by Rick R. Reed
And maybe a listed phone number. Randy used his finger to scan the lists of tiny names and found Dwight Morris.
Too easy. The street, Bruner, was only three blocks south.
Randy stared into the Burger King. It looked warm in there, empty. A lone girl stood at her post next to a cash register (Hi. Can I take your order?), twirling a lock of reddish-brown hair with her forefinger. He felt sick and didn’t want to go any farther. How nice it would be to walk into Burger King, order a cup of coffee, sit in the window and watch the snow come down. He could tell the others he couldn’t find Dwight Morris, or that he had moved, gone underground or something.
But what about Little T and War Zone, and the boy who had washed up in Lake Michigan? Perhaps he could save Little T and War Zone from the same fate.
And besides, his resolve firmer as he took his first steps southward, what did he have to lose? It wasn’t like he’d be seeing his thirtieth birthday.
*
The house, when he found it, was dark. The windows, sheet-covered, curtainless, looked like empty eye sockets, reflecting back the snow illuminated by the streetlight across the street. In the driveway, a car, buried under several inches of the stuff, sat like some hulking white animal, ready to spring at him.
Randy walked by the house, not stopping. Not yet. He hadn’t even thought about how he’d deal with the situation. He walked to the corner and stood under the streetlight, hands thrust into coat pockets, heart pounding.
The queasiness was almost debilitating. Jimmy had set the guy’s house, and the guy himself in the process, on fire. He’d already been crazy. What would he be like when he was hellbent on revenge?
Randy shivered…or was he quaking from far? I should have thought this out more carefully. I should have thought to bring a weapon. Dwight probably has fifty pounds on me. What am I gonna do, strangle him?
Just go back to the Burger King…pick up the pay phone and call the cops.
The idea hit him all at once. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? As an answer a memory came to him and he saw himself once more as a fourteen-year-old, wigged out on acid in some San Francisco back alley. A sharp crack to the back of his head with a nightstick brought him down quickly.
Cop remedies…he had never trusted them.
Randy pulled the cord that drew his coat’s hood tighter around his face. The air seemed to be growing colder and colder. He walked a little farther south on Bruner, thinking.
What if I’m wrong? There are a lot of sick guys in Chicago; Randy had firsthand knowledge of that. And what if Dwight Morris had never done anything that had to do with the kid in Lake Michigan? What if War Zone was holed up with one of his tricks and Little T, having had enough of the Chicago winter, had caught a Greyhound back to Florida?
The cops would offer him no help. He knew that they’d take one look at him and be incredulous. And even if he could get them to Morris’s house, whom would they believe? Randy, an ex-hustler and street person? Or Morris? A taxpayer living a seemingly quiet domestic life?
Right. Randy was sure they’d leave, if they even bothered to check on Morris. There would be no late night calls to a judge to get a search warrant.
And a visit from the police would accomplish only one thing if Morris did have Little T and War Zone: to scare the guy enough to make sure he’d get rid of any evidence quickly.
Get rid of that evidence permanently. Or at least until it washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan.
No, he couldn’t go to the police. If something were going to happen, it had to be through Randy’s own intervention.
Randy looked back up the street, at the dark house. Were his friends in there? And if they were, what kind of shape must they be in by now?
Were they even alive?
Randy’s heart sank with the knowledge that probably Little T and War Zone were dead; their bodies just hadn’t turned up yet. Randy swallowed and began walking back toward the house. Defeatist thinking would get him nowhere. The house seemed to grow larger, more menacing, as he walked closer. He thought he saw a flash of movement, white, almost ghostly, in one of the windows, and then decided his eyes must be playing tricks on him, fear-induced hallucinations. His breathing suddenly came a little quicker, his stomach tighter, churning, and the sweat on his face froze in the wind.
He was at the door. He flashed on being at that same door ten years ago, feeling Dwight Morris grab his ass, smelling the liquor on his breath as he sent a hot whisper in his ear about what a vile piece of garbage he was.
