Road Carnage (Selena book 4)

by Greg Barth

She opened her eyes, pulled the seat so she could sit up straight. She rubbed her eyes with her hands.

  “We’re here,” I said.

  “I have to pee.”

  ***

  We rolled into Nashville late afternoon. I kept us on the northern edge of the city. No need to get into downtown traffic.

  We found Harding’s place the old-fashioned way. Chris read from a paper road atlas and told me which turns to make.

  I felt the tension build in my gut more and more with each mile. We were getting close, and I had no idea what would be there waiting for us, let alone what I was going to do about it.

  We were on the street. Chris helped me keep an eye on the residence numbers along the way. We went deeper and deeper into an exclusive subdivision, but his house wasn’t there. We were back out on a cinder country road, the properties larger, the houses turning to mansions.

  “That’s it,” Chris said. She pointed to a large property on the right enclosed by a fence. A tree-lined drive led up to a massive house on top of a hill.

  “Shit,” I said.

  I pulled off on the side of the road next to the driveway.

  We sat there looking up at the house. It looked like an old Southern plantation home. White columns in front, tall windows around the sides. Some trees obscured the back of the house. Probably the slaves’ quarters.

  Fucking Tara. Scarlett O’Hara plantation and shit.

  “I’ve got to admit, I wasn’t expecting this,” I said.

  Chris said something in response, but her words were masked by the sound of an engine. A guy was driving a lawnmower along the fence line.

  I remembered something Bucky had told me. Something about him doing landscape work for a nice man in Nashville. A man who tried to reform him. A man associated with the courts.

  It all made so much fucking sense. He didn’t have to search Harding out like I had. He knew all along.

  He came straight here from Louisiana.

  I got out of the car.

  Chris raised her voice over the sound of the machine. “What are you going to do?”

  “Hang on. Just going to see if they’re home.”

  I stepped up to the fence and waited for the guy to get closer. When he did, I waved him down.

  He stopped the machine and shifted it out of gear. He got off and came over to me. He took his ear protectors off. Short guy, dark hair. He wore dark shades and smelled of sweat.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Ah, hallo,” he said.

  “Is this the Harding residence?”

  He thought for a minute. Nodded his head. “Harding? Si. Si.”

  “Are they here now? Do you know?”

  He opened his mouth, but either didn’t understand me or couldn’t find the words.

  “Harding? Here? Can you let me in the gate?”

  “Ah…como se dice?…No. Harding. No. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.”

  “They haven’t arrived yet for the summer? Is that what you’re saying? They’ll be here tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow. Ya. Harding…tomorrow.”

  “Okay, thank you so much.”

  “Ya. Welcome.”

  He got back on his mowing machine, and I made my way back over to the car.

  “How’d that go?” Chris said.

  I lit up a cigarette, threw the car in gear and pulled away. “We finally got a lucky break.”

  “How so?”

  “Bucky may have beaten us here. But we’ve beat the Hardings.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  I followed the country road further away from the city. A golf course to the right, woods on the left. After another couple of miles, we left the hoity-toity neighborhood. After the woods there was an overgrown field. Gray poles sticking up in a row of arcs. A drive-in movie screen, falling to pieces. Nothing after that for a mile. Then, up ahead, a traffic light intersection with a shopping center, gas station, and restaurants in either direction. A couple of hotels.

  I drove further out and found a cheap motel. “This look good?”

  “Anything,” Chris said.

  “We got a liquor store, a place to get smokes, everything except something you’ll eat.”

  “I just want a shower.”

  I pulled in at the motel. It looked decent.

  I started to get out, and something caught my eye. I jerked the door back closed.

  “What?” Chris said.

  “Holy shit! Holy fucking shit!”

  “What is it?”

  I pointed to a car parked farther down the lot. Its back was facing us. “You see that?”

  “A piece of shit beater.”

  “Yes! Exactly! A piece of shit beater with Louisiana plates.”

  “Bucky’s?”

  “It’s our lucky fucking day, girl.”

  THIRTY

  I WATCHED THE parking lot from the motel window. No sign of Bucky other than his vehicle.

