Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy

by R. E. Schobernd

  At seven thirty he drove back to O’Neil’s street just before sunset. The black Chevy pick-up was parked in the drive way beside the porch with the back end almost blocking the side walk. Driving on past, he made a circle around the block and came by again; this time going slower and driving close to the curb like he was looking for a house number. After writing the license number down on a pad on his lap he continued going slow to the end of the corner, then turned left and headed home.

  Step one was complete but he needed to learn much more about the man to come up with a plan. The most direct way of course, would be to walk up on the porch, ring the door bell and shoot him when the door opened. But this was strange territory, and the chance of being seen, followed and caught was too great. It had to be done in a way to reduce risk, and guarantee a fatal hit. But in this case O’Neil also had to suffer as much as Jimmy did after having steel spikes plunged into his body while loss of blood, pain and shock did their grisly work. Once begun, the end solution must be irrevocable.

  The next morning after breakfast he told his Mom not to expect him for supper for the next couple of weeks; he was taking some time off to revisit the places where he and Jimmy used to hang out when they were growing up.

  He began to follow O’Neil after work Monday through Saturday and on Sunday, O’Neil’s day off. O’Neil’s work week routine was pretty regimented. Go to work, stop for a few beers, and then go home; unless he needed to stop by the grocery store or run some other errands. The first Saturday he changed his routine after work and headed home to clean up and change clothes. Then, dressed in jeans and a cowboy shirt, O’Neil drove about twenty miles west, out past Geneva, past the major suburbs into a less densely populated area to a road house. There was a truck stop across the two lane road in front of the roadhouse with the main entrance on the opposite side, fronting on a four lane highway. The bar was run down and looked like a rough joint. About thirty Harleys were parked out front, with people drinking and playing grab ass in the parking lot. These weren’t clean new stock bikes, but mostly older choppers. The rest of the lot was full of cars and pickup trucks. Clay parked across the lot from O’Neil, waited for the red head to get inside, paid the four dollars cover charge, and entered the bar. Making sure he didn’t bump into O’Neil he got a beer at the bar and found space to stand along the front wall by stacks of beer cases. The music was hard rock and loud. As with most bars of its type, the smoke was so thick you didn’t need to light up to smoke. Across the room O’Neil was at a table with three couples. From time to time he would go ask somebody to dance; some would, most refused him. At first it was hard not to stare at him, but Clay gradually figured out how to scan the room but still be aware of what O’Neil was doing.

  Watching Jimmy’s killer roam around the bar sharpened Clay’s resolve to see his friend’s murder avenged. The man was thin, about six feet three inches tall. Unruly red hair was parted on the right side and cut about three inches at its longest. A long thin nose protruded from angular facial features amid pronounced high cheek bones. The man’s lips outlined a wide mouth highlighting yellowish crooked teeth. He wore Levis and a long sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose muscular forearms attached to large but thin hands. Overall, O’Neil exuded a rough and cocky attitude matching his appearance.

  By a little past eleven thirty the three couples had left and O’Neil moved to a bar stool. Clay's position was about twenty feet from the door, and he continued to sip his drink slowly while talking to anybody who seemed to want to talk. At a little after midnight O’Neil picked up his cigarettes and change and slid off the bar stool. Clay sat his half full beer bottle on the top beer case and headed out the door to his car. When O’Neil left Clay followed him at a good distance. O’Neil drove five MPH over the speed limit and went straight to his house. Clay called it a night too, and went home. The following Sunday morning O’Neil left the house an hour before noon, and drove to another house in Des Plains. Sunday dinner with the family he guessed.

  The following week mimicked the previous routine and Clay ended up at the biker roadhouse again on Saturday night. The only major change had been when O’Neil went to the bar after work on Friday night and stayed until eleven. Then he picked up a hooker on the street and disappeared into a cheap motel for half an hour. Apparently there were no steady girl friends in his life and he was paying for sex. He felt he knew O’Neil’s routine enough to put a loose plan together.

  Sunday morning Clay again drove the route from the roadhouse. He had noticed an interesting spot at night and planned to check it out in daylight. A highway overpass had been built several years earlier over a two lane highway at a spot about ten miles from O’Neil’s house. When the state built the overpass the engineers had allowed for future growth by building an additional outside lane on each side of the highway. The paving on the additional lanes looked to be about a thousand feet long on each side of the overpass, and blended back into the single lane at each end. An inside shoulder lane ran the entire length of the outside lanes and the overpass supports extended about four feet into the shoulder lane. Although he didn’t have any experience in this kind of thing to rely on he thought the plan he was developing would work.

  The next stop took him almost nine miles from the overpass, to an abandoned quarry site where he and Jimmy had spent many days from the time they were sixteen and old enough to drive. They had ridden their dirt bikes around the site and later shot target practice and caught fish down in the bottom of the open pit quarry. After parking on the shoulder of the highway, he climbed over the double swing gate. It was made of two inch diameter steel pipe and secured with a heavy chain and padlock. The road from the gate was about fifty to sixty feet from the wall of the pit, behind a rusty chain link fence that ran around the edge of the deep open pit mine. The gravel road was unused and rutted from the run off of many years of rain and snow melts. About a quarter of a mile from the highway the gravel road ran twelve feet higher than the edge of the pit. The ground sloped gently through small saplings and brush to the protective chain link fence. This location was above the solid rock portion at the bottom of the pit. The road wound gently though trees and brush for half a mile, back to the main mechanical equipment area where the abandoned crushers, sorters, conveyers and such were located. The road then continued another quarter mile to an opposite entrance on a parallel highway.

