by Jamie Zerndt
When it got too dark to see, Douglas brought out a Coleman lantern for her. “You want me to build you a fire? I wouldn’t mind at all.” Shawna shook her head. “It’ll get cold.” She patted the sleeping bag she’d brought out. “Can I sit with you for a while then?” Shawna looked at him steadily for a moment, and he understood like she knew he would. “Okay, got it. If you change your mind, just come knock on my window.” Nod, nod. “Goodnight, then. I’m sorry, Shawna.”
How much more will you let them take from us?
Shawna waited, curled up beside Seven in her sleeping bag, for as long as she could, but it was like her sleeping bag was full of mosquitoes. At some point, almost like she was sleepwalking, she went into the garage and pulled out her headlamp and spear and her old tackle box. Then she got into her car and, without turning on the headlights, slowly drove off down the road.
Chapter Seventeen:
Douglas
Douglas didn’t need to be at the shop that day, but he decided to stop in and see Marty. Someone in the bar the other night was shooting their mouth off about a sweet spot nobody knew about behind the church. Which was probably true, as Douglas doubted the new priest did much fishing.
“I don’t know,” Marty said, taking a break from doing a whole lot of nothing as far as Douglas could see. “Wasn’t Jesus all about loaves and fishes? Maybe it’s packed full of fish.”
“Loaves? Where do you get this stuff from? I suppose you think the lake is filled with Wonder Bread, too.” Douglas set two lawn chairs out for them on the sidewalk. “You ever tried bacon for bait? I bet that’d work.”
“Sure. We used to use hot dogs when I was a kid.”
“Cooked?”
“Yeah, with ketchup and onions and sauerkraut. No, not cooked, you moron.”
Douglas was about to tell Marty about the silver box his mom had found, about the poems, when a police car pulled into the lot.
“Jesus, what’d you do now? Burn down a giant wooden swan somewhere?”
“Shut up, Marty.”
Douglas had regretted telling Marty about the loon incident, but he’d needed to tell someone. It wasn’t every day, after all, that he committed a felony. And while he could have chosen a better confidant, Marty, as far as he knew, had kept his mouth shut about it.
“Afternoon, boys.”
Chris Turner had graduated a few years ahead of them, but they’d both heard the stories about how he liked to bully the freshmen. Pretty much nobody liked Chris Turner. And, to make things worse, once he became a cop, the jerk had started demanding that people call him Christopher, rather than Chris, which is what he’d always gone by in high school.
“Hey, Chris. Heard you broke up Little Tyler’s party the other night at, like, 10:30. Things that slow for you guys?”
Officer Christopher glared at Marty briefly before directing his answer to Douglas. It was always like this. Marty was a step above a cockroach in his eyes because he wasn’t the owner. Even Mercer had a kind of caste system. “We had numerous complaints from neighbors. They knew better.”
“So what brings you in?” Douglas said, all polite like he was talking to somebody’s grandmother. It was something he’d picked up from his dad. “She giving you trouble again?”
The police and fire department had a contract with a bigger shop, A-1 Mechanics, on the outskirts of town but Norm had always taken care of the local cops if they had something small that needed doing. And, of course, they also wanted it kept off the books.
“Something’s not right. If I get her up past sixty, it starts making this sound.”
“What kind of sound is it?” Marty said, sounding deadly serious though Douglas knew otherwise. “It’ll help us out if you could, you know, sort of reenact it for us.”
“It’s like this whirring sound. Whirrrrrrr.”
“Well, that would definitely be a whirring sound, Chris. Anything else you can tell us? You know, to narrow down the suspects.”
“Well, it tends to happen on Wednesdays and Thursdays for some reason.”
“Wednesdays and Thursdays, Douglas. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“We’ll get it up on the lift and take a look,” Douglas said, trying his best to keep a straight face. “Just give us a few minutes.”
“Fine by me. Maybe I’ll head down to that new coffee shop, see this new owner people are talking about.”
“She’s an artist. Isn’t that right, Douglas?”
“I’m sure Officer Christopher here would prefer it if we figure out what’s wrong with his ride rather than sit here and gossip.”
“Speaking of gossip, we found some arrowheads stuck in the goddamn loon. Don’t go talking about that now; it’s police business. But I was thinking about that Burning Men Festival all those artist types go to. Maybe this coffee shop owner is one of them. I mean nobody ever set the Loon on fire before, and now here she is moving into town only recently, right?”
“Wow,” Marty said, taking the keys from him. “I never would have thought of that. But, then again, that’s probably why I’m not a cop.”
“That’s definitely why you aren’t a cop.”
Douglas powered up the lift. “She’s not like that. She’s a decent person.”
“Well, they’re all decent. Before they’re not. I guess I’ll find out soon enough for myself.”
Once Officer Christopher had left, Marty drove the cruiser onto the lift. When he got out, he was smiling, shaking his head. “Mercer’s finest, ladies and gentlemen.”
“He’s alright.”
“He’s alright? He’s sure as shit a long way away from alright.” When Douglas didn’t respond, Marty added, “All I know is if that were my girl, I’d at least warn her a storm of dickhead was headed her way.”
