The Nightmare Girl

by Jonathan Janz

  Joe got the call a couple minutes after leaving the house. Some guy named Patrick said he wanted Joe to come out to his place in the country for an estimate. Joe didn’t particularly feel like talking to anybody at the moment, but he figured he might as well meet the guy, hear him out. Maybe it would take his mind off his fight with Michelle.

  But as Joe motored down the country road, he found himself unable to let it go. The Tundra hurtled around the corner, his knuckles white on the wheel. He wasn’t really going that fast—no more than forty—but the road was comprised of loose gravel, the turn sharper than he remembered. The back end of the Tundra slued toward the grassy shoulder, hopped the lip of the road before gaining traction and lurching ahead. Well, that was something anyway. At least he hadn’t overturned the truck, tumbled end over end like some crazed NASCAR driver. He settled into a more comfortable speed and told himself to be safe.

  Yeah, his conscience spoke up, you’re safe, but you’re still an asshole.

  Joe’s lips became a thin white line. She wanted me to lie to my customers. What was I supposed to say?

  The crack about hormones was a low blow, and you know it.

  He sighed. Yeah, he guessed he knew it.

  So call her, tell her you’re sorry.

  “I will,” he muttered. “Just as soon as I stop being mad at her.”

  Another curve appeared ahead, this one trending left and away from the valley that bordered Deer Creek, and as Joe decelerated he happened to glance in his overhead mirror.

  There was a car back there. Not that far, about fifty yards or so, but something about it made him uneasy. Hadn’t he passed a car just like it before turning off the highway onto the winding country road, the car parked alongside I-25 like a police cruiser trawling for speeders? Only this was an old white Buick, a beast of a car, probably from the mid-seventies. Joe was pretty sure it was the same car tailing him now. If it hadn’t been so old it wouldn’t have even registered, but…yes. He was fairly certain this car had pulled out and followed him.

  Okay, so it pulled out and happens to be behind you, he thought. That doesn’t mean it’s following you.

  True enough, he conceded, but it did seem strange. Especially when this area was so secluded, so cut off from the rest of civilization. If Joe remembered correctly, there were a few scattered dwellings out here, Amish mostly, with a few ramshackle cottages sprinkled into the countryside like old bird droppings.

  Joe looked up in time to see the curve was upon him, and though he hadn’t slowed down enough, he was able to navigate it without plunging over the shoulder and, like an inept villain in The Dukes of Hazzard, go freefalling into the valley.

  He accelerated around the turn, the Tundra’s tires grabbing the road without difficulty, and entered another straightaway, this one shaded by the forest that tracked the creek. Joe glanced in the mirror expecting the Buick to be right on his tail, but it was another second or two before it drifted lazily around the bend Joe had just completed. If anything, he was putting distance between himself and the Buick, and though this should have made him feel better, for some reason it made him livid. He’d had enough mystery in his life lately and didn’t need anything else to worry about.

  Joe’s iPhone phone vibrated in his pocket. Keeping his eyes on the road, he fished it out. He half-expected it to be his pursuer, ringing him up to tell him he was about to die. Or to rendezvous at some remote location. But it was Michelle, God bless her. Joe went to answer it, but the buzzing stopped abruptly, the symbol in the upper right corner of the phone informing him he’d gone beyond signal range.

  Crud, he thought, and set the phone on the dash.

  Without further deliberation, Joe slowed to a crawl. In his mirror the Buick swam closer, but did so only gradually, the driver apparently as wary as Joe was.

  “Come on,” Joe murmured. “Let’s sort this out now. I need to tell my wife what a prick I was and hope she doesn’t make me sleep in the garage.”

  Even though Joe was now inching along at about ten miles an hour, the Buick remained a goodly distance back. Perhaps forty yards. Joe felt his irritation level rise. Ahead, there was a dip in the road, a curve to the left, then a stop sign preceding a one-lane bridge. Tomlinson Bridge, it was called, and it was one of the oldest iron bridges in the state. A study had been done on it by a nearby college, and it was found to be unstable. It might not fall apart right away, but soon, the study proclaimed, the bridge would need to be repaired or replaced.

  That was fifteen years ago.

