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The Wolfman

Page 24

by Nicholas Pekearo


  She put her glasses back on to hide her eyes.

  “You can think what you want about me,” I said, “but there’s more to me than you could ever imagine. There’s a lot I would have liked for you to know about the real me, the me that’s been kind of hidden away for so long, and I feel like now, especially now, with all that’s going on, that’s never going to happen. And I’m sorry about that.”

  “You sound like you’re not going to be around anymore.”

  That was true, one way or the other. “That’s right,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Things have kind of come to a head.”

  “What things?”

  “Things.”

  “There are bands of men looking for the killer in vans and pickup trucks. They have chains, pipes, whatever they can get their hands on, I guess. I hope you’re not one of them. This town doesn’t need that kind of justice.”

  “I’m not a vigilante,” I said.

  “Marley,” she said sadly, “what are you caught up in?”

  “I wish I could tell you.”

  She turned and ran her fingers through her hair. “Everything’s gone to hell so fast. These killings are ruining everything. He got Josie, and now I feel like I’m losing …”

  “Losing what?”

  I thought she was going to say she was losing me too. “Nothing,” she said. “When do you think it’s all going to end?”

  “Soon,” I said. “I promise.”

  I headed back to the truck and said, “Be careful.”

  “You too,” she said.

  I got in the truck and took off. I poured some of the water on a towel and washed my face. It would have to do.

  Anthony the serial killer had once told me that he had a room rented over on Lincoln Street, on the east side of town. After consulting the phone book at a telephone stand, I saw that there were three motels on Lincoln: the Golden Eagle, the Phoenix Inn, and the Night Owl Lodge. All bird names, I thought. What were the odds?

  I pulled up to the first on the list—the Golden Eagle—ran in, and asked the lady at the desk if she had an Anthony Mannuzza staying there. Because of my busted face, she wasn’t exactly willing to answer me like she would for a more handsome bloke, or maybe she—an oatmeal and Bible type—never took to “long-hairs.”

  “That’s privileged,” she said, the two words sounding like two parts to a single fart. If she were a man …

  “Ma’am,” I said, “the guy’s a friend of mine. I know he’s staying on Lincoln, but I’m not sure if this is the place.”

  “Well, maybe you better talk to your friend.”

  I took out Van Buren’s detective shield and said, “Listen, lady, I don’t have time to mess around. Answer the question.”

  She nervously went through the registry, then said, “No.”

  I began to walk out, but then realized the chances were good that he would’ve given a fake name, or maybe Anthony wasn’t his real name to begin with. I went back and gave her a general description of the scumbag, and I probably used the term “prettyboy” more than once. It still didn’t pan out with her.

  “So let me get this straight,” I said. “Even though this guy isn’t staying here, nor anyone that matches his general description, you were still unwilling to answer me when I came in here. How come?”

  “You look like a rock musician,” she said. “I appreciate your honesty. More of a Hank Williams gal, are you?”

  She smiled. I walked out.

  At the other two places, I started with the description, and then said a possible alias was Anthony Mannuzza. These places didn’t pan out either. There was the possibility that he was staying somewhere else entirely, but I didn’t have the time to visit every single motel in Evelyn. I didn’t want to expose myself that much, especially because I was using stolen police property to get my answers, and for all I knew, I was now officially wanted for assault. So I was shit out of luck, but not out of options.

  I drove out to the edge of town to this little bit of land with a log cabin on it. The plaque by the door said “Rose.”

  This was the fancypants liquor-and-skin joint Anthony had taken me to. The lot in front had one car parked in it. It was a European car, and I didn’t know whose it was. I parked the truck, then knocked on the heavy wood door. After several minutes, it opened, and that terrifyingly large bouncer in the black suit stood before me, his squinty eyes drilling holes into my brain. My head began to feel like that scene from Scanners. I wondered how often he had to resort to using his hands on people. I wasn’t sure if I really needed to know, though.

  “Hey, uh, Hyde, right?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I need to speak to someone here about one of your customers.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, showing the badge. “It won’t take a minute. Mind letting me in?”

  He looked behind him, said, “Cop,” and a female voice said something to him that I couldn’t hear. He stepped aside, and I went in.

  Seated at one of the tables was that Samantha girl, the one that was in the schoolgirl outfit the night I was there, but now she was wearing sweatpants and a large Buccaneers T-shirt. She was counting stacks of money and didn’t seem to think anything of it that a cop had come to her establishment. She barely had the energy to look up, but when she did, she got angry, and fast. A look came onto her face that could melt paint off a wall. But she was still adorable.

  “What the fuck is this?” she said. “You’re no fucking cop. Hyde!”

  The man grabbed me by the back of the neck and squeezed.

  “Jesus!” I cried, sinking to my knees because I couldn’t feel my legs anymore.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” she asked me.

  “I need to talk to you for a minute,” I grunted. I felt like I was going blind from the pain.

  “Posing as a cop could get you in a lot of trouble,” she said.

  “My middle name’s trouble,” I said.

