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  BJ’S STORY

  The ILLUSION Duology Book 1

  S.A. AUSTIN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by S.A. Austin

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission from the author.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  CHAPTER 73

  CHAPTER 74

  CHAPTER 75

  CHAPTER 76

  CHAPTER 77

  CHAPTER 78

  CHAPTER 79

  CHAPTER 80

  SPECIAL PREVIEW

  Also By S.A. Austin

  CHAPTER 1

  WENTZEL FARM

  Virgil awoke late at night to find his wife gone. He kicked off the sweaty bed sheet, box springs squeaked when he sat up. A steady breeze, weighed down with humidity, carried the vanillalike fragrance of Joe Pye weed and the faint sound of laughter through an open window.

  He stood behind fluttering white sheers and watched Marie trot across the back yard, her long black curls bouncing with each footfall. The opaque security light above the barn doors cast an eerie pallor on the limbs of an elm tree draped with Spanish moss. He noticed her belly, in the narrow space between her shirt and shorts, seemed rounder than normal. He lazily scratched his ass, wondered what the hell she’s doing.

  A man stepped out of the shadows, and drew her into an embrace. They kissed for a moment, then entered the barn.

  Marie came back out. She turned her head from side to side, looked up. Virgil leaned back without thinking.

  The man clasped her hand. “C’mere, baby.” He brought a shiny metal flask to his lips and took a long swig.

  She giggled again. “Gimme some.”

  “Sh! Not yet.” He pulled her into the barn, loosely swung one door shut, the other already latched at the top.

  * * *

  Light rain bounced off his cap, trickled down a bare back and bib overalls. Virgil crept past the half closed door. Standing beneath the loft, he listened to the sounds of raw lust. Glossy photos in his dog-eared girlie magazines crossed his mind. He hiked the leather rifle strap onto his shoulder, gripped the sides of the ladder. Climbed slowly, the wooden rungs scraping mud off the soles of his scuffed work boots.

  He could see them in a clearing bordered by short stacks of hay. Virgil recognized him. He was the same slick salesman who’d come sniffing around last April trying to sell them some kitcheny crap. He didn’t know if his wife got any. He’d left the house to spend the rest of the mild and sunny morning planting eggplants to be sold at the farmers market and to local chefs.

  A July heatwave made the guy come a-knockin’ again. Now he was a-rockin’, in the hayloft, with a young wife and mama. His face was nestled against her neck. He grunted mightily, each deliberate thrust building to a faster rhythm.

  She flexed her leg muscles, gasped for air.

  “Bring it home, baby,” he told her.

  A metallic click.

  Marie froze.

  Her dark eyes and flushed golden skin oddly reflected the lantern light. She tried to speak but couldn’t. It was too late to warn her loverboy, anyway. He shot the salesman named Russell Something-or-other when he raised his head and turned to see what was going on. She screamed bloody murder. Virgil yanked her up off the floor, caught a whiff of the man’s scent, resisted giving her the beating she damn well deserved.

  Trembling with fear, she used handfuls of hay to wipe the blood off of her. She looked out the loft doors, her gaze shifting from one upstairs window to the next. Her four-year-old son, Bernie, leaned his arms on the sill, stuck his thumb in his mouth. Marie hung her head and cried.

  Virgil loaded Russell’s body into the bed of his truck. Sped across the field, toppling crops in his path. He put the body in a rowboat. Filled a burlap sack with the man’s belongings, added a concrete block. Tied the bag around Russell’s scrawny neck. Virgil heard a slight gasp, tightened the rope. Using a pair of wire cutters he removed the guy’s gold wedding band with his finger attached, and slung the bloody digit to the ground for the snapping turtles to fight over.

  He rowed to the middle of the bottomless pond where scum floated on the surface and mosquitoes multiplied by the hundreds, and chucked the salesman in. Vivid lightning bolts spread their energy across the sky, their crinkled branches thinning at the tips. A high-pitched crackle of thunder followed by a loud crackle then a fading rumble. The rain grew in strength and intensity. Straight-line winds stole his cap, and damn near flipped his boat. Virgil quickly returned to the water’s edge.

  Amidst a torrential downpour his truck became stuck in the mud. He made a mad dash through the field. Lightning revealed a dark green Chevy parked under a pindo palm tree.

  He jerked the barn door open. Marie ran out screaming, waving her arms in the air, stringy hair covering her face. Crazy bitch looked like a banshee. He felt his heart beating too fast, his wet hands fumbled with the rusty iron slide bolt on the other door.

  He brought the salesman’s car to the barn just as a strong gust of wind blew one of the flimsy wooden doors shut. “Dammit.” One by one, he rolled two empty oil drums out of the barn, propped them against the doors to hold them open. Drove in behind a do-it-yourself pegboard wall holding an array of hand tools, hooks, and baling wire.

