Bleeding Smile

TWO

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"Turn left on Casterly Road and keep right for 12.8 miles," the automated voice of the GPS alerted as the fifteen hour drive narrowed down to one.

It was almost six o'clock, evening time, and I'd been on the road since 4AM this morning.

The gas meter on my trusty blue-gray Dodge caravan was still at a comfortable spot from my pit-stop refill more than fifty miles back. The road had grown less crowded and more narrow since entering the state line, the slight overcast of the late-September weather perfect enough to crack my window and enjoy the wind in my hair as I drove past sprawling fir trees and the ever-present snow-capped mountains outlining the sky in seemingly every direction.

I'd stopped at a local diner on the outskirts of Kansas and talked to Mom on the phone about my progress and helped finalize the length of the reception tomorrow. Since it was being conducted in our two-story home on Montclair Avenue, Mom insisted that it be intimate and brief, but I knew the townspeople; I knew that they'd always do just enough to be able to say that they'd done something, and though Dad was fairly loved and widely respected, to the majority of them, his wake would simply be regarded as that primary something.

Not the lack of hospital visits but rather being present now, after he'd already been laid to rest.

It was better to ease that sense of "duty" out of everyone's system than to prolong a revolving door of condolences from people we hadn't really spoken to in years.

Especially me.

I could feel a nervous buzz replacing the day's fatigue, and I rolled my windows up and turned off the GPS as I began to recognize where I was and where I needed to go next.

I knew the rustic Welcome sign with the town's namesake emblem would be approaching soon as I passed the forest where two of the three bodies had been discovered by Deputy Sullivan's cadaver dogs.

I felt a familiar, practically tangible uneasiness surround me as soon as I drove past the roadside marker.

Nestled in a secluded valley dozens of miles East of the Southern Rockies, between Boulder and Fort Collins, surrounded by towering pine trees, aspen groves and rugged mountain peaks, was the scarcely populated town of Elk Point, Colorado.

The store fronts and buildings featured large windows, wooden facades and inviting signage in an effort to appear welcoming to tourists and visitors. The small shops and cafés showcased wooden shingles, hand-carved ornaments, artisanal stonework, and of course, jewelry and clothing constructed from the dense Elk population that we were primarily known for in conjunction to our forestry and small-scale agriculture.

It was a town where time seemed to move at its own pace, where nature and community intertwined to create an outward appearance of tranquility while everyone remained secretly vigilant that the quaint neighborhoods held as much mystery and trouble as it did history and beauty.

We made regional news with the Hatchet Killer and popular forums had begun popping up outside of The Elk Point Bulletin on account of Arch Teller's release and the true perpetrator's identity being rendered inconclusive.

A perverse serial killer resided within the secluded depths of our town, and to the outsiders, this nightmarish reality overshadowed what was once a charming enough settlement worthy of a visit or two. So while the town's happenings remained a point of frequent contention, to me, Elk Point was simply the comfort of home, the weight of a dark past, and now, the final burial grounds of my dear late father.

I turned onto Montclair Avenue, a modestly upscale cul-de-sac bordered by almost twenty acres of woodland that lead to the smaller of the three lakes that stretched throughout our town. Our house was a classic, symmetrical structure with a steeply pitched roof and wraparound porch. It was painted in muted shades of green with white pillars and plain stairs. The front garden was no longer as meticulously manicured as the Sinclairs' across the street from us.