The Dead Parade

by James Roy Daley

  The boys in blue had arrived, with guns aimed and ready.

  Too bad one of them­ was itching to pull the trigger.

  111

  When Elmer finished his business with Debra he stepped outside with a beer in his hand. He walked across the large wooden patio that overlooked the beach. He rested his beer on the railing. He could still hear James shouting, cursing and swearing. He ignored it. Somewhere, beneath the sounds of James, Debra moaned. Elmer ignored that too.

  The sun was up, shining bright. Picturesque ripples fluttered across the water. The rain had stopped falling and the clouds had moved on. But he could see them; Elmer could, like dark mud puddles in the sky, hanging above the lake at some mysterious and unknown distance. Perhaps the rain was still falling on the far side. He did not know, or care. But here, now, standing on the patio as the sun sparkled across the water, everything was beautiful.

  A seagull squawked as it flew overhead. It landed on the sand, some fifteen feet away from where the waves made their final touchdown. On his left, Elmer could see something that looked like tiny mountains, if there were such a thing. After further inspection, he noticed that the mountains had been compromised. The hills were thin on trees and thick on ski runs. The ski runs sat empty and alone, waiting for the summer to end. If ever there was a more objectionable sight then ski runs in the summertime, Elmer did not know what it was.

  On Elmer’s right, two cottages away, some asshole in a pink shirt and a bright blue thong was playing fetch with a poodle. The unfashionable man seemed to be having more fun with his dog then any man in his right mind would. Elmer wondered if the guy was into bestiality. He didn’t care, mind you, but the more Elmer watched the man, the more likely the bestiality scenario seemed.

  Elmer took a drink of beer and thought; this fucking guy sleeps naked with his dog, guaranteed.

  Whatever. The poodle loving ass-buffer did nothing to suggest that he had heard James screaming, which was pretty important, considering. But the man was close by. Close enough to hear something, and that made Elmer nervous––nervous enough to consider talking with the man, and getting a better understanding of the situation.

  Elmer reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He had found it sitting next to his phone on the dining table, with every dollar tucked safely inside. Nothing could have surprised him more.

  Remembering the moment that he found the wallet, Elmer smirked. I should thank James, he thought. Give him a reward or something.

  Still smiling, he opened the wallet and pulled out a credit card. Then he dug into his pocket with fingers scrambling. A little baggy sat beneath some change. Inside the baggy was cocaine. With the wind all but gone he decided to bust out a line––outside. This was a dangerous move. One slight breeze and bye-bye, no more coke.

  After drying part of the railing with his sleeve, he crushed the rock (and lost a point-one into the moist cracks of the wood) and shuffled the coke into a long line; he rolled a twenty-dollar bill into a straw and cranked the powder back. The coke burned his nose faintly and his eyes watered a tad, but over all, the coke was strong enough and smooth enough to be considered above average quality.

  He dropped another rock on the railing, crushed it and shaped it and stuffed the baggy into his wallet. After that, he stuffed his wallet into his pocket. Then he turned away from the beach and the coke and noticed a small AM/FM radio sitting on a table beneath a large patio umbrella. The umbrella could easily cover six people. The radio, which was old and dirty, wasn’t plugged into the wall or anything. It worked on batteries or it didn’t work at all.

  Elmer approached the radio, which was still wet from the rain. He clicked it on, assuming that it wouldn’t work. He was wrong. Somehow, the radio worked fine and when he heard The Who singing My Generation, he left it at that.

  After knocking back the second line, Elmer looked through the broken patio door. Moore was inside, drinking a beer, sitting close to James and Debra, rubbing the fingers from his left hand over the knuckles on his right, while talking.

  James was quiet now; his face drained of expression.

  Debra’s head was slumped forward. She looked dead. Blood drained from her… stub?

  To Elmer’s surprise, the bottom part of Debra’s leg had come free, and sat on the floor beneath her. How is that possible? Elmer wondered. Then he looked at Moore––and at his blood soaked hands and legs.

  That crazy son-of-a-bitch must have pulled her leg off after I walked away, Elmer thought. Good man, that Moore, crazy, but a good man indeed.

  112

  “Put your hands on your head.” Officer Scriber said with a calm, tranquil voice. “Do it slow, do it quiet and don’t make a sound. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Switch stopped walking. His jaw unhinged.

  “Listen,” he said.

  “You shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for you.” The other officer said, loudly. This was Officer Layton, the rookie cop that nobody wanted to be partnered with; the rookie cop that was a bully in high school with a history of fighting, and wouldn’t have been on the force at all––if not for some heavy financial contributions within the small town political world; the rookie cop that was inching to pull the trigger.

  Officer Scriber, curbing the urge to tell Layton to shut-up, closed his eyes briefly. It was something he was going to do, sooner or later, because––like any man with half a brain––he hated David Layton. He hated him enough to ask for a new partner, or a transfer, or seriously consider quitting the force, or maybe––just maybe––accidentally putting a bullet in David Layton’s head.

  Scriber huffed.

