Pump Fake

by Michael Beck

  Sweet Jesus, he had always prayed that he would not end up like his father and God had answered him with a resounding no. He was going to be exactly like his father.

  Later, he had frantically buried the child in the basement and locked the door hoping that was the end of it. But it wasn't. He killed again. And again. And again. So many of God's little angels. How many was it now? He couldn't remember. He would have to check the book. He glanced at the ugly, white angel-tattoo on his forearm. He had carved it with a steak knife the same day he had killed the first.

  Everything had started to blur, dim, recede in his mind.

  The horror was not that he had killed so many. The horror was that he couldn't remember.

  CHAPTER 47

  In the photo of the five teenagers, Matt Maxwell looked like a god. He towered over the others, his arms draped over their shoulders as if they were under his protection. He had soft, brown hair that fell over one eye, a beautiful, white smile and movie star good looks. He was a State Athletics Champion, probably going to go to college on a scholarship, and had a 4.0 grade average. He had all of life before him.

  The pudgy man with the blotchy skin and thin receding hair who answered the door could not be him.

  "Matt Maxwell?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  My head involuntarily rocked back from the blast of alcohol fumes.

  "I'm Mark Tanner. I'm a friend of Toby Dyson's. I wonder if I could speak to you?"

  He squinted at me. His eyes were bloodshot and he already had the unmistakable beginning of a drinker's nose. He was dressed in baggy sweat pants and a stained white singlet. I had to remind myself he was Decker's age, only twenty-six.

  "Toby? There's someone I never thought I'd hear from again. Sure, why not? Come in."

  Maxwell was staying in a cheap, rundown motel in Newark. One room, one chair, no TV, threadbare carpet. On the scratched bedside table were several vials of pills.

  Maxwell stumbled over to the unmade bed and lay down. Reaching down, he picked a half-full bottle of whisky off the floor and took a long swig. "Have a seat."

  The one chair had several empty pizza boxes and cans of beer on it. One of the cans had fallen over, spilling beer over the boxes and onto the floor. "No thanks. My last tetanus shot was only last month."

  Maxwell laughed drunkenly. "Yeah, sorry about the place. The maid was late today."

  I hooked a thumb towards the dirty clothes in the corner. "Judging by the smell that's either her or the last person that stayed here."

  "You know those bumper stickers that say my other car is a Porsche? Well, my other place was a mansion."

  "What happened?"

  "Who wants to know? Toby?" he said, mockingly.

  "You know he changed his name?"

  "Troy fucking Decker? Of course I know. I might be a drunk but I'm not an idiot."

  "You never told anyone?"

  "Why should I? That's Toby's business. I can't blame him for changing his name after what happened."

  "Can you tell me about that Thanksgiving weekend?"

  He drank and squinted at me. "Thought you were a friend of Decker's? Didn't he tell you?"

  "He's a trifle reluctant to discuss the events of that weekend."

  Maxwell snorted. "I bet he is. What do you want to know?"

  "What happened that night? Why did Ashley go out into the blizzard?"

  He lay back, staring at me, but I had the impression that he didn't see me. That he was looking at a place eighteen hundred miles away and nine years ago. He drank deeply, and then his expression firmed and he was back.

  "It was like I told the police. Ashley, Franklin and I were drinking and getting high and we fell asleep. When we woke the door was open and Ashley was gone."

  "Decker was in the other room?"

  "Yeah. He and Ashley went into the other bedroom earlier and she came out about ten o'clock."

  "How was she when she came out?"

  "Fine. She wasn't screaming rape, crying or anything, if that's what you're implying. If anything she was really happy."

  "Why?"

  "Why do you think?"

  "You were there not me."

  He shrugged. "She and Toby had just screwed."

  "Did she say that?"

  "Are you joking? You didn't know Ashley. She never talked about stuff like that."

  "Then how did you know they'd just screwed?"

  "I don't know. It was obvious. They'd been in there for an hour and she came out all giggling and happy. What else were they doing? Playing cards?"

