Road Carnage (Selena book 4)

by Greg Barth

FOUR

  THE DEN WAS DARK. The TV was the only source of light.

  Po’ Gene patted the couch beside where he sat. “Come over here and sit. It’s about to start.”

  “Is that popcorn I smell?”

  He put a bowl between us, his soft, dark hand grabbing a handful. “Beer too.”

  “Hell yeah.” I sat by him.

  “Here it is.”

  Music played—something that sounded like it belonged on Law and Order or Dragnet. The harsh sounds of justice.

  The words across the screen read, “The Nation’s Deadliest Fugitives: Special Edition. Selena Carson, Sexy Killer of the Southeast.”

  It was surreal.

  “You think I’m sexy, Po’ Gene?”

  “Girl, I’d hit that with everything I got if I had somethin’ left to hit it with.”

  I choked on my popcorn.

  The guy on TV was saying, “…Selena Carson, official resident on the US Marshal Service’s fifteen most wanted index and the FBI’s ten most wanted fugitives’ list…”

  “You know, my daddy told me I’d never amount to anything,” I said.

  “Well he’d be proud tonight if he was here to see it.”

  Shots from my hometown in Kentucky splashed across the screen. A school. A store. A coal mine. Rusted boxcars.

  Some words about the abject poverty in Appalachia at the bottom of the screen. Marijuana. Meth. Booze. Pills.

  Neglect. Abuse.

  The camera zoomed in on my childhood home.

  A picture of my mother. Young. Beautiful. Holding a baby.

  Jesus.

  Me as a child.

  How had they gotten their hands on this shit?

  “Your momma was sure pretty,” Po’ Gene said.

  I couldn’t speak. I wiped at a tear.

  He reached over and took my hand.

  I couldn’t listen to what was said. The emotion was unexpected. A view of the bar I was employed at in the city. The Lollipop Lounge. A stripper—I couldn’t recall her name, but I clearly remembered the time she tried to claw the eyes out of a patron for slapping her ass—was talking about me.

  A mugshot of the first time I’d been arrested. Prostitution. I think I was sixteen. I looked stoned in the photo.

  God, how I need to get high.

  Shots of my bruised and broken body, hair shaved, head in a cast, eyes swollen black, jaw wired shut, lying in a hospital bed. Tubes coming out of me everywhere. Stitches. So many godawful stitches.

  “Lord Jesus,” Po’ Gene said. “Sweet blessed Jesus.” His grip tightened on my hand.

  “They fucked me up, man.” I’d stopped wiping the tears away.

  And then the murders. A long, bloody, stinking string of cold-blooded murders.

  “One pill, Po’ Gene,” I said through my tears. “Please? Just one?”

  “Hush, girl. I give you the bottle.”

  A series of bodies on the streets of Johnson City. Then the others, rendered in black and white, the blood appearing black as paint.

  Kurt Dello.

  Joe Faranacci.

  Jack Jefferson.

  Buck, Dwayne, and Harvey.

  Two girls that looked familiar that I didn’t kill.

  A federal marshal.

  My uncle and my father.

  Magnus.

  Roman.

  The fat bastard in Vegas.

  They didn’t mention any of the recent slayings in Johnson City. Not even the guy that gave me the knife scars—John Mozingo.

  “Goddamn, kid. You killed all them muthafuckas? For real, girl?”

  I squeezed his hand. “Most of them. And then some more,” I said.

  “Good girl,” he said.

  Cut to a criminal psychologist. A middle-aged man, gold-framed glasses, head shaved, chin beard. “Police commonly refer to a person like Selena as a ‘shark.’ She blends in with normal society, goes unnoticed, but she doesn’t have the same moral makeup as the rest of us. She’s capable of sudden and extreme violence when it’s required for survival. If she’s cornered, Heaven help anybody who stands in her way.”

  “Fucking right I’m a shark,” I mumbled. “Bite your ugly-ass head off.”