  “Mine’s Venus. Don’t tell anybody.” She flashed a smile, but just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone again. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “You know that prettyboy kid I was in here with the other night?”

  “Who, Anthony?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “Anthony … goddamn … I’m looking to find him.”

  “Why?” she said. “That’s private.”

  “Not private enough that you didn’t have to lie your way into my place of business, though.”

  “Well, that’s true. You think you could tell this guy to let go of my neck?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “Who? Anthony?”

  “Yes, you twit.”

  “Well, he screwed me out of a lot of fucking money, and I want what’s mine. That’s all.”

  “Oh yeah? It looked like he was carrying your sorry ass the other night.”

  “It’s poker money,” I said.

  “Whatever. You don’t have to tell me. But he’s a creepy little bastard, so I’ll tell you what I know anyway. One of the girls asked him one night where he was staying. I pulled her aside, because I had a vibe about this guy. I told her not to go with him. She said she wouldn’t, but later on that night I heard him tell her he was staying at a place on Barlow Drive.”

  “Shit,” I said. The bastard had lied to me. “Do you know what place?”

  “Do I look like I’d want to?”

  “Which girl was it?”

  “Helen.”

  “Which one was that?”

  “The one in the blue thing.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Any chance I can get her number?”

  “You’re a funny guy. No.”

  “Do you feel like calling her?”

  “For you?”

  “I’d certainly appreciate it.”

  “No.”

  “Well, please go on, then.”

  “At t
he time, I figured, well, fuck her if she doesn’t want any advice. So she goes with him. And the next day she showed up with bruises all over her goddamn back. The dumb bitch.”

  “Wow, that’s harsh,” I said.

  “Don’t tell me what’s harsh, you fuck. Until you have a vagina, you don’t know what harsh is, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Whatever you say.”

  “Anything else you need to know before you’re banned from my place?”

  “Well …” I thought for a second. Then: “You married?”

  She gave Hyde a look, and he lifted me up by my neck, carried me to the door, and threw me out on the grass. The door shut peacefully. Soon after, I heard Tom Jones playing in there. I think it was “Green, Green Grass of Home.”

  After a few minutes, the feeling in my legs came back, and I went back to the truck. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the sky was a deep royal blue. Time was running short for me. I needed a cup of coffee.

  I didn’t see Frank’s car outside so I pulled into one of the spaces, walked up the stairs, and went in. The bell jangled.

  Abraham was behind the counter, and when he saw me come in I could tell he wanted to smile. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I’m thirsty,” I said. “I hear you make the best coffee in town.”

  I took a seat at the counter. This was the first time I had set foot in the place since I lost my job. I missed the place, the normality it represented for me.

  “What happened to you?” he asked, pointing at my face. “Personality clash?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  Behind me, I heard, “Howdy, Marley.”

  Without turning, I said, “Howdy, Brian.” Abe poured me a cup of coffee, slid over an ashtray, and leaned in close to me.

  “A cop came around asking about you. What have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Nothing, except one bitchin’ headache.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

  I looked away. My head felt like it had been in love with a bag of rocks.

  “Looks ain’t everything, Abraham. If they were, you’d be the loneliest bastard in the world.”

  He laughed, said, “Fine, forget I asked. Am I gonna see you on the news one of these days?”

  “I sincerely hope not. I’m not a bad guy, Abe. Things have just gotten complicated.”

  “I don’t like complicated.”

  “Me neither. I got a question for you.”

  “It ain’t complicated, is it?”

  “Remember that fruitcake that came in here a while back? The prettyboy?”

  “The prettyboy. How can I forget?”

  “When was the last time you saw that guy?”

  “Why? You two gonna run off together?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Marley. This hasn’t been your most glorious month, man. I’m worried about you, and I don’t want to get involved in …”

  “There ain’t nothing to get involved in. Just help me out. Have you seen the kid?”

  “He was in this morning.”

  I smiled, said, “Did he say anything about leaving town?”

  “No, not that I recall. In fact, he was looking for you.”

  “Was he? Good. Did he say anything strange? Did he talk about aliens, or communists, or Charles Manson, or anything like

  that?”

  “I think I’d remember if he mentioned communism.”

  I got up off the stool and briskly headed for the door.

  “You owe me for the coffee!” he shouted.

  “I’m good for it,” I said, and I left. Pearce had been the master at walking out without paying for coffee. It looked like I had stolen that little trait of his.

  I had to go back to hunting. I had twenty-four hours to find the Rose Killer. A police force could scour the whole of Evelyn in a few hours, come up with whatever they wanted. One man looking for a single car would take a hell of a lot longer, but that’s what I did.

  I drove up and down the streets at random well into the night, keeping one eye open for that dusty, black Mach 1 that I had seen so many times before.

  I saw Anthony everywhere and nowhere. My eyes were starting to play tricks on me. Up high, the big moon shone down like a warning. I decided that if the wolf took another innocent person, I’d go to the feds with what I knew about Anthony. It wouldn’t matter if they believed me. Someone somewhere would do some kind of checking or other, and maybe find some proof of what had been going on. After that, I’d take myself out. I would almost have to.