  No. He would never do that. He would never sink a bullet into another person, not unless he had to. And even if Scriber could get away with it––which he couldn’t––it would still never happen. Scriber was a good man, a family man with spiritual leanings. He was a man with morals, ethics and good-natured principles. And no matter how much he disliked his partner he would never cross the line. Not like that. Not in a month of Sundays, as his mother sometimes said.

  “Shhh.” Scriber said, looking in his partner’s direction with frustration brewing. “Everyone, just relax a little. There’s no reason for any of us to get excited. Now sir, I’ve already asked you nicely, and I’ll ask you again. Please put you hands on your head, and do it slowly. I don’t want any trouble. I’d like to do this by the book.”

  Switch slowly held his hands up, so both officers could see them. While doing this, he looked past the two men and the police cruiser. The road was nearly empty. Their only company was a squirrel.

  With his fingers wide, he raised his hands to his head.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Switch said. “And I won’t give you any trouble. But I didn’t do anything wrong here, so please take it easy on me. I’m the one that phoned the police.” At this point, Switch realized he had an eightball of coke in his front pocket. His eyes shifted in a guilty sort of way. He felt his temperature rise and his composure slip.

  Being a veteran cop, and a good cop, Scriber caught it.

  Layton didn’t.

  “Is everything okay sir?” Scriber asked.

  Switch quickly accepted the fact that he was going to get busted on possession. He wasn’t thrilled about it, but considering what he had witnessed, it seemed like no big deal.

  “Yes,” he said. “Everything is fine. I don’t want any trouble. In fact, I’d like to help you gentlemen out, if I can.”

  Officer David Layton jumped up a foot, thrusting his gun in Switch’s face. “Do you have any weapons on your person, sir?” Again, his voice was loud and inappropriate.

  “No officer.” Switch said, flinching back a step. “I don’t.”

  Scriber was becoming furious. “Hey Layton, do you mind keeping it down a bit or do you want to yell a little louder, maybe fire off a few warning shots?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m trying to be quiet.�
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  “I just want this dickhead to know who’s in charge here, that’s all.”

  “Don’t worry,” Switch said. “I know who’s in charge. You are.”

  “Fuckin’ A I am. Now turn your ass around, get on your knees and keep your mouth shut.”

  “It’s pretty muddy.”

  “I don’t give a flying rat-fuck if it’s muddy. Turn around and get on your knees.”

  Switch turned and dropped to his knees without any sudden movements. Within seconds, his face was pushed into the mucky ground and he was cuffed. With his hands behind his back, Layton read him his rights.

  Once Layton had finished his cop speech, Switch said, “Can I say something?” His face and body was needlessly covered with mud now and his anger just was around the corner.

  “Sure––” Scriber began.

  Layton’s body language shut him down.

  Most of the time, Scriber could deal with Layton being an asshole. But here, standing within spitting distance of a murder suspect, Layton had snapped; he was impossible to handle.

  It was the license plate number that did it. As soon as Layton called it in––and realized that they were dealing with the ‘Martinsville Terror’, which was what the cops were calling the whole string of High Park Murders in this part of the country––Layton went nuts, turning all his imperfections up ten notches. Scriber figured Layton had dreams of being a hero and dreams of fast tracking his career.

  Not that he was heroic.

  “Just keep your fucking mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you! Do you get me? Or do I need to show you the long arm of the law?” Layton’s meat-hook hands were in fists now, with his gun almost hiding inside his right one. Layton wasn’t tall, but he was big––two hundred and thirty pounds. His hands looked like they could strangle a bear.

  “Can you hear me out?” Switch said. “I’m trying to tell you, there’s a woman inside and she needs your help!”

  Switch was still on his knees with a face full of mud when Layton slapped him across the back of the head. After that, Scriber lost his cool. Harsh words were spoken and soon enough, Layton began shouting.

  Scriber shouted back.

  Switch thought the two cops were going to drop the guns and fistfight, right there on the road. But as it turned out, six more police cruisers showed up before the situation had a chance to mature.

  And after that, all hell broke loose.

  113

  Moore thought he heard something, an argument perhaps. He leaned back, listening, and after a moment of silence and reflection, he looked through the broken patio door.

  Elmer was standing on the patio, gazing across the water and listening to the radio. If Moore had been able to see his face, he would have thought the man was in a trance. His eyes were locked in a cold, motionless stare.

  After considering his options, Moore decided not to tell Elmer about the noises on the other side of the cottage. Elmer had lost his mind in the last ten minutes or so, at least on some levels, and Moore figured he needed time to regain his wits.

  Looking at Debra, he said, “Don’t go anywhere beautiful. I’ll be right back.” Then he chuckled, winked at James and picked the shotgun off the table. “You want some of this, tough guy? Do you? I don’t mind blowing off a few of your fingers before I step outside. How would that suit ya? You down with that, or maybe I should unzip my pants and let you blow me. Huh? You feelin’ me, son? You feelin’ me?”

  James sniffed. His nose was running and his eyes were red.

  “What’s wrong buddy, cat’s got your tongue?”

  “Why don’t you fuck-off?” James said, pulling his eyes away from Debra’s non-existent breathing.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Moore said. “That’s the way we do it. I’m gonna love fucking you up. It’s gonna last forever. I’ll cut off your balls… for real. Don’t think I won’t, ‘cause I’m not kidding around. I’m going to cut off your balls one at a time. And it’s gonna hurt bad, son. You’ll pray for death. I know you will.”