  Not much to see. Just parked cars, some birds picking at spilled French fries, another guest pulling in and going to his room.

  I smoked and I watched.

  After a bit, another car pulled in. A tall, skinny black girl got out of the car and approached the door that I was pretty sure led to Bucky’s room. She was dressed in a sleeveless half blouse and a mini skirt. She carried a leopard print handbag.

  I know a hooker when I see one. I wondered what she’d think of Bucky’s Klan ink.

  “Get ready,” I said to Chris. “We’ve got maybe forty-five minutes.”

  Bucky’s door opened. I didn’t catch a glimpse of him. The girl smiled, said a couple of words, and went into the room.

  I ran through the motions in my mind of what their interactions would look like—breaking the ice, negotiation, and then the act itself.

  She stayed all of twenty minutes. She came out, got back in her car, and left. I pictured Bucky lying in bed, nude, jerking another one out. Then he’d get a shower and start thinking about dinner.

  The sun was low on the horizon, but it wouldn’t be full dark for another hour or so.

  I gave him fifteen minutes.

  “Okay, Chris. Let’s move.”

  We got in the car. He was parked behind us across the lot. I watched through the rear view. I had the shotgun we’d confiscated from the Blake brothers. Chris had my .38.

  As expected, ten minutes later, Bucky came out the door of his room. His hair was wet. He wore jeans and a t-shirt. He had the sleeves pushed up, and I could make out the Klansman tat on his arm.

  He looked well-fucked and now ready to attend to other appetites.

  I started the engine.

  I let him get in his car, back out, and take the road toward town.

  I followed him. Stayed close.

  He pulled in at a beer store that sold pizza. Went inside.

  Chris slipped out of the Challenger, crouched low, moved up to his car, checked the door, and slipped into the back seat.

  Bucky was inside for a while. Apparently he was waiting on a pizza.

  I sat there, watching. It was all within reach.

  Stay calm, I told myself.

  You don’t need a hit of coke. Not now. Not now.

  I waited.

  Not now.

  I kept my eyes fixed on the Bud Light sign in the window by the door.

  Pizza sounded good at the moment. Maybe Chris and I would come back and get some.

  Just a bump.

  I took a fingernail full of white powder and shot it up one nostril.

  Yeah, baby. Yeah.

  The sensation gave definition to my soul.

  Fuck me, yeah.

  The powder. The sensation. It’s who I was.

  Bucky came out the door, all dark hair, biceps, and veins. I wondered about his cock for half a second. I knew it was the coke talking. He carried a six-pack in one hand and a pizza in the other. He got in the car. Started the engine. Checked his hair in the mirror.

  I watched as a figure sat up in the backseat behind Bucky.
She had a thick profile due to the neck brace.

  She put a pistol to his head.

  I watched their silhouettes through the back glass of his car.

  He raised his hands, shook his head. Shook again.

  She cocked the pistol.

  Good girl.

  He put his hands to the wheel. His car moved forward.

  I followed.

  He drove back the way we came, passed the motel, and continued down the narrow country road. I stayed close behind. As long as Chris was behind him with the pistol to his head, there was no need for me to take caution. Worst case scenario, she would just shoot him, and we’d be on our way to Indiana. Case closed.

  They didn’t exceed the speed limit. He gave a signal and turned left into the abandoned drive-in theater.

  I followed along the turn.

  Then he accelerated.

  The car sped ahead, gaining distance. In spite of the fact that there was nowhere for him to go, I accelerated after them, careful to avoid the metal posts, some with the speaker wire still attached, along the way.

  He turned the wheel to the left, cutting through the field.

  I stayed on his bumper and followed him

  I put my foot heavy on the throttle. The car thumped and bumped through the field, the back tires fishtailed through the green spring grass, fighting for traction.

  Didn’t matter so much where I went, as long as Chris had that gun to his head, so I backed off.

  The car ahead plowed forward, gaining yardage on me, accelerating. They were heading straight for the woods.