  I was driving east on Main, through the woods. When I got to the water, I took Campbell’s Bridge across, got out of the truck, and checked the waterfront on that side of the river on foot. There were a lot of romantic places to park a car over there, to get it on without being seen, but I didn’t see the Mach 1.

  I headed back across the bridge to Evelyn.

  When I got to the other side, my frustration got the better of me. I punched the dashboard as hard as I could, and with that, this eerie green light sprang up behind all the dials, and music filled the car.

  The radio was working. Creedence’s “Lookin’ Out My Back Door” was playing on KBTO. I laughed out loud. The damn thing had been broken for so long, and all I’d had to do was drop a fist to get it going again. Things were looking up.

  These bright headlights appeared from my left. A car was speeding toward me through the darkness. I figured it would swerve, that it was maybe some drunk kid tooling around the waterfront, but it just kept coming.

  “Holy shit,” I said.

  The car made contact. A noise I’d only heard in movies filled the air, and the truck tipped over on its side, then came to rest upside down. Metal and glass shards perforated the air, tickling me with pain. I wasn’t wearing my seat belt, so I got banged around pretty bad.

  When I got my bearings, I realized I was lying on the inside of the roof, covered in glass. I looked out, and there were a pair of feet standing outside the truck. The feet wore clean, brown leather shoes. The car behind the feet was a blue or black four-door of some kind. I’d never seen it before. The front of it was sizzling with smoke and noise.

  The legs attached to the feet bent, and Van Buren poked his head into the truck. His face looked a little worse than mine did, but after getting bounced off the walls of the truck I didn’t know how bad I looked anymore.

  “Higgins,” he said, “need a hand?”

  “You sonofabitch,” I said, coughing. “I’d just gotten the radio working….”

  “Save it,” he said. “It’s time to end this. You lied about Pearce.”

  “You’re forgetting the bombs, you fool….”

  “Bullshit,” he said, and he pulled his gun with one gloved hand and fired two bullets into me.

  The midnight hour came and went, leaving me behind.

  I pulled myself from the wreckage, clawing at the dirt like it was sucking me under. The truck was smoking, burning. Every breath felt like fire inside me, and every muscle I moved made me want to cry in agony. I wasn’t strong enough to take everything with me. I took the rifle and the handcuffs. I left behind the extra shells.

  I was wet with blood.

  Up high, the moon glared, calling me out. I had thunder in my veins. I went into the woods on my hands and knees. I had to hide. I had to rest. Just for a little while.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When I came to, daylight was pouring down like rain. A rabbit was looking at me from about five feet away like it knew me. I grunted, and it took off.

  When I sat up, my insides cried. I was caked in dirt, and dried blood held my shirt to me like a second skin. Leaves were stuck all over me, and I must have looked half buried. My chest was on fire. That’s where the bullets were. I wasn’t bleeding anymore—it would take a lot more than that to prove fatal for me—but I wasn’t in the best shape of my life. I got up slowly, using the rifle as a br
ace; then, like a zombie cursed to walk the face of the earth, I stumbled west.

  I figured I had to keep to the shadows, seeing as how the police were probably looking for me, or my body, more appropriately, and on the other hand, a guy covered in blood and holding a rifle wouldn’t look like the most appealing thing to the townsfolk. I made it to Old Sherman, but kept to the edge of the woods. Behind me, smoke filled the sky. I had to presume that that was my truck, or if not that, then that paranoid sonofabitch Van Buren had torched the car he tried to kill me with.

  As I made my way along the side of the road, I realized the whole situation was doomed. Van Buren—an officer of the law—had single-handedly ruined my chance at redemption. His paranoia had muddied the last month of my life, and with this little stunt of his, he had basically guaranteed an innocent person’s death. In the shape I was in, and with no ride to boot, my chance was gone. The moon was going to come and go, and for all I knew, the chances were fifty-fifty that the Rose Killer would once again escape the wrath of the beast. The beast, in turn, would commit the same kind of atrocity that its lost target would. I was thankful I had the rifle. I might get the chance to use it after all.

  A couple of hours passed. I’d made it perhaps no more than three or four miles. If I’d had any determination left, I probably would have gotten twice as far, but there was nothing left in me.

  Even though my chest was on fire, I desperately needed a cigarette. I felt at my chest pocket, but it was empty. My front pockets were empty too. “Shit,” I said.

  I reached around to my back pocket. I didn’t have any cigarettes on me, but I found something else. Anthony’s folded photographs.

  I took them out and flipped through them one by one. They were all pictures of the same thing—that stupid tree he’d found in the woods and allegedly wanted to use as his cover shot.

  In one of them, a wide shot, something in the far corner caught my eye. It was a shack, a shanty, hardly any bigger than an outhouse. I’d never seen it before, but it clicked in my head. For him to do what he did with those girls, he needed somewhere to go. He couldn’t have done the murders in his car—I had been in it, and it’s not that the car was clean, because it wasn’t. It was lived-in, but there was no blood. He would need someplace private where he had all the time in the world. I was willing to bet that it was that shack.

 

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