Chasm

By L.K. Kuhl

TAYLOR VINE THINKS SHE CAN FIGHT OFF THE demons of her past when she moves back home to Estill Springs, Tennessee, but it doesn't take long to see that things aren't quite that easy. The bumps she hears in the night soon escalate, keeping her up at night, and it isn't long before her most precious possessions, her children, get abducted. She fin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kuhlreads
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088055489

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Chasm_COVER.jpg

CHASM

By L.K. Kuhl

Published by Kuhlreads

www.kuhlreadsbooks.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

CHASM

Copyright © 2022 L.K. KUHL

ISBN 978-1-0880-5548-9

Cover Art Designed by AM DESIGN STUDIO

I dedicate this to my husband, Gene, and children and grandchildren, Brittani, Morgan, Nathan, Trevor, Charlie, Briggs, and Luke for always believing in me and cheering me on. I love you all. I also want to thank Stephanie Taylor for making my dream possible.

Contents

PROLOGUE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

Officer Wilbur Tullin’s foot smashed deep into the gas pedal, his hands scattering to catch the box of powdered sugar donuts before they slid off the dash to the dirty floor. Sitting the box up on the seat, his fat hand groped, reaching in to pluck one out. With his mouth watering, he inspected it and smacked his lips before shoving one of the sugary treats into his mouth—sending the fine, white powder flying everywhere.

His nose poked the air. He could smell it—smell the dirty. It penetrated deep, lighting up his nostrils long before it billowed up ahead of him, littering the periwinkle sky.

After thirty-seven years on the police force in Franklin County, Tennessee, the ominous scream of his screeching siren always made the hair rise on the back of his neck, and this call was no exception. Valentine’s Day, he guessed, had started out terribly wrong for the families involved in this accident.

Dust flew. His black-and-white cruiser whipped to the left and skidded to a stop. He flung the door wide, getting his belly stuck behind the steering wheel before wedging his way out. The shrill ringing of the crossarms was deafening, and he slapped his palms over his ears, drowning out the viciousness. The red lights, flashing their second-too-late warnings, were blinding and perilous.

Two other cops from neighboring towns paced the scene.

Officer Tullin approached them, grinding his teeth. Land sakes, this ain’t what I wanted ta see today. He took off his hat and wiped his glistening brow with his forearm, eyes coming to rest on the gory scene.

The slim, younger cop looked up at him. It’s not good, Officer Tullin. I just came back from talking to the conductor. Nothin’ they coulda done—they were loaded full. Evidently, the car got stuck on the tracks.

Officer Tullin eyed the monstrous, blue-and-yellow FCT coal train, thumbing his right ear, searching the area. Don’t suppose anybody could have lived through that.

No, sir. If the conductor wouldn’t have seen the car before they hit, there wouldn’t have been any way to even make out what it was.

Officer Tullin edged his way closer to the pile of bent and twisted metal, peering inside of what was left of the small car. It still smoldered, gagging him. He pulled back, unsteady, grasping the torched, rough edges to gain control.

Images of his own daughter and her two children flashed in his mind, and he knew this little girl and boy, along with their momma, had been someone’s everything. He’d seen these types of accidents before and knew that nobody ever lived through a train accident, but whenever he saw young children involved it always stopped his heart.

He popped a fist to his chest a couple of times. A deep and heavy ache continued to lodge itself there.

He swallowed hard and looked back at the young officer, voice hoarse. Where’s the engineer?

He’s still in the engine…down on the floor, buried inside himself.

****

Standing inside her cozy kitchen, Taylor Vine placed a warm, yellow plastic bowl in her next-door-neighbor’s wrinkled hands. Bud, you tell that wife of yours to eat this chicken soup. It’s made from scratch, homemade noodles and everything. I need to have her feeling better. We’ve got a whole day of sewing and visiting to catch up on.

Bud Goodwin shot her a pleasant grin, the wrinkles in his face indenting even deeper. His free hand trembled on the doorknob—the ill effects of age taking their toll. Oh, I’m sure she’ll be up and at ‘em before long. Not much keeps my girl down. Although, that darn egg. He squinted and pulled his mouth to the side, clicking his cheek. She’s been pretty depressed about it being gone.

Taylor’s eyes widened, and she extended her neck toward him. Her lead-crystal egg? What happened?

Bud pulled his shoulders up into a shrug and exhaled. I don’t know. Went missing about two nights ago. Apparently, we got broken into when I took Edith to get cold medicine for that hacking cough she has. We didn’t even know it was missing till the next day. Edith happened to notice that the sun didn’t seem quite as bright coming in through the window. You remember, she always kept it there on that library table? He gestured with his hands.