  I realized Bucky’s intentions, and I braked. I put the car in park, grabbed the double barrel twelve gauge, opened the door, and hopped out.

  I ran through the knee-high weeds as his car pulled ahead.

  They got right to the edge of the tree line, no flash of brake lights.

  My legs pumped hard as I ran through the tall grass, the shotgun held to my side.

  Just shoot him, Chris. Just fucking shoot him.

  The car jogged left, then right.

  Fucking shoot him. There’s nothing to gain.

  Then a straight line, hammer down, balls to the wall, to the tree line.

  The car slammed nose first into the trunk of a tree on the edge of the field. Just a cold fact of physics, nothing dramatic. The crunch of the front-end bumper and grill came a split second before the shatter of glass.

  My coke-fueled legs took a boost of adrenaline and pumped harder. My heart galloped inside my chest, my lungs burned.

  There was a bright flash inside the cab of the car accompanied by a loud Snap!

  The driver side door opened slowly, Bucky slumped out, moved forward into the trees.

  Snap!

  I ran ahead. You’re a good girl, Chris Friday.

  Another pistol shot.

  When I hit the tree line, Bucky was no longer visible.

  I slowed. Raised the shotgun to my shoulder. It was almost full dark. Crickets chirped. Fireflies glowed green. I was in the woods.

  “Bucky,” I said.

  No answer.

  I stepped forward into the dark woods. I held the shotgun to my shoulder, looked down at the foliage in the darkness. I thought I saw the smudge of dark splashes of blood on the ground, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Bucky?”

  No response.

  I crept ahead.

  There on the ground in the darkness I saw a faint blue light.

  I crept forward with care.

  “Bucky, is that you?”

  I stepped deeper into the black forest. The blue light was clearer ahead.

  And I saw him. Bucky Blake lay on the ground in front of me. My phone, the one he had taken from me in Louisiana, was in his hand.

  I leaned forward and looked at his face. Bubbles of blood around his mouth.

  “Bucky?” I said.

  No response.

  I backed off a step, lined up the shotgun with care. I blew his head apart with one blast.

  I fired the second barrel at the cell phone he held in his hands.

  The man and the electronic device that had given me so much worry over the past few days ceased to be relevant in that moment.

  I was high from the coke, yes. But I didn’t feel regret or remorse. I felt relief.

  But I wasn’t happy about it. I’d liked Bucky once.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I TRUDGED BACK through the edge of the forest to where the twin headlights shone brightly in the deepening darkness.

  Chris was there at the edge of the field, standing by Bucky’s car. She held the pistol in her hand.

  “You okay?” I said as I stepped from the trees. I didn’t want her to shoot me.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Is he…?”

  “Grab the pizza and beer. Kill the lights,” I said.

  “We need to get away.”

  “No. There’s nothing to tie us to this. Besides, the prosecutor is going to get here tomorrow.”

  “Selena! Listen to yourself. Are you fucking crazy? Let’s get back on the road. Put some miles behind us. Now. Tonight! We need some space between us and this.”

  “Fucking Harding, Chris,” I said. “Fucking Harding is going to be here tomorrow. The motherfucker that hurt me.”

  Chris shook her head. Closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. “Listen. Hear me. You are high, okay? Harding is here tomorrow with his granddaughter.”

  “His fucking granddaughter is like thirty goddamn years old, okay?”

  “Or she’s seven. The point is, he’s going to be here all summer.”

  “I’m so close!”

  “It’s over. We got Bucky. Don’t you get it? That thing we’ve been trying to do? It’s done. We got him. We got him!”

  I sniffed deeply. My eyes moistened.

  “You’ll never get them all. You just won’t. You can’t make everything right. The thing to keep in mind is you got Bucky. You did what you had to do. And it was damned near impossible. But you did it. Now let’s go home.”

  I held the shotgun by my side. “Get the fucking beer. And the pizza.”

  “And?”

  “And we get the fuck out of here.”

  “Let’s call our girls.”

  I nodded. “Ring up Enola. At her sister’s place. I want her to be home when we get there.”

  “You miss her?” Chris said.