  Two silhouettes, voices disguised, captions at the bottom of the screen told how I had rescued these girls from a human trafficking operation.

  Another graphic: Victim? Hero? Depraved Killer?

  Cut to Federal Prosecutor Albert Harding’s fat-ass face telling everyone that I should be considered armed and extremely dangerous and how someone must be harboring me as a fugitive from justice.

  “They’re talking about you now, Po’ Gene.”

  “My fifteen minutes of fame, right there, yes sir. Po’ Gene, the man.”

  “Seventy-five thousand dollar reward for any information leading to the capture and arrest of Selena Carson.” Those words in bold red print across the screen.

  “Hey, fuck that,” I said. “If I was a man it’d be a hundred thousand.”

  “Not if you had any color to you,” Po’ Gene said.

  I pulled my fingers free from his.

  “You want some more popcorn?” he said.

  “No,” I said. “The bottle.”

  “You need to keep in mind that from this minute on, girl, you ain’t got no friends out there nowhere that ain’t already thinking about that seventy-five thousand. You understand?”

  I thought about it. “They’re going to get me, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t know,” Po’ Gene said. “I ain’t never seen nothing like this before.”

  “I’m not afraid to go back to prison.”

  He held his arms open. “Come here,” he said.

  I leaned into him. He wrapped his arms around my skinny body, pulled me close. He smelled like Old Spice. His embrace was warm. I sniffled, hoping not to get snot on his white shirt.

  “Jesus loves a sinner, baby girl. Don’t you forget that.”

  FIVE

  I SAT IN a chair in the baggage claim section of Louis Armstrong International airport trying to manage a paperback novel, a bottle of water, and a white card with “Christine Friday” written on one side of it. My weak arm was out of the sling but still only good for the simplest of tasks.

  I wore sunglasses large enough to hide my features, but not so large as to be an obvious disguise.

  Enola told me that Chris lived with another woman, a girlfriend named River, in the town we were going to settle in. Enola had known them both for a good many years. They had a setup in this town—a deal arranged with the county sheriff—that was ironclad. It was both safe and lucrative. And they’d cut us in. All we had to do was buy our share with some of the money and drugs we’d lifted from the bikers and a pharmaceutical guy I’d killed named Bob Crowe.

  Chris had been visiting family in California. She changed her flight to come in to New Orleans on her return and meet up with me. That way I’d have a travelling companion, and Enola could spend more time with her sick sister.

  I didn’t know what Chris looked like, so I had the card made up with her name on it.

  When a regular flow of people began to descend on the escalator, I figured a flight had just unloaded. I held up the card so she could identify me.

  I watched the top part of the escalator just below where the ceiling blocked my view. First came the person’s feet, then their legs, their body, their face. I checked each person’s eyes as they came into view to see if they noticed my card and showed any reaction.

  When the first big throng cleared and no one claimed to be Christine Friday, I put the card face down and picked up my book. I’d only read a couple of sentences before another set of shoes, pink Nikes, appeared. Above those, a pair of tanned legs, a trim waistline. A woman or girl about my size. Nice hips. No, not quite my size. Larger breasts. Then her face dropped below the ceiling. Pretty dark hair, straight and long. Young Asian features.

  What a pretty kitty.

  I set my book down and picked up the card, h
eld it up so she could read the name.

  Her lips parted in a pretty smile and she waved to me.

  I got up and met her halfway.

  “Chris Friday?” I said.

  “Hello you,” she said. “Saw you on TV last night!”

  She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I clumsily kissed her back.

  “Enola sends her love,” she said.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re the one bringing it. Let’s get your bag and get the hell out of here.”

  ***

  “For such a fine car, it’s a shame there’s no air conditioning,” Chris said.

  “I didn’t ask enough questions before buying it. Fucking car salesmen.”

  Chris smiled.

  We were crossing Lake Pontchartrain on the causeway, windows down, hair flying wild in the hot breeze.

  “You like driving it?” Chris said.