  Virgil wouldn’t allow Marie to change out of her wet clothes or to sleep in his bed, making her spend the night in the living room instead. Lamplight threw a shadow on an old seascape painting hanging off-kilter on
the wall above a redbrick fireplace. He gripped the newel post supporting the worn banister, watched her tossing and turning on the couch. He was tempted to put her out of her misery. Reckoned a bullet would be too swift. He needed to teach her a thing or two about faithfulness. Too bad he didn’t think of that before he shot her boyfriend.

  Marie knew it was only out of meanness when Virgil woke her up at five o’clock one dark, rainy morning to come and get the rest of her things out of his bedroom. About to bend down to scoop up the last pile of clothing in her drawer, he took hold of a fistful of her long spiral curls and slung her onto the bed.

  She didn’t tell him she’s pregnant. Or about having frequent thoughts of murder-suicide.

  * * *

  As the months passed, her stomach swelled to the size of a ripe watermelon. Marie started wearing the long and baggy homemade dresses she’d found in a heavy trunk with iron fittings in the attic. She’d also discovered a secret compartment inside of a closet. A place to run and hide.

  By her seventh month it was no longer possible to hide her big belly.

  “Jeebus Christ, woman, you gettin’ fat?” Virgil asked in a drunken manner.

  She frowned. Is he that stupid?

  He flattened his hands against the mattress, pushed himself up. Stared intently at her. She shrank back. He moved to her side. “Get the hell away from me,” he whispered in a threatening tone. Virgil pressed his socked foot against her hip, shoved her off the bed.

  Marie bolted from the room.

  Lying on the couch, she listened to him pacing overhead. Footsteps thudding. Floorboards creaking. Every sound was deafening.

  Her teeth chattered. She balled her hands around the top of a wool blanket, tucked them under her chin. The house was very hot. She was freezing cold.

  Teardrops disappeared in her hair.

  Will this be the day I die?

  “I hope so.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Near the end of December, beneath the Long Night Moon, Marie went into labor.

  Virgil stood at the entrance of the living room, stared with morbid fascination as the pain worked its way up to her face.

  No sooner had she started making gross bodily noises than he turned and walked away. He switched on the transistor radio on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Fetched a bottle of Tennessee bourbon and a shot glass from the cupboard.

  He intended to get rid of the kid, he believed wasn’t his, soon after it’s born. Visions of him killing the thing with his bare hands, though, gave him the willies. More than that, he was certain God would strike him deaf and blind if he outright murdered it. “Bad, bad mojo.” He couldn’t bury it alive anywhere on his property, either, knowing the Almighty would be watching.

  One thing he knew without a doubt, God truly approved of Marie’s punishment for committing adultery. The proof was in the abundant crop the Wentzels had that year.

  Gospel music bouncing off the walls, he plucked a set of work gloves out of the back pocket of his tan cargo pants. Sat at the table, and filled the glass to the rim.

  The first drink calmed him.

  Marie hadn’t fixed his supper yet. Drinking on an empty stomach, the seventh shot of whiskey made his head swim.

  When Virgil lifted the glass for the last time she screamed. His hand shook, sloshing the brown liquor on his faded blue and red flannel shirt. He slammed the glass down on the table, got to his feet after a couple of attempts, and pulled up his suspenders.

  On the way to the living room it occurred to him he hadn’t seen his son. “Bernie? Where y’at? Bring your ass in here and help your damn mama.”

  Virgil felt his blood pressure rising. He went to Marie. “What’s wrong with you, woman? You act like you got a burr up your ass. You’ve had a kid before. You know what to do. Just squeeze the slimy thing outta ya same as any animal do. How hard can it be?” He rubbed spittle off his chin. Stomped out of the room.

  He knew when the end came he’d have to help her. He’d have to cut the cord. Final confirmation of the unwanted plan made his stomach queasy. He cranked up the volume on the radio. Downed another slug of whiskey. He was dizzy as hell, but he’d finally worked up the nerve to face the task when or if the time came, which he hoped would be nev—

  “Virrrgil. Anmwe mwen! Please, please help me.”

  He slapped his open hands on his unshaven face. “Shit.”

  * * *

  Marie laid on the couch with her head turned away from Virgil. “It’s a girl,” she’d heard him mutter before she passed out from exhaustion.

  She awoke with a start. Her breathing had grown shallow and raspy. Was she going to bleed to death? She knew she and her baby belonged in the hospital. The delivery had been far more painful than she remembered with Bernie. Maybe because back then she was in a hospital.

  Bernard Jacques. An odd name. She didn’t know why she didn’t realize that when she read the name typed below a picture of a porcelain boy doll in a Louisiana magazine right next to a girl doll named Bérénice Jacquette.