  He had seen enough, and decided to put his plan into action the following Saturday night.

  Monday through Friday he reviewed the plan again and again. He drew detailed sketches of the locations and identified pertinent features he would use. While in his junior and senior years of high school he had worked part time at a plant nursery to pay for a car, car expenses and spending money. The nursery had a big duel wheel flat bed truck that would be perfect. The business closed at five on Saturday as did most of the other commercial businesses across from it. He knew the layout, knew how to operate all the equipment and knew where the keys were left in the office. He regretted needing to involve the nursery owners; they were an honest, hard working family who had treated him right.

  Jimmy had a 250 cc. Kawasaki dirt bike in the garage he had bought as a wrecked basket case. They had rebuilt the engine completely. It was bought without papers and could not be licensed for the highway. Jimmy hadn’t gotten around to repainting the bike so it was very inconspicuous. A black helmet with small silver striping was hanging on the handlebar. Nothing bright and flashy. With what was found at Jimmy’s house, additional items from his house, and articles bought at re-sale shops in adjoining towns, he was ready.

  Saturday evening at eight o’clock he entered the nursery on the dirt bike from the access road at the rear of the plant fields. The bike was running great and wouldn’t be any problem. Driving through the fields of deciduous and then conifer trees, he made his way to the planting and equipment sheds. He knew the flatbed truck was running because he had made several trips by the business during the past week to see if it
had been moved. After breaking the glass in the back door of the office to gain entry, keys to the truck and a fork truck were located on the key board in a hallway. Two pallets of sod were loaded on the flat bed with the fork truck to give the truck added weight. The dirt bike was loaded onto the truck, tied down, and the truck driven out the back way, between the fields and to the blacktop road through the previously entered gate. So far, so good, Clay said to himself.

  The trip to the quarry took thirty five minutes in the big diesel. It had fair pick up and could run better than eighty mile an hour. Reaching the quarry, he cut the chain on the gate with bolt cutters and draped the chain around the gate after the truck was driven through. At a spot previously picked out, the dirt bike was unloaded and hidden in the brush along with items in a cardboard box. A section of the chain link fence was cut on one side with bolt cutters, and dragged back to the next post creating a ten foot wide opening. The truck was turned around, driven back to the gate and parked along the highway while the chain was again fixed to look like the gate was locked.

  It was close to ten thirty when he arrived at the roadhouse, drove through the parking lot, located the black Chevy and verified the license plate number. After circling the parking lot and driving across the highway to the back side of the truck stop, the truck was parked in the meager shadows cast by the lights at the fuel pumps. It was much lighter than he would have preferred. Then the long wait began. The truck was high enough to afford a clear view of the entrance at the front of the roadhouse. The wait was torturous and he felt the same sick feeling starting in his stomach he’d experienced several months ago after the episode at a similar joint.

  He thought back to when he had joined the Cub Scouts and met Jimmy for the first time; they were seven. As they grew older, both went to the same junior and senior high schools. Finally, his mom and step-dad had given up trying to keep them apart. Neither of his parents could condone being associated with Tony Giliano and his family; a man frequently linked to criminal activities by the newspapers. He remembered how early on his mother was especially adamant about his staying away from Jimmy.

  Tony owned a farm west of Chicago and would take both boys there for hunting, fishing and camping. When he and Jimmy turned sixteen both passed their drivers license exams; Tony and Anna gave Jimmy a new 1965 Chevy Chevelle Super Sport convertible for his birthday. Sixteen years old and a new red convertible with a white top, man that was something. Clay spoke softly, “I can’t believe you’re gone Jimmy.”

  The evening temperature was in the upper sixties, and with a light breeze blowing, Clay had both windows rolled down. His clothing was all items purchased during the past week at resale shops and yard sales. All would be disposed of later before he went home. The shotgun was loaded, wrapped in used dark blue towels and placed behind the seat. The short barrel revolver was in his right jacket pocket. Several M-80 fire crackers were in the left jacket pocket with a cigarette lighter. The other items were in a canvas bag with a shoulder strap, setting in the seat. Music from the truck radio was helping to keep him calm; it was the “Oldies but Goodies” country western station. Crying in your beer lyrics was appropriate to the job. His hands were sweaty, not just due to anticipation, but because of the leather gloves being used to prevent leaving finger prints. His greatest concern was O’Neil changing his routine or picking up a woman. A thermos bottle full of water was for sipping, but an effort had to be made not to drink too much. He snickered to himself as a thought sped through his mind; he imagined he was ready to shoot O’Neil and had to tell him, wait a minute, I have to pee.

