The anticipation of injecting a new dose of death into the town was so sweet, Ricky could practically taste it. He cleared away a spot on the ground, sat, and waited, arms resting on his knees.
From where he sat on a low hill looking down over the scene, he couldn’t quite make out the chain strung across the road, but once his eyes adjusted a little, he could see the back of the big oak tree and the black line of the chain looped around its massive trunk. He hoped the chain would hold. He remembered the feel of it in his hands: it was thick enough, so it ought to work just fine.
Ricky began to whistle “When the Saints Go Marching In,” tapping his toes in the dirt to add accompanying percussion. While he waited, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a Double Decker MoonPie, his absolute favorite. He unwrapped it and took a big bite. Screw those dumb dames, he thought. This might be the greatest night of his life.
Time washed away for him, and he became a fixture of the night—a part of it, not a foreign thing in it. The whole experience was enjoyable. He felt like he was sitting at the movie theater, eager for the curtains to draw back, the projectors to kick on, and the show to start.
And then, as if some higher power had heard his thoughts, the show did start.
He had eaten his MoonPie and was halfway through his fifth cigarette when the sound of an engine approaching rose up in the woods. After a moment he could make out the crunch of tires driving over gravel. The dawning and shifting glow of headlights flickered in the distance through the trees.
“We got a fishy.” Ricky grinned. He dropped his cigarette and smashed it out with the heel of his boot. He squatted up onto his haunches. His chest was tightening with excitement. His breathing doubled along with his heartbeat. He felt his scrotum tighten as he became aroused. Flashes of Grace Delancey strobed in his head.
He could see the car clearly. It was a hundred feet up the road, coming from the direction of Route 2. The driver shifted up. It must’ve been doing at least thirty miles per hour. Ricky could see the chain illuminated by the car’s headlights, but that was only because he knew where to look.
A moment before the collision, all the air and sound went out of the night. Ricky watched it all happen in silent slow motion. Then, like sound waves catching up to a firework explosion, the road erupted in a deafening cacophony of destruction, and everything sped up.
The driver never even had time to hit the brakes. The front left of the car hit first. Metal and glass squealed and crunched. Something tumbled up the road a short way. The car lurched right, guided by the angled chain, and careened down the embankment and into the woods with a loud crash, rolling over onto its side, then its roof.
Ricky’s eyes widened. He wiped his hand over his mouth, stood, and went toward the road. He paused at the tree line, scanning left, then right. He walked across to the edge of the embankment and looked down at the overturned car. One wheel spun idly and wobbled on a damaged axle. Steam hissed from the radiator. The headlights were empty silver bowls. The entire left front end of the black car was completely crumpled in. The windshield was gone, save for the jagged fragments still stuck in the bite of the frame.
“Anyone in there?” Ricky said.
No one answered.
“Say, you all right? That was one hell of a crash, pal.”
In the moonlight, he could see the rough shape of a person bent at strange angles upside down inside the vehicle. It looked like a man. Whoever it was, the figure wasn’t moving.
Ricky started down the embankment, but stopped abruptly.
First things first, the dark thing reminded him. We’ll have time for a souvenir after. Now cover your tracks.
He turned and looked over his shoulder. The chain was still stretched tight across the road. He went and released both the binders, then undid the chain from the trees and dropped everything into a pile at the foot of the oak. If anyone came along at that moment, he could duck behind a tree and they would keep on going, giving him time to finish up.
Looking down at all the equipment, he decided he should’ve brought the milk crate along with him. It would’ve made it easier to carry everything back to his car. He could’ve used it as a seat, too, kept his ass from getting damp in the dirt while he had waited for his show to start. Why hadn’t his dark thing thought of that? Why hadn’t he thought of that?
A frail voice—this one completely external—called out, startling Ricky as he considered this lapse in foresight and what it meant. “Heeelllp.” One long gurgled word.
He went over to the top of the embankment to see someone crawling out through a busted window in the car. Ricky pursed his lips and rubbed the side of his face. “Shit.”
