch hair stuck to you. You know, this grows white in early spring, then it gets darker during summer. When it’s white it’s called angel hair.”

“Like the pasta?” Tracy managed a smile.

Elizabeth indulged her, returned the smile. “Yes dear, like the pasta.”

Richard got the fire going. Flames licked the edges of the kindling. He held a stick at the ready, to poke at it when the need arose.

Sybil sat in a folding chair, her arms folded across her chest. Tracy sat in an empty chair across from Sybil.

“Princess, hand me a beer please.” Richard teased the fire with the stick.

“I’ll open it for you dad.” Sybil pulled a can from the ice chest, wiped the top off, popped the tab open, and handed it to him. Tracy got herself a bottle of water from the ice chest and forced herself to sip, when she wanted to gulp it.

Elizabeth had a little charcoal grill glowing with burgers sizzling on top. She set up paper plates, then pulled a carton from the ice chest. “Who wants potato salad?”

“Me.” Richard answered with enthusiasm.

“I’m not hungry.” Sybil said.

“… Tracy?”

Sybil caught Tracy’s eye and emphatically mouthed no while simultaneously shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

“Um, no thank you Aunt Elizabeth.” The smoke burned her eyes. She moved her chair to avoid it.

Perkily, Elizabeth called out, “Beans?”

“Please.” Richard slurped happily at his can.

“Oh mother, don’t you have any real food?” Sybil groaned.

Elizabeth smiled expectantly at Tracy. “How about you dear?”

“Um, yes please.” The smoke followed Tracy. Scooting left, she moved her chair further from the fire.

“What do you want on your hamburgers?”

“Everything.” Richard exclaimed.

“Do you have avocado?” Sybil asked.

“No.”

“Do you have bacon?” Sybil shook her head, sneering.

“You know I don’t Princess. You helped me pack.” Elizabeth’s smile froze on her face. “We have ketchup, mayonnaise, mustard, lettuce, tomato, onion.”

“Do you have pickle relish?”

“You know I don’t Princess.” Elizabeth blinked at her.

Sybil rolled her eyes. “Just give me a bun with mayonnaise, mustard, tomato, and lettuce.”

“No burger?”

“I’m vegetarian now.”

“Since when?”

Sybil shrugged. “Since I decided.”

Letting out an exasperated sigh Elizabeth asked, “Tracy?”

Tracy jumped at her name. “No thank you.”

“Honey you have to eat something.” She insisted with a rising edge to her voice.

“Just plain. Thank you.” Tracy felt the tension mounting and shrunk into her chair, trying to shift into invisibility.

“Just a bun?” Elizabeth glared at her.

“Yes please just plain thank you.” Tracy’s words spilled out in mousy rush.

Richard intervened. “That’s fine Pumpkin. You can have it plain.”

The smoke shifted again, drifting into Tracy’s eyes. She picked up her chair. Moved it behind Sybil.

Outside of the circle of firelight, Tracy saw the shadows of the family silhouetted against the ground, grotesquely out of proportion, flickering like tongues of Hell licking their way out of the flames. Sybil’s shadow completely covered Tracy’s, as if she wasn’t even there.

Just before Mrs. Delroy brought Tracy her beans and hamburger, Tracy leaned forward and whispered, “I’m sorry I upset you Sybil.”

“Whatever.” Sybil muttered.

No one spoke another word to Tracy for the rest of the evening.

*****

     Tracy laid in her sleeping bag, on her cot, under a gibbous moon. She stared at the sky while seven falling stars drew stripes across the night. While a coyote sneaked into the campground, rooted the leftovers out of the garbage, and slunk off into the east with its prize. While Elizabeth and Richard Delroy made muffled love in the tent.

Tracy stared up into space while the Delroys disentangled their bodies, unzipped a window, and shared a cigarette.

After the cancerous ember was extinguished, but before all the smoke had cleared, Tracy heard whispers.

