Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  It began with a bottle of Elmer’s Glue All. One day he and his brother smeared it on their palms and let it dry, then peeled it off, just as every other kid in the world had done. But Carlo couldn’t stop. He kept a bottle of glue out in the backyard, and sometimes he’d spend hours spreading it on and peeling it off.

  That summer he got a bad sunburn at Brighton Beach and he watched, fascinated, as the skin on his abdomen and shoulders blistered. Hidden under his bedspread on a hot July night, holding a flashlight, he stuck a pin in the blisters and gently compressed the serum out.

  And felt dirty for doing it, even though he was never caught. To him, it seemed a sin as bad as masturbation, and he never confessed to the priest because, even then, he knew it couldn’t be forgiven.

  Then the skin dried and began to peel. Slowly, carefully, he learned to peel the dead skin off, rolling it gently down, trying to keep it intact. He’d hold it up to the light, studying it with endless fascination. And with each burn he got—and he had several that first summer—he peeled his skin and folded it neatly and put the pieces in individual wax paper sandwich bags, each dated and hidden away.

  His collection grew summer by summer, until he turned sixteen and grew handsome. Until the high school girls noticed him.

  And he noticed them.

  He was afraid of his new feelings, and afraid of the opportunities that kept presenting themselves. Even before anything happened, he sensed that his lust for them was dangerous, and though he dated, he refused to let himself go very far. Fortunately, just the feel of feminine lips against his, the taste and incredible pliant softness, was sweet torture.

  During the summer of his seventeenth year, he began to learn the rudiments of self-control, but they weren’t enough to prevent what happened a week before his birthday.

  Carlo grabbed his keys and trotted downstairs, going out the back door and wheeling his motorcycle out of the little shed behind his store. He swung onto the machine and turned the ignition, then rode slowly down the narrow access road until he reached Old Madelyn Highway, where he turned south, toward Tom’s ranch.

  Tom once told him that he measured a man by what he saw, not by what he had done in the past, and that helped Carlo accept the rancher’s friendship, and the friendship of the others. But even with Tom, he remained distant, knowing that his past would be unacceptable, even to a man who seemed to accept everything and everyone. Carlo’s secrets were beyond comprehension. Even his own.

  The first victim, whom he took on a chill, foggy October day, was a prostitute, just as his later victims would be.

  It was Saturday, and he and his friends Glen MacIntyre and Ted Furillo had taken the B Train to Coney Island. The place was cold and deserted, the parks nothing but ancient dinosaur bones rising in the mist.

  Carlo loved the derelict amusement parks, loved sneaking inside and walking among the skeletal remains. He always imagined he heard the ghosts of the past, childish screams as roller coasters groaned and whooshed, blasts of air and young girls’ giggling shrieks as they tried to keep their skirts down, the carnies seducing quarters and dollars from the pockets of young men who wanted to impress their girls. Those sounds mixed with the ocean’s endless roar and the wind whistling through coasters and past boarded-up buildings to give Carlo a sense of peace and wonder.

  Glen and Ted wouldn’t have understood. They loved to go into the parks, but were interested in petty acts of vandalism, not sitting quietly and soaking up the atmosphere. Now, as the three of them walked along the deserted boardwalk, Ted and Glen were one-upping each another with tales of their lovemaking prowess. The trio had gone out with three cheerleaders for pizza and a movie the night before. After, they split up. Carlo took his date to a coffee shop, then straight home. The girl had been willing and he knew he’d disappointed her, but each time he looked at her, each time he felt her shoulder against his in the movie theater, frightening images filled his head, visions of him touching her skin, petting it, filling him with such lust that he wanted to devour her. He barely made it through the evening.

  Glen and Ted had no such problems, but ruined the other girls’ reputations with every word they uttered. Now Ted turned to Carlo, who was still Charles Pilgrim. “Hey, Chuckie, did Laurie put out for you last night?”

  “Does she play the skin flute?” cried Glen.

  “The mouth organ?” Ted added.

  “I know, I know,” Glen screeched. “The sexaphone!”

  Carlo just looked at them, smiled, and the pair nodded at each other.

  “He ain’t talking, Ted. He really got laid.”