He ran to grab one of the heavy steel chain binders, then shuffled down the hill until he was standing over the man. It reminded him of how he had stood over Madison Feller in her final moments.
“Marion,” the man whispered, and coughed. He was crawling slowly toward nothing, simply moving instinctively away with the last of his strength, hoping to find some sort of deliverance that would never come. If there was one thing Ricky was certain of in this world, it was that people always moved away from pain and in the direction of release. It wasn’t a choice; it was simply the stock wiring.
“Hold still,” he said, stepping over the driver, legs straddling him. “Hey, I know you, don’t I?”
He bent down to get a closer look. Ricky recognized the man, and it was hardly a man at all. It was the kid from the drugstore… Dan Metzger. Dan had been a senior in high school when Ricky was a freshman. Something in the crash had opened up Dan’s neck three fingers wide, and blood drooled out steadily in spurts from the gaping wound. Ricky could actually hear the arterial spray spattering the dry leaves on the ground. The sound was steadily slowing.
“Help… me,” Dan said again, his bloody hand creeping forward and trying to find purchase on the ground.
“Sure thing, pal,” Ricky said, and laughed.
The chain binder came down. Then it came down again. And again. Three savage blows. Dan let out a pathetic guffawww. Warm blood wet Ricky’s face. The hard vibration echoed in his arms, stinging his hands and wrists, and then it faded to a satisfying tingle. It was like striking a halfway-rotted tree stump.
He straightened and dumped the chain binder beside him in the dirt. He was breathing heavily, licking his lips. He tasted metal.
The dark thing spoke to him: You are the judge because you are here and they are there. You decide, Ricky.
“I am the judge.”
Ricky wiped his hand over his face. He reached down and grabbed Dan’s wrist, searching it. He found nothing. He checked the other. Bingo. He removed the watch and held it up to the moonlight. It sparkled dully where it wasn’t black with blood. His second souvenir.
In the distance, another engine rose up in the night, interrupting the moment. It was heading his way. He stuffed the watch in his pocket.
Ricky picked up the binder, then hurried to the oak tree. He gathered everything in his arms as quickly as he could. He couldn’t see any headlights, but he could hear the chug of the approaching vehicle getting closer.
He scrambled into the woods, the whole time thinking about the thing he had heard tumble up the road when the car first struck the chain. It didn’t matter, though. He would leave it there, same as he had left Madison’s bike leaning against the tree.
This was just another horrible accident. Tragic.
Chapter Four
THE METZGER KID IS DEAD
1
The brunette giggled. Her bright-red lipstick stretched into a smile as she slid her hand over the man’s thigh and up into the crotch of his blue jeans.
Her name was Sandy. His was Jim.
“You like that?” Sandy said. “It feels like you do.” She moved her hand to his belt and unbuckled it. Then she unbuttoned his pants and slid down the zipper. He already had an erection. She took it in her hand.
“Yeah, I do.” Jim grinned, keeping his eyes
on the road. “I like that a lot, as a matter of fact. Keep going.” He turned down Waldingfield Road and pressed his boot down on the accelerator. The truck almost broke free on the gravel for a second, but he backed off the gas and kept the Chevy straight. He laughed, pulled the pint of whiskey off the dash, and took a swig. “Damn, you’re good. Almost cracked us up.”
Sandy giggled again. It was a sweet sound. “Turn your lights on and slow down, then. You fixing to kill us out here?”
“It’s fine. You just worry about what you’re doing, honey. It’s a damn fine job.”
She smiled proudly. “This ain’t nothing. It’s not even my favorite.”
“Your favorite?”
“That’s right.”
“And what’s that, then?” Jim had an idea what was coming, and it made the spit in his mouth thicken in anticipation.
Sandy pulled her hair back, gathering it in a ponytail and holding it there with a purple elastic thing. “Well, I don’t want to ruin the surprise, darlin.”
“I like a good surprise. Want a little something to wet your whistle first?” He tilted the bottle of whiskey in her direction.
