The Walking Man

by Anthony Izzo

  “You’re insane.”

  “You’ll take my place. Then you’ll have a debt to pay.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” Tom said.

  “Sadly, you can’t,” the man said.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “The last Walking Man made me. He killed my family. They died screaming. Then he made me into this. It was right after I came back from the war,” he said. “See?”

  He lifted up his shirt, showing melted, puckered skin. A strange symbol that looked like a jagged Z had been carved into the skin. “He made me. Now I’ll make you.”

  He was on Tom in a matter of seconds. Tom felt the knife in his guts, a searing pain that stole his breath. The man pulled the knife out and Tom fell to the floor. The man rolled Tom onto his back, lifted his shirt, and carved the odd, Z-shaped symbol into his chest. Blood ran into the cracks of the hardwood floor.

  The man stood up and left. Tom attempted to crawl, but the fire in his guts forced him to stop. He wanted to curl up and die. A groan escaped his lips. He’d been stabbed deep in the belly.

  He heard the back door slam and then the man’s heavy footsteps. He looked up into the dead eyes. Saw the gas can in the man’s hands. Tom recognized it as the gas can for the tractor.

  The Walking Man tipped the can and splashed gasoline over Tom, the fumes stinging his eyes. He coughed, which made the pain in his belly flare up.

  “Now you will see. My time’s done. You’ll know when your time is up, and then there’ll be someone to take your place.”

  Tom heard a match pop and then the whoosh of flame. He tried to move, but the pain in his belly surged, and he blacked out.

  This was some sad shit, O’Bannon thought. First the kid offs the guy’s daughters, and now this. He stood in the dining room of the huge mansion with a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. The handkerchief had been dipped in Old Spice, although it wasn’t doing much to cut the stench of burning flesh.

  “Of all the ways to go, why this?” Rogowski said.

  His partner was starting to look a little green. His skin had taken on a gray cast, and sweat filmed his forehead. “You gonna puke?”

  Rogowski said, “I’ve seen worse than this.”

  They’d found an empty gas can near the corpse. Someone had called the fire department after seeing smoke, and they’d put the fire out within ten minutes after it started. Still, they’d need dental records to positively ID the body.

  “You think it’s him? Tom Harwell?” Rogowski said.

  “Don’t see who else it would be,” O’Bannon said.

  The fire chief entered the room. He was a barrel-shaped guy with a thick mustache. “Poor bastard. It’s Harwell, isn’t it?”

  “It seems that way,” O’Bannon said.

  “Suicide?” the chief said.

  “We’ll have to dig a little, chief,” Rogowski said.

  “Hell of a way to go,” the chief said. As he left, his rubber boots smooched on the soaked floor.

  “Look around then we’ll bag him up,” O’Bannon said.

  “Think anyone killed him?”

  “Doubtful. Burning someone alive isn’t likely and I’m thinking if they wanted to cover tracks, they would’ve burned the whole place down. I just want to close this up. This town’s had enough death for a while.”

  “Sad way to end,” Rogowski said.

  “Ain’t it?” O’Bannon said.

  Later that night, after the coroner’s van had hauled Thomas Harwell’s charred corpse away, O’Bannon was relaxing with a Budweiser and a pizza from Leonardi’s. The Reds and the Mets were playing and it was tied going into the seventh.

  He was on his third slice of pizza when the phone rang. “Goddammit.”

  He set his plate and beer on the television tray. Went and answered the call. “This better be good.”

  “Frank,” Rogowski said. “Can you meet me at the county morgue?”

  “That’s not the best place for a first date,” O’Bannon said.

  “Quit fucking around. This is weird shit. Serious.”

  “Let me guess, there’s a dead guy with a fourteen-inch dick and everyone’s going to take a peek.”

  “Just meet me there, okay? The goddamned coroner himself called me. Sounded like he was having a stroke.”

  “Fine,” O’Bannon said. “Give me a half hour. This better be good.”

