by Edward Lee
“I have a seventeen year old myself,” Ann said.
“I know. Melanie. She’s lovely. Oh, and I didn’t mean to imply that you’re wrong to raise her in the city. I only meant—”
“I know,” Ann said.
“We’re happy here, and that’s the important thing.”
“Sure.”
They sat down on a stone bench past the slate. “What’s your husband do?” Ann asked, sipping her iced tea.
Milly Godwin laughed abruptly. “He ran out years ago.”
“I hear that,” Ann said. “Same thing happened to me.”
“I’m not even sorry he left. Rena and I are much better off without him. The bastard left when I was eight months pregnant. This was when your mother started the community assistance program. The town took care of me, then sent me to nursing school. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I was on my own.”
Again, her mother’s shadow reared. This town ran itself among itself. It bred what it needed to exist. It perpetuated from within.
“Lockwood’s New Mothers Program is really good too. If a woman gets pregnant, she doesn’t work for two years but she retains her pay. After that there’s free day care. There’s also a retirement program, an accident program, and an education program. Lockwood takes care of it all. The town has a multimillion dollar investment fund. Jake and Ellie Wynn are trained brokers. Lockwood’s been in the black for decades.”
But how could that be? How could Lockwood, with a population of five hundred, generate such a level of prosperity? The vast farmland to the south was valuable, but it must have taken some risky investments with produce profits to make all this work. Maybe Ann’s mother was smarter than she thought. Nobody was really rich, yet nobody seemed to want for anything.
“I saw your man earlier,” Milly said. “He seems very nice.”
Your man, the words echoed. What an antiquated way to put it, yet it sounded nice. My man, she thought. “He’s a teacher, and a published author.”
“Not bad looking either.” Milly grinned. “But don’t worry, I won’t go gunning for him.”
You fucking better not, Ann thought. “You date anyone regular?”
“Oh, no. Pretty slim pickings in Lockwood as far as single men are concerned. All the good ones get taken right away, and what’s left just hang around, drink beer at the Crossroads. Your mother figured she’d let them have a watering hole at least. Every animal needs a trough.”
Ann nearly spat out her iced tea. “And I thought I was a cynical feminist.”
“It’s not feminism,” Milly said, and sat back. “I see it more as realism. What’s the one thing that all the world’s problems have in common? Men. Not good for much of anything except filling potholes and fixing cars when they break.”
Ann couldn’t help but laugh.
“Why get involved with something that’s going to turn rotten anyway? After they have you, they take you for granted. Pretty soon you find out that you’re married to a couch that drinks beer, watches football, and farts.”
Now Ann was really laughing.
“I can live quite nicely without that,” Milly went on. “And I don’t need a man in my life to feel complete… Oh, but I didn’t mean to imply that your man—”
“I know, Milly, you’re just generalizing, right?”
“Right. And when I need to get laid, I get laid.”
The promptitude of this comment almost stunned her.
“I mean, why mince words, you know?” Milly stood up and traipsed into the dark yard. “It’s like fruit on a tree; it’s out there when you want it. Doesn’t mean you have to marry the tree every time you want an apple.”
Ann laughed again. “That’s some metaphor.”
But Millicent Godwin drifted into a sudden, sentient silence, facing the woods. Suddenly, she seemed reflective.
What was it?
Crickets and peepers echoed back their chorus.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” Milly whispered.
“Yes, it is,” Ann replied. She looked up into the dark. The moon seemed sidled over the horizon, tiny in its ascent, and pinkish.
Milly turned slowly, surreally. In the moonlight her face looked wanton, her eyes large and clear. “Beautiful things are born on nights like these,” she whispered.
Ann stared at her.
“Yes, the most lovely things.”
—
Chapter 12
“I ain’t burying ’em. You’re the expert on that, ain’t you?” Duke chuckled. “How many babies did you bury anyway?”
I’ve got to get rid of this guy, Erik thought. His throat hurt, and he was hungry. Duke lay back in the van’s seat, chugging the last beer. “Dead man’s beer sure tastes better than regular,” he commented. “Something neat about it, you know?”