  Marie knew she would’ve loved baby Bernie had she loved his papa. The boy had become nothing but a constant source of irritation for her. Every time she saw his face, handsome though it was, it was still Virgil’s. She’d made his life miserable the way his papa had made hers. She waited all the time for him to do something wrong so she’d have an excuse to punish him. Too afraid to lash out at Virgil, she directed her anger toward their son.

  Marie had to admit, every once in a great while the boy actually did something that pleased her. Not Virgil. Not ever.

  * * *

  Virgil peeked into the living room. Marie had fallen asleep again. With the amount of liquor he’d consumed, he was in a mood for a little sex. He started to wake her up. Colorful imagery of the birth of the nasty-looking tot flooded his mind. He shuddered.

  “Bleh!”

  In the wee hours of early morn, he put the whiskey bottle in the pocket of his heavy winter jacket, picked up the bloody thing wrapped in an old blanket, and headed out to his truck.

  Due to a rare southern Louisiana snowstorm he drove slowly over the curvy rural route until he reached the Catholic Church five miles away from his farm. He deposited the tiny bundle named Bérénice Jacquette on the doorsteps at the rear of the building.

  The church had been his parent’s place of worship. As a boy he wasn’t interested in religion even though he was raised with a strict religious code. They beat him, on a regular basis, until he changed his mind.

  It never occurred to him murdering his wife’s lover was a sin. Getting rid of the baby was the only thing that would bring the fury of God down on him. Babies grow up to be workers.

  Halfway home, he made a U-turn and returned to the church.

  CHAPTER 3

  Virgil didn’t know whether or not he loved his son. Bernard was just there. He worked the boy hard with neither a word of praise nor a show of affection. His parent’s rules about childrearing were severe. He’d been the better for it. Three lashes across his bare ass every week, he learned not to get caught slacking off.

  He pretended not to notice, a couple of years ago, when Marie sent the boy to school on his seventh birthday wearing one of her dresses to punish him for not keeping his zipper pulled up. Or the times when she made him wear the dress while tied to the live oak tree near the road at the rear of the farm. She didn’t care it wasn’t his fault he’d outgrown his jeans. She declared his leaving the zipper down was a willful act of annoyance directed at her. Virgil kept his mouth shut. If the boy ended up with his wires crossed the blame would be on her.

  By the age of five Bérénice began showing signs of being somewhat disturbed.

  At some point when Virgil was in the hayloft he looked down and saw her standing still under the elm tree. She seemed mesmerized by the homemade white-cloth poppet with black-button eyes and a stitched-shut mouth she held in her hand. An unusually large raven landed on a branch above her. It cawed three times. Staring defiantl
y at the bird, she stabbed the little voodoo doll once with a hatpin. Somewhere in the house Bernie screamed. Virgil stumbled backward, fell over a hay bale. The bird flew away.

  Spying on her again, he saw her tying a string on a beetle’s hind leg. She let it fly like a kite until the string tightened and tore its leg off. Then coolly hunted for another bug.

  Spiders were altogether different.

  Virgil listened, one day, as Bérénice cried and told her mama a big spider had bitten her after she’d been locked in the dark attic overnight, her punishment for peeing on the couch while looking at pictures of people wearing guns and badges in Bernie’s school library book. Marie couldn’t find a bite mark so she whipped the girl not only for lying but also for wetting the cushioned seat on an old rocker in the attic.

  Bérénice ran outside. She collected crickets in a small jar. When the jar was full enough she bashed it against the base of a tree. Went wailing to her mama again claiming “the jar fell down and broked all the purty little buggies.”

  Marie patted her on the head. The girl stared at Virgil with such a wicked expression on her face his blood chilled in his veins. She never smiled. Cried a lot, but never smiled.

  * * *

  Marie was three weeks pregnant. God must have been mad about something. She miscarried.

  Her mind was so far gone she believed she’d given birth. To another girl. One to replace the crazy one the salesman ran off and left behind.

  Awakened by a nightmare, she stormed upstairs to Virgil’s bedroom. Demanded to know where he had taken her daughter, Bérénice Jacquette?

  Her daughter? And the salesman’s, no doubt. He let the thought sink in. Old anger issues resurfaced. The little spawn of Satan was the direct result of transgression and lust. And he’d been stuck raising her.

  “Wake up, you dumb stupid idiot. You’re having a damn dream. That kid of your’n ain’t gone nowhere. But if she has, maybe that loverboy of yours done come and got her. Huh? Whaddya say about that? Speak up, woman. You didn’t have a problem speaking your mind a minute ago.”

  He threw aside the covers, swung his legs off the bed.

  She put her hand over her open mouth, and backed up. Once she was in the hallway she ran to the staircase, barely feeling the old floorboards under her feet. She reached the last step by the time Virgil put a foot on the first one.