  The coroner was waiting for them outside the county morgue. He was a pale, thin man with a scraggly beard. Longish hair, enough to cover the ears. He wore a brown suit with an orange paisley tie. O’Bannon couldn’t place exactly how old he was. Could’ve been forty. Or sixty.

  They approached him.

  “Mader, right?” he whispered to Rogowski.

  “Yeah. Brian Mader.”

  “Thank God you two are here,” Mader said.

  O’Bannon noticed the morgue was lit up. “Doing some late night cutting, doc?”

  “I was working late, yes.”

  Rogowski said, “What’s so important?”

  “Yeah, I gave up pizza and the Mets for this,” O’Bannon said.

  “Easier if I show you. Although I don’t want to go back in there.”

  “Relax doc, we’re armed. And they’re all dead,” O’Bannon said.

  The doctor gave a thin smile and opened the door.

  The smell of antiseptic and cigarette smoke lingered in the hallway. O’Bannon knew the smoking lounge wasn’t far off the lobby. Dr. Mader led them down a corridor and they turned right, passing through a chilled room with bagged bodies waiting their turn. He took them into the autopsy room, where O’Bannon noticed a gurney with an unzipped body bag on it.

  “Detective O’Bannon, please look at the tag on that body bag,” Mader said.

  O’Bannon went to the bag, held the tag up. It read: Thomas Harwell. There was a long series of numbers written in ink after his name. The stink of burnt flesh and hair drifted from the bag. “So where is he? In one of the drawers?”

  “Yeah,” Rogowski said, “did you call us here to play find the stiff?”

  Mader cleared his throat. “I’m glad you think this is funny. I went through that door, which leads to my office. I wasn’t in there ten minutes when I heard a thump. When I came out to investigate, Harwell’s body was gone.”

  “Who the hell would take it?” O’Bannon said.

  “No one. You didn’t let me finish. Do you see them?”

  “See what?” Rogowski said.

  “The footprints. See?” he pointed at the floor.

  O’Bannon looked down and saw bare footprints leading out of the room, to the corridor where they’d come from. They looked sooty to him. How hadn’t he noticed them? “You’re not saying what I think you are?”

  “I came out here to see Thomas Harwell leaving the room. I followed because I didn’t believe what I was seeing.”

  Rogowski said, “Did you ask him nice to get back in the bag?”

  “I stepped into the hallway. His back was to me. He turned around and his eyes were like the whites on a fried egg.”

  “So he’s not dead? He looked pretty deep fried to me,” O’Bannon said.

  Rogowski said, “So obviously someone took his body. Maybe a morgue employee screwing with you?”

  “No one else is here, and our staff is very professional. We treat the dead as if they were family.”

  O’Bannon imagined the dour doctor on a television commercial. He’d be wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat and a bad suit: Come on down to Mader’s Morgue. We treat ya like family! First twenty stiffs through the door get a free cavity search!

  Frank stifled laughter.

  “Something funny, detective?”

  “It’s nothing. Someone’s messing with you. Or you’re fucking with us,” O’Bannon said. “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  “What about the footprints?”

  “You’ve got somewhat of a point, but if you expect us to believe Tom Harwell got up and walked away, the cheese has
slipped of your cracker.”

  “I know what I saw,” Mader said. Some color rose in his cheeks.

  “We’ll do you a favor and sweep the grounds before we go, but we ain’t gonna find him,” O’Bannon said.

  “You think I’m lying.”

  “Get some rest doc,” Rogowski said.

  They followed the footprints down the hallway, where the corridor came to a T. They continued to the left, to a door with a panic bar. Above the door was an exit sign.

  The footprints ended at the door.

  “Okay, so that’s a little creepy,” Rogowski said.

  O’Bannon drew his service revolver, a Smith & Wesson .44.

  Rogowski did the same. O’Bannon slid forward and kicked the door open. The night air whooshed in.

  The two detectives slipped out into the rear parking lot. O’Bannon looked around and saw no one. There were faint traces of soot on the asphalt, but no way to determine which way the intruder went.