“She’s not my girl, but she can handle herself. I’d be more worried about him.”
“Fine. But you mind telling me why you’re always in such a hurry to help him? We both know we’ve got other shit needs getting done.”
“It’s just good business. That’s all.”
“You sound like someone trying to do an impersonation of Norm.”
“Well, I guess I kind of am an impersonation of Norm seeing as I’m his son. Can we just get this over with, please?”
“Jeez, okay. What’s eating you? You get that coffee woman pregnant or something?”
“The cruiser, Marty.”
“You got the cruiser pregnant? Wow, it’s more serious than I thought.”
Douglas ignored him and busied himself running a few checks though he already knew it was a fuel line issue. Marty, in a rare feat, managed to be quiet for nearly an entire fifteen minutes before breaking the silence.
“So are you worried Officer Chris suspects something? About the loon, I mean.”
“No, but let’s not give him any reason to.”
“Easier said than done. That guy’s suspicious of puddles.”
“It’ll be fine. They probably think it was just a couple of drunk teenagers.”
“Uh, it basically was a couple of drunk teenagers.” Marty shined a light up through the bowels of the engine. “Anyway, it’s just not like you, man. You don’t do stuff like that.”
“Well, maybe I do now.”
“Now? So, like, you’re going to burn shit down on the regular now?”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah, Kay would just love that.” Marty paused, then added, “She doing alright now?”
“You saw her that night. You think she’s doing alright?”
“I don’t know. I just figured she had one too many. Plus, her being old, you know. Their brains must be tired by that age. So they, you know, slip sometimes.”
“Slip?”
Marty nodded. “Sure. Happens all the time.”
Douglas was about to tell him the news s
ince Marty was going to find out one way or another eventually, but Officer Wonderful came back.
“Any verdict yet?”
“Guilty,” Marty said and shined the light in his face. “On all counts.”
Douglas hurried over, lowered Marty’s hand. “I haven’t spotted anything out of the ordinary yet, but I’ll go ahead and flush out your fuel line just in case.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes.”
“Better make it fifteen. Hey, this coffee she made is like candy. You should get yourself one sometime.”
“So the town arsonist made a good cup of Joe, huh,” Marty said. “Good to know.”
“Oh, she’s no arsonist. Maybe a druggie, but no arsonist. I don’t know how she expects to run a business with all that crap hanging on the walls.”
“I like them,” Douglas said quietly.
“Me, too,” Marty said, “though I haven’t seen them yet.”
“Whatever,” Officer Christopher said, still not bothering to look at Marty. “Nice gal, though. And pretty, too. Even with that hair of hers.”
“So who’s next on your list of suspects then? Maybe you think Douglas and I torched the bird. Maybe there’s nothing really wrong with your car at all.”
“Well, did you?”
“I did not, Officer. But I can’t speak for my esteemed colleague here.”
Douglas shot Marty a look. “I’m sure he’d much rather we finish the job. How about we focus on that?”
“I believe they refer to that as evasion.”
“I didn’t burn down the fucking Loon, okay? Satisfied?”
“Uh, yeah, totally satisfied. How about you, Officer?”
“You two are something else. That’s all I know.”
Marty laughed. “Norm always said that, too. And then he’d say And when I figure out what, I’ll let you know.”
Officer Christopher didn’t so much as grin at this, which probably shouldn’t have surprised anybody. The guy’s idea of funny probably had something to do with torturing small rodents. Once they’d finished with the cruiser and Officer Christopher was safely on his way, Douglas, in a voice trembling with anger, said, “What in the hell was that all about?”
Marty was at the sink, lathering on the Go-Jo. “Yeah, sorry about that. I didn’t expect you to react all weird like that.”
“It’s a felony, Marty. So, yeah, I was a little nervous about it, especially around that psychopath.”
“I just thought it might throw him off. Like reverse psychology and all that.”
“Well, it didn’t. If anything, the moron probably thinks I did it now.”
“Probably thinks you murdered someone, too. I mean the way you were acting and everything. I mean, Jesus.”
“Marty.”
“Yeah?”
“Shut it.”
“Right.”
By the time Douglas got to the bar, Marty was already three well whiskeys deep, not to mention the handful of Leineys he’d probably had in his car beforehand. When Douglas sat down across from him, Marty, a faint slur already going, said, “Don’t you have a shoe that needs gazing at?”
“I see you’re at the witty stage already.”
“So what brings you down here anyway? Jenna leave you already?”
“I was hoping Shawna might be here.”
“She hates this place.”
“Just thought she might. You not hear about Seven?”
“No. What?”
“Somebody poisoned him.”
“Seriously? With what?”
“Foxglove. They think so anyway.”
“Fox what? Sounds like a perfume.”
“It’s a flower, dumbass. Apparently, it’s poisonous if you eat enough.”
“What kind of asshole would do something like that? Does she know?”
“She’s not saying much.”
“What a wonderful world.”