  “You mean you didn’t?” Carlo asked innocently.

  Glen and Ted responded with obscene descriptions of the powers of their cheerleaders’ oral abilities. Carlo didn’t believe a word of it.

  They walked a little farther and were just beginning to discuss the best places to climb over one of the park fences when they saw the girls. The women. Glen and Ted’s hoots silenced as the miniskirted, heavily made-up females walked toward the boys, their hips moving as if they were full of ball bearings.

  “Silicone tits,” Glen hissed, seeing the unmoving oversized breasts on a dark-haired woman snapping gum as if her life depended on it.

  “I hear silicone tits are as hard as rocks,” Ted told him.

  “Oh, yeah? Well, so am I.” Glen glanced at Carlo, who was considered the brains of the trio. “You think they’re whores?”

  “Could be.” The other two girls, both bleached blondes, wore form-fitting sweaters and almost nonexistent skirts, just like Silicone Tits. Tits had black mesh nylons, as did one blonde. The other wore white nylons, the opaque tops showing slightly from beneath her purple skirt each time she took a step.

  “Hey, boys,” said the brunette as they came face-to-face.

  “Hey, girls,” Glen said in a goofy tone.

  “You looking for some fun?”

  The other boys glanced at Carlo. He nodded slightly, meaning that he was sure these girls were hookers, but the other two obviously thought he meant “go for it.”

  “Sure,” Ted said. “We’re looking for fun.”

  “Got any money?” asked the black-stockinged blonde.

  Ted and Glen nodded enthusiastically.

  “Do you?” White Stockings asked Carlo, licking her lips. He was staring at her peeling, sunburned shoulders.

  He nodded hesitantly.

  She giggled and whispered in his ear. Did he want a blow job?

  You bet. This, he thought, might be safe. He told himself his fantasies wouldn’t take control of him if he didn’t touch her, if she only touched him.

  “See you guys later,” Ted called as he strolled toward an abandoned pier with Silicone Tits. Glen put his arm around one of the blondes and they took off in another direction, leaving Carlo with White Stockings. “My name’s Lola,” she told him, “And you know what they say?”

  He shook his head.

  “Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets,” she told him. “Come on, cutie.”

  She led him toward the old amusement park and in through a well-disguised break in the chain-link fencing. Keeping to the shadows, disguised by the fog, they were invisible. Lola took him deep into the park, farther than he had ever dared go before. She obviously knew her way around, and soon they entered a large building. The House of Mirrors.

  Producing a flashlight from her voluminous purse, she took his hand, warning him to watch his step, that there was broken glass everywhere. As they moved, he caught brief, crazed images of himself in the distorted mirrors. He thought he looked like a monster.

  Finally they came to a small room with mirrors everywhere, reflecting their faceted images from all around and even above. Few of the mirrors were broken here, or even cracked. Probably, thought Carlo, because the place was so hard to find.

  In the middle of the room lay a pile of old canvas tarps and a kerosene camping lantern beside them. Lola used a cigarette lighter to light it, then turned toward Carlo, licking
her lips and folding down to her knees on the material. She took his hand, and Carlo, trembling with desire, nearly overcome with it, let her pull him forward.

  She looked up at him. Mascara had smeared under one eye. “You’re a real hunk, you know that?”

  He shrugged.

  “How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

  “Nineteen,” he lied.

  She began to tug on his zipper. “How much money you got?”

  Trembling, he pulled out his billfold, looked inside. “Forty dollars.”

  At that, she let go of his belt and grabbed his hands, pulling him down beside her. “For that, we can go all the way, sweet thing.” She pulled her sweater over her head, exposing peeling, sunburned flesh and a black lace bra. “Would you like that?”

  Dumbly he stared at her as she unhooked her bra, revealing heavy breasts, pale white with a delicate tracery of blue veins around rusty-rose nipples.

  “Get undressed. What’s your name?”

  “Charlie,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt, thinking about feeling his skin against hers, frightened, excited.

  She stood up and unzipped the skirt, let it fall to the ground. All around, images of her flickered in the mirrors.

  “Let me,” Carlo whispered as she hooked her thumbs into her white panty hose.

