White Birch Graffiti

by Jeff Van Valer

  “We need you to stop touching things,” Lewis said.

  “Because otherwise, this van looks just hunky-dory?”

  “Compared to what it’d look like covered in blood on the inside?”

  “No doubt, man. But I’m bleeding everywhere. So are you, by the way.”

  Lewis put his hand to his face. He cursed and pulled to the side of the road, cutting the one functioning headlight. He dug around behind the driver’s seat and produced a cellophane-wrapped bundle of blue surgical towels. He ripped the package open, and they each took one. Dabbing at their bleeding faces as Lewis drove again, they headed for the bright lights of the gas station.

  “We can’t go up there,” Mr. Gray said. “They’re gonna call the cops.”

  Lewis said nothing and ground his teeth.

  “We got witnesses that’ll recognize the van.”

  Lewis leaned toward the steering wheel and stepped on the gas.

  “Lewis. We can’t go up there. You know we got a headlight out?”

  Lewis floored the accelerator.

  “Dammit, man!” Mr. Gray said. “The hell you doin’?”

  “Just keep the towel on your face.”

  Mr. Gray worried about his partner-gone-rogue. In this business, arguments weren’t good. If Lewis weren’t so bloody and wanted to cut and run without the rest of the money, Mr. Gray would be a dead man. But that they shared wounds somehow leveled the field. They’d each need the other’s help to escape. Lewis’s bleeding nose might be the only thing standing between him and a bullet in Mr. Gray’s head.

  One awful minute passed. The light from what was obviously a truck stop and interstate off-ramp lit their bloody faces.

  “Lewis.”

  “We’re just taking a drive around. If there’s no sign of him, then we’ll get out, but I just need to be sure. I am not gonna miss him again if I don’t have to. And I’m talking, we do him no matter what. From the window of this van if we can. In cold blood. In front of a damned crowd. I don’t care.”

  “You can’t do that shit, ma—”

  “Hell I can’t! We just about have to. He’s the worst witness we’ve ever had. He knows our faces. I mean, look at yours. He’s a doctor. He knows lacerations, and he’ll for damned sure know the ones he put on you. And he’ll remember the hell out of me, too. He… memorized my face in that bar.”

  “Now whose fault is that?”

  “Fuck off.”

  After another minute, an old building approached on the right, casting a harsh shadow and not quite hiding the Trans Am.

  “Lookie here.” Lewis pointed at the car.

  “Huh… looks like my partner might have some brains after all.”

  “You know it, man,” Lewis said, his lips drawing tight and separating in front of his blood-tinged teeth. He pulled the van up to the open store’s parking lot, driving around the back of the building, where it was dark, and around to the other side. As Lewis idled through the complex’s shadowy fringes, Mr. Gray studied each face he could see. Lewis stopped just outside a wash of light, where Mr. Gray would have stopped (if, hypothetically, he’d been stupid enough to take a chance like this). The semi-trucks slept on the other side of the building. A lean access road behind them led to the abandoned building and provided a view down the straight, dark road back to town. Despite the snow, any car lights—especially the spinning, flashing variety—could be seen all the way back to Pissbucket proper. Over the next minute, vehicles lazily entered and exited the parking lot at the main entrance. One car stopped at the air pump. Lewis dropped the lever into park.

  “We gotta ditch this van, Lewis.”

  “Yes. I know that.”

  Lewis wore a kind of game-face Mr. Gray didn’t like. Slowly, quietly, he slid his hand inside his coat and gripped his reloaded, silenced 9mm. He settled his gaze on his partner’s wriggling temple.

  Just in case, man. Just in case.

  CHAPTER 31

  The trucker placed the Dekalb hat back on his head before Ted finally found something to say other than Look…

  “I’m sorry,” Ted said. “Thank you for asking. But I’ll… be all right.”

  The trucker adjusted his cap’s bill one last time and said, “Are you hurt?”

  “No. Not really. Just… where are you going again?”

  The man reached into his coat pocket and checked an old-fashioned pocket watch. His coat flapped open as he did, revealing a .45 in a shoulder holster. “Outside of Grand Rapids is my home, but I have to drop my trailer in Toledo.”