  "Was Ashley high?"

  "We all were. We'd been cooped up all day on account of the storm, so there was nothing else to do. By evening we were all pretty wasted."

  "Did Franklin or you touch Ashley?"

  "No. We'd been friends since we were kids. Why would we do that?"

  I shrugged. "She was no kid anymore. She was pretty, wasn't she? Didn't you fancy her?"

  "If you had a pretty sister would you fancy her? I told the police that too, but I could see they didn't believe me. They questioned us for hours, you know."

  "How come Ashley wasn't wearing any panties?"

  "How the hell should I know? I wasn't her mommy."

  "You know what it sounds like to me? You and Franklin were drunk when Ashley came out. You could see she'd just had sex with Decker, so you had a few drinks and put it to her. I don't blame you. You were kids and all of you were high. It wasn't anyone's fault. She'd just had sex with Decker, so you naturally thought she'd put out for you too. I bet you hardly even touched her. She came from such a strict Christian family she probably just got scared when you asked her and panicked. If anything, it was her fault. I can understand why you guys lied. Why should the three of you wreck your whole lives over some girl who just went ape shit. Am I right? Is that how it went down?"

  Maxwell had another drink and wiped his mouth.

  "Nice try, Decker's friend. You think you're gonna waltz in nine years after it happened and trick me into saying something? I don't fucking think so."

  "Did you tell Decker that you'd made a pass at his girl? He must have been pretty pissed?"

  "She wasn't his girl. She was friends with all of us. That was the first time she'd been with Toby. She'd even went out with Kyle."

  "Kyle King? Kyle and Ashley dated?"

  Maxwell's eyes flickered. I could see he regretted his statement. "No, they didn't date. They only went out the once."

  "Why only once?"

  "How the fuck should I know? I wasn't their chaperone."

  "The Fantastic Five, remember? You guys knew everything about each other."

  Maxwell smiled and would have appeared wistful if he wasn't so drunk. Instead, he came across as plain maudlin. "The Fantastic Five," he whispered. "I haven't heard that in nine years."

  He laughed harshly and gestured to his surroundings. "Not so fantastic now, am I?"

  "When did Kyle and Ashley go on this date?"

  "I told you, it wasn't really a date. They just went out for kicks."

  "When?"

  "I don't know. A couple of weeks before that weekend."

  "Okay. So getting back to that night, were you jealous that she went off with Decker? She was your friend too. If she had sex with Decker, why not with you?"

  "I wasn't jealous. I never thought of her like that."

  "But she had grown into a pretty woman. She was no kid anymore and you and Franklin were both drunk. I bet you did more than make a pass at her. She said no and you two got angry and tried to rape her. One of you held her down while the other ripped her panties off. That's why she ran out into the storm, isn't it? Did you tell Decker? I bet you didn't. You were too scared. You didn't know what his reaction would be so you kept quiet about it."

  "You are so full of shit. That's not what happened at all."

  "But Decker suspected it was, didn't he? That's why he was never friends with you afterwards, wasn't it? He knew what you had done, didn't he?"r />
  "He never knew a thing," said Maxwell hoarsely.

  "Never knew what?"

  Maxwell glared at me. "Fuck off. I don't have to answer any of your questions. What difference does it make now anyway? Ashley's dead. Franklin's dead. It was nine years ago. Who cares?"

  "Someone cares," I said quietly. "You think that it's just bad luck what's happened to you three? No one's that unlucky. Someone cares a lot."

  "What do you mean?" His eyes were becoming more unfocused with each drink. He blinked owlishly.

  "I mean someone is out to get even. It's payback time, Maxwell. Someone knows what you did and they're out to get you. If you tell me what happened I might be able to help you."

  "That's a crock. No one is out to get us. There's only Ashley's old man, who has one foot in the grave already, and her mom, who floats around like a goddam butterfly. There isn't anyone else who would care what happened to her."

  "You don't care what happened to her?"

