Free Crimes in Southern Indiana by Frank Bill

her shapes bounced and rubbed against his chest in the front seat of his truck, and twisted it tight to her flour-tinted pigment with pliers. The barbs broke her skin open, formed tiny rivers of red, coating her beauty. He reinforced the weight withthe rusted log chain he wrapped around her, connecting the hooked ends into each other. He dragged her stiff frame downstream like a small johnboat until he got to the fishing hole from his youth, where Bishop remembered his father telling him, as they stood knee-deep staring into the dark green hole that melded into black, that if someone ever wanted to hide something, this would be the place.
    He wiped the wet that sprouted from his forehead, looked at her locks of hair spreading with the sound of the river rushing her dress up her thighs, which he’d run his hands up just yesterday while she unbuckled his belt, their mouths meeting, and he blinked, but her dead eyes did not, they stabbed through him. Tightened around his heart with all of their memories together. When he died, he thought,he’d be judged for what he’d done. And when that time came he’d say, “I felt I’d no other choice.” He hoped he’d be forgiven.
    He pushed her into the thick blackness. Dived in, guiding her sinking body, the cold water lockjawing his bones, burning his bends and pivots. All the way to the bottom, where his hands felt, pushed, and tucked her away beneath a smooth cliff of river rock. A space madefor a human outline. With eyes closed he pushed her body until he felt rock meet his shoulders and face, both arms extended into the unknown void.
    He surfaced with his mind aching for air, lungs tight and fast expanding. Feeling as though he were breathing through a tractor’s brake line.
    Bishop sat on the bank of river sand and scattered flint, clothes dripping in the evening sun. His teethchattering. Telling himself he had to protect his family from being shamed by his wrongs.
    Somewhere up on the road he heard the slamming of a vehicle’s door. And the faint cranking of an engine disappearing down the distance of the valley.
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    Food steamed on the hickory-grained table. Bishop was out of the river stink of his wet clothes, fresh from the shower, spooning baked cabbage. Grabbinga buttered ear of corn. Then forking two fried pork chops onto his plate, wondering if his wife, Melinda, was waiting for him to confess his sins. What he’d been doing all summer after working at the furniture factory. What he’d ended today. The body he’d hidden on the river bottom.
    â€œRun into Fenton while you was wade fishin’?”
    â€œNo, why would I?”
    Melinda stood next to the stove, twisted theburner knob, and ignited the blue gas flame. Knelt down with a Lucky Strike between her lips and inhaled. Her hazel eyes looked into Bishop’s blue ones. He thought maybe she could see the dead female’s soul floating within the glare of his sight.
    â€œHe’s supposed to go fishin’ this evening down on Blue River.”
    â€œDidn’t see sight nor hair one, ain’t no tellin’ where that boy went fishin’. If heeven went. Probably out drinkin’ with that Beckhart boy again.”
    â€œYou’re one to talk, you been drinkin’ again.”
    â€œSo I had me a few, I’m forty-four, not twenty and breakin’ laws.”
    â€œIt’s the third time this week, used to be on the weekend.”
    â€œWhy don’t you worry about that boy and where he’s at? I ain’t bailin’ his ass out of jail again.”
    â€œHe should be home anytime, ain’t like he’d miss a mealhis mother cooked.”
    As she spoke, they heard their son’s truck pull up outside, the wheels skidding, the steering squeak as he pulled to a stop.
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    The screen door opened and slammed. Fenton stomped into the kitchen with his rusted brown layers of hair peeled back over his head. A face like