Taylor grimaced at the rigidness of his tense jaw and reddened face. Bud never angered too easily, but she could see this was something that irritated and saddened him. How could I forget? That egg was special. Didn’t it have Edith’s initials engraved on the bottom?

Bud chuckled. Yep, E.G.G., Edith Gertrude Goodwin. I gave it to her for our twenty-fifth anniversary, and thought it fitting. I hope whoever stole it had a hard time carrying it out. It was darn heavy, and wasn’t cheap. He pursed his lips and pushed his crinkled chin forward.

Well, you tell Edith we’ll keep our eyes peeled for her beloved egg.

Bud opened the front door, and they stepped out onto the slick, frost-covered stoop. Taylor shivered. Brr, it’s nippy out. I hate this cold stuff. Spring better hurry up. She took a deep breath, briskly rubbing her hands over her purple wool sweater, gazing up into the foggy, Boston night, the sound of sirens echoing somewhere off in the distance.

I agree. This winter stuff can take a hike.

At least Bruce will be home soon. He’s been working late these past few nights, and it’s beginning to look like it could snow. But you have a good night, Mr. Goodwin. I’ll check and see how Edith’s doing tomorrow.

Bud tipped his black fedora, a few wisps of his gray combover going with it. Thanks again, Taylor, good night.

She closed the door and leaned against it with a long sigh. Bud and Edith were some of the best neighbors a person could ask for, and they had grown close to Taylor in the ten years she and Bruce had lived here.

Taylor closed her eyes and smiled to herself—life couldn’t get any better. Bruce had given her everything, making her world complete.

Both of the kids were in bed, and since it was Saturday night and Valentine’s Day, she had plans of lighting her vanilla candle and opening a bottle of wine, celebrating Bruce’s monumental win in court yesterday. White bubbly turned him on.

She tried hard to stay away from the drink, but this was a special occasion, and she knew that Bruce would want her to celebrate with him.

She tossed aside her purple sweater, pulled down on her blue pencil-skirt, fluffed her breasts, and wiggled into her black high heels. Bruce loved it when she dressed to impress, and she didn’t want to disappoint.

Her white blouse, rigged in such a way that one pull on the ribbon lacing across her chest would make the entire thing fall away, made it all the better for easy access. Sometimes Bruce became a little too eager when it came to the bedroom romps.

The doorbell rang. Taylor’s hand fluttered to her throat. Bud…did you forget …? Oh my! Her face fell pallid and her mouth gaped, the shimmering brass of a policeman’s badge glaring in her eye.

Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Vine, but we’ve got your husband here. The dark police officer scrutinized her, clutching his thick fingers around Bruce Vine’s arm. He’s being arrested.

Taylor’s breath caught and her skin tingled when her gaze swept to the handcuffs swinging from her husband’s wrists. Wha…what happened? Her hand jerked, unsure, its awkward momentum lunging for Bruce’s imprisoned hand.

Chapter One

Three months later:

He carried the only possession he had left in this world in his right hand. It was razor sharp. And when the sun coming through the chinks in the trees hit it just right, its fine polished edge glinted with a lustrous glow.

The smell of the pines, the rustle of the leaves, and the sweet, somber feel of seclusion left him dizzy and homesick. His favorite thing to do as a child was exploring forests, and this one in particular held a special place in his heart. He’d even buried a dog out in these woods back in the day—in another life.

There was a clearing in this heavily wooded area about five miles in. It would be the perfect place to get the job done.

As he approached the clearing, he walked around, feeling with the tips of his steel-toed boots for the soft spot—the spot partially caving in, making digging easier. The spot—a 14-foot by 14-foot area—was perfect, just the right size for what he would need it for.

The bracken that covered the forest floor tangled around his heavy boots, cumbersome and dense, but he’d fight his way through it. Tall pines, cottonwoods, oaks, maples, elms, and dogwoods surrounded it, creating a canopy and making a natural ceiling. With the forest being this thick, no one would ever find him.

It would be no easy task. This he knew for sure. The area was big, and it might take him a couple weeks of constant digging before he could get it done. But he had time—he wasn’t going anywhere. There would be plenty of time to dig, and contemplate, and blow his mind apart like he wanted to do.

Later, he would scavenge for wood and old boards to use as a roof. Rob it from the ramshackle barn that sat a couple miles to the south. For now, though, his mission was just to dig.

Sweat trailed down his face and etched a dotted pattern of wetness across the shoulder of his denim shirt. His chest tightened, and he plunged his pointed shovel into the rich, dark earth—the significance monumental. It made a slicing sound, cutting through the damp brown leaves and pine needles that blanketed the soft ground, bringing up dirt, earthworms, and grubs all in one fell swoop. The smell of the moist earth intoxicated him, blurring his vision for a brief moment. He blinked, then blinked again, clearing away the vivid memories that plagued him.