  "Course I do. We were friends. But it was a long time ago and I have my own problems now."

  "You worked for Gilmont Associates, didn't you? That's a well-known stockbroker. Why did you leave?"

  Maxwell lit a cigarette and flicked ash in to the ash tray that lay on his stomach. "I didn't leave."

  "You were pushed, weren't you? What happened?"

  He scowled. "I don't want to talk about it."

  "What's it matter? You're not there anymore, so who cares?"

  "It's not that."

  "What then?"

  "It's why my wife left me."

  "Why did she leave you?"

  He contemplated me as he puffed on his cigarette, and then seemed to come to a decision.

  "I met this girl at a bar where I used to drink after work. Rebecca was her name. She was stunning. Tall, blonde and articulate. She spoke Italian and always wore the most expensive clothes. She said she was a lawyer. I wasn't looking for an affair. Despite what you might read in the papers, I was happily married. But she was there and I was there and she was so attractive. I was stupid. I guess I couldn't believe that such a beautiful woman would want me. I saw her over several nights. Until one night she didn't turn up. When I got home I found my wife waiting for me. Someone had sent her pictures of me and Rebecca. My wife kicked me out. Two days later my boss called me. He had photos of me and Rebecca making love in the office."

  "You bought her back to your office?" I had trouble believing he'd been that stupid.

  "It wasn't my idea. Rebecca suggested it. She said it would be fun, exciting. My boss said it was unprofessional and showed a serious lack of judgment. So, I got fired." He shrugged. "I guess he was right. My wife took my kids and left me and I never saw Rebecca again."

  "Who sent the photos to your wife and boss?"

  "I don't know. They were in a plain envelope. No name."

  I studied him. "And you think no one was out to get you?"

  He shrugged. "I thought Rebecca did it. That she was really some sort of nut job who just hated guys."

  "The photos on your computer and the child sex tape allegations. Are they true?"

  "They weren't mine. I never downloaded them. Jesus, I have two kids of my own. As if I would do something like that."

  "How did they get on your computer then?"

  "You think I haven't asked that question? I don't fucking know. I've gone broke trying to prove that I had nothing to do with them. Look at this fucking place. It's all I can afford now."

  "Why did the police investigate you in the first place?"

  "They said they had a tip off."

  I just raised an eyebrow.

  "You think it was the same person who sent the photos?" said Maxwell slowly.

  "What do you think?"

  He blinked and I could see him slowly trying to think it through. It was like watching someone walk through a tub of molasses.

  "Who would want to do that to me?" he muttered.

  "Did Ashley have any other relatives, apart from her immediate family?"

  "I don't think so. There was never anyone else but her family at her birthday parties."

  "What about friends? Did she have any close girlfriends?"

  "No, she hung out all the time with us. It was a small town so there wasn't much choice."

  "After that weekend, was there anyone else who was particularly angry or upset with you?"

  "The police weren't too happy with us. And if looks could kill, her old man would have finished us off there and then. I can't think of anyone else."

  He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. "I don't understand what's happening." I had to strain to hear him, his words were whispered and slurred. "I told them I didn't do it but no one believes me. I miss my kids and wife. They won't let me see my own kids. They say it wouldn't be safe. As if I would hurt my own kids."

  Tears ran out of the corners of his eyes. "I'm going to lose them. I'm going to lose them all." His head fell to the side and the whisky bottle fell out of his hand. I caught it, stubbed out his broken cigarette, and looked down at what was left of Matt Maxwell, the teenage God.

  Someone had sure done a job on him. Just like they were doing to Troy Decker.

  He mumbled something else and I leaned closer to hear. It was all unintelligible except for one sentence.

  "I don't blame Toby for never wanting to see me. It was wrong."

  While Maxwell slept I searched his room. First I did the obvious: cupboards, pants' pockets, drawers. Nothing. Then I got serious. I checked the toilet tank, heating ducts. I unscrewed light fittings, lifted the carpet. Still nothing.