  “Sure, babe.” With trembling fingers, he slowly, oh so slowly, peeled the panty hose down over her hips, thighs, calves. He stared up at her as she reached down and pulled them off. The soles of her feet were filthy.

  “Like what you see?” she asked, running her hands over her ribs.

  Swallowing hard, he nodded. Her breasts and pubic area stood out in stark contrast to the tanned and burned flesh. A tiny strip of peeling skin at her bikini line caught his eye. He stared at it and his hand went out and touched it. Delicately he pulled it away, then gazed at it on his fingers.

  “Hey, Charlie, let’s do it. Take off your pants.”

  Mesmerized by her skin on his fingers, he didn’t move until she pushed his shoulder. “What’s the matter? You never seen a sunburn before?” She got to her knees and undid his belt and zipper, pushing his jeans down around his knees. She grinned. “Well, you’re ready,” she said. With one hand, she dug in her purse and pulled out a condom. Tearing the package open with her teeth, she slipped the condom on him and pulled him down on top of her, guiding him with her hand.

  His hands roamed her body and he was barely aware that he was making love to her. The sensations he concentrated on were in his fingers as he touched, sometimes plucking at her peeling skin, moving his hands low over thighs, up over the curves of her waist, around her breasts, kneading, patting, stroking.

  He still remembered the desire, a need so strong that it finally overtook him. He remembered being hypnotized by the mirrors, watching his hands as they moved higher and higher, up to her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh, her screaming and flailing, cursing him as his nails drew blood.

  And that was all. He remembered no more until he found himself dressed, wandering aimlessly around the abandoned park. The sun had moved westward and at least two hours had passed.

  He saw blood under his nails. And skin.

  Shocked, he ran, searching for the House of Mirrors. When he found it, there was nothing within but darkness, and he knew it would be useless to try to find the room of faceted mirrors. He called and called, but there was no reply except for the echo of his own voice. In his gut, he knew that the prostitute was dead.

  Back out in the hazy sunlight, he remembered his wallet and began to panic. But amazingly, it was in his back pocket. Everything but the forty dollars was there. He’d left her with that, at least. Checking himself further, he found that he had left nothing of his belongings: His comb and jackknife were in his pants pockets.

  Yet he remembered nothing. All he could think of was how silly he thought The Wolfman was when he’d watched it late at night a few months before. It didn’t seem so silly anymore.

  But then, as he made his way through the deserted amusement park, it all began to seem like a dream, a nightmare. Finally he located the camouflaged hole in the fence and climbed through, grateful that no one was on the boardwalk.

  Numb, in shock, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible, he walked down onto the beach. The ocean looked chill and dark, and smelled of rotting seaweed. Gnats swarmed around his feet as he walked. When he reached the hard-packed sand near the water’s edge, he walked slowly along the deserted shore, turning his jacket collar up against the cold wind.

  Winter was coming. He could see it in the color of the sky, hear it in the crashing waves, taste it on the air. He approached a mass of seaweed, recoiling slightly when he spotted a dead seagull twisted in the vines. The body crawled with insects and a tiny crab scuttled out from beneath it. Disgusted, he stepped widely around it, and shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, he moved on.

  Something slimy was in the right-hand pocket.

  His stomach cramped as he felt the slippery mass around his fingers. He didn’t have to look to know what it was, but he stopped walking and grimly pulled the piece of flesh from his pocket.

  Carlo turned his motorcycle down the ranch road, remembering, trying to forget. He had been tempted to keep the skin. It aroused the dark thing that lived inside him. Instead, tears in his eyes, almost grateful he couldn’t remember what had happened in the House of Mirrors, he flung it into the sea, food for the fishes. Then he approached the water and squatted, letting the salt water wash away the blood. He had no criminal record, had never been fingerprinted, and the body wasn’t found until six months later, just after he committed his second atrocity.

  As he pulled up next to Cassie’s Honda Civic and killed the engine, he looked up into the night sky. The stars were clear and bright, the moon, a brilliant crescent border on a nearly invisible disk. To this day, he didn’t know exactly what happened so long ago in the abandoned amusement park on Coney Island, any more than he remembered the bloody details of the other murders.