  Everybody has a gun but me, Ted thought. Another uncomfortable pause ensued. Overall, the trucker seemed to Ted like a guy who wished he hadn’t started the conversation.

  “No problem,” the man said. “All I could do, probably, is drop you in Toledo anyway. I’m ’onna go get my coffee. Have a good night.”

  “Thank you,” Ted said with manners practiced by rote. “You have a good night, too.”

  The trucker walked away. As he strolled over to the coffee dispensers he nodded at the cashier, who returned a smile. Ted realized he’d long ago unlearned the ability to recognize simple goodwill when he saw it.

  But it was no matter. What he really needed was to call his dad and Suzanne. And apparently get out of his clothes. In them, he drew more attention than ten shot-up Trans Ams.

  Jason reappeared and stood by Ted. The kid asked, a dose of old-fashioned goodwill on his face, too, “What do you think we should do?”

  “Take off your coat,” Ted said. “We’re attracting too much attention.”

  Jason slipped off the muddy garment. Ted grabbed it and slid it into the hidden sanctuary of a full, round coat rack.

  Ironman was about to walk through the door. Ted knew it. He felt it in his bones. Quickly, he went shopping near the phones. Pair of jeans, deer-hunting T-shirt, thick work coat, a pair of pull-on boots.

  The door opened, and Ted ducked behind the coat rack. He kicked off his shoes and dropped his suit coat. He took a second, smaller coat off the rack and grabbed two un-matching ball caps from a shelf by the phones. He piled the new clothes into Jason’s open arms. He counted three hundred dollars and stuffed the bills into one of Jason’s hands.

  “Go buy this stuff,” Ted said. “And make sure you get a bag.”

  “What?”

  “Will you, please?” Ted said, watching the glass door. “Now. The counter’s empty. Go.”

  Jason went, looking like someone about to start a load of laundry. The door opened again as Ted grabbed a phone. He had no change in his pockets and had to do a third-party call through the operator, charging his own home phone account. He pictured someone, somewhere, tracing the call and sending a couple of henchmen to stake the place out. As the kid stood at the cashier, Ted pressed on his gunshot wound and its pain soared.

  “Switchboard,” said a familiar voice through the phone. “Blue County Hospital.” The voice was familiar.

  “Helen. Ted Gables here. Can you get—”

  “Doctor Gables!… Oh dear, I’m so sorry to have heard ab—”

  “Helen, can you ring me up to my dad’s room? He was admitted today.”

  “Yes, dear. Your dad’s a popular guy this evening,”—

  What?

  —“You hold on for just a minute. Good to talk to you.” The line went temporarily quiet, then a ringing started.

  “Roy Gables.”

  “Dad.”

  “Ted. How you holdin’ up?” the elder Gables asked before coughing. Ted hated the sound. A male voice spoke in the background on his dad’s end of the connection. “Why are you calling so late? Are you o—”

  “Dad. Are you two safe?”

  “Safe? What’s wrong?”

  Jason took the big bag from the counter and walked it back toward the phones. It reminded Ted of his appearance. He felt like a lit specimen on a petri dish.

  “Ted?” Cough.

  Ted took a deep breath. Dad’s sick. He’s dying. “Dad, can you do me a fa
vor? Kind of a big one?”

  “Uh… sure. What is it?”

  “I need you and Suzanne to stay there in the hospital. And for you to get a guard or something there.”

  “What? Now just what the hell is wrong? Tell me.”

  “Get somebody there to protect you. You understand? I don’t have a lot of time right now.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Buddy Boy. Please.”

  “Just promise me, Dad.” He almost said Daddy. He half-choked as he pictured his dad’s and Suzanne’s heads blowing apart. Two more big, nasty sneezes.

  Kathryn had loved Roy Gables for too many reasons to count. One of them was what she called his endearing vulgarity. Ted rather preferred having the vulgar dad on the line. He needed the dammits and the hells. Or better, the classic Calm down before you piss yourself. What his dad had become instead was the loving, nurturing, Ted-growing-up dad. The provider of boundaries and security. A man taking Ted seriously. Seriously enough to make the younger man worry that much more.

  “Okay. I promise,” Dad said. “Now tell me what in THEE hell is going on.”