  They swept the lot and found no one. O’Bannon holstered his weapon. Rogowski did the same.

  “Why would someone make off with a body?” Rogowski said.

  “Sick people around.”

  “You don’t think-“ Rogowski said.

  “That he got up and walked out?”

  “Maybe the fire didn’t kill him.”

  “I think I want to go home and finish my pizza. And tell the good doctor to lock his doors when he’s here at night.”

  Ten

  Chris was finishing stocking the last of the Coca Cola in the cooler. It was almost ten o’clock, close to quitting. He still had to sweep the floor before he could leave.

  Mr. Shaw, the manager, stood behind the counter. He watched Chris over his rimless glasses, which were forever on his nose. “You can head out after that, Chris. Sweep in the morning.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure as shit. Don’t worry about it tonight.”

  Chris finished putting the two liter bottles in the cooler, picked up the plastic trays they came in, and took them to the stock room. He stacked them against the wall. The vendor would come pick them up this week.

  He clocked out and grabbed his backpack. As he passed Mr. Shaw, he said goodnight.

  “Hey,” Mr. Shaw said as Chris was almost out the door.

  “What’s up Mr. Shaw?”

  “Call me Mike, I told you that. You got a ride?”

  “My dad’s pulling up now.”

  “Good. Things happening around town. You shouldn’t be walking alone.”

  “Thanks Mike. G’night.”

  His dad pulled up in the Tundra, the headlights spearing Chris in the eyes. He climbed in the truck. Dad was wearing his work pants and a white t-shirt.

  “Shaw let you go a little early?” Dad said.

  “Yeah. Said I could sweep up in the morning.”

  That got a nod of appreciation from his dad.

  Dad backed the truck out and pulled onto the road. They drove in silence until they got near the old Harwell place. He was staring out the window when his dad muttered, “Fuck. Hang on.”

  The tires squealed and Dad threw an arm bar across Chris’ chest to keep him from going forward. Chris looked out and saw a hooded man standing in the road, not five feet from the truck’s grill.

  Dad rolled down his window, stuck his head out, and said: “You fucking numbnuts!"I almost hit you!”

  “Dad, I think-“

  “Quiet, Chris. Are you gonna move?”

  The man had a can of something in his hand. He flicked his wrist and splashed something all over the truck’s hood. That put his father into nuke mode. He started to get out of the car. Chris grabbed his belt to try and stop him. “Dad, what if that’s the killer?”

  “Killer or no killer, I don’t give a shit.”

  Chris’s fingers ached. He held the belt. Dad was dragging him across the seats, halfway out the door.

  The guy was at the driver’s side door and Chris saw him whip out a knife from his belt. This time, Chris let go of his dad’s belt. Dad gave a grunt and doubled over. The guy pulled back and ran. His dad slumped on the ground against the side of the truck.

  Chris hopped out and went to dad. Blood spread across his white t-shirt. His face was twisted into a look of agony. Chris knelt down and looked at the wound. There was a purplish gash in his stomach.

  “Bastard got me good. Hurts.”

  “I’m calling for help,” Chris said, and took out his cell. He dialed nine-one-one and when the dispatcher came on, he had to take a deep breath to calm himself and get the words out. He managed to tell the dispatcher that his dad had been stabbed. Then he relayed their location.

  The dispatcher kept him on the phone, instructing him to keep pressure on the wound with something. He found a few clean rags in the back of the Tundra and pressed them on Dad’s belly. That made Dad howl and he felt terrible doing it.

  It seemed like a half hour before the ambulance pulled up, but in reality it was only minutes.

  “Hang on Dad.”

  “I’m trying kid.”

  Dad was whisked up to surgery. They didn’t tell Chris much and he was alone in the surgical waiting room, save for a red-haired nurse at the desk. A television played a Seinfeld rerun. The laugh track was getting on his nerves.

  He went to the desk. The nurse looked up and smiled.

  “Are there any updates on my dad?”