  People had been coming and going from the bar all evening, but finally the figure he was waiting for headed toward the black truck. He was alone: thank God he had not been able to pick up one of the pigs at the Hog House. The time was one-o-six a.m. The Diesel engine roared to life, at the same time O’Neil was getting in his truck When O’Neil started the Chevy and turned on the headlights, Clay was already steering the flatbed out onto the highway. The big truck came up to fifty easily and was held there until O’Neil caught up with him and passed. There were several stop lights on the route and timing would be crucial to staying close to the Chevy. Traffic was light on the two lane road in the early morning hours. As the first stop light came into view he pulled the flatbed closer to the pick-up and just caught the red light as he sped through. The big truck slowed until there was at least a hundred and fifty feet between them again. Clay noticed his breathing had quickened and his skin had a clammy feeling in addition to the rumbling going on in his stomach. They had green lights the rest of the way and soon were approaching his chosen spot. Only one car had passed them in the opposite lane.

  In the distance he could see the orange tinted light cast from the light fixtures at the overpass. No vehicle lights were in sight behind him and a car coming from the opposite direction was just clearing the overpass. The big truck began to close the distance to the pick-up and by the time they were at the start of the extra lanes it had momentum and speed to go around. The pick-up stayed in the left lane and Clay took the right, getting along side the pick-up several hundred feet from the overpass. At what he judged and prayed to be the right moment, he turned the steering wheel sharply to the left, hitting the pick-up broadside, forcing it into the guard rail. He later would recall the loud screeching from metal scraping and tearing as they hurled along the shoulder; both drivers standing on the brakes trying to bring their vehicles to a stop. The center support under the overpass was approaching at unimaginable speed, even though they were slowing with every foot. When the pick-up hit the concrete support, it stopped instantly, pushing the front left bumper, fender and grill back at least two feet. Because of the sudden impact the rear of the pick-up was forced to the right, against the flatbed. The big truck continued another three feet before it came to a stop. The engine died, and was quickly restarted. No vehicles were visible in front or behind, so he left the rubber Halloween mask on the seat. Before opening the door he grabbed the canvas bag, and then jumped out of the truck and onto the concrete pier. O’Neil was trapped in the cab with the guardrail on one side and the bigger truck bed against the passenger door. Although O’Neil had been drinking, he appeared to comprehend what was happening. Clay removed the pistol from his pocket, put one foot out near the center of the pickup's hood and leaned forward. When Jerry O’Neil saw the gun he sensed the wreck was not just an accident. Clay elevated the gun, to clear the dashboard, and put three rounds into O’Neil’s crotch and stomach. Stepping off the hood and back on to the concrete support base, he crossed the guardrail to reach the drivers side of O’Neil’s truck. Raising the gun again he shot the man in the left shoulder, making certain he couldn’t pull himself through the open window. The trapped man was yelling curse words at him but his facial expression showed fear.

  O’Neil was in great pain from injuries caused by the wreck as well as the bullets he had taken, but was fully aware of his position. He looked to be confused and disoriented in addition to the effects of the drinks he had consumed earlier.

  A small two pound sledge hammer broke the glass window behind the driver. A half gallon jar was removed from the canvas bag and half of the gasoline and diesel mixture was poured down O’Neil’s back before the remainder was slowly poured over his head and left shoulder. The jar, wood handled hammer and canvas bag were thrown into the cab.

  When O'Neil smelled the gasoline vapors a scream formed in his throat and a look of pure agony filled his face. He watched as Clay stepped to the front of the driver’s door, removed the lighter and one of the M-80 firecrackers from his pocket; O’Neil was screaming, “No! Noooo! What the fuck are you doing? Who are you?”

  Before lighting the fuse on the firecracker, Clay looked him in the eyes while speaking calmly “This is for Jimmy Giliano.”

  “Giliano? He was an accident. You can’t do this to me because of him.”

  “Jimmy was my friend and didn’t deserve to die the way you killed him. You didn
’t have the guts to fight him fairly so you attacked him from behind.”

  “Then we're alike” screamed O’Neil. “What’s the difference in what I did and what you’re doing? You’re nothing but a damn cowardly assassin. Let me get healed up and I’ll fight you one on one, fair and square.”

  Clay’s lips formed a cruel smile and he replied, “Go to hell Asshole.” As he turned the wheel on the lighter he said, “I can’t fight a dead man, and you are a dead man.”

  It was obvious O’Neil was coherent and understood what was said by the terrified look on his face as he screamed for help. As Clay moved past the broken rear window he tossed the lit firecracker toward the opening. Flames instantly erupted from the shattered opening and both front windows as he was moving toward the back of the pick-up. O’Neil had been screaming insanely since Clay spoke to him, and then was silent as the smoke and flames seared his lungs. He moved around the ends of both trucks and saw O’Neil through the smoke in the light of the flames. He was alive and slowly moving his right arm, as if he was trying to push the heat and agony away. Clay took the pistol out of his pocket, and through the flames and dense smoke shot two bullets into the side of O’Neil’s head. O’Neil’s arm lunged toward the roof of the truck cab and his head jerked feebly before the arm dropped to his side and his torso fell forward against the steering wheel. Clay had learned there were some things he didn’t have the stomach for, and enjoying or even tolerating horrible suffering was one of them.