  In the meantime the bridge had deteriorated further, the whole thing a riot of rust and flaking bolts. It hadn’t been closed yet because it was the only means of crossing Deer Creek for a ten-mile stretch. Joe didn’t like to drive over it, especially when the girls were with him, but when he was alone, the risk didn’t seem quite so extreme.

  He reached the stop sign preceding the bridge and gazed across its thirty-yard expanse. Beneath it, he saw Deer Creek bubbling and churning, the turbid water at a level four feet above normal because of all the rains. Joe glanced at the far end of the bridge again, decided it was safe to cross, and rumbled forward.

  At which point a black car swung around the corner and bounced toward him at the opposite side of the bridge.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He’d only gone about fifteen yards, but it was still a pain to have to stop, shift it into reverse, and back up all the way down the single lane to the road. He had begun to do just that when he glanced in the overhead mirror and saw the white Buick enter the bridge behind him.

  Shit, he thought. He was trapped.

  Joe shifted the Tundra into park and snatched his cell phone from the passenger’s seat. He powered it on and gazed into its glowing face.

  Still no service.

  Well, fuck a duck, he thought.

  Behind him the Buick was close enough to hump his truck if it felt frisky enough. Before him, the other vehicle, an older black Ford Taurus, was damn near nose to nose with his front bumper. For a crazy instant Joe considered driving forward and attempting to steamroll his way over the smaller vehicle. It would kill the driver without a doubt, but wasn’t it fairly obvious both of these drivers had planned this, had plotted to trap him out here on this rickety old bridge? He seriously doubted they intended to serenade him or surprise him with roses.

  As the driver behind him got out of his vehicle, Joe realized with a nasty shock that one of them had almost certainly been “Patrick.”

  And Joe had fallen for it.

  In front of him the driver of the Taurus climbed out, and as the man straightened to his full height—which looked to be about six-and-a-half feet—Joe realized the man’s face was familiar. It was gaunt and crosshatched with numerous scars.

  One of the men from the funeral, one of Sharon Waltz’s friends. And that would make the other…

  Yep, Joe thought as the long-haired driver of the Buick came into view through the driver’s side window. The tattooed guy with ropy muscles. The one Joe had thought of as a biker.

  Joe thumbed the automatic door locks. For some reason, their muted clicks weren’t particularly reassuring.

  Tattoo Man tapped on his window.

  Joe cast a glance to his right, saw Scarface leaning toward the glass, the man’s pale blue eyes leering at him. Scarface’s teeth were yellower than sweet corn and terribly uneven.

  Joe took a deep, steadying breath and thumbed down the window two or three inches. “Help you?” he asked Tattoo Man.

  “Turn off your engine,” the man said in a voice that surprised Joe. The guy had what sounded like a thick Irish accent. His hair was gunmetal gray, the bags under his eyes purple and sagging. Yet he sounded like the spry leprechaun from the Lucky Charms commercials.

  “Got a dick in your ear?” the man demanded.

  Joe grinned at him. “Did you really just say that? I h
aven’t heard that one since junior high, and even then it was out of style.”

  Tattoo Man opened his hand and slapped it hard on the window. Joe jumped a little. The blow had been hard enough he worried the window would shatter, but it didn’t. To his right, Scarface rapped smartly on the passenger’s window four or five times.

  Joe knew he could sit here waiting for help to come, but the chances of someone happening by were slim. This was mostly German Baptist country, which meant it’d be someone in a horse and buggy, and Joe was pretty sure those folks were pacifists. At least they had been in that old Harrison Ford movie.

  He swallowed, thinking fast.

  No phone. No other cars or houses nearby. No gun in the truck. No gun anywhere, for that matter. Michelle abhorred them, and though Joe didn’t harbor any strong opinions either way, he was suddenly regretful he’d never invested in one for protection.

  Of course, he’d never thought he’d needed protection.

  Joe mentally riffled through the contents of his silver toolbox, the one in the truck bed where he kept all his equipment. There was a power drill there, but that was of no practical use. In a horror movie, maybe, but not here. There was a hammer, which he knew could do some serious damage, but how the hell was he supposed to retrieve it with these guys blocking both doors?

  Tattoo Man beat on the glass with a closed fist. “Open up!” he shouted, only his Irish accent made the command sound more like a suggestion.

