by Joel Arnold
Gail Dupree smiled back and said, “’They know you did it.’”
Johnson squinted at Gail. They know you did it? How did ‘I like plums and apples’ mutate into ‘They know you did it’? But that was the fun of the game, wasn’t it? So Mrs. Johnson told the class the original phrase, the ‘I like plums and apples’ phrase, and the kids laughed, and begged her to do it again.
Mrs. Johnson leaned over to Benjamin again, this time whispering a simpler, rhyming phrase, one not so easy to confuse. “Candy is dandy,” she whispered.
Benjamin nodded and whispered to Lydia, who in turn whispered to Craig Masters, and so on and so on, until once again, Gail Dupree nodded as Bobby whispered into her ear. She smiled. Mrs. Johnson said, “And what was it you heard, Ms. Dupree?”
And Gail said, “They found her where you drowned her.”
Mrs. Johnson stared at Gail. “Is that what you heard?” she asked. Gail nodded.
Mrs. Johnson looked at Bobby. “Is that what you heard?” Bobby nodded.
Johnson scanned her students. She no longer smiled. “What I said was ‘Candy is dandy.’”
“It still rhymed,” noted Gail.
Mrs. Johnson said, “We’ll do this once more, but we’ll go the other way around this time.”
She bent down to Gail, and whispered, “I loved her.”
Gail looked at her as if she hadn’t heard correctly, but Mrs. Johnson nodded, and so Gail stood on tiptoe to whisper into Bobby’s ear, and he shrugged and passed the message along. When it got back to Benjamin Cale, Mrs. Johnson hesitated a moment before asking him, “Okay, Benji — what did you hear?”
Benjamin Cale smirked. “‘They’re coming to arrest you.’ That’s what I heard.”
Mrs. Johnson blinked slowly. She heard a sound rising in the distance, a sound outside of the classroom, outside of the school building, a sound racing up the streets, getting closer and closer. The sound of sirens. “Is that what you heard, Benji,” she asked, the words causing her tongue to feel heavy and thick against the roof of her mouth.
Benjamin nodded.
“Well,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Okay.” Her eyes followed the three police cars as they slowed outside the building. Officers emerged. She dropped her hands to her sides, and plopped down into one of the small student desks as the rest of the students ran to the windows to see what the commotion was about. Her fingers briefly felt once more the memory of soft flesh going from warm to cold as she held it beneath the swift flowing Zumbro River.
Gail Dupree turned from the window and asked, “Mrs. Johnson? Can we play again?”
Turn Signal
It was the yellow strobe of light that first caught Johanson’s attention. At first he thought it was the Gophers/Wolverines game reflecting off the window, but when the television screen went blank for a moment, the pulsing light continued.
He pressed his face against the glass of his shack, cupped his hands around his temples and looked out over the impound lot. Cars and trucks sat like sleeping lions. It was quiet out there. No one had stopped by in the last two hours. But at three AM on a Wednesday, that wasn’t unusual. Johanson yawned. His eyes locked on the blinking glow of light. It came from the back of the lot, distorted through cracked and broken windshields, a dull reflection on the few cars surrounding it. Better check it out.
A train roared by, shaking the frame of the two story shack. He waited until it’s loud rumble passed before stepping out into the frigid night.
About sixty yards away on the other side of the railroad tracks was the main office. Another glow, that of a television, came from one of its windows.
Shatterbaugh. Wonder what he’s watching?
The place was creepy enough without Shatterbaugh. He was one of those guys who’d fix you with an ‘Are you fucking stupid?’ stare no matter what kind of question you asked him. The job was a lonely one, but better to be alone that hang out with that psycho jerk all night long. Johanson headed toward the other light. The one that blinked on and off. The one near the back of the lot.
The impound lot was shaped like a giant ‘U’. A dirt road wound past the waiting cars. A tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the lot. People coming to claim their cars checked in first with Shatterbaugh, who checked their ID’s and gave them their keys, then came down to the gate where Johanson let them in.
Most of the vehicles had been towed in for parking violations. But there were others that were islands of twisted metal, doors ripped off from the jaws of life, roofs caved in from flipping over, tires missing, shattered windshields, upholstery torn to shreds and stained with blood.
Johanson probed his flashlight into the vehicles as he passed. He shivered. Kept his hand on his holster. For what? To pacify the chill that spider-webbed down his spine? He stepped through the mud and watched his breath escape in a mist. The Mississippi River, less than thirty yards in the distance, passed silently, like a long dark cat crawling on its belly.
As he neared the blinking light, he heard something. A quiet tick, tick, tick as the soft yellow glow blinked on and off, on and off. It belonged to a blue Pontiac Sunbird.
Johanson whistled softly. Must’ve been one hell of an accident.
He shined his light at it. The left turn signal continued its rigid blink. The plastic that shielded it was gone. Johanson aimed his light through the driver’s side door — at least where it used to be. Glass winked at him from the driver’s seat. The fabric was stained with blood.