  “Yeah. I want her to head home. Tonight. We’ll get in sometime late tomorrow.”

  ***

  Back on the road. Travelling north. On our way home.

  I pulled off at exit 22 off I-65. Bowling Green. A gas station, multiple liquor stores, and an Econolodge. My kind of place.

  We gassed up, grabbed a couple of bottles, and found some animal-free food for Chris.

  When we got to our room, it was time to celebrate.

  “You know, I can’t believe we did it, but we got it done,” Chris said.

  “We’re home free, baby.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, watching her eat her take-out. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  She covered her mouth as self-consciousness crept in. “What?” she said as she chewed.

  I held up my cupful of whiskey. “This time we have together, just you and me? We’ll never get it again.”

  She smiled, tapped my cup with her own. “You think that’s a bad thing? These last couple of days have been rough.”

  “I don’t think it’s bad,” I said. “Just that we’ve had a special time together, and it’s drawing to a close. Tonight is all we have.”

  “What are you thinking?” A sly grin.

  I smiled. “Get a shower. You’re going to come your brains out tonight.”

  She laughed, thick and drunken. She threw her head back and toppled back on the bed. She kept laughing.

  “Fuck the shower,” I said. And I was on her.

  ***

  Hours later, the phone rang. It was an obscene hour of the
night.

  “What the fuck?” I said.

  “My phone,” Chris said. She sat up, looked at the display. “Huh uh. Fuck no. Voicemail.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “River. Probably middle of the night ghost shit.”

  I was already back asleep.

  The phone rang again.

  “Fuck,” Chris said. She checked the display.

  “River again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s get it,” I said. “Enola should be home now. Probably planning a welcome home party for us.”

  “If it’s Enola, then it goes on speaker phone,” Chris said.

  I nodded. I actually longed to speak to her even though we’d talked earlier.

  Chris tapped the screen. The faint glow from the parking lot through the thick drapes and the phone’s screen were the only sources of light. I held Chris in the darkness.

  “Hi baby,” Chris said. She sounded so innocent. In that moment I hoped that River didn’t really hear from actual spirits.

  “Why, hello Suzie Wong.” It wasn’t River. The voice was masculine with a heavy Southern accent. Ira Blake.

  Chris looked at me, her mouth open.

  An icy chill swept over me.

  “Little badass with a Ginsu, tell me something. Is that yellow cooter of yours all healed up now? I sure hope so. I’ve been wanting me a tender little wonton. I like wontons when they’re boiled nice and soft. But then I like fried wontons too. Crispy, crunchy wontons. Wonder how I’ll take yours, Gookemon?”

  I held my hand level in front of Chris and pressed down. Stay calm, I was trying to say.

  “I’ll tell you this,” he continued. “After seeing your work in the kitchen, I’ll never eat another egg roll again, god help me. No sir. The only Chinese cuisine I’m hungry for is the soft little noodle you’ve got right between your legs.”

  “Let me speak to River,” Chris said.

  “Oh, honey. She can’t come to the phone. She’s…well, let’s just say she’s slightly unwell at the moment.”

  “I swear motherfucker if you hurt her—”

  “Oh, I admit it. Let’s just clear the air on that right now. I did hurt her. You got it? I did. I already hurt her.”

  “I’ll fucking kill you!” Chris said.

  “Oh, I bet you would. Let me tell you about this one time. Me and a buddy of mine—you don’t know him, I might introduce you some time—but we was down in Mississippi, and we got up with these black girls. We was in his van, see? And we smoked some rock with those girls. And when we fucked them, we wore our Klan hoods. Can you picture it? I bet you can. My god, I wished we’d recorded that. I never appreciated me a nigger ass like I did that night. Those was some good times. Now them girls, let me tell you, them girls wanted to kill us too after we got done with them. But they didn’t get to. No, honey. They didn’t. You hear them ghost stories? About people that just died the wrong way and haunt the highways and byways of this land? If them girls ain’t ghosts, then there ain’t no fucking ghosts, because I doubt there’s ever been a more unjust death on this planet. At least not up until my boy Corbin, anyway.”