  But there was nothing suggestive about the rock Scarface slammed against the passenger’s window. The whole thing spiderwebbed, and though it didn’t implode, Joe figured it would only take a good breeze to finish the job.

  “Open the fucking door!” Tattoo Man roared, and Joe held up his hands.

  “All right, all right! Just take it the hell easy.”

  Sighing, Joe reached out to unlock the doors. He knew he’d have to be fast. It all depended on what Tattoo Man did. If he stepped well away from the Tundra, Joe might have a chance. If he crowded Joe, grabbed hold of him as soon as the door swung open, Joe might very well receive a serious beating.

  Or worse.

  He figured the men had come to coerce him into doing what Angie Waltz hadn’t been able to do before she killed herself: change his story. Though Joe knew it was fruitless—what were they going to do, intimidate every single one of the witnesses from the gas station?—he also knew that these men were not the kind to listen to reason. They figured Joe was the troublemaker, and if they could scare him badly enough, Sharon could get her mitts back on Little Stevie.

  It was the thought of the boy that did it, endowed him with the courage he needed.

  Joe depressed the unlock button, thrust the door outward hoping to knock Tattoo Man back a few paces.

  It worked. The man stumbled against the rusty guardrail and spat curses.

  “Sorry,” Joe called as he climbed out. He turned as he did it, so that he was facing the seat. In his periphery he saw Scarface coming around the front of the Tundra, the tall man having to sidle slowly because he’d left so little room between the Taurus and the pickup. Taking care to be casual about it, Joe reached under the seat, felt the hardness of the crowbar through its vinyl sleeve.

  “You’re a stupid guy, Crawford,” Tattoo Man said.

  “Grab him, Shannon,” Scarface called.

  Joe stored the name away, though he didn’t think Tattoo Man looked at all like a Shannon. More like a Road Rash or a Crazy Train. Not Shannon.

  Joe grasped the crowbar by the chisel end. He only wanted to protect himself, not kill these men.

  Not unless he had to.

  A hand dropped on his shoulder, the fingers hard and fraught with vicious strength. “Have some of this,” the one named Shannon growled.

  Joe whirled, the crowbar clutched in his right hand. He whipped the curved end of the bar at Shannon’s face just as the man’s fist arced toward Joe. The bar caught Shannon flush in the side of the head, the sound like a boot crunching down on a glass bottle. Joe cringed even as Shannon dropped bonelessly to the ground. Jesus, he’d gotten the guy good. He sent up a feeble mental wish that he hadn’t killed the man, but by that time Scarface was clawing around the open truck door and cocking back the big rock to retaliate.

  Joe was a little off-balance from the force of his backhanded swing at Shannon—holy shit, the guy was barely moving, unless you counted the way one of his legs was twitching; maybe Joe really had killed him—so he was barely able to thrust the crowbar up in time to block Scarface, whose right arm was hammering down at him, apparently meaning to stave his head in with the rock, which was larger, harder, and more jagged than a good-sized grapefruit. The crowbar smacked Scarface’s wrist and the rock jarred loose from the man’s long fingers. The rock continued its descent, however, and caught Joe right in the middle of the sternum. His breath instantly gone, Joe stumbled back, realizing as he fell against the seat that Scarface had gotten hold of the crowbar and was in the process of wresting it from his grip.

  Joe scrambled to yank the crowbar out of the man’s fingers, but Scarface was as strong as he was skinny. With seemingly no effort, the guy ripped the crowbar away and cocked it high in the air. Joe spun toward the truck bed like a running back evading an aggressive lineman and narrowly missed being brained by the crowbar, which whistled down like a scythe and pounded the cloth seat with an audible thump. Joe nearly tripped over Shannon’s twitching form, recovered, and scrambled along the rocker panel until he was a couple arm lengths away from Scarface. Joe flung an arm over the side of the truck, pushed off as hard as he could, and vaulted into the truck bed. He tumbled onto the plastic liner and pushed to his feet. Scarface had recovered and looked ready to strike again. What Joe needed was on the driver’s side of the pickup, which was regrettable. Joe couldn’t very well open up that side of the toolbox without serving himself on a platter for Scarface and the crowbar. But the long silver toolbox spanned the width of the truck bed, and it wasn’t compartmentalized. Thankfully, Joe seldom kept it locked, and he hadn’t locked it today. On the side opposite of where Scarface now stood, Joe threw open the toolbox so the door stood up almost at a right angle. He heard a clatter from Scarface’s side of the truck and looked up in time to see the man’s long, spidery form scuttling into the truck bed.