  “Peters, right?” the nurse said. Her nametag identified her as Ashley.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out. Do you want anything? We have water and juice.”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  She stood up. “Let me see what I can find out.”

  She left the waiting room, red hair bouncing in a ponytail as she went. She was maybe five years older than him and he wondered for a moment what it might be like to kiss those pretty, red lips.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. Hope’s picture came up on the phone.

  Chris answered.

  “Can you come over?”

  He could hear the panic in her voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “The police are here. Someone broke in and painted a bloody symbol on the wall.”

  She was on the verge of tears.

  “Okay, slow down. I’m at the hospital right now.”

  “Hospital? Are you hurt?”

  “My dad’s been stabbed. Some guy walked out in front of our truck.”

  “Omigod, Chris, is he okay?”

  “He’s in surgery. The nurse is getting me an update,” Chris said. “He got stabbed in the stomach. Are you okay?”

  “The police are here, but my dad’s out of town. He can’t catch a flight until tomorrow morning. I don’t want to stay alone.”

  Chris said, “My aunt’s on her way up. I could ask her to pick you up. She has to go through town on her way.”

  “You think she would? I’m really creeped out. I saw him.”

  Chris said, “Was he wearing a hood and a long coat?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “He’s the one who stabbed my dad. Right before that, he splashed paint on the truck.”

  Hope’s voice cracked, “I don’t think it was paint.”

  He hadn’t thought of it. Blood on the truck. He’d been too worried about his dad. “They won’t leave you alone, will they?”

  “I’ll tell them I’m getting picked up.”

  “Let me call my aunt. I’ll meet you in the lobby. We’re at Mercy.”

  “You’re a sweetheart,” she said.

  His face flushed a little at that. “I’m glad you’re okay. See you soon.”

  O’Bannon got home to find his pizza cold and his beer warm. The Mets had blown it in the ninth inning, giving up three runs. That had been some weird shit out at the morgue; he and Rogowski had agreed not to talk about it. The doc had agreed to let it go. If anyone came to claim Harwell’s body, it was going to be officially labeled “misha
ndled.” Although losing a corpse wasn’t exactly like losing a sock in the wash.

  He took the leftover pizza and stuck it in the fridge. Dumped the remainder of his beer down the drain. He contemplated getting a fresh beer and decided he was in need of refreshment. From the fridge he pulled a bottle of Bud. He grabbed the bottle opener from the drawer and popped the top. Took a long swallow. Tasted good.

  He took a seat at the kitchen table. The house wasn’t big, but it was neat and clean. The landlord had painted everything before O’Bannon moved in, plus he gave Frank a good deal on the rent. O’Bannon suspected it was because he’d chased off some bullies who were threatening the landlord’s daughter. Whatever the reason, it was cheap and he liked it.

  O’Bannon had a view of the neighbor’s backyard, the guy’s Mustang cloaked in shadow.

  That son-of-a-bitch would be out there revving the damn engine on Saturday morning, like he did every week. One of these days O’Bannon was going to hand him a ticket for violating noise regulations.

  He spotted someone moving in the shadows. They slipped past the car and around the garage. O’Bannon wasn’t sure, but the guy looked like he was wearing very little clothing. What the hell?

  O’Bannon watched the yard for a few minutes, finished his beer, and convinced himself he was seeing things.

  Still, he got up and made sure the doors were locked. Then he rinsed out his beer bottle and decided to hit the sack.

  Eleven

  His Aunt Megan was pretty cool. Her hair was currently dyed somewhere between purple and blue. She had a full sleeve of horror tattoos. She was a writer who’d scored a big deal for a series of YA dystopian fiction. On the side, she did artwork for tattoo shops. She was ten years younger than Dad, and he never seemed to approve of his younger sister’s choice of vocation.

  It was no surprise that she’d picked Hope up without giving it a second thought. She just did those kind of things.

  Now, they were seated in the surgical waiting room sipping Tim Horton’s coffees.

  While he’d waited for his aunt to arrive, the red-haired nurse had told him Dad still had a way to go.