“After,” she said, “to wash it down.”
Jim capped the bottle and tucked it under his thigh, behind his knee. “Suit yourself.” He clutched the wheel with both hands as she started working him again. Then she slid farther across the bench seat, leaned down, and took him in her mouth. “Sweet-fucking-Christ, girl. Someone taught you good.” He pressed his head back against the cab of his truck and tried to keep his eyes on the road, moaning every time he hit a pothole… perhaps even aiming for them. The ones he could see, anyway.
About two minutes into it, Chuck Berry came on the radio with “Johnny B. Goode.”
“My lucky day,” Jim said, reaching over Sandy’s head and turning up the volume. “Maybe the kid’s a nigger, but he sure can play the shit out of that guitar.”
She stopped and sat up. “You say something?”
“Yeah… no… nothin. Keep going.” He reached over and grabbed the back of her neck, pulling her head down. “Don’t stop.”
“Knock it off.” She smacked his arm off her. “I don’t like that.”
Jim’s brow wrinkled. “Don’t like what?”
Sandy folded her arms and pressed her back against the passenger-side door. “Don’t force me. It ain’t right.”
“Okay. Jesus. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean nothin about it.”
“I know you didn’t, but I still don’t like it.”
“Look, I said I was sor—” Thunk! The whole truck jolted. Something scraped and tumbled along the undercarriage and got spat out the back. “The fuck was that?” Jim skidded to a stop, both feet on the brake pedal.
Sandy lurched toward the dashboard, but she put her arm out in time to catch herself. “Jesus-jumped-up-Christ! Take it easy.” She pushed herself back in her seat and looked at Jim. “You hit something.”
He let out a long breath and loosened his grip on the wheel. “No shit I hit something.”
“I told you to turn your lights on. I knew you was gonna get us in an accident.”
Jim turned to her and scowled. “Quiet,” he said, and slid the shift lever into park. “Wait here.” He opened the door and stepped out, buckling his pants. The whiskey he had stored under his leg slid to the edge of the seat, but he caught it and tossed it back on the dash again.
He shut the door.
Sandy looked out the back window. “I can’t see anything. I don’t like it out here.”
Jim followed her gaze. There was only blackness. Without averting his eyes, he reached in through the window and flipped on his headlights. Behind the truck, everything washed a deep red from the taillights. In the middle of the road there was a long piece of bent metal. “Hell is that?”
“Can we just leave it and get outta here?” Sandy turned to him, her face pleading. She was scared.
Jim ignored her and walked around to the back of the truck. He kicked the piece of metal, then crouched down to inspect it. “Ain’t from my truck, anyway,” he said. “At least I don’t think so.”
“What is it?” Sandy asked, leaning out the window. “A deer? You hit an animal or something?”
“No, it ain’t no deer.” Jim stood. He reached into the breast pocket of his flannel and pulled out a crumpled pack of Camels. “It’s a piece of a bumper… I think. Looks that way.”
“A what?”
“A bumper… a car bumper. It must’ve fell off someone’s car when they hit a pothole. That’s what I figure.” He removed a cigarette from the pack and lit it with his Zippo.
“Can we go, then?”
“Yeah,” Jim said, “I’m just gonna move it off the road. Stay in the truck. I’ll be right there.” He took a hard drag off his cigarette. Then he secured it tightly in the corner of his mouth, bent down, and picked up the mangled bumper in both hands. It was heavier than he’d thought it would be. Or it might’ve been the fresh sex running through his veins, weakening his muscles.
“Hurry up,” Sandy said. “I don’t feel like getting murdered out here tonight.”
“Stop talkin and you won’t,” Jim said, annoyed.
Smoke drifted up from the cigarette and stung his eyes as he walked the bumper to the side of the road. When he reached the edge, he twisted at the waist and hurled the piece of debris as far as he could down a small embankment. It tinkered and thrashed through the brush, eventually coming to rest somewhere Jim couldn’t see. He took the cigarette out of his mouth, and without the orange glow of the ember blaring below his eyes, he could see.