  “So far, I’ve only driven it on this endless damned bridge.”

  She looked out at the lake. Nothing but water in every direction. “How long is it?”

  “I’ve no idea, but it’s the longest damned bridge I’ve ever heard of.” I pushed the accelerator a bit more, hoping to make better time.

  It was easier for me to go back the way I knew. I’d swing back by Po’ Gene’s, introduce him to Chris, give him a proper goodbye hug, then we’d hit the road. I planned to go up through Bogalusa and hit Interstate 59 at Poplarville.

  “So tell me about you,” Chris said.

  “You saw it all on TV last night.”

  “Yeah, their version of that stuff. There’s got to be more.”

  “Well, let’s see. For high school I attended the home school of incest. Graduated early with honors. Went out on my own when I was fourteen. Earned a master’s degree in blowjobs. Cum laude.”

  Chris chuckled.

  “Oh, I can clean a bone like nobody’s business, girl. And let me tell you, those skills came in handy. I was spending between two and three hundred dollars a day on drugs, alcohol, bar tabs, you name it for the bulk of my twenties.”

  “Jeez. It’s a wonder you’re still alive.”

  “Yeah, and we didn’t even get to the good parts yet.”

  We passed a few miles of causeway in silence. I lit up a cigarette, offered the pack to Chris. She shook her head.

  “So what about you,” I said.

  “Well, nothing as interesting as your story. I’m from China. I was adopted as a baby. My family lives in Sacramento. I’m a musician in a band.”

  “What do you play?”

  “Electric guitar. A Fender Telecaster. My girlfriend, River, sings for the band.”

  “What kind of music?”

  “A lot of old riot girl punk stuff.”

  “Does River sing any Taylor Swift songs?”

  “No.” From her tone I could tell I’d inadvertently stepped on a conversational landmine. “River does not sing any Taylor Swift songs.”

  “Oh.”

  “Let’s see. I’m a vegan. I don’t eat or drink any products from animals. I’m a lesbian.” She smiled. “My girlfriend gets very jealous sometimes. She won’t like me riding back with you. And I believe in peace and tolerance for others. I protest against war and corporate greed. I’m a live-and-let-live pacifist type of person.”

  “But you’re a drug dealer, right?”

  “My girlfriend is a drug dealer,” she said.

  “From my experience, there’s a certain amount of violence associated with that life.”

  Chris shook her head. “Not for us. Not where we’re at. It’s a safe setup. We’re very much small time. Her customers are…well…not criminals. College types. The gay community. A nonviolent clientele.”

  I considered what she said in silence, kept my eyes on the road.

  “Oh, and my girlfriend? River? She talks to spirits.”

  “Get out.”

  “Really.”

  “No fucking way. You mean like ghosts?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do they talk about?”

  “You’ll find out. You just wait.”

  When we got to Covington, I pulled off to get gas. You can buy hard liquor at the gas stations there, so I grabbed a half pint of Jack Daniels. Thinking of Chris, I put the half pint back and got a fifth. When I was back in the car, I said, “Didn’t know what you like to drink, so I hope you like Jack Daniels.”

  “Oh, I don’t drink.”

  “Going to be a long drive then.” I started the engine. “A long drive for you, that is.”

  ***

  When we got back to Po’ Gene’s house, the screen door stood open and the main door was ajar. The heat was stifling. He wouldn’t leave it like that.

  “That’s not like him,” I said. “Very strange.”

  We got out of the car, crossed the yard. I pushed through the door and stepped into the kitchen. The house was quiet.

  Chris entered behind me, looking around at the dark room.

  “Po’ Gene?” I said.

  “In here.” A faint response.

  I walked by the refrigerator and table, made a left turn into the den. Po’ Gene was on the couch, his head leaned back. The room was dark.

  I flipped the switch to turn on the lamp. “Hey. You all right?” I said.

  He had a white towel, spotted crimson, held up to his nose. “We got a problem,” he said with a nasal voice.