  “They’re comin’ after me, Dad.”

  “They’re what? Who?”

  “And I’m scared they’re gonna—”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t think I should say right now. Wanna get somewhere safe—”

  Dad said something urgent. His voice was muffled, as though he’d just held his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. Then his calm voice returned. “Ted. Do you know who? Do you have any idea?”

  The store’s door opened again. Ted crouched. Jason looked when Ted looked, ducked when Ted ducked. Something about protecting Zeke occurred, but it didn’t really register.

  “Ted.”

  “Dad. Just stay safe. Will you?”

  Jason dropped the bag at Ted’s feet and handed back several twenties in change.

  “Sure. We will,” Dad said. “I wish you would just tell me where you are. Have you called the police? Are you still in Broadbent?”

  Jason inched back and hunkered behind another rack of clothes as though waiting for instructions.

  Police. Swirling in Ted’s mind were images of Frank Bruska, the two-dozen Broadbent cops he’d met that evening, faceless United States Marshals, and two killers who knew his every move. For reasons unclear to him, he pictured the McDaniel Security commercial.

  “No. To get outta here’s what I n—”

  “No police? Ted, damn ya, what’s the—” more urgent, muffled talk. Male voice again, then Dad.

  “Who’s there with you, Dad? Who do I hear talking?”

  “Frank Bruska.”

  “What does he want?” Ted hissed.

  “He came to talk to me about you. He’s been at your house, and—”

  “Son of a—all right. Just tell him to get somebody over there to take care of you. Will you please? I’m serious.”

  “I wanna get somebody to take care of you, Ted. And I’m serious. Now you call the police. You hear me?”

  “I can’t, Dad.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because they know… everything. These guys know where I’ve been, where I am, and where I’m gonna be. I can’t just call the police and… I need to get out of here. Then I’ll call for help. I swear. You get safe.”

  “Ted?”

  The door jingled again—IRONMAN?! Ted was running out of time. “I have to go. Get Frank to help you.”

  “Ted.”

  “I’ll call you whenever I—”

  “Goddammit, Ted!”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “TED!!”

  Ted hung up the phone. Right there, behind the coat rack, in the store’s far corner, he stripped to his socks and underwear. He yanked on his new jeans and bled onto the floor. He ripped a sleeve off his dress shirt and folded it into a multi-layer square. He used his necktie to secure the bandage around his middle. In under ten seconds, he stood, ball cap, T-shirt, jeans, and jacket in place. He pulled on the boots and looked around the store. A surveillance camera pointed right at him. He stuffed his old clothes into the big shopping bag and shoved the bag into the coat rack’s center.

  He was glad Frank was with his parents. He stood and told Jason to put on his new coat and hat. The trucker, boxed sandwich in one hand and coffee mug in the other, bid some kind of farewell to the cashier.

  Did he pay in cash?

  The trucker looked behind him, sampling all the faces in the store, including Ted’s. Nothing like recognition seemed to express itself before the man exited.

  “Okay, Jason,” Ted said, tearing a page out of a phone book. “Thank you for helping me tonight. I mean it.” Ted patted the shirt pockets that were no longer there. He found a pen hanging on a ball chain by the phone book and asked for Jason’s last name and phone number. The kid provided them without asking why, and Ted scribbled them down.

  “I’ll buy you a new car.” Ted shoved the page into his pants pocket.

  The kid’s face changed in a way that said, No, you won’t.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Ted said, dropping the pen. It jerked at the end of its ball-chain gallows before settling into an easy back-and-forth swing.

  “Where are you going?” Jason asked.

  Toledo, I hope. “Away from you, for your sake. Those guys don’t know what you look like, so you’ll be okay, long as you’re nowhere near me. Just stand here for about five minutes, then call nine-one-one.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you, Jason,” Ted said, shaking the kid’s hand.

  “You gonna be okay?”

  “Don’t know.”

  His knee seeming to inflate with every step, Ted headed toward the door. He took a deep breath and muttered, “I’ll be damned.” He realized he was glad Frank was with his parents.

