There huddled in the brown grass, back to the road, was Kieffer.
JESUSFUCKHE’SDEAD!!!!
Ashley dove at him, folding her arms around his slumped shoulders and squeezing hard. A sickle— cold and sharp—sliced through her heart. Taking with it the rest of her sanity.
As if he had just noticed her, Kieffer jerked a little, opening his eyes to see Ashley latched onto his chest, crying tears of red neon that splashed like acid rain onto his cheeks. He had the hazy look of a waking dreamer. One who didn’t know he’d fallen asleep.
“Kieffer! Thank God I found you! Are you okay?!” Ashley screamed in his ear over the rumble of passing traffic, hugging him tight. He slowly came to, embracing Ashley’s hug with childlike joy. Kieffer laughed and cried hysterically, squeezing her ribs so tight that she thought she might pass out. They rolled along the shoulder like two squirrels fighting over trash. Passing cars honked and flashed their high beams. They let go of each other and stood up.
Sounding dazed, Kieffer finally stopped laughing long enough to look around and ask, “hh–how’d you find me?”
“When I got your call, I took my mom’s car and started driving south. I wasn’t sure where you…”
Before Ashley could finish Kieffer was gone. She turned from the headlights of a passing car to find herself standing alone on the road. When she looked back at the Buick Kieffer was ducking into the passenger seat.
He must be hurt. Probably still in shock from the accident. Get him to a hospital!
In her celebration Ashley had completely forgotten about the accident. She ran to the driver’s side door and jumped in. Locking the doors, she flicked on all the dome-lights in the cab and turned to Kieffer. He sat low in his seat, slouched forward as if he was hiding from someone. Ashley didn’t take any comfort in his unwillingness to look her in the eye.
“Okay, where are you hurt? Do you need to go to the hosp…”
There wasn’t a single spot on his clothes aside from the mud and salt that stained his cuffs and shoes.
Then, Ashley understood.
She grabbed Kieffer by the shoulders and forced him to face her.
His eyes met hers, and all at once she knew.
He’s lying.
Without thought her open right hand flew with wild veracity from his shirt. Landing on his left cheek, Kieffer swayed to one side against the slap; he did not flinch or look away.
“You lying asshole! There was never an accident, was there?!” She barely waited for Kieffer to answer before the left hand also found its way free. Kieffer took that slap the same as the first, void of feeling or recognition. “Of course not. I can’t believe this! What kind of sick fuck wakes a girl up in the middle of the night, makes her steal a car, then lies to her face?!”
Kieffer took all this in silence, eyes blank, face slick with sweat and tears. He had nothing to give back to her. Ashley wouldn’t allow that.
“I don’t know why you’re out here, and even if you told me I wouldn’t believe you. I just hope this new whore of yours was worth it.” She went to slap him again—a physical exclamation point—but held back. She needed him conscious long enough to give answers.
But, Kieffer still showed no real emotion. His frown only deepened. Then, he spoke.
“I know what we had is over–”
“Yeah, no shit,” Ashley spat.
Kieffer absorbed that, same as the slaps, “–but you have to listen to me. I understand if you don’t ever want to see me again, I get it, but you need to hear what I have to say.”
Grabbing Kieffer by the front of his sweatshirt with such force that his head whipped back against the side window, she wretched him closer. “I have to what?! I don’t have to do shit by you, you… fuckin liar! Just give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just leave your ass out here and drive back home, huh? Can you??”
Kieffer moistened his lips and said, “I’m sorry, Ashley. I didn’t know who else to call. If I told you the real reason, you’d–”
“Would what?? Find out what a lying piece of shit you are?! You must think I’m sooo naive. Don’t you? Just a dumb little girl with half her brain in her tits! It’s so obvious, Kieffer. There’s another girl and you don’t have the balls to–”
“No, Ashley,” Kieffer interjected, almost catching another hand to the chin. “It’s nothing like that! I’m sorry that I had to be so secretive, but this is… beyond important. It’s History. Listen, there’s something you need to kno–”
“No, YOU listen, you little know-nothing, pussy-ass, dicksickle! If you’re sorry, then come clean. What’s the real reason you’re out here? No lies.”