“Richard?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Are you asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Is there something wrong with Tracy? She’s so sullen. So … listless.”

Rick yawned through his reply. “Maybe she’s asleep.”

“Richard I’m serious.”

“I’m seriously wiped-out Liz.”

“You only drank two beers. You’re as big a drag as she is.”

“Now you sound like Sybil.”

“Just answer me.”

“The girl’s fine Liz. She doesn’t say much. So what? After all that she went through, you know, it must be tough.”

“I think she’s a thief.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Things have gone missing. Remember the piano parts?”

Rick groaned at the memory. The whole project had been a mess. It was a commissioned custom piece. Richard was a contractor. His woodwork had been getting attention, with his custom cabinetry appearing in interior design magazines and on the local news. The piano, with all its hand-carved scrollwork, promised to be a showpiece.

He spent months fashioning and assembling the pieces, and weeks hand polishing layers of shellac finish. The keys, hammers, and soundboard came as sub-assemblies. The final setup and tuning was done by a specialist after delivery. Rick was only responsible for the wood work and assembly.

His estimate of materials and labor was solid, but he underestimated the guy’s ability to be a pain in the posterior. The client nit-picked every penny of profit out of the job, and then some.

Afterwards he arranged to sell the unused materials and some job specific tools, hoping never to lay eyes upon any of it ever again.

When a coil of piano wire and carbide blade wire-cutters turned up missing, he blew his top. His anger was out of proportion with the value of the items, but his frustration over the job boiled over. Just thinking about it put him on edge again.

“Do you think she’s doing drugs?” Liz asked.

“Yeah, she’s buying smack with her lunch money and chasing the dragon with her juice box straw. She’s just a kid Liz.”

“She’s not a kid Rick. And she’s stealing my pills. I found an empty Valium bottle under her bed.”

Rick exhaled. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since she came here. A little of everything. A few pills at a time.”

“Are you sure? Do you keep track of them that well?”

“That’s why she’s so mopey all the time. She’s on drugs. Just like her mother. No one could ever control Patty. She was weak, self-indulgent. But how could I think my own sister was capable of … ”

“I know.”

Liz choked out a sob. “Sybil used to sleep-over there. She could have been there.”

“She wasn’t though.”

“But she could have been.”

“Liz, don’t get worked up. You know how you get sometimes.”

“How I get?”

“Just be calm.”

Near tears. “I am calm.”

“Of course you are.” Rick took her in his arms and held her.

Her sobs spilled across his chest. “If only she were more like Sybil.”

He gave her a squeeze. “We have every right to be proud of that one.”

“What are we going to do Rick? Sybil’s the one that wanted her here.”

“A foster home would be a step up from Patty, anything would. Imagine how stressful it must be for her to keep up at Sybil’s school.”

His voice soothed Liz. She was too tired to think. Her thoughts drifted. They slipped back into the drowsy giggly place for a while. Then they fell into a gentle wheezing duet, with Liz taking the contralto and Rick the basso profondo.

Outside the tent, all the stars became meteors and bled into a jumbled mass of blinking lights, like a tangled string from yesterday’s Christmas tree. Tracy blinked the tears from her eyes, but she didn’t dare sniff for fear of being heard, so her mucus and tears ran down her face.

From her own tent, Sybil’s voice hissed out of the darkness. “I hear you crying. You’re so pathetic.”

Tracy rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. It smelled of dust and old sweat, but familiar, like the sock monkey that she cried her childhood into.

She closed her eyes and saw that old monkey dancing. A little girl’s hand held it around the throat and shook it up and down. The limp limbs dangled and flopped. The sock monkey’s face was plunged into the dirt. It danced around and its face was shoved into the dirt time and again. The little voice repeated one line, singing in a dull monotone. Ashes, ashes we all fall down.

*****

     Dreams held fast to Tracy. Pulled and held her in the murky depths of sleep, with the outside world muffled by the sleeping bag pulled over her head.