  “Go fuck your hand.”

  Moore grinned. “Yeah, okay. Go fuck your hand huh? Yeah, that’s funny all right… that’s a good one. But I’ve got a better idea. How about this: How about I step outside for a minute, and when I get back, I cut off your baby-fingers. And after that, I break both your legs. Is that, ‘go fuck your hand’ enough for ya? And I hope you kissed your girl good-bye. I think she’s sick.” Moore laughed. “Yeah, she looks sick to me. And by the way, just so you know, I had a great time fucking her. She’s got nice tits. You know about that, right? About her and I? And Elmer fucked her too. It was the three of us, all together at the same time.” Moore watched James squirm. “She really enjoyed having my cock in her ass.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “Oh yeah? Look in my eyes. Tell me I’m lying. Tell me I didn’t fuck your girl.”

  James was speechless. Somehow, this tidbit of information hurt more than the rest of it. Did those two bastards really rape her before they played woodshop on her leg? He hoped not.

  “Bye-bye,” Moore said. He walked down the hall laughing, with the shotgun hanging loose in his hand. He opened the door, waved, and was gone.

  James was whirling, distressed beyond repair. He glanced at Elmer.

  Elmer was looking across the water, listening to the radio. He seemed to be in a completely different headspace, a completely different world.

  He looked at Debra. She was lost. The puddle of blood looked huge now, and the edges had grown hard. Her severed leg looked like an island.

  He turned his wrists in circles and tried to pull his fingers together. The ropes were loose and had been for a while. With Moore sitting in front of him, talking like a cracked-out thug, James didn’t move. But now that Moore was gone and Elmer was on the patio, things changed. He continued working his wrists, and thinking about Debra. Then another thought came: the third guy, the one that re-tied him and left the ropes loose, which side was he really on?

  Was he a friend or an enemy?

  As James wondered, he eyed Elmer’s handgun. It was sitting on the table. Lonely.

  114

  Debra felt the hammer at first, then after a while she didn’t feel anything. Her eyes opened and closed while the pain was still burning. All she could see was Elmer and the hammer––Elmer and the hammer––Elmer and the hammer. And Elmer looked insane, truly insane. His eyes were wide and bulging. Spittle hung from his chin. His nose flared. His lips were pulled back. His teeth were exposed and chattering.

  The hammer was red with gore.

  Deranged, Debra thought, before the hammer dropped the first punishing blow. This man is truly deranged.

  Then it was pain, splattering blood. After that, it was something else.

  It was death.

  115

  Moore walked down the slope of the two hundred and fifty foot driveway, inside one of the two trails that the car tires had created. Both trails were wet and muddy, covered with small rocks. The rocks helped the journey for a while. But when Moore hit the halfway point the rocks disappeared and the trail became mucky. Moore stopped walking and cursed. Not wanting mud up to his eyeballs, he changed his footing. Now he walked on the grass that divided the two trails. Tall trees, covered in bright green leaves, were like giant walls along side of him. And because of the trees, and because Moore walked carefully, watching his step, he didn’t realize that seven police cruisers were at the bottom of the slope.

  Officer Alice Romero, one of the few female officers on the force, noticed Moore coming. She nudged her partner, drew her gun and said, “Hold it right there, buddy.”

  Officer Wayne Carey, Alice’s partner, looked up. He reached for his weapon.

  Without aiming, Moore opened fire.

  The first shotgun shell caught Alice Romero in the right leg, breaking her bone, destroying her kneecap and tearing off two pounds of muscle. As Romero fell, she fired wildly into the sky. Carey drew his gun. Then Moore fired another shot and scored a
nother hit. This time the slug caught Carey in the chin, obliterating it. When Carey fell back, his feet lifted four inches off the ground. His gun twirled over his shoulder.

  Seven police cars, thirteen officers. Two officers had fallen; the other eleven were scrambling.

  Moore turned and ran up the driveway; he didn’t like being out in the open.

  He ran through puddles and long wet grass, with his shoes squishing in the mud. He ran past an overturned canoe and a washed out fire pit that had several logs around it. He leapt over a small, empty flowerbed. Trees and shrubs dripped around him. Crickets chirped.

  He shuffled the shotgun from hand to hand; he didn’t care much for it. It was a powerful weapon––and so far, he was two for two––but he had no experience with a shotgun and he wasn’t sure how many shells it held.

  The answer was six; he had four shells left.

  The police opened fire.

  116

  The first rope fell. Quietly, James untied the rest.

  He stood up, approached Debra and put his hand on her chest.

  She wasn’t breathing. She was dead.

  Having expected this, James didn’t show any emotion. The crying and laughing would have to come later, when he had time. Now was time for killing, time for vengeance, time to chop off her head.

  James turned around, looking for the axe. He spotted Elmer through the broken patio door, gazing across the water, lost within his thoughts. James lifted the handgun from the table. The weapon felt cold but good. If he wanted to, he could pop Elmer right then. He hesitated, and felt his nerves cracking.