Before he could even decide what to do, the porch light and a light inside came on all at once. Randy stood frozen, rooted to the small square of concrete in front of the door, wanting to turn and run, but knowing that it was too late for that option. His mind went blank as he stared at the blond wood door, waiting for it to open.
Dwight didn’t look much different than he remembered. Perhaps the paunch of stomach, hidden now by a black sweatshirt, was a little larger; perhaps there was a little less of the dark hair. He stared at Randy for a moment and Randy guessed he was trying to remember if he should know him from somewhere.
Would he remember? Randy wondered, and then immediately dismissed the thought. His own mother wouldn’t remember.
“Something I can help you with, young man?”
There was no kindness in the voice, only irritation.
Randy stammered, “Car broke down, use your phone?” He mentally kicked himself for being so lame. He should have brought Avery with him. At least he wouldn’t be alone and at least Avery was fat. Why did he think he could do anything other than make a bad situation worse than it already was? It was all he could ever do in his life. Why should now be any different?
Dwight stuck his head out into the cold wind, looking around. “Where is it?”
“Over on Harlem,” Randy said.
“There are a lot of businesses over on Harlem. Lots of pay phones. I’d think you could use one of them. Why come all the way down here? Why pick this particular house, young man?”
Randy scratched himself, feeling like there was something crawling on him. Feeling caught. The heat rose up in his face. “I…I…used to know someone who lived here?”
“Really?” Dwight smiled, but it was not a kind smile. The smile seemed predatory.
“Now who might that be? I’ve lived in this house fifteen years.”
“A woman,” Randy said, hoping he could bluff his way through this by pretending to know the guy’s wife.
“A woman? A woman used to live here, in fact.” Dwight looked at him. “How’d you know her?”
Dwight looked as if he was beginning to enjoy this. He spoke again. “Maybe you worked with her? Down at Wards?”
Right, Randy thought, how stupid do you think I am? When I say I did, he’ll tell me she never worked there. Bingo. Close door. Dwight’s smile gave it all away.
“No. I didn’t even know she worked at Wards.”
“Well, then. It’s a small world. How do you know her?”
Randy shrugged. His heart was pounding. What could he possibly say that would be safe enough to work? Maybe Dwight didn’t know his neighbors and Randy could say he used to live nearby.
And maybe he did know his neighbors and all Randy would have to do is pick the wrong house and…show’s over. He had to say something: if he was telling the truth, it shouldn’t take so long to come up with an answer.
“Well,” Dwight said, still smiling. “Marianne isn’t here tonight.” He looked as if he were thinking, and then said, “Senn Christmas program. She’s directing the choir. Duty called.” Dwight looked down at his watch. “She’s got about another half hour.”
Randy blurted out: “She used to be my teacher.” He smiled at Dwight and then added, “Mrs. Morris.”
“Who are you?” The smile disappeared from Dwight’s face. “No woman who ever lived here worked at Senn or any other school.”
Randy didn’t know
what to do. His head buzzed. He felt like he was going to puke. He stared at Dwight, as if Dwight had to release him in some way. He rubbed his arms up and down, up and down. Something would come to him; it had to. He looked up and down the street, then back to Dwight, who seemed so patient, not even bothered by the cold wind blowing in his door.
“I’ll ask again.” Dwight spoke slowly, as if he were talking to a child. “Who are you?”
Randy swallowed again; his mouth was dry. Either he turned and ran as fast as he could back to where he came from or he made an attempt.
An attempt of any sort could cost him his life. He thought of the virus right now growing in his body, thought how little life he had left, and said, “I’m Randy. It’s been a long time, I know, but I was hoping you’d remember me.”
Randy noted that Dwight’s composure, so calm, seemed shaken, just a little bit. He took a step back and turned his head, peering at him. “How on earth would I ever know a creature like you?”