Sybil shook her awake. “How many hamburgers did you eat anyway? Come on. The fish are running. Let’s see if anything is on the line.”

Tracy listened for fishes but all she heard were motorcycles in the distance. She peeked out her head and creaked open an eyelid. It was morning.

Sybil sipped a beer. Held it up. “Want one?”

Tracy looked over at Liz and Rick’s tent.

“They’ll be asleep for a few more hours.”

“No thanks, that’s all right.”

“Suit yourself.” She puffed a pilfered cigarette and coughed lightly. She put the beer can down. Picked up a magazine and sat in a folding chair.

Tracy slowly crawled out of her sleeping bag like a sun-ripened lizard crawling out from under a rock. Her eyelids felt like sandpaper. Her tongue was wearing an old tube sock.

Sybil looked up. “Hey, Trace. Look at this girl.” She held up her magazine.

“What about her?”

“Don’t you think you look like her?” Sybil asked.

Tracy winced. “Hardly.”

“No really.” Sybil looked at her for a long moment. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you how pretty you are? You do your best to hide it though.”

“What do you mean?”

Sybil pointed at the T-shirt Tracy had slept in. “I mean that. Dressing like a boy. Wearing that stupid cap all the time.”

“They’re my team.”

“I like the Sun Devils, but I don’t dress like a football player.”

Tracy chuckled. “Yeah. I’m a mess.”

Sybil smiled. “I’ve got clothes for you. We’ll make you over for your date.”

“What date?”

“Your date with destiny Trace. Every day is a date with destiny.” Sybil finished off her beer, dumped the rest of the cigarette in the can, and sauntered off with a practiced slink. Tracy followed, trying to copy the walk, but she scooped up dirt with her feet.

“They look like shovels.” Tracy muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

*****

     Sybil twisted the rear-view mirror until Tracy could see herself. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. It looks kind of –” Tracy lifted and ducked her head to see her eyes, then her lips, then her eyes again. She shifted her weight and banged her knee against the dashboard.

“You look great.” Sybil said.

Tracy thought she looked like her mother. She said, “I look like a slut.”

“Boys love that.”

Tracy pursed her lips in the mirror. “They’re so red.”

Sybil giggled. “Now bat your lashes.”

Tracy watched herself between blinks. “They look like wounded birds.”

“You can’t see yourself right. It looks great. Trust me.” Sybil opened the door to the Brat and slid out. “Come on. We’re taking the new you for a test drive.”

Tracy followed. Sybil dug through a red bag on the tail-gate. Pulled out a black tank top. “Put this on.”

“Out here? Someone will see.”

“You should be so lucky. And give me your bra.”

“Sybil!”

“And lose those shorts. Your legs are too pale. Wear these.” She handed Tracy a pair of jeans. “Hurry up. We don’t have all day.”

Sybil led them down the wash toward the mesquite trees, where they had gone the day before.

Sybil sighed. “No motorcycles today.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“That boy from yesterday should see you. I think he liked you.”

“I doubt it.” Despite her words, Tracy did feel a new hint of confidence. Things had a way of working themselves out. That’s what mom always said, and occasionally she was right. Tracy was certainly overdue for that occasional stroke of good luck. She was a survivor though. Whatever happened she would deal with it, like she always had.

Sybil even seemed to defer to her. As they approached the trees, Sybil fell back, letting Tracy take the lead.

The sunshine seemed a little brighter. Tracy noticed sounds she’d never noticed in the city. Birds were everywhere. They crooned, tweeted, and chirped. Filling the air with their songs.

Tracy had read that male birds sang, and had the more colorful plumage to attract mates. Maybe she would marry a bird, and it would sing just to her.

A hummingbird swooped down and hovered just over her head. She looked up as it flew backwards to keep pace with her, hovering in front of her face. It made no sound except the thrum of its wings, which sounded like a hundred tiny cellos swelling into the climax of an aerial ballet.