Erik winced at the two bodies. They’d start stinking soon. There was nothing he could use for a shovel, so he dragged each of them out of the back and into the woods. Their flesh felt clammy, cool. He covered them best he could with leaves. Rest in peace, he thought.
“Say, buddy, I’m like really hungry, you know, like I could eat a horse,” Duke despaired. “How much longer are we gonna sit here anyway? Let’s go get some food, huh?”
Erik went to close the van doors. Duke had the Webley on him, and the shotgun was too far up to reach.
They’d been here all day; they’d have to move sometime. The van would only remain inconspicuous for so long; eventually, the guy and his girlfriend would be reported missing, and the police would put two and two together.
“We’re moving now,” Erik said, his ragged throat throbbing with each word. “I want you to ride in back so you can’t be seen through the windshield.”
Duke looked offended. “What’s the matter? How come I can’t ride up front with you?”
“Because one guy with ridiculous white hair is less conspicuous than two guys with ridiculous white hair. The cops are looking for two guys. Come on, we’ll stop along the way and pick up some food.”
Duke perked up. “Yeah, man! Food! Twinkies!”
Erik shook his head and started the van up. Duke climbed in back. They drove several miles without seeing a single car. Getting into Lockwood would be tough; Pickman Avenue was the only access, and it would take them straight past the police station. Either Bard or Byron—one of them—would probably be on the road. Erik would have to bypass the town and take one of the dirt roads through the woods. Then he could go in on foot.
“Here we go,” Duke said. “Open twenty four hours. Ain’t that somethin’?”
The big sign glowed eerily in the night. Great, Erik thought. Another Qwik Stop. But they were in luck; the parking lot was empty.
Erik pulled in. He wondered if Duke would take his bait. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
“Bullshit, partner. I’m going too.”
“Only one of us can go, Duke. Someone’s got to wait in the van in case we have to get out fast.”
“You wait in the fuckin’ van. I’ll go. What if the guy at the counter asks you something? You can’t talk with that fucked up voice of yours.”
“You’re right, Duke,” Erik went along. “You go. Make it quick, this isn’t a shopping spree. Pick up some food and some batteries for the flashlight, D size. Get the stuff, pay for it, and leave. Don’t talk to anyone, and don’t start any trouble, okay?”
“Gotcha, buddy.”
“I’m serious, Duke. No trouble. We can’t risk it.”
“Don’t worry, man.”
“And don’t kill anybody, right?”
“Right.”
“Come on, Duke. Say it. Say ‘I won’t kill anybody.’”
Duke’s big teeth showed through his grin. “I won’t kill anybody, man.”
“Good. Now make it quick.”
Duke got out and loped into the store. That was easy, Erik considered. He’d gotten Duke out of the van without so much as a hint. There was only one option. Simply driving off and
abandoning Duke wouldn’t be any good. For one thing, Duke would call the police immediately and notify them of Erik’s destination. For another, he’d rape and kill at least a dozen more people before the police caught him. No more innocents, Erik promised himself. He’d never killed anyone in his life, but killing Duke would be the same as killing a rabid dog. You have to kill it, before it gets into the playground.
As predicted, Duke had left the shotgun in back. Erik picked it up and racked a round.
Aw, no, he suddenly thought. Headlights plowed across the lot. A big old Chevy pickup pulled in. Rebel flag in the back window. ZZ Top pumping out. Two guys in jeans and T shirts got out, whooping it up and chewing tobacco. And they were big guys, really big. One’s shirt emblazoned a Confederate flag and read “Try burning this flag, fucker.” The other’s shirt showed a Smurf giving the world the finger. Next, a skinny, pock faced blonde slid out—cutoff jeans, flip flops, tattoos. The three of them were rucking it up real loud, heading for the store. Drunk rednecks, Erik fretted. The only thing worse than rednecks are loud, rowdy, drunk rednecks. Like them.
And Duke didn’t like rednecks.
Duke loped out just as they were about to enter the store.
“Nice hair,” Smurf shirt snickered, though he’d pronounced the word nice as nass.
Buddy, you just made the biggest mistake of your life, Erik thought.
“What was that, pal?” Duke demanded.