Randy grinned. “We had a good time together. A few years ago. Don’t tell me you don’t remember. I sure as fuck haven’t been able to forget. Can I come in? I can show you something that’ll remind you.”
Dwight looked behind him, into the house. “I don’t think that’d be a good idea. I don’t think I know you.” He started to close the door.
Randy’s hand, swiftly, moved up to block it. Dwight looked at him in surprise, not closing, or even pushing, the door.
“What do you want?” he whispered. “I don’t think I have any interest in what you’re selling, young man.”
“Why not?” Randy said, feeling a little more sure of himself now, feeling he was beginning to make a crack in the sicko’s facade. “Too old for you, maybe?”
“That’s enough. Now you get out of here, or I’m calling the police.”
“I don’t think so.” Randy thought for a moment, then decided to try a big bluff. “I think the police would have a lot more interest in you than me.”
Dwight took a breath and stared at Randy. “What are you talking about?”
“I think you know.” Randy shivered. “Let me come in. It’s cold out here.”
Finally, Dwight stepped back and let Randy come inside. Randy looked around the room, taking in the dust and emptiness. This wasn’t, he was sure, how it was the last time he was here. “Nice place you got here.” Randy smiled.
Dwight merely stared back. There was fear on his face. “Tell me. What do you want?”
“Let me tell you what I saw first,” Randy said, growing more and more secure with his bluff, thinking that it would work or it wouldn’t, but at least he had a plan now.
Dwight drew in a quivering breath. “What do you know?”
“I know you killed somebody.”
“You know nothing of the sort.”
“I like to go to the Rocks. It’s a good place to think.”
Randy could see Dwight biting the inside of his cheek. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” But it was obvious from the terror on his face that he did.
“Carlos Garcia.” Randy got right up in Dwight’s face, close enough to smell his rancid breath: onions and lunch meat.
“I don’t know any Carlos Garcia.”
“You knew him well enough to pitch him into Lake Michigan the other night.”
Dwight stared at him for a long time, then sat down on the floor, Indian style. “You have no proof of anything.”
“Eyewitness accounts are always worth a little something. I watched you, Dwight Morris, from behind a boulder I happened to be sitting on.”
“There was no one…” Dwight caught himself. “How’d you know my name?”
“I told you, I know you. You gave me a souvenir a few years ago. A little something to remember you by.” Randy unzipped his coat and pulled up his shirt to reveal the lambda scar on his stomach. “Don’t you remember this? Razor-blade artwork.”
Dwight looked at the scar and it was obvious to Randy from his expression that he remembered, or at least knew the handiwork was his own.
Dwight rubbed his forehead and sighed. “What do you want, kid? Money?”
Randy looked around at the barren house. “I don’t think you’d be much of a supplier.” He sat down in front of Dwight, looking him in the eye. “I want my friends back. I have reason to believe you might have something to do with why they’re fuckin’ gone. A little black kid named War Zone and a red-haired boy, named Little T.”
“Don’t know ’em.”
“Bullshit.”
Just then, both men tensed as a loud banging started. Bam, bam, bam. It was coming from the basement. Randy looked down at the floor, almost as if by staring at it he might see through it. Then he looked at Dwight.
His eyebrows had rushed together; he sucked in his cheek and bit it.
“What’s that?” Randy asked.
Dwight didn’t answer.
“I asked you a fuckin’ question, man.”
Dwight stared down at his hands, which were shaking.
Randy was on his feet. The sound came from below, he thought, making a circuit of the house. There had to be a door to the basement somewhere. Finally, in the kitchen, near a harvest gold stove, there was a door and the banging sound from below seemed louder here. Randy flung open the door and saw the darkness.
And the stairs.
Hurrying to turn on the light, Randy made his way down the steps, one hand on the wall to guide him.
The scene in the basement startled him, took his breath away. Row after row of heavy plywood boxes, looking like coffins. Holes in the boxes’ sides and lengths of rope, sticking out of some of the holes, knotted.