Tracy opened her mouth to say good morning to the bird, but the words caught in her throat. She was thrown onto her back on the sand.

Sybil laughed the mocking laugh again. Tracy put her hand to her throat, and choked soundlessly for several seconds before she managed to cough. She rolled onto her side, and pushed herself up onto her feet.

“You should have seen yourself.” Sybil managed between giggles. “Splat! Right on your back.”

A thin piece of piano wire was strung between the trees. It was still vibrating, thrumming the same note as the hummingbird’s wings. Tracy followed the length with her fingers. The end was twisted and knotted around the tree. Tracy tugged at it, but it wouldn’t budge.

Sybil brayed with a hollow forced laughter, without humor, made to infuriate.

“You put that up.”

Sybil smiled. “I had no idea she would do something like that mom. How could I? Then again, you know what her mother was like. Crazy trailer trash. Like daddy always said. A drunken druggy whore.”

“You’re sick. You know that?” Tracy’s throat was dry. Sand crunched between her teeth.

Sybil backed away as she talked, taunting Tracy from just out of reach. “You’re the one that’s sick. For all I know, you lit that fire. Maybe now you want to light my family on fire.”

Tracy reeled in confusion. “You know that’s not true. Why are you doing this?”

“I’m doing it because I can. Because no one cares what happens to you.” Sybil sneered.

“Shut up.” Tracy choked on the pain in her throat as she advanced on Sybil.

Sybil reveled in Tracy’s anguish. “Just another trailer trash skank like your mom.”

“Shut up!” Tracy leapt and knocked Sybil to the ground. Sybil screamed. Then giggled.

Tracy punched Sybil’s face, over and over. Hissing through her teeth, “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”

Sybil laughed through the pain as long as she could, but eventually she began to cry. Tracy felt inexplicably calm. Her hands looked far away, and the impact on Sybil’s face seemed as repetitive and inconsequential as the workings of a clock. Her fists just worked. For a few timeless moments, Tracy’s mind was empty and there was no sound other than the slap of flesh against flesh.

Tracy watched her hands slow to a stop. She took a long shuddering breath and broke down into ragged sobs. Sybil turned her head to one side and spat out blood.

Tracy heard the hummingbird again, getting closer and louder. She imagined that it grew larger as it grew louder, until it was the size of a boy, and he beat his massive wings at the air like chain-saws.

Tracy suddenly recognized the sound. She swung her head around and saw a motorcycle barreling down the wash towards her. She stumbled to her feet.

Frantically waving her arms. She broke into a run.

The rider reached the trees and caught the wire with his throat. The motorcycle kept its momentum and rolled up the side of the wash. It became airborne for a moment, then crashed to the ground with a sputtering thud.

The rider dangled from the wire like a fish on the line. The wire cut clean through his neck and caught in his vertebrae. Tracy reached him, threw her arms around him, and tried to free him from the wire as his life ebbed out.

Before he slipped off and tumbled to the ground, it looked like the last dance of some grisly prom. Neither wanted the dance to end, but the clock was striking midnight, and Cinderella’s prince was running through her fingers into a puddle on the sand.

Sybil giggled. When Tracy looked up, Sybil flashed her naughty smile, the one the boys liked so well.

Sybil stood and started running away. She ran up the side of the wash and started screaming, “You killed him. You crazy bitch, you killed him.”

Tracy heard other voices, more people. She looked down at herself, soaked in blood. She took off running in the other direction.

She struggled up the bank, blood slicked hands slipping on hand-holds. She reached the top and plunged through the bushes.

Voices approached. She broke into a run.

*****

     Throughout the rest of the day, Tracy wandered further into the hills. The blood stiffened on her clothes and brought hoards of flies that angrily buzzed around her face.

As she walked, she turned her problems over in her mind, but always came up with the same answers. The other campers were little more than an angry mob. The Delroys would believe Sybil and support her story, no matter what she told them.

