by Gord Rollo
“First of all, I don’t think three tiny holding cells squeezed into the backroom of this building would constitute much of a jail. Second, even if you do consider this a jail, get it through your thick head real quick I’m not a guard. I’m a police officer, and a pissed off one at that. Third, things will go a lot smoother for both of us if you’d just lie down and keep quiet. You’re not going anywhere, so shut the fuck up, dig?”
“Ah come on, Mack, what’s the deal? I’ve been in here long enough to sober up. Usually, someone would have woken me up and tossed me long ago. What’s happening?”
“What’s happening, Kemp, is this time you’re not just having a nice little snooze in the tank. This time you’re being charged.”
“Charged!” Wilson replied, astonished.
“Yeah, charged. You know, as in this time you fucked up royally. I heard Reggie Morris and his wife just about blew the roof off this place this afternoon after your little magic show at their place.”
Wilson’s memory, as always when he drank too much, wasn’t all that good. He remembered his red nose kept falling off and maybe he broke a lamp. Touching his sore face, he recalled his encounter with Reggie’s fist, but after that, his mind drew a blank. He had no recollection of how he’d gotten out of the Morris house, or how he’d eventually ended up in the confines of this cramped and unappealing cell.
“What are they charging me with, Mack?”
“Drunk and disorderly, malicious damage, and anything else the chief can think of. Morris really tore a chunk out of the chief’s ass. He’s mad as hell. You’ll be awful lucky if the Morrises don’t turn around and sue you on top of all this. I guess you practically wrecked their place, not to mention probably giving their kid a bad complex about birthday parties and clowns that might stay with him for freakin’ life.”
A vision flashed in Wilson’s head of Archie, a turtle he’d recently bought, tumbling out of his pocket and landing into a big bowl of ice cream. He wasn’t sure if that had really happened, so he just pushed the thought aside. Probably for the best.
“How long do I have to stay here?” he finally asked.
“Hard to say really. You might have to hang around until Monday, when the chief comes back to work.”
“Monday! You’ve got to be kidding? Today’s only…ahh…Monday’s not for another…let’s see—” He’d forgotten what day of the week today was, so he quickly changed the topic. “What about bail, Mack? Can I get out if I post bail?”
“It’s about eleven o’clock on Friday night, if you’d like to know. Look Wilson, we’re not playing twenty questions here; it takes a judge to set a bail amount, man, and trust me, amigo, no one is getting the judge out of bed tonight. ’Sides, even if they end up setting bail at a measly hundred bucks, I’m willing to bet my next paycheck you haven’t got it, have you?”
Wilson frantically dug in the deep, baggy pockets of his rainbow-colored clown suit. There was a lump in his left-side pouch but when he pulled it out, it was only his troublesome sponge clown nose.
“Just like I thought,” the burly policeman said, starting to turn and walk away.
“Wait, Mack!” Wilson yelled. “What about Susan? If you could call her, I’ll bet she—”
“Forget it, already tried calling your wife. She’s not around. Even if she was, you’ve got to stop relying on her to keep rescuing you every time you drink yourself into a jam. You’ve got to get your act together, man, she threw you out of the house for a reason, you know?”
“I know, but—”
“But nothing. Look, I called her and she’s not home. I don’t know where she is or believe me I’d try and dump you off. You’re going to have to sit tight. I left a message on her machine, so she’ll probably yank you out tomorrow. She’ll sweet-talk somebody and you’ll get out, but it’s not happening tonight. No way. Now shut up and get some sleep.”
Officer MacKenzie was out the door and back into the front office before Wilson could think of anything else to say. He briefly considered trying to pick the lock on his cell, but he was way out of practice and had no tools with him anyway. Accepting his predicament, he set his cup back on the shelf above the sink and slouched down on the lumpy, uncomfortable bed. Something hard poked at his leg, behind his left knee, and when he reached down under the mattress he found one of the thin steel slats that crisscrossed to make the wire mesh of his bunk was loose and was sticking out a few inches. Wilson stood up and lifted the mattress to get a better look. If he wiggled the protruding slat, the entire six and a half feet of thin steel slid in and out at will. If he’d wanted to, Wilson could have slowly backed up and slid the entire slat free of the interlocking mesh pattern. Then he looked at the single wool blanket he’d been given.