One box was shaking with the force of the blows whoever, or whatever (please, God, don’t let it be War Zone or Little T) was making. Randy rushed over to the box and pulled off the lid. A deadness filled Randy when he saw War Zone inside.
No, this can’t be him. Not War Zone. The boy was shining with sweat, lying in a pool of his own excrement. His eyes, staring up from a face half masked with duct tape, were wide, filled with terror. Muffled cries barely escaped from beneath the tape. War Zone twisted and turned, twisted and turned, kicking, flailing as best he could with all of his limbs bound.
There seemed to be no sanity left in those eyes.
Randy stooped and put his hand on War Zone’s sweat-slicked flesh. “Hey, man, calm down. It’s gonna be all right. I’m here, now. I’m gonna take care of you.” He leaned farther into the box and began to unravel the maze of knots.
And then a shadow fell across the box and Randy knew he shouldn’t have turned his back on Morris. Randy whirled around just in time to see Dwight behind him, a sledgehammer raised high.
“You dumb shit,” Randy gasped and lunged toward the man. He grabbed hold of Morris’s arms, trying to wrest the hammer away from him.
The two moved around the basement in a grim dance, Dwight trying to bring the hammer down and Randy trying desperately to pull it away.
Morris let go of his grip for a second and Randy used the moment to pull the sledgehammer away. In that moment, all the momentum he had built up pulling on the hammer worked against him and he stumbled backward, the backs of his knees connecting with one of the boxes.
Randy toppled over backward, crashing into one of the boxes, his head hitting its top with a dull thudding sound. Even though he felt dazed and saw flicks of silver light dancing before him, he held tight to the sledgehammer, pulling it close to his chest.
Morris leapt and landed on top of him, and together, the two of them crashed through the plywood surface of the box’s top. Randy could feel someone beneath them. A scream, sounding like it came from a girl, broke the stillness in the basement. Randy felt weak hands pushing against his back, trying to get the weight off.
With Morris on top of him, Randy couldn’t move to get off whoever was beneath him. Worse, he couldn’t move his arms to raise the sledgehammer.
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Plus it felt like there was no breath left in his lungs.
Oh, God, I’m not up to this. Please, please, just this once, give me the strength.
After freeing his hand from the tangle of bodies, Morris reached out and dragged his nails across Randy’s face. He pushed down hard when he got to his eyes, continued pushing into Randy’s left eye as Randy struggled to free his arms, pinioned in front of him.
It felt as if the eye would burst and Randy, with the strength born of his pain, screamed and freed his arms.
He reached up and swung at Dwight’s hand, connecting with Morris’s wrist and causing the hand to come away from Randy’s eye.
The sledgehammer flew from his grasp.
And Morris seized the opportunity.
It happened so fast in that second or second and a half that Randy felt as if he had lost a section of time.
Morris lunged off him and at the same moment grabbed the sledgehammer.
He didn’t wait. Morris raised the sledgehammer above his head, his eyes alive with hate and rage.
The last thing Randy saw was the black metal surface of the hammer head coming at him. Randy barely felt the heavy iron as it came down on his skull, crushing it and forever turning the world into a dark place, darker even than the box in which his friend was confined.
Chapter 15
The corpse was one big mess.
“You little shit,” Aunt Adele yelled, “now look what you’ve done. I always knew you wouldn’t amount to much.”
Dwight closed his eyes, covered his ears, trying to block out the strident voice. He knew he couldn’t be hearing her. “It’s just my imagination,” he whispered to himself. “Just my imagination. It’s brought on by stress.” He opened his eyes once more, slowly moved his hands away from his ears, listening. He looked all around him.
The only sound in the basement was the sound of the gas furnace, generating heat, and the whimpering of that hateful black boy in the box.
“Shut up!” he shouted, his voice ringing out in the room. He gave the box a good kick.