Her options were to stay out in the brush or turn herself in to the mob.

As darkness fell Tracy rested her back against an oak tree and watched the deputies sweeping the hillside with their flashlights. Their radios rasped back and forth like angry hornets. Long shadows drew closer.

Tracy was thirsty, hungry, tired. She had to pee. Looking up she saw an owl perched in the branches. It stared down the hill towards the flashlights.

“How did I end up here?” Tracy asked.

The owl ripped flesh from the partially devoured mouse in its claw. It turned its head to regard Tracy and asked, “Who?”

Tracy mumbled, “No one.”

In the face of a world that seemed determined to beat her down, it was difficult to care about what happened to her. But when she thought about the dead motorcyclist, and Sybil out there, free to murder again, a glowing ember of anger slowly grew in her gut.

Then it hit her. Sybil would surely murder again, because she had murdered before.

Tracy’s anxiety had brought up flashes of memory from the night of the fire. She recognized the groggy feeling in her sleeping bag when she woke up that morning. She’d felt that way the night of the fire.

Sybil had killed her mother. Tracy didn’t know how, but she knew Sybil did it. Sybil drugged her last night, and the Delroys too. She used the same concoction that she used the night of the fire. Detective Blaine said they found a cocktail of sedatives in Tracy’s bloodstream.

Tracy made the connection between Liz’s missing pills, and something Sybil said one morning, while drinking beer and smoking a cigarette in the kitchen.

“I let them have their beauty sleep last night. So I could sneak out for a party.”

Sybil had perfected her chemical cocktail on her own parents.

Tracy thought about the dinner the night before. She mentally went over the ingredients, and what everyone ate. She decided the drugs were in the hamburger patties. It was the one thing everyone except Sybil ate. They had been prepared at the house, then wrapped in wax paper, ready to grill. The paper had been burned in the fire, so any chance of finding incriminating residue was up in smoke.

The flashlights were on her.

She stood up as the sheriff’s deputies approached. She was surprised by their gentleness when they hand-cuffed her.

She asked them to take her to jail as quickly as possible. By the time they arrived, Tracy had figured out her first step.

*****

     She used her phone call to contact Detective William Blaine. It was two in the morning by then. She was leaving a message on his machine when he picked up.

She told him what she had figured out. She told him that Sybil crawled in through the doggy door, and set her mom on fire. She told him about the wire, and the motorcycle boy, and the deputies. She told him about the drugs, and all the traces being burned away, except the sample she was carrying.

She asked him what to do.

Blaine asked her to put the deputy in charge on the phone. The deputy only had to talk to Blaine for a few moments, he had already heard the story from Tracy’s side of the phone conversation.

A nurse took her to the bathroom so she could relieve herself. It was the first time she had urinated all day. It hurt to hold it that long, and it hurt to finally let it go, but it was the only evidence she had to prove her story.

Tracey supplied the nurse with more than she needed for testing. At Tracy’s insistence, the nurse also took a blood sample, but she made Tracy drink a bottle of water first.

Tracy wanted to be sure they could match the chemical signature to the toxicology reports from her mother’s death.

A deputy brought her some oversize clothes. Tracy changed and cleaned herself up. The deputy took her to a holding cell with a cot. She reassured Tracy that she wasn’t under arrest and suggested she get some sleep.

She left the cell door open.

As Tracy drifted to sleep, she marveled at how much more at ease she was in the jail cell, compared to Sybil’s house. She didn’t feel happy, that would come later, but she felt unburdened.

Detective Blaine was there bright and early the next morning.

That was the day Tracy’s life started getting better.

*****

If you’ve enjoyed “Tightwire”, you can visit our free digital archive of flash fiction here. Additionally, premium short fiction published by Mystery Tribune on a quarterly basis is available digitally here.

For online archive of short fiction (longer pieces) on Mystery Tribune website, you can visit here.