The three rednecks laughed. Duke stared. Erik had to admit, though, Duke did look ludicrous: an overweight chronic sociopath with cropped white hair and mismatched bargain rack clothes standing in a Qwik Stop parking lot with one arm around a grocery bag full of Twinkies and Hostess Ho Ho’s.
“Whatchoo starin’ at, fat boy?” inquired Flag shirt.
“Two redneck faggots and a titless chick with a face that looks like it got run over by an aerator. That’s what I’m staring at,” Duke answered.
The three rednecks could not believe this response. It was purely social common sense: talking back to big, drunk, uncultured rednecks was bad enough, but implying that they were of an alternative sexual orientation was exponentially worse.
Finally the stasis broke. Flag shirt spat a stream of tobacco juice onto Duke’s shoe.
“Doesn’t bother me,” Duke replied to the gesture. “It’s not even my shoe. It’s your daddy’s. I took it out of his closet last night when I was fucking your ma. And what’s that you got in your mouth? Dogshit?” Then, to the blonde: “Grow some tits, craterface.”
“You cain’t talk to me like that!” the blonde wailed.
“Shit, honey, I’ve seen sheets of plywood with more chest than you,” Duke then ingratiated her. “And that face—ooo eee! Got more nooks and crannies than a Thomas’ English muffin.”
“Fuck you, you fat pud! Eat shit and die!”
“Your daddy eats shit every night. When he goes down on you.” Duke blurted a coarse laugh. “Know what he told me? He told me you got the biggest pussy this side of the Mississippi. Says you blow farm animals too. That true?”
“Jory! Jim Bob!” the blonde wailed louder. “You gonna let him talk to me like that?”
Ory eyed, Smurf shirt stepped forward. Duke said: “Know what your mama told me last night, I mean, last night when she was shagging my balls? She says you two fellas fuck each other. That true?”
Then Flag shirt stepped up, clenching his fist, which was about the size of a croquet ball and probably as hard.
Duke grinned. “Is it true you blow your dad? That’s what I hear. When your no tit Swiss cheese for a face girlfriend’s not blowing him, that is.”
By now all Erik could do was shake his head.
Duke railed on. “You fudge packing flower sniffing redneck queers just gonna stand there, or are you gonna do something?”
“That’s it, fat boy,” said Flag shirt.
“We’se kickin’ yore fat ass,” promised Smurf shirt.
“Bust his fuckin’ haid!” the blonde screamed.
Duke laughed out loud. “These two pansies? They couldn’t fight their way out of kindergarten class. During naptime.”
Flag shirt rushed.
Duke was pretty good with his technique—it was almost magic. In a split second the bag of Twinkies and Ho Ho’s fell, and Duke’s hand was filled with the big Webley revolver.
The three rednecks froze.
“Wah wah we don’t want no trouble, man,” Smurf shirt stammered.
“Yeah, man,” offered Flag shirt. “We was just funnin’.”
No no no no no, Erik thought.
“Funnin’,” Duke iterated. “Well, I’m just funnin’ too. How’s this for some fun?”
Duke shot Flag shirt square in the head, which instantaneously burst. The report concussed like a cannon shot. Brain pulp slopped on the Qwik Stop window, besmirching a sign: “Briardale Cola! Six for $1.69!”
The girl broke. She’d managed to flee all of about a yard and a half when the second round went off. The Webley’s rudely large .455 slug caught her at the base of the spine, picked her up, and dropped her. Without the support of intact vertebrae, she lay on the pavement, folded in half.
Duke seemed pleased by the effect. “Poor sweet thang,” he mocked in southern drawl. “Looks lak she done blowed her last egg suck dog, shore ’nough, huh, Jim Bob buddy ol’ boy?”
Smurf shirt shivered, splaying his hands. “Look, man, I got money an’ all. Nice truck there too. Take it. Just don’t kill me.”
“Well, that’s mighty generous of you,” Duke responded. “Answer me a question first, okay?”
“Sure, man.”
“Do you have balls?”
Smurf shirt looked cruxed. “Huh?”
“Do you have balls?” Duke repeated more slowly.
“Well, yeah…shore.”