Kieffer took a deep breath. The time had come. Where to start?
Start from the top. Seems like as good a place as any. Don’t rush it. Give it to her straight.
“I don’t know how to… this is so fuckin… I’m just gonna come out and say it… Ashley, Wayne… he’s ah… he’s The–”
Two sharp knocks at the driver side window jumped Ashley and Kieffer in their seats. The beam of a flashlight the same sickly yellow of a cadaver’s toenails pierced the fog-stained glass, turning the steam of their breath into fine wisps of swamp gas.
He found you! Get out! Get out now before he gets in—
But before Kieffer could relay the message to his mouth, Ashley was already in action.
“No! Don’t roll down the win–” Kieffer managed to yell to her through the gas, but it was too late.
Stinging yellow light flooded the car.
A single voice from the other end of the light confirmed his worst fears.
“Turn off the car and put up your hands. Ride’s over, kids.”
Chapter 14
April 13, 2006
1:34 am
Portland, Maine
“Goddamn piece of cock suckin' shit!” Wayne yelled at the empty road through his windshield.
After what happened at the rest stop he had no choice but to change plans. His trip to Boston was cancelled. All the meticulous planning and hours of preparation done for absolutely nothing.
Yet he continued to drive south.
Something inside—not Them, but also not himself—told him to stay on the road. So, to keep from looking for the boy, he did. He had nowhere to be. Sharon didn’t expect him back until tomorrow. Plenty of time to cruise around and collect his thoughts. For almost two hours he followed the yellow bars in dead silence. It wasn't Them guiding him any longer. They had finally moved on to someone else. Wayne was free, but not unchained.
He may have my book, Wayne dwelled, tearing the cellophane off a new pack of Pall’s with his teeth, but They have his soul. Whether I get you or not, you're fucked, little boy.
It felt good to still have the upper hand after all the setbacks and cheap shots. Wayne felt as free as he had in the summer of '89. What replaced Them back then was a normal mode of thought, a normal flesh threaded line of conscious awareness to the rest of us. He finally found that string. He had woken in that alleyway in Lewiston, bloody length of wood by his side and a new hole in his head, and felt ten pounds lighter. Simple as that too; the literal weight of Them was gone. Poof, out his brain and through the hole. Gone. All those years between seemed so far away when he tried to think back. But now—life swinging on the brink of collapse—Wayne wondered if They ever really left at all.
Don’t think. Drive.
This new voice was different. Not so much a literal voice, but an impulse. The subliminal influence of something pre-human. Ancient. Greed in its very infancy, before money and land came into the picture.
Suddenly, that same voice told Wayne to look up.
The sign for Exit 7B Portland slid past the window.
Relieved, Wayne allowed himself to smile, finally understanding the new plan. Veering to the right he flipped on his blinker and pulled off the interstate.
Soon, the voice whispered. Your home waits.
Wayne hadn't been in this part of Portland for a long time. He
usually visited the neighboring city of South Portland, which was an entirely different township in itself. The other side of Portland, away from the harbor, was mostly lower income section housing now. Not that it was much nicer before. A sort of miniature projects like the ones you would see lining most metropolitan cities. Cheap apartment complexes like broken bones across the landscape, poking out defiantly to the sky. People with money can’t stand the sight of an empty field.
As Wayne drove through familiar streets, now fuller and boxed in by concrete, he noticed that the word miniature no longer applied. Practically every building he passed since taking the offramp was either a duplex, liquor store, or pawn shop. The cancer of poverty had spread like a dumpster fire, taking out all the rolling foothills and trees.
Seeing this as another favor handed down to him from forces unknown, Wayne took two rights and a left before pulling over to the curb. He barely recognized the now trash-littered alleyway where he picked up Michael Brown back in June of 1970.