With a long, thin piece of steel like this and my blanket, I could…I could…
“Oh hell, just forget it. Back in the day, maybe, but you’re not the man you used to be. Never will be either, so do what Big Mack says. Shut the fuck up and get some sleep.” Wilson was disgusted with himself. “Yeah, right. I’ve been in dreamland all day. How am I supposed to sleep through the night too?”
He couldn’t come up with an answer but he pushed the steel slat back into place and lay down anyway, and tried a little soul-searching. Maybe if he thought long and hard enough, he might be able to come up with a reason why he was always such a fuckup. Half an hour later, he was still staring at the burned-out lightbulb on the ceiling, no closer to finding an answer.
“One thing’s for sure. Big Mack was definitely right about something. No matter what else happens, I really have to work on getting my act together. I can’t keep screwing up like this.”
A tear ran down his cheek as he lay in the dark trying to think about his wife and daughter. He loved them very much, but that wasn’t his reason for crying. His tears were shed in disgust and loathing for himself. No matter how much he loved his family and tried to concentrate on them, the only thing he could think about was the bottle of vodka waiting for him on his kitchen table.
It was going to be a hell of a long night.
The Stranger pulled the pickup truck off the side of Route 62, slowing to a stop in the gravel shoulder. He was on the outskirts of the Billington town limits; so close in fact he could make out the welcome sign dead ahead. In the murky light cast by the red Ford’s headlights, he could tell it was one of those monstrous billboard-type signs that marked the entrance to nearly every small town trying to look bigger and more important than they really were. He clicked on the truck’s high beams to get a better look. In huge, freshly repainted foot-high golden letters, the sign said:
WELCOME TO BILLINGTON PENNSYLVANIA
We’re glad you’ve come and hope you enjoy your stay. Population: 21,000
It had taken the Stranger less than two hours of actual driving time to get here. If he had wanted to, he could have arrived here before noon, but he’d always been a night person and old habits died hard. He’d been anxious to get to Billington, but he’d shown caution, instinctively feeling better about entering his enemy’s territory under the cover of darkness. He was a friend of the night and knew its dark cloak would shield him from anyone lying in wait, not that it was likely, since no one knew he was coming. Still, it didn’t hurt to be careful.
Earlier today, after driving away from Duke’s farm, he’d driven until he crossed over the Pennsylvania state line, then found a quiet side road where he could lay low. He’d slept most of the day, dreaming about revenge and gathering his strength for the battle ahead. The antique trunk had whispered to him, awakening him when it was time to go.
Now he sat, looking out all four windows of the truck, checking again to see if anyone lay in hiding along the sides of the road. No guards or sentries stood watch outside the town; no lookouts to warn Kemp. The town of Billington sat unprotected and at his mercy.
A vision began to form in his mind, surely a message from the trunk of secrets, because when he closed his eyes to concentrate there was b
lood everywhere. He saw himself walking through streets stained red with the life juices of his enemy, rivers of gore running in the gutters, and dead bodies of innocent people piled on the sides of the road like sacks of foul-smelling trash on garbage day. In his hands, he carried the severed head of Wilson Kemp, his ultimate prize in the coming fight. It was a wonderful revelation, a harbinger of things to come, and it pleased the Stranger immensely.
“Man, I can’t wait. This is gonna be so much fun.”
He put the Ford in gear and quietly rolled across the town line. Wilson Kemp and the Stranger were now in the same small community for the first time in years and there was no way in hell the tall dark man was going to let his enemy slip away from him.