As his weathered, leather boots stomped down on the blade—each time burying it deeper into the ground—he screamed, then his voice would lower back down to a barely audible mumble, raging war with her once again.

****

The late afternoon sun filtered in through the bedroom window on this early-spring, twentieth day of May, casting long shadows from the sycamore tree keeping watch in the front yard. Taylor Vine eyed the room, then dusted off her hands after placing the last of his plaques and awards inside the brown cardboard box. She bent down, tucking the flaps of the lid inside one another.

Her satisfying sigh held so much hope, and she was glad to be ridding herself of yet another mistake she’d made in this thing called life. It was a Sunday, and she turned her face toward the window, letting it warm her, thankful that the salvation thrift store would be taking all of this off her hands in the morning.

Rummaging through years of married rubbish, she picked up their wedding photo and ran her thumb down the side of the cold metal frame. Her eyelids grew hot. Ten years she had given this man, and he chose to throw it all away, running off with some other woman, lying and cheating, and finally resorting to breaking into people’s homes and stealing their entire life savings.

She thought back to when she first met Bruce Vine—he had swept her off her feet. His smile was the first thing she fell in love with. The way its crooked cockiness pulled her in and held her there, making her think she was the only girl on earth. And when it burst across his face, she lost all form of thought and concentration, only feeling the pattering of her racing, vibrant heart.

He had come to her small hometown of Estill Springs, Tennessee, for a crime case, and love socked her hard in the chest the moment he walked into the restaurant and ordered up a slice of her homemade peach pie—hot and fresh right out of the oven, topped off with a dollop of whipped cream. She had been a waitress at the time, only eighteen, and knew that that slice of pie wasn’t half as good as he bragged it up to be—another reason she had loved him.

She knew she should have stuck to her first intuition when her inner-self kept whispering not to trust a smooth-talking, bigmoney lawyer man. But his good looks made her knees weaken. Nobody had ever before told her the kinds of things he was telling her. After a quick, two-week courting, he had whisked her off to Boston, and the rest was history.

She had rushed into things rather hastily, but at the time she’d seen nothing wrong with it. Bruce told her he would give her the kind of life she dreamed of—the fairy tale wedding, the house with the white picket fence, and two wonderful children. A life where she could stay at home every day and be what she had always dreamed of being—a mother and homemaker—and up until now, he’d kept his promise.

Giving her head a slight shake, she went back to packing up her own belongings. Time for a fresh new start—a better one—one where she would be in charge of her life. One where, maybe, she could even start her own bakery.

Buried under a pile of books she had brought along when they had first moved to Boston, she pulled out a yellowed photo album. Opening it, she flipped through the weathered pages, stopping at one of herself and her little pony, Star. She must have been about five at the time, and still remembered the day she had received Star for her birthday. They’d had to keep Star out on her uncle’s farm, but she still would go to see her every day to feed and groom her. Taylor’s head cocked to the side and she stroked the page softly—back then, she’d thought she was the luckiest little girl alive.

Flipping through a few more pages, her back went rigid. Almost eight in this photo, she was standing by her glowering father, her gaze cast to the ground. The dark circles under her eyes and unwashed, tangled hair screamed for someone’s attention. But, back then, no one noticed. Her dad held a switch in his right hand, and it brushed the ground, etching its marks in the dirt just like it had on her delicate young skin.

With a slight shake of her head, she swallowed hard; she couldn’t let herself go back there. Taylor closed the book and threw it into the pile marked for trash. As she sat staring, swallowing away the bitter taste in her mouth, she picked it back up and threw it in a box with her other books.

The shrill ring of the phone snapped her out of her woolgathering. Her left knee snapped and popped when she pushed herself up off the floor and left the room. When she whisked through the living room, heading for the kitchen, her gaze landed on the mess her six-year-old daughter had made. Nora, pick that play dough up out of the carpet. Lord knows I don’t need them backing out now. She rubbed the top of the little blonde head on her way to the phone.

Taylor, how’s things goin’? Peggy Bruin chattered into the phone. You makin’ any headway? Brett and I can’t wait to see ya.

Taylor chewed on a fingernail and spit it to the floor, glancing out the window. The real estate agent’s placing the Sold sign in the ground as we speak. Movers are coming in the morning, and we should be loaded up by noon.

That’s great news. I think I might have found ya a snazzy little place here on Fairview Street, only a couple houses down from mine and Brett’s.

Um…maybe…I’ll take a look at it when I get there.