At the bottom of the hill was a wrecked car rolled over on its roof, the front smashed in. Beside the car was the dim silhouette of a body splayed out on the ground. By the size of it, it looked to be a man. Whoever it was, he wasn’t moving.
“What the hell?” Jim said under his breath. He shuffled down the embankment, gravel sliding underfoot, avalanching to the bottom in a thin rustle. “Hey, buddy, you all right?”
“What’re you doing?” Sandy called after him.
“Hold on a moment, would you? There’s somebody down here.” Jim reached the bottom of the hill and went over to the body. “Hey… can you hear me?” He knelt, poking the man’s shoulder. Jim’s knee landed in something wet, and from there he recognized the face of Danny Metzger in the pale moonlight. “Holy Christ!” He jumped up, and for a moment he was frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from what he was seeing. Then something inside him cracked a whip, and he scampered back up the embankment to his truck.
Sandy was leaning on her forearms, hanging out of the window when Jim got back up on the road. Her face was bound into an anxious knot. “What? What is it?”
Jim yanked open the door, reached for his whiskey, and took a long pull off the bottle without offering an answer.
“What was it? What’s down there?” she repeated, now sitting bolt stiff and staring at Jim, her hands clamped together between her knees.
He looked at her, catching his breath and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He capped the bottle and tossed it on the seat of his truck before climbing in. “How old are you?” he asked her, turning down the radio.
“Why?”
“Never mind why. I asked, didn’t I?”
“Nineteen. What’s that got to do with anything?”
Jim put the truck in drive. “Nothing. Just asking.”
Sandy glanced at him, then fell back in her seat as he stepped on the gas and tore ass out of there.
2
The Gilchrist Police Department had a fly problem. Sick yellow ribbons of flypaper, swollen with stuck corpses, hung from the station ceiling like the forgotten streamers of a sad celebration.
Corbin Delancey had been following a particular fly since it took flight from the rim of his Coke bottle. It landed in front of him on the woman’s breast. He blinked his wide blue eyes slowly, watching it laze about her body. Its movements were measured but chaotic, in the
perfectly natural way it was designed to move. It sat on her nipple, twitched its head along the axis. It moved to her armpit, then to her stomach. It tasted her naval and went south from there.
Corbin released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding. The woman’s name was Susan Denberg—August, 1966’s Playboy centerfold.
There was a knock on the front door of the station. The screen door clattered against the jamb, the flimsy eye-hook lock rattling on the frame. Corbin could see the sound and all the familiar elements that made it up.
“You in there, Chief?” a man’s voice said urgently. “There’s been an accident.”
Corbin flicked his hand at the magazine page and shooed the fly off Susan. He opened his desk drawer and filed the Playboy away. “Yeah, just a sec. Who is it?” He glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven o’clock. As was often the case, he was the last person at the station. Randall Buchanan would be in shortly to take the night shift, but until then, all problems were still Corbin’s to sort out.
“It’s Jim. There’s some kind of accident out on Waldingfield Road. I just come up on it ten minutes ago.”
“Jim? Jim who?” Corbin answered. From his desk, he couldn’t see around the corner.
“Jim Krantz, sir.”
“Hold your horses, Jim Krantz. I’m coming.” Corbin stood, hitched his pants, and dropped the half-drunk bottle of Coke into the wastebasket beside his desk. He crossed his office and went out to the station lobby.
Jim was standing in the doorway, hazy behind the screen. Corbin knew the boy’s father, Dick Krantz, and thought now more than ever that Jim was a true product of the man’s loins, despite what others said behind Dick’s back. As a featureless silhouette, Jim resembled his father a great deal: tall, thin, and long-waisted, he carried his weight hard on the backs of his heels. They shared the same bones. And his voice, an octave higher and rich with youth, held the same tone and inflection. Corbin had never noticed any of that before, but he’d never really thought about it all that much, either.
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