Unknown to the 21,000 sleeping residents, death had just entered their peaceful little town, and Billington, Pennsylvania, had just been declared a war zone.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
CHAPTER FIVE
HARDLY A LAUGHING MATTER
Although he’d thought it nearly impossible the night before, Wilson somehow managed to get a fairly decent sleep. The holding cell could never be described as anything close to comfortable: The Ritz-Carlton it certainly was not, but the small bed had been soft, the thick wool cover warm, and he’d had a dry roof overhead. All in all, not too bad a place for him to sober up. In the past, on some of his really bad drinking binges, Wilson had slept in a hell of a lot worse.
Early morning sunlight streamed in the cell window, bathing him in magnificent golden rays. He sat up on the edge of the bed, shocked to discover he felt almost human. Most mornings, his pounding head threatened to explode off his shoulders and his weary body felt as if it had been trampled by a herd of buffalo. Today, he could even open his eyes in the bright sunlight, something that ordinarily would have been agonizing. His craving for vodka had somewhat lessened overnight as well, not completely, of course, but enough that it wasn’t an all-consuming passion like most mornings.
“My God,” he whispered while staring down at his hands, amazed to find them barely shaking. “If I feel this good after only a day away from the bottle, what would it be like to be completely stone sober again?”
Feeling bolder than usual, he stood and walked over to the small mirror bolted by the sink on the far wall. It wasn’t an actual mirror like the usual silver-backed glass; the cops weren’t that stupid. They didn’t want anyone breaking it and using the glass as a weapon on anyone, including themselves.
This mirror was made from a thin piece of metal, highly polished to reflect a clear, though somewhat distorted image of the unfortunates who had to use it.
Wilson gazed at his visage and was immediately disappointed. It was true he felt a whole lot better than usual, but to be honest, he sure didn’t look it. His face, still smudged in streaky white and red paint, along with his greasy dark hair plastered to his sweaty head, combined to make him look positively frightful. The Joker after going ten rounds with Batman. He bent at the sink, immersing himself in a cloud of rising steam and furiously scrubbed his entire head, neck, and armpits with the soap and washcloth left at his disposal. After toweling off, he was relieved to see he looked much more presentable. Except for the scrapes on his cheek and a darkly bruised eye from yesterday afternoon’s confrontation, Wilson thought he looked better now than he had in ages. The ever-present bags under his eyes seemed to be less pronounced today. The worry lines that normally cut into his forehead seemed faded and scarcely visible. It was amazing what a good night’s rest could do for a person.
He should probably try it more often.
Wilson was forty-seven years old, but depending on his sobriety, he could range in appearance from a man in his midthirties all the way up to a decrepit older man in his sixties. Today, he thought he might squeak by for a man in his late thirties, which brought an approving nod and a faint, forced smile as he pondered his reflection, which soon vanished in the swirling mist engulfing the makeshift mirror. He had always thought of himself as a handsome man. Fairly handsome, anyway. With his large sparkling eyes, strong chin, and chiseled facial features, he used to think he resembled the late actor Christopher Reeve, of Superman fame, but lately, his short-cropped receding hairline had shattered that image. Maybe Kevin Costner was a closer match.
“Yeah right,” Wilson chuckled to himself, thinking about the full clown suit he was still wearing. “Kevin Costner in his greatest role ever…starring as Bozo the drunken magic clown. That movie would really pack in the crowds.”
The smile disappeared off his face as he realized the pathetic movie he’d been fantasizing about was, in reality, his own pitiful life story. Instead of sinking into a depression, Wilson forced himself to think that this time things were going to get progressively better. He’d blown his first magic clown job but there would be more. In his heart he knew he was a great magician. If he could just find the strength to stay out of the bottle for a while, who knows what good things might start happening for him?
Before anything could start happening though, he had to get his butt out of this holding cell and take care of the mess he’d made yesterday. If he apologized to the Morris family, maybe he could talk Reggie into dropping the charges against him.