  Joe thrust his arm into the open toolbox, groping for his weapon. Scarface had nearly made it into the bed. Joe debated briefly overpowering the man and ripping the crowbar out of his hands, but he’d seen how crisp Scarface’s reflexes were. If Joe got brained by one of those long-armed blows, it’d all be over in an instant. Something told him Scarface wanted to do more than throw a scare into him.

  With a final push, Scarface thumped down in the truck bed.

  Joe’s fingers closed on the hammer.

  The crowbar came whistling down just as Joe tugged on the toolbox door. Though Joe himself lay in the opening and the door slammed down on his shoulders, it also deflected the crowbar, which glanced off the steel surface with a teeth-rattling clang. Hoping Scarface had been thrown off balance by the thwarted attempt, Joe elbowed the toolbox door open and pushed to his feet.

  Scarface’s eyes were wild with hate and confusion. He’d already begun cocking the crowbar back to strike again. So when Joe came up with the hammer and struck Scarface with a rib-crunching blow just under the armpit, the tall man squealed in pain and let loose of the crowbar. Scarface seemed to dance sideways toward the tailgate, both arms covering his side protectively. The crowbar clattered to the floor of the truck bed.

  Joe moved forward grimly, the hammer raised again. Scarface halted a foot from the tailgate and tossed up an arm to fend off the hammer blow. But instead of striking with the hammer again, Joe took a step and kicked the man as hard as he could in the side of the knee. Scarface buckled, his butt hitting the tailgate and his long body toppling over the edge. A meaty thud told Joe that Scarfa
ce had banged his head on the rear bumper, and then a softer thump sounded as the tall man collapsed on the pavement.

  Joe vaulted over the tailgate and landed a couple feet from where Scarface lay grasping his knee and yowling like a lovelorn cat.

  “You’re a real asshole,” Joe said, “but I’m not gonna kill you.” He grasped Scarface by the hair, began towing him toward the side of the bridge.

  The one named Shannon had come to, but he was doing little more than gazing about with a drugged expression. Joe reached into the Buick, shifted it into neutral, and made sure the wheel was straight. Then, with hardly a glance at either of his assailants, Joe climbed into the Tundra, put it in reverse, and drove until his back bumper kissed the Buick’s grill. He depressed the gas and began the job of moving the big white car backward. He hoped the damned thing would cooperate. He didn’t relish the idea of getting out to straighten the Buick’s wheel again, and he harbored no illusions about Scarface or Shannon moving their cars for him.

  But the Buick rolled in a straight line, and within moments, the Tundra had cleared the edge of the bridge. Joe didn’t bother climbing out to throw the Buick into park. In truth he sort of hoped the big white car would keep rolling until it tumbled into the river valley. As Joe pulled a U-turn, he glimpsed Scarface lying on his side, both hands still clutching his knee. Beyond him, Joe spied Shannon stumbling sideways into the guardrail, the guy too woozy to stand upright. He reminded Joe of a newborn deer. Or a bad drunk.

  The U-turn completed, Joe moved the Tundra steadily back toward the highway. He didn’t floor it because he didn’t want the two bastards back there on the bridge to know how badly they’d scared him. Because they had. And he knew just how fortunate he was to still be in one piece.

  He was thinking this when a car swerved around the bend and headed straight for him. Joe thought for a moment the driver would simply ram him head-on. If that happened, Joe knew, the other guy would have it worse than he would, though they both might die. He saw in the moments before the green car bore down on him that it was only a Camaro, and a rusted one at that. The driver’s face—there was something familiar about it—stretched in a look of horror. Then the man jerked the wheel to the right, and the Camaro veered into its own lane. Joe saw, as his Tundra nearly clipped the rear of the Camaro, the faces of both the driver and the passenger, and in that instant he recalled exactly where he’d seen them before. Like Shannon and the one he thought of as Scarface, he’d seen these bastards the day they’d interred Angie Waltz. Or had a ceremony for her. What they’d lowered into the ground, he had no idea. But the men had been there, that he knew.