  He remembered only that all three victims had been prostitutes, and the police theorized that their profession was his reason for the kills. But that was untrue: He had no grudge against them. It was simply because they approached him first and whispered things in his ear that made his blood boil, and then made him forget everything.

  Checking his watch, Carlo saw that it was well past eight o’clock, so he walked directly around to the back courtyard. As he approached, he heard people talking and, as always, experienced an instant of self-hatred. None of these people would want to have anything to do with him if they knew what he had done. And rightly so. He was a living, walking lie, an unworthy were-creature only pretending to be a normal human being. Opening the gate, he resolutely pushed the dark thoughts from his mind.

  “Hello, pilgrim.”

  Carlo, stunned by the name, stopped dead in his tracks, but Tom Abernathy just grinned at him from halfway across the patio. “Is my John Wayne impression that bad?”

  Carlo managed a smile. Abernathy had used the same John Wayne line on him numerous times, but never had it shocked Pelegrine like it did now. “I’ve, ah, heard better,” he said, returning Cassie’s wave.

  “Come on over here,” she called. “We’ve got fresh blood.”

  He controlled a flinch, grateful he was rarely this sensitized.

  “Go on,” Tom echoed, leading him toward the group. “I’ll tell Davy you’re here so we can get down to some serious eating.”

  Approaching Cassie, he saw a woman beside her who was turned away from him, talking to Marie Lopez.

  “Carlo Pelegrine, this is Alex Manderley,” Cassie said.

  At her name, Alex whipped her head around, her dark eyes wide and bright.

  “Alex, this is Carlo, our illustrious fortune-teller.”

  Carlo stared at her, his throat dry.

  “We’ve met,” Alex said softly, her eyes locking on his.

  His heart skipped a beat.

&n
bsp; And then she smiled, and it skipped another.

  51

  Justin Martin

  EASY PICKINGS. JUSTIN MARTIN CRUISED PAST CASSIE Halloway’s place and grinned, seeing that the house was dark and that neither her car or Baskerville’s cruiser were there. Just to be safe, he turned around and drove south until he could see Tom Abernathy’s brightly lit ranch house in the distance. Grabbing a pair of binoculars from behind the passenger seat, he trained them on Abernathy’s place.

  “Yeah, good,” he whispered, picking out a yellow auto and a police cruiser parked at the cowboy’s house.

  It was about time something went right today. Justin had spent hours getting rid of the death stench in the pit below the Haunted Mine Ride. First he bought a bag of lime in Madelyn, just like Old Man Marquay expected him to, then he had driven into Barstow and bought four extra bags out of his own money.

  Happily, by the time he returned, the park had closed for the day, which meant he didn’t have to risk lugging the bags from the parking lot. Instead, he unlocked the big delivery gate and drove in, a legitimate delivery to make. No one had asked him what he was doing, and, in fact, the only person he thought even noticed him was Carlo Pelegrine, who had been in front of his shop sweeping the sidewalk, still in his gypsy clothes. Justin had been tempted to stop and shoot a little shit, but decided against it since he had so much to do and so little time. Besides, he didn’t want to arouse Pelegrine’s suspicions by being too friendly too suddenly, so he proceeded straight to the mine.

  The entire time he’d swung the pickax and wielded the shovel, Justin considered his options with regard to that asshole Hannibal Caine and his idiot “God’s Green Berets.” If the so-called test Caine had cited hadn’t been so intriguing, he would have told the guy to fuck off, but by the time he was three-quarters done with the job in the mine, he had decided to go ahead and do the dirty deed.

  After all, it couldn’t hurt and it might be fun. Then, later, after he did a little investigating, maybe he’d turn tables on Caine and go to Jim-Bob Sinclair and tell him how Caine had blackmailed him into participating—which, to some extent, was the truth. After all, the way Caine talked, he suspected Jim-Bob didn’t know anything about Caine’s terrorist activities. Trouble in paradise. That tickled the hell out of Justin, and by the time he stopped home to shower and change, he was enthusiastic, and eager to get going: It was a situation that could be used to his advantage any number of ways.