Duke fired the Webley into the guy’s crotch. “Not anymore!” he celebrated. Smurf-shirt collapsed, bellowing and clutching his groin, which now gushed blood quite liberally. Duke laughed all the way back into the store. The clerk was picking up the phone. “Shag my balls!” came the familiar prefix. Another round went off. The clerk’s head exploded.
“Damn if I ain’t good!” he railed when he came back outside. “You see that shot!” he said to Erik. But Erik lowered his head to the wheel, lamenting. Duke fired another round into Smurf-shirt’s head, to finish him off. Then he did the moon walk, guffawing, over to the blonde, who still twitched folded in half. He shot her in the face.
“Goddamn it, Duke!” Erik yelled out the window. “You said you wouldn’t kill anybody this time!”
“I didn’t,” Duke defended himself. “I didn’t kill anybody. I killed everybody!” Then he threw back his head and laughed.
Erik’s hands felt clammy on the shotgun. It felt hot in his lap. Duke took his time extracting the wallets from the pockets of jeans which now clothed dead men. Then he picked up the bag and came back to the van.
“Relax,” he said. “No one left to tell the tale.” But then he opened the passenger door. His gaze locked down on the shotgun, which Erik raised to chest level.
“Why, you cocksucking fairy faggot turncoat motherf—”
Ba BAM!
The 12 gauge spray socked into Duke’s chest. The massive muzzle flash lit the van like lightning. Duke flew back and landed flat on his back. Erik racked another round and fired again into Duke’s torso. Then again, and again.
“Sorry, Duke,” he muttered.
Then he drove off and headed down the dark road.
Erik was a fairly intelligent person. He was also more observant than most. Tonight, though, his vigilance slipped. Earlier he’d noted that the box they’d taken from the Luntville police car contained road flares, ammunition, and sundry supplies. It had also contained a Second Chance brand bulletproof vest.
Erik didn’t notice that the vest was now missing.
—
Chapter 13
The sign blazed tackily in blue neon: Crossroads. The wr
iter in Martin mused over the name’s allegorical possibilities. Dust eddied up from the wood floor’s seams; the door creaked closed behind him. Yes, here was a real “slice of life” sort of bar: a dump. Its frowziness—its rough wood slat walls, old linoleum floor, and wear worn pool table—its overall vacuus spiritum—piqued him. This was not exactly the bar at the Hyatt Regency.
But a beer would go good now, as long as it was a decent beer.
Martin walked up. Only three other patrons graced these eloquent confines, roughened working class types, dusty from a day in the fields. No women could be found. An ancient black-and white TV sported a ball game with the sound low. Martin was glad to see that the Yankees were showing the Orioles it was a long way back to Baltimore.
He waited at the bar. No one seemed to notice him. An inveterate beer snob, he doubted that the Crossroads stocked anything more refined than Carling. The giant barkeep was ignoring him, sipping a mug of draft as he watched the game.
“Excuse me,” Martin interjected.
The keep frowned, and without taking his eyes off the game, said, “You want somethin’?”
An odd reply. “Well, yeah. I’d like a beer.”
“No beer tonight,” the keep replied. “Just blew the last keg.”
Talk about the bum’s rush, Martin thought. “What’s that you and those guys are drinking? Kickapoo Joy Juice?”
“Yeah, home. That’s what it is.”
“Fine. I’ll take one.”
“Sorry. Just ran out of that too.”
Just leave, Martin thought. That would be the wise thing to do. But when he wanted a beer, he wanted a beer. Why were these guys giving him the business? “What is this? I gotta dress black tie to get served in this pit?”
Now the keep looked at him. He set down his beer and came over.
The three other guys at the bar stood up.
“Listen, home, and listen good. You want trouble, you’ll get more’n you can handle.”
“I don’t want trouble,” Martin groaned. “I just want a beer.”
“We don’t serve to outsiders here. If ya don’t live in Lockwood, ya don’t drink at the ’Roads.”
“This has been one pleasant visit,” Martin said. “You guys want to kick my ass because I walk into a bar and order a beer. If I want to fill my car at the gas station, they gonna kick my ass too?”