Long swooping lines of graffiti covered most of the redbrick walls and dumpsters. The building to his left used to be a meat packing company in ’71, to the right a roofing supply warehouse. Both abandoned. Gang signs, some as high as twenty feet off the sidewalk, slithered down from their mantel like snakes to form the lines of heavy red teeth. Wayne stared at the lines until the jaws of the building began to move, grinding and squeezing together; chipping away at itself. The two sides of the alleyway gnashed and snarled at each other with their mortar mouths. Or more likely, at Wayne.
Pretending not to notice, he lit up another cigarette, killed the lights on the Buggy, and waited.
Not even ten minutes passed before the outline of a body popped out of a nearby cavity in the building across the road. It held there leaning out over the alleyway’s black tar tongue before fully stepping out onto the sidewalk. Slowly, a tiny figure shrouded in an oversized black hoodie walked briskly out into the road.
Wayne watched through tendrils of blue smoke as the slightly seductive shape moved closer. There was wiggle in that walk that suggested his new friend was probably female. Pleased with the sudden turnaround in luck, Wayne flicked fresh ash out his open window and waited for the figure to approach.
Just as he suspected, it was the over-painted face of a young girl under the hoodie. She took one last look around the empty street before leaning down to take an elbow on the Buggy's passenger door.
“Yo, whatcha need?” she asked in a tough girl’s voice, probably rough from menthol cigarettes and Allen’s Coffee Brandy. From under the strip of shaded night that banded her face through the open passenger window Wayne couldn't tell if the stranger was a child or a very petite woman. Her figure was youthful, slim and shapely under the baggy pants and shirt, but her face was haggard and mean; hard, leathery like an old catcher’s mit.
The walls around had momentarily ceased their growling to watch them. Deep purple bags of skin hung under two bloodshot eyes. Her acne-scarred forehead caged by a knotted up blonde weave stained with what looked like brown gravy shined with oils. An important clue. Given the time of night, there was a good chance that wasn’t teenage acne. Probably the bug infested skin of an addict, picked clean by dirty fingernails. If Wayne had to guess, probably heroin or crack. Maybe meth.
Nasty little leech, but she'll do, he thought patiently to himself.
Wayne realized all the rules didn't matter anymore. Child or junkie, virgin or whore, it didn't matter. He was a free agent now. They weren't the boss. Wayne was.
Let ‘em go ahead and replace me, it won't do any good. Anyone who’s tried is either dead or sitting on death row. Besides, real fans will know the difference.
There had been plenty of copycats in the past twenty years, all of them limp-dick fanboys who failed miserably to carry the torch. They’d study Wayne’s style, his techniques, get in one or two kills of their own while screaming from the rooftops that The Doll Man was back, then promptly get arrested. They’d keep screaming all the way through the legal process until forensic and crime scene detectives sniffed out their bullshit.
There could only be one.
Wayne could do and be everywhere and anywhere he wanted; a rabid show pony, kicking and foaming and spitting its way down the coast. Sponsored or not, the Harvester was officially back in action.
Wayne made sure to look closely at the dark face, studying it for what it might know. Cratered, buttermilk cheeks with slight specks of brownish freckles splashed across her face. He couldn’t see it before, but her skin was the smooth color of milk chocolate. Full, ashy lips cushioned a sharp, pointed nose and cat-like eyes. Only the white of those eyes shone back under the flickering bulbs of the city lights.
“Depends, what you got?” Wayne asked, trying to feel her out. He couldn’t see if she was carrying a weapon or not. Her loose clothing could easily hide a gun or knife. A girl of this size pushing drugs this time of night would need protection. Most dealers of any gender or size usually carry. Wayne knew he had to be careful with this one. She might have friends.
“I gots sum herb. Oxy tens, those are fifteen. Perc fives fo’ seven.” An afterthought, she added, “Got ah clean spike?”
“Yeah,” Wayne lied, “get in and we’ll talk shop.”
The mystery monk chuckled sharply, “Coolcool.”
A slimy grin dripped its way onto Wayne's face, “Indeed.”
The girl took one more look around the alleyway then casually got into the passenger seat.