The bar was surprisingly full considering it was past ten. Peyton Crane was there, unusually quiet for once, possibly exhausted from spouting off his usual bullshit to those eager to hear anything other than their own miserable thoughts.
“Are you going to go look for her?”
“She probably went to see Elmer is my guess.”
“Yeah, nothing like death to get the old juices flowing.”
“Ease up, Marty.”
“What? It’s true. Funerals are like aphrodisiacs for...” Marty stopped himself, catching the look Douglas was giving him. “Right, okay. But you get my point.”
“Sure.”
There was some laughter at the bar, only it sounded to Douglas more like a long, cackling fuck-you.
“What are they so worked up about?”
“Something about Indians being worse than Mexicans because at least Mexicans can cook decent food.”
“I thought you’d be all over that.”
“Nah, I actually like Mexicans.”
“How noble of you.”
“The priest was in here earlier. You just missed him.”
“That’s a shame. Was he wearing his Birkenstocks?”
“He was. Sat at the end of the bar, near the door. I think he likes having an escape route.”
“Can’t blame him. Not with these assholes here every night.”
“They tried to get him into a debate, something about Indians going to hell for being heathens, but he wouldn’t bite. He just kept telling them to come visit him in his office or come to Bible study class.”
“I’m sure that went over well.”
“The usual sniggering.”
“But not you?”
“No.”
“Are you ill?”
“Funny.”
“So?”
“So, nothing. I guess I’m just tired of it.” Marty paused, stared down into his drink. “It’s like Shawna and her people have always been here, you know. And, like, we’re the tourists.”
“You’re just realizing this now?”
“No. But I don’t really care either. Someday someone else will be sitting here drinking cheap whiskey and talking shit about white people. It’s kind of just how things work.”
“You had me worried there for a second. I thought maybe you felt guilty or something.”
Marty shook his head, then, lowering his voice, “Do you think you’ll ever leave here? I mean, is this it?”
“You mean move somewhere? Why? Do you want to move somewhere?”
“No, I’m just becoming convinced nobody ever really gets out of here. Like the idea of leaving is just all Hollywood-type thinking.”
“People leave all the time, Marty. Remember Sharon?”
“She got married and moved to Chicago with that dentist guy. That’s one, I guess.”
“You’re just drunk. People leave all the time. Why don’t you? It might be good for you.”
“Because I like it here. That’s the difference between you and me. And maybe there’s nowhere to go really. Maybe it’s all just the same shit more or less. Look at Jenna. She chose to move here. That has to say something.”
“Look at those guys.” Douglas nodded to the bar, at Peyton Crane who was stooped over so low at this point that his forehead was only inches from the bar. “Bunch of Cro-Magnon turd balls.”
“There’s a lot of good people here, too. You know that. Your mom being one of them.”
Douglas nodded. His mom. She was a saint compared to most people. “I guess we both got lucky in that department.”
“I guess we did.”
By the time Douglas gave Marty a ride home, the bar had emptied out, save for the drooling heap at the bar. As they left, the bartender was calling Peyton Crane a cab.
Chapter Eighteen:
Sun Ceremony
The first hook was the most difficult. She had worn latex gloves, something she’d had stored out in the garage for when she didn’t want her hands to get dirty while grooming. But, even so, touching the man’s white skin revolted her. She had expected him to wake up once the first hook pierced the skin, but when he started bucking and trying to scream, she was nearly thrown clear off the bed. But Shawna had used plenty of rope to tie him to the bed, all those different knots Elmer had once taught her finally coming in handy. The duct tape over the mouth had been the last thing she’d had to do and it was the one thing that made her feel like some kind of serial killer. But she was glad now that she had. Peyton Crane was screaming for all he was worth, the veins in his forehead bulging something fierce. And, still, Shawna had trouble feeling much pity for the writhing, wailing lump of fat on the bed.
She pinched the flesh on his back together and inserted another hook. Which wasn’t exactly easy. Skin, in general, was tough. Fat or otherwise. And the fish hooks all had barbs on them. This didn’t matter so much going in, but every time the idiot squirmed or bucked, they would chew into him, causing more of a mess. His back was already dripping with blood, the lines crisscrossing back and forth like an intricate web. It looked, Shawna found herself thinking vaguely, like an abstract painting.
A couple more hooks ought to do it and then she would try to hoist him up off the bed a few inches. A delicate task. One, the hooks could very well just tear out. This wasn’t a young, slim, muscular and beautiful Chippewa boy after all. Which was why she’d decided to use so many hooks. It was about physics, surface area and tension. But even if the hooks did hold, there was no telling if the ceiling fan would. She had gotten lucky there, having had no other plan in mind if there wasn’t something to string him up by. Her plan B was to simply hook him anyway and then pull on the strings herself. Even getting in had been easy since the moron had left the back door unlocked. And tying him up hadn’t been too tough, either, since he’d been passed out drunk. Something Shawna had been counting on due to months of tracking his schedule, but she had brought the spear as backup just in case. And she’d made sure the kid wasn’t there. This, too, she knew beforehand due to her back-porch stalking.