Johanson reached in gingerly and found the bent lever that controlled the turn signal. He pushed it upward. The signal stopped. He let out his breath, breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. There was more blood on the passenger seat. In the back was a baby’s car seat pressed into the upholstery. Jesus.
As he walked back over the muddy lot toward the shack, he rested his right hand on the butt of his gun. This place had spooked him since the day they assigned him here. Too many places to hide, too many shadows and odd noises. He forced himself not to look over his shoulder, not to whistle, not to do any of the stupid things people do when they are unreasonably afraid. But when he finally opened the door to the shack, he breathed a sigh of relief.
The rattling of the chain-link fence and a female’s voice startled him.
“Hello?”
Johanson whipped around. A young couple stood on the other side of the fence.
Johanson swallowed. “Can I help you?”
“We’re here to see our car,” the woman said.
Johanson nodded to the main office. “You have to check in first.”
The couple looked to the office.
“Please,” the woman said. “We’re in a hurry. We need to see our car.”
“The procedure is—”
“Look,” the man interrupted. “We just want to look. We won’t be long.”
“Hold on a second.” Johanson lifted his radio to his mouth. “Shatterbaugh, you there?” He listened. Said again, “Shatterbaugh?”
No answer. What the hell was he doing?
“Promise you’ll make it quick?”
“Yes. Thank you. Yes,” the woman said.
He stepped into the shack and pressed the button that opened the gate. “Give me a holler when you’re done and I’ll let you out.”
They nodded, their eyes already searching the waiting vehicles. They stepped into the impound lot and walked slowly down the muddy road.
Johanson contemplated accompanying them, but instead only watched them for a moment, the man in a black suit, the woman in a white dress. A crescent of moon reflected off their pale skin. They walked hand in hand.
Johanson stepped back into the shack, went up to the second floor and looked out the window. The couple was already lost amidst the hulking and twisted metal shapes. He eased into the worn easy chair and turned his attention back to the basketball game. Three minutes left and it was tied.
When the game finally ended (double over-time) he remembered the couple. Wonder
ed what the hell they’d been doing for the last thirty-five minutes.
He got up and pressed his face against the window. A thin fog covered the lot. The light from the main office was dimmed by the haze. And he noticed another light. He swallowed.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Glow. Darkness. Glow. Darkness.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
He found it almost impossible to move from the window. He felt like he would melt right through it and float out into the misty darkness. His face felt numb. Finally he turned away. He looked at the glow of the television, the tinny audio coming out of the speakers, buzzing like a mosquito in his ear. He looked back at the lot.
Blink blink blink, the glow fuzzy as the fog and darkness devoured it.
He felt vulnerable standing in the window. He stepped to the side. Checked his sidearm. Pulled it out and made sure it was loaded. One more turn to the window, one more look outside.
Okay, just a short in the wiring. That’s all it is. Something got fucked up in the accident.
He talked into his radio. “Shatterbaugh, you there?”
Again, there was no answer.
Someone was in the car this time. A couple of teenagers humping away like mad in the back. The guy who was on top wore a letter jacket with a big ‘A’ on the back.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing in there?”
They ignored him and kept at it.
“Get the hell out of there.”
The boy paused. He turned his head. His face was white and streaked with blood. “Fuck off,” he said. “You’ll get your turn.”
Johanson saw the girl. She was dead. One arm was missing, her skull was smashed and pieces of brain spread like jelly over the back seat. Johanson jumped back and pulled out his sidearm. He aimed at the boy.
“Get out now!”
“Fuck off,” the boy said. He looked familiar, and the girl, through all the mess, looked familiar, too.
Johanson’s mind reeled. That couldn’t be. These two were younger. Dressed differently.
He fired. The boy didn’t flinch. Johanson fired again, the bullet crashing into the boy’s skull.
“Leave us alone,” the boy grunted as he continued to screw the corpse beneath him. “Wait your turn.”
Johanson fired again and again, flinching each time until his bullets ran out. His hands shook. He gasped. He realized the car was empty. He stared at the bullet riddled child’s car seat. It took an effort to get his gun back in its holster.
His radio squawked.
“What the hell’s going on down there? You okay?” Shatterbaugh.
Johanson turned in a quick circle. Lifted the radio to his face. “Where’ve you been? I tried calling you twice already.”
“Taking a shit. What’s going on down there? Sounded like the OK Corral.”
The turn signal was still on, reflecting the grinning grills of the surrounding vehicles. “Nothing,” Johanson said. He stared at the blinking light. “Target practice.”
“Knock that shit off.”
“Yeah,” Johanson said. He reached in, his hand shaking, and turned the signal off. “Yeah.”
He walked the perimeter of the lot looking for the couple. They couldn’t have let themselves out. Certainly couldn’t have climbed the fence. And that hallucination…
Don’t let it get to you, Johanson thought. Anyone would be creeped out by a place like this. How could you not be? The darkness was heavy. Palpable. Even with the lights surrounding the lot, it seemed to weigh on the cars, squatting on them like some fat, intangible bully.
Suck it up, he told himself. Suck it up.