  Under a pile of paper trash, I found a laptop computer on the table. Hadn't I read that his computer had been confiscated? I opened it and hit the power button. Nothing happened. I got the power cord out of a bag on the table and plugged it in. Still no power. I lifted it up to check the connections. It felt oddly light. I went out to my car, got a knife and pried open the mother-board.

  The insides of the computer had been removed and in their place was a Ziploc bag containing a photo and something bulky. I held it up to see what was underneath the photo.

  Panties.

  Bingo.

  I didn't open the plastic bag until I got back to my Winnebago. I sat at the table and pulled on a pair of disposable gloves. Little Bear sat next to me and watched with interest as I gently pulled out the panties.

  He growled and took a bite at them. I raised them away. "Do you really want to eat nine-year-old used undies?"

  His head dropped and he slunk underneath my bed, shamefaced.

  "Am I going to have to have to lock away my undies too?"

  His head disappeared.

  I went back to Ashley Hunter's panties. They had to be hers. They were X-small, pink and torn in half. There were some stains on them. What, I couldn't tell. I slipped the panties back into the bag and pulled out the photo.

  It was a picture of the Fantastic Five. They were standing in front of what I had come to think of as the Thanksgiving Cabin. They were all laughing as they mimicked muscle-man poses. They weren't wearing any tops except for Ashley, who wore a tank top. Unlike my photo of them, which seemed to have been taken in summer, this one appeared to have been taken in late autumn or early winter. The mountain peaks were covered in snow but the cabin and surrounds were still snow free.

  They were all there. Dyson, Franklin, Maxwell, Hunter and King.

  King.

  I looked again at the snow covered peaks. No, it couldn't be. I studied the photo intently. King, with his arms flexed over his head showing off his biceps, sat on Maxwell's shoulders. Franklin was flexing his non-existent stomach muscles and biceps while pulling a silly face. Ashley stood on Decker's knees, while Decker held her hands, balancing her. They were laughing, oblivious to the camera.

  What grabbed my attention was not the distant snow but Franklin's shoulder. He had a tattoo on his shoulder. FF. Fantastic Five. I switched to Maxwell. On his left shoulder, FF. Then
King. On the inside of his right bicep, FF. My eyes zeroed in on to Decker's left shoulder. I remembered at training seeing a burn scar on his shoulder. Only in this picture there was no burn scar. FF. Fantastic Five.

  I turned and flipped through another folder until I found the picture I had pulled out of the Thomas Jefferson High School year book. Maxwell, Franklin and Decker, bare-chested and dressed only in football pants in the locker room after a game. I examined their shoulders. They all had the tattoo. Even Decker. I read the caption underneath.

  Matt Maxwell, Toby Dyson and Ryan Franklin after the Grizzly game 22 November 2003

  November 22. Five days before Thanksgiving.

  I picked up my cell and called Decker. It was one in the morning but I couldn't wait until tomorrow. The cell rang and I had a fleeting thought. Please don't let Liz answer.

  "Hello?" Decker. There was hope for me yet.

  "It's me, Tan."

  "Tan? Do you know what time it is?"

  "Yeah, just one question. Was Thanksgiving the only time you went to the cabin that autumn and winter?"

  "Who would want to go back there after what happened?"

  "Yes, but you didn't go up there before Thanksgiving?"

  "No, we were too busy with school and then football season started."

  "Okay. Thanks, that's all. I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, one other thing while I have you. When did you burn your Fantastic Five tattoo off?"

  There was a long silence before he answered. His voice was tight with suppressed emotion. "After Ashley died. I couldn't look at it any longer. I got drunk one night and stuck an iron on it."

  This momentarily silenced me.

  "When did you all get the tattoos?"

  He didn't answer.

  "Come on, Troy. What difference does it make?"

  "None, I guess," Troy said slowly, obviously trying to think why I wanted to know. "I don't suppose it matters. We got them on the New Year's Eve before that Thanksgiving. It was a lark. It didn't mean anything."

  He still didn't want to admit his close ties to the group.