As Wayne turned his head to the road—one hand on his keys in the ignition, the other on the .38—his peripherals caught movement to his left. Gun already out of his side pocket and gripped in his right hand, he turned toward the sound of shuffling footsteps. Head half turned, his left eye exploded with hot shards of pain as a dense shape thrusted itself against the car. Wayne’s glasses shattered and tumbled to the floor as he jolted back, hands grabbing at his face as he ping-ponged between the seat and the wheel. With one good eye, he caught a reflection in the rearview mirror. At first, he didn’t recognize the smashed face looking back. Then, he knew.
Someone had stabbed him in the eye with a screwdriver.
“AHHAFUUUCKS!!” Wayne screeched out in pain. The numbing shock had passed. Unsurmountable tremors of adrenaline tore through his body, oozing out the broken bulb of his left eye. The girl at his side also screamed, pushing herself up against the door. Wayne’s hands flew around him like scared birds. Whoever kept shoving the metal tip harder into Wayne’s face trying to pass bone to brain wasn’t going to let go.
Through a momentary glimpse of sanity, Wayne remembered what was in his right hand and raised the gun towards the open window. But—just as he did, the dirty little girl next to him kicked one leg up across the seat, sending the .38 tumbling to the floormat at his feet. In full-blown panic, Wayne dove forward to grab up the gun before the girl could. As he did—both hands stretched for the floor—the handle of the screwdriver slammed hard against the edge of the steering wheel. White lightening filled the world, sending him reeling through a cotton-washed haze in excruciating pain.
As he flailed reaching to pull the screwdriver out of his face, another blow came from outside the window. This time the hit was flat and hard, a much greater force than the first. Wayne recognized all too late the rounded head of a ball peen hammer snapping his jaw into pieces. Losing consciousness, Wayne buoyed back and forth in his seat. From the same seat his astral body heard the sickening crunch of the screwdriver wedge deeper, finding where bone fused to bone and reopening the gap. Its tip centimeters from the gooey middle.
For too long, his one good eye was stuck looking out the glass of a dirty fishbowl; his body completely paralyzed. Blurry hands and whispering shapes moved and pulled at him. His body slid forward then back against the seat, head tilted up so he could see the steering wheel.
“Don’t just fuckin’ sit there, B, get the piece,” a sharp voice said from outside the car. One trying too hard to sound full. Au
thoritative. Wayne could feel the joining presence of others, but his paralysis kept his eye fixed straight ahead.
“Where’s da gun?!” the girl cried out, still panting and freaking out in the seat beside Wayne. Straddling consciousness, he thought he could make out her tiny hands fumbling down around his legs, but didn’t feel anything.
“Dis’ mothafuckah couldah shot us both. You lucky he don't see yo ass,” the girl said as she passed the gun out the window.
“Nevermind,” a husky voice said as the driver side door creaked open. Black sleeves plucked the keys from the ignition. “And stop talking like that! This ain’t no Spike Lee joint.”
“You ain't my fuckin' boss, Deshawn!” the young girl snapped back. “Sheit, mang, this whole setup was yer eyedeer in da—”
“What I tell you ‘bout talkin’?” another huskier voice demanded. One naturally deep, no forced authority. “Get out the car. And give me that piece.” The sound of the passenger door creaking open was the only response.
Wayne tried to move—tried with every fiber left in his busted body, but couldn't. His second bump against the steering wheel had lodged the metal spike right past bone, letting precious brain jelly drip out onto his shirt through his leaky eye socket. He was fully conscious, but completely numbed. Stubbornly, Wayne concentrated on moving his head back and forth along his dead shoulders. If he could gain a little control back, he could gain it all back. To Wayne, persistence was key to escape.
His mangled jaw hammocked in bruised skin stretched and drooped down to his chest in an angry yawn. His pink tongue rolled out like a bloody necktie. Never accepting defeat, Wayne strained himself to focus. He had to get control.
And even though nothing happened, he kept trying. He knew no other way.
I still have the knife in my pocket. When I get the feeling back in my arms, I’ll reach down while they're not looking and–
The pitter-patter of feet was followed by several hands reaching through the door, searching through his pockets. He couldn’t feel the hard lump of his wallet being freed from his shirt pocket, but he knew they’d find it.
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