A few minutes later, just as Wilson was preparing to play the old rattle-the-drinking-cup-off-the-cell-bars game again, a policeman walked into the back room to deliver his breakfast. It was Officer Jackson, who unknown to Wilson and his alcohol-induced memory loss, was the same cop who’d picked him up yesterday from the birthday party fiasco. He was carrying a green plastic tray on which sat a big blueberry muffin and a large takeout cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.
“You’re in luck, Wilson,” the smiling officer said. “Our little fridge out front seems to have decided to stop working. I opened the door this morning to get you some of our usual chow, but the smell inside nearly floored me. We had to throw it all out, so this morning your breakfast comes catered.”
Wilson walked over to the cell door and, after it was unlocked, held it open for the policeman until he’d stepped inside. The glorious aroma rising from the warm muffin and the fresh strong coffee wafted around his nostrils and activated his hunger pangs, curbing his desire to leave his overnight accommodation. A few extra minutes wouldn’t hurt. Besides, he’d always been told breakfast was the most important meal of the day. This was especially true when you hadn’t eaten anything the day before.
“Thanks, Jake,” Wilson beamed, gratefully accepting the breakfast tray. “I’m practically starving. Wow, even fresh coffee. What’s the occasion? Don’t tell me your old coffeepot is broken down too?”
“Nah, it’s okay. I just figured since I was already at the coffee shop to get your muffin, I may as well save you the stomachache of trying to drink our sludge. Our coffee here can sometimes be pretty nasty.”
“Sometimes?” Wilson joked. “If you took a cup of that black goo to a laboratory, it’d probably come back with a hazardous-waste warning label on it.”
“Hah, hah, very funny. You put a clown suit on somebody and they think they’re a comedian.”
Jake took a seat beside Wilson and chatted with him as he ate breakfast. When he had finished, Officer Jackson accepted the tray and rose to leave.
“Say, how long do I have to wait to get out of here? They’re not really going to make me stay till Monday, are they?” Wilson asked, hopeful, wiping the residue of muffin crumbs that clung to the corners of his mouth.
“Relax. When I came in this morning I talked to Big Mack. He said he tried to call your wife last night but she wasn’t around. I called Susan this morning just before I brought your breakfast.” He paused to pull his shirtsleeve back off his wrist so he could look at his watch. “She told me she’d already talked to the chief and she’d be here as quick as she could. Should be somewhere around ten o’clock, so you may as well sit down and take it easy. I’ll be back to get you in half an hour.”
It ended up being closer
to an hour before Officer Jackson returned to unlock the cell door. Susan must have been delayed somewhere. Usually she was very punctual. Either that or she had just wanted him to squirm and ponder things a little longer.
“Let’s move, clown-man. It’s time to go,” Jake said.
“Is Susan here?”
“No, Wilson, it’s the bloody cavalry. Of course it’s Susan. Who else would come save your raggedy ass?”
Wilson hurried to gather his things and followed Jake. They emerged into a bigger room that served as the front office and reception desk. It looked the same as any small-town police station, complete with scuffed-up tables and chairs, several desks overcrowded with stacks of loose papers, and a few telephones ringing off the hook. There were even a few tired-looking officers, lazing around with their feet up, waiting for someone other than themselves to answer the annoying phones.
Looking beyond these familiar sights, Wilson noticed his wife standing over beside the front entrance. She was reading a small, colorful poster thumbtacked to a felt bulletin board. The contents of the poster must have been very interesting because she was concentrating so hard she failed to notice his approach. Either that or she was purposely ignoring him. Not a good sign.
She looked simply magnificent; in Wilson’s eyes anyway, standing with her hands on her hips, decked out in a stunning yet conservative pale blue dress. She wore low-heeled white shoes accessorized with matching white earrings, purse, and wide hair ribbon that shaped her long, curly brown hair. Her face was pretty but in a plain sort of way. She was certainly no fashion model or cover girl, but her jade-colored eyes shone brighter than the sun itself. Her body might not be shapely enough to turn the head of a Hollywood producer but she was petite and exuded a quiet confidence, moving with an athletic grace much sexier than all those busty Victoria’s Secret bimbos.