  CHAPTER 32

  Roy Gables sat on his hospital bed, feeling like an ox ready for any burden. Frank had come, asking questions about the camp Ted went to as a kid. None of what Frank said made much sense, but he said enough to worry Roy. That was when Ted called.

  Roy asked about calling the local police in Broadbent, and Frank said to leave it up to him. Said he’d call them right when he got back to his office. Across town.

  When the detective left, Roy grabbed the phone. Suzanne stood at the room’s door, ready to signal when Frank stepped onto the elevator. On her cue, Roy got Helen to dial long-distance for him. He called the Broadbent, Ohio Police Department and told them everything he knew. He also mentioned it was “imperative that you call Detective Frank Bruska in Blue River, Indiana.”

  ~~~

  Lewis studied the lot, then the store, as best he could, through the side window. From the van, he could see the cashier’s back side and the face of every customer at the counter. He wished the store’s front was visible, but the picture window behind the cashier was almost better. Every so often, he scanned the parking lot. But mainly, he kept his eyes on the window for the doctor or anything that looked like him. Messed up hair, torn overcoat, anything. A semi-truck pulled into the main lot entrance, and another left, followed by a pick-up. An orange Volkswagen Microbus pulled in, spilling a pair of long-haired hippies into the parking lot.

  “Dumbass stoners,” he muttered.

  “How long we gonna do this?” Mr. Gray asked.

  “Not long. Won’t take very long. The doctor’s in the store. Has to be. Where the hell else would he be? Won’t take long at all.”

  “He’s in the store calling the cops.”

  “And if you see any cops, you tell me. We have a little time.”

  Another semi pulled into the lot. Busy place. Lewis took the towel down from his nose, which started dripping more blood immediately. Otherwise, he’d head straight into the store and have a look around. He fantasized about slipping into the mens room and pumping a few silenced rounds into the doctor. One in the stomach, two in the chest, and one square in the face. It’d be nice to watch the bastard die on a
toilet. Mr. Gray leaned toward him from the passenger seat, dabbing his own face and watching the people. A fat, short man with a beard left the store, taking a big bite out of a sandwich. The hippies strolled past him, on their way inside.

  “Fuck it,” Lewis said, opening the door. “I’m going in there.”

  “What? You can’t…”

  An Ohio State Police cruiser rolled up and parked in front of the store.

  Lewis eased back into the driver’s seat and shut the door. He held his breath. The cop got out of his car, leaving it running on John Q. Public’s dime, hiked up his uniform pants, and ambled toward the door like it was Sunday afternoon. He adjusted a knob on his shoulder-mounted microphone and yawned. The guy even had time to let the hippies go first. Then he held the door for a half-paralyzed, gimpy cripple, just like it was Mayberry or something.

  “Let’s. Go,” Mr. Gray whispered.

  “Cop’s not after anybody,” Lewis said.

  “Yeah, but a whole shit-load of Pissbucket, Ohio cops are.”

  “At least wait for this one to leave,” Lewis said, peeking over his left shoulder, back toward Broadbent. “Nobody’s coming yet. First flashing lights from town, and we’re on the interstate in twenty seconds.”

  ~~~

  As an emergency physician, Ted had seen every kind of unrealistic limp in the world. Whether the patient came in manifesting subconscious stress or deliberately faking a bad walk for drugs, attention, or disability, the unrealistic limps were always easy to spot. Ted liked to train visiting students and residents in these so-called factitious gait disturbances. To do so, he would imitate the limp and tell the residents why it was unrealistic. Then he’d correct the flaws and show how the put-on gait abnormality had to be modified to look real.

  As he headed toward the door, his down-pointing face hidden beneath the bill of the ball cap, Ted put on a factitious gait disturbance. He became a man who’d had a remote, large vessel stroke in the brain’s right hemisphere. He flexed his left elbow and kept his left heel slightly off the ground. Keeping that leg a little too rigid played well into his left-sided injuries. He limped toward the door that way, unsure of himself, feeling like a human beacon. But it was too late to quit his charade. When two tie-dye-clad hipster dudes right out of 1970 walked toward the door, Ted figured they might be enough of a distraction to let him slip through, unnoticed. The convincing stroke patient, he even tried to make his left face sag. He flexed his left wrist and wrapped his fingers around his palmed thumb.