Inside the shack, he reloaded his sidearm. He started to wonder if the couple he’d let in was another hallucination. Maybe he dozed off during the ball game and dreamed the whole thing. Wouldn’t be the first time he fell asleep while on duty.
Johanson dropped his gun at the sound of knocking below. He forced himself to relax before picking up the gun and slowly taking the steps down to the door.
The couple’s silhouettes were backlit against the door’s glass window. Backlit by the on-again, off-again blink of the yellow light in the distance. The turn signal he’d turned off not long before.
For a moment he didn’t think he could twist the door knob. He stared at his hand as it sat there like a flesh paperweight. Another knock made it twitch.
C’mon. Don’t be silly. Open the damned door.
He opened it.
The couple looked frantic. The woman grabbed Johanson by the sleeve.
“We can’t find him,” she said.
Johanson pulled away. “Who?”
“Please help us. We can’t find him.”
He took a step back, thought about shutting the door on them.
The man said, “Our son. We can’t find him.”
“You didn’t come in here with anybody else,” Johanson said. “There’s no one else in here.”
The woman’s voice rose. “Please!”
“What have you been doing here for so long, anyway? You’ve been here for over an hour.” He grabbed his radio. “Shatterbaugh? You there?”
Of course not. Worthless fuck.
“Help us find our son,” the man said.
“Settle down. Both of you. What makes you think he’s here?”
“It was the accident,” the man said. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. “We lost him.”
The turn signal in the distance. Blinking.
On/off.
On/off.
Okay, a couple of nut jobs. Kid died in an accident and they’ve lost their grip on reality. Made sense.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Once more with the radio. “Shatterbaugh?”
Nothing.
“Please,” the woman said, tears in her eyes as well.
Johanson looked from one to the other. Okay. They want to look for their dead son? Nothing wrong with that. Why the hell not?
“Let’s take a walk around the lot,” he said. “Will that be enough for you?”
The woman nodded desperately. “Thank you.”
When they headed toward the blue Pontiac Sunbird, it’s turn signal calling to them like a beacon, he was not surprised. He wondered why he hadn’t shot the light out earlier while shooting up the rest of the car.
“We’ve looked everywhere,” the woman said. “At the crash site. At home.”
Why were they doing this to themselves?
“We just want to see him again,” she said.
“Tell him we love him,” the man said. “Tell him it’s okay. It’s okay to be with us.”
Johanson followed them to the Sunbird. He reached in and turned off the signal one more time.
The couple stood and stared at the wreck.
“Maybe I should leave you alone,” Johanson said.
They didn’t answer, their eyes moist and shiny, trained on the child seat in the back of the car.
Johanson said softly, “He’s not here. Come on folks. I’m sorry. But he’s not here.”
His radio squawked, making him jump. He quickly backed away from the couple.
“Johanson, you there?” It was Shatterbaugh.
“Yes. What?”
“You tried calling me a bit ago?”
“Yeah, where were you?”
“Taking a shit. What’s it to you?”
“Again?”
“Did you want something or not?”
He almost told him no, forget it, but then he turned away from the couple and said quietly into the radio, “Tell me about this blue Sunbird that’s our here.” He gave him the license plate number.
Shatterbaugh sighed audibly before clicking off. A moment later he was back.
“Ninety-three blue Pontiac Sunbird? Hit by a semi two days ago. Family of three. The mother and father killed instantly. Smashed like water balloons. I talked to the tow truck operator whe
n he brought it in. But the kid was all right.”
“What?”
“I said the kid was all right. Can you believe that?”
Johanson clipped his radio to his belt. He walked slowly to the car, to the couple who stood there.
The turn signal flashed at him like a bad facial tic.
Blink. Blink.
A strobe of bright glowing yellow.
“You still there?” Shatterbaugh’s words were like the distant barking of a dog. “You listen to a fucking word I said?”
“Excuse me,” Johanson said to the couple. “You have to go now.” The light from the turn signal engulfed him. He closed his eyes against the blinding flash. “He’s not here.” He felt for the car’s exterior, found the hood. “You have to go. Please. You have to leave him alone.” His hand traveled over the car’s body up to the driver’s side. He found the signal lever. It broke off in his hand.
The signal continued to flash.
He let his eyes adjust. The couple was no longer there. He looked inside the car. Looked at the empty child’s safety seat pocked with his bullets. Looked at the front seats, the dash only inches from them, dark stains covering them like a second skin.
The kid survived. He survived. Where was he?
The left turn signal…
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
Small explosions in his eyes. Funny how the crash hadn’t destroyed it. Funny how things can be touched. Untouched. No rhyme or reason. Just random spatterings of dumb luck.
The kid survived.
Blink blink blink…
The couple was there again, pale against the on/off glare of the signal. The looks in their eyes — longing, pleading.
“I can’t help you,” Johanson said. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
The woman bent down, stuck her head into the car. She crawled inside. Crawled over the bent, twisted seats to the back. Hovered over the child’s seat. The man followed her.
“He’s not there,” Johanson said. What if the couple did find their child? What then?
“Please,” Johanson said. “Please.”