  “Bucky?” I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah. He took something from your room. I don’t know what.”

  “Shit. You okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Chris…uh, this is Po’ Gene. Po’ Gene, Chris. Can you take a look at him? Get him something if he needs it?”

  “You girls got to get out of here,” he said.

  Chris sat next to him and pulled at the towel to peek at Po’ Gene’s busted nose.

  I walked out of the living room and down the dim hallway to my bedroom. The door was open. I stepped inside and saw that my duffel bag had been dumped out on the dresser.

  I went through the items one by one, placing each back in the bag, taking silent inventory. He’d left my clothes, the vibrator, my gun. Everything seemed to be…ah, shit.

  The phone.

  He had taken the mobile phone Enola left for me. He had her address—my future address—and who knows what else she might have sent to that phone in his possession. Her sister’s information was on there too.

  I zipped the bag closed, shouldered it, and took quick steps back to the den.

  “It looks like it stopped bleeding,” Chris was saying.

  “Po’ Gene,” I said. “Are you okay? Do you want to come with us?”

  “No. I’m fine. You go on now and get out of here. You don’t have time to waste.”

  I hugged him quickly, thanked him, and promised to see him some time again when I could.

  I turned to Chris. “You should stay here. Get a cab back to the airport. Fly home.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m with you. I want to help. Maybe we can stop him.”

  “You need to hurry,” Po’ Gene said.

  I tugged at Chris’s arm. “We’ve got to leave. Now.”

  SIX

  THE AIR WAS thick with heat and humidity. I steered the car along the tree-lined, two-lane road, nothing but tall weeds for shoulders. The stink of the paper mill filled the car as I drew closer to Bogalusa. I kept the window down, but it was a toss-up which was worse—the stinking hot air blowing through the open window, or the warmer air inside with the cab sealed.

  I had my sunglasses on to shield the blazing sun. I was covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

  “So let’s assume he called it in,” Chris said. “We get out of here, what’s the worst that can happen? They were already looking for you. Now they’re looking in a spot nowhere near where you’re going to be.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think it’s that simple. He stole my phone.”


  “Still…”

  “The phone has my girlfriend’s address on it. The place where we’re going. Information about her family.”

  “Meaning?”

  I took my eyes off the road to glance her way. How could anyone be so dense? “Meaning I can’t just uproot an entire family and make them go into hiding. This thing takes roots and grows branches once they get information like this. We either stop this guy, or I have to turn myself in before Enola, River, Po’ Gene, and you all go down for helping me out.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, baby. Shit.”

  I took the route along the edge of town where most of the buildings were old, windows boarded up. Some of the businesses were still open. Some of the older gray block buildings simply had the name of the business spray-painted on the outer wall, hours of operation complete with misspellings.

  The motel Bucky stayed at was dilapidated, mildewed, weeds growing in the parking lot. And his fucking car was missing.

  I parked outside his door and left the engine running. I walked straight up and banged on his door. No answer. I banged again.

  Nothing.

  “Fuck.”

  I walked over to his window, framed my eyes with my hands, tried to see into the dark room through the grimy glass. All his shit had been cleared out. Nothing but trash left behind.

  “Goddamn it.”

  I turned and got back into the car.

  “What now?” Chris said.

  “I don’t know. I’ve got to think.”

  He had my phone. I couldn’t call anyone. Then it hit me. Holy shit, he had my phone. I could just call my line. The fucking thing was, I had no idea what the goddamn number was.

  Think.

  “We need to call Enola,” I said.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “We shouldn’t say much. You never know.”

  “Here.” She passed me her phone.

  I hesitated. “No. You do it.”

  “Um, okay. I’m sure she’d like to hear from you, though.”

  “Not a good time. Tell her you need my cell number.”

  She held the phone in her lap, tapped at the screen.

  Ringing.

  Jesus. Speaker phone. I guess I’d be talking to her after all.

  Enola answered. Chris went through the normal pleasantries then asked for my cell number.