Even though Estill wasn’t all that big, Taylor didn’t want to move into town. What she wanted was a secluded place out in the country, a place where she could be away from everyone and become a hermit. She knew she wouldn’t go that far, but after living in the big city of Boston, and having that whole scenario turn sour, she wanted to go back to her country roots and live in seclusion for a while.

Taylor hung up the phone, a whiff of smoke greeting her nose. She hurried to the stove, grabbing a couple of hot pads from the counter and pulling a steaming pan of store-bought, chicken pot pies out of the oven. They had baked into a crispy brown, but they would do. Setting the hot cookie sheet on top of the stove, she bit her lip—this was a far cry from her own home cooking, but with everything packed away, this seemed like the best choice.

Nora, go get washed for dinner. She flung an irritating wisp of hair behind her ears, stooping to pick up globs of moist play dough from the light brown carpet.

Okay. Do you like the cookies I made, Momma? Nora’s face gleamed proudly, holding up the misshapen globs of blueand-red dough, her thick glasses sliding their way down her stubby nose.

Oh, those look delicious. Just like the kind mommy makes. Taylor widened her eyes, licked her lips, and rubbed her belly.

Nora giggled.

Twenty-two-month-old Cody pushed his plastic car back and forth on the living room davenport. Come here, baby boy, time to put you in your high chair and eat.

She picked up the chunky boy and nuzzled her nose into his fine, blond hair, breathing in his baby scent and pressing the softness of his skin against hers. He patted her face and looked up at her with a large smile, the look of Bruce stamped into him.

She served up plates of the charred meal to the children and sat down at the kitchen table, tossing that irritating strand of hair behind her ear again. Resting her chin on her hands, her head buzzed. How had everything gone so wrong, and how did she always manage to chase away the men in her life? Not so long ago the four of them had had everything, and then it all came to a screeching halt.

She sat glumly, watching her two beautiful children, wondering how she was ever going to start over on her own. Going back to work was the last thing she wanted to do. To leave the children with someone else—unthinkable. Taylor pinched the skin at the base of her throat as nagging heartburn slowly crept in.

Nora became sullen, her pigtails hanging loose and disheveled. When’s Daddy coming home? I miss him. Her lips drooped to a melted pout.

I can’t answer that right now, Nora. I’m hoping soon. She was glad the cringe was on the inside, eating away at her gut. Nora didn’t need to see her true feelings. Taylor knew that Bruce would be locked up for quite some time—it was no petty crime. And even if he did get released, she knew for a fact that he wouldn’t be welcome around her or her children. Eat your dinner now.

I’m not hungry anymore. Nora looked down at her plate, pushing a pea around with her fork.

Taylor batted her lashes at Nora and gave her a delicate smile, then wrinkled her nose. Yeah, it isn’t the greatest, is it? Just leave it. You two run and play now.

Taylor stayed at the table, rubbing her temples after Nora and Cody ran off to play. For crying out loud, Bruce, look what you did to our family. I hope the other inmates have more fun playing with your puny two inches than I did.

****

The next morning, Taylor dug the empty wine bottle out from under the couch and threw it into the trash. Popping a couple of aspirins, she gave instructions to the movers on her way out the door as to where she wanted her potted plants to safely sit for the long ride to Tennessee. Yep, they look great right there. Her mouth flattened with a weak smile, and she gave them a halfhearted thumbs up. She rubbed her temples, the sun baring its teeth into her head.

She greeted Bud and Edith out on the lawn. Bud exhaled and shoved his hands deep into his tan wool trouser pockets. Fine morning out, isn’t it, Taylor?

It’s a good day for a move, I guess, if moves can be good. Her voice leaked out heavily, still corroded from the wine. She kicked a stray, white stone back into her rock garden.

Edith’s eyes pooled with tears. I sure hate to see you doing this, Taylor. Her voice broke, and she nervously picked at her elbow. I’m going to miss your peanut butter cupcakes and our long talks…and…and our crocheting.

Taylor peered at the aging, heavyset lady’s trembling chin and red eyes. "I can’t stay here…there’re too many reminders of Bruce, and besides that, I can’t afford to live in this house. I need to go back home." The lump in her throat squeezed tighter, and she had to look away. She hated to see her good friend Edith taking it so hard.

Edith’s shaky lips curled into a tepid smile. She grabbed

Taylor’s hand, giving it a pat. I know…you must do what’s best. Her eyes glistened—the new, unshed tears trying to perform a tightrope act and not fall.

I just hope I can support myself. Taylor’s rickety voice squeaked out drearily when she said this, her confidence waning.

Bud jingled the change in his pocket, rocking back on his heels. Oh now, with the way you bake, you’ll have no problem making money.

Nana Edith, look at the pretty dress that Momma made for me. Nora skipped down the steps of the house. She gave a couple of twirls