by K. W. Jeter
He'd seen the man before, and he remembered where. When he'd seen him, the guy had been slumped in the cab of a diesel truck, looking like he'd had the shit pretty well knocked out of him. Looking like he was about ready to die in a couple of hours.
The 'Vette's engine started up, a bass rumble underneath the wail of the pickup's horn. The guy had looked okay now, except for one thing. That was one more reason why his mouth had dropped open when he'd spotted the guy's face.
A red line, still wet and glistening, ran down one cheek, as though the man had shed a single bloody tear.
The 'Vette peeled out from in front of the store, scattering gravel as it swerved onto the road. A wordless fear squeezed his heart, and he turned and ran toward the pickup.
"Hey! What the hell's going on-"
Harley was slumped over the steering wheel, his face resting right in the center of it, his hands on either side; that was what kept the horn blaring. He stopped a few feet away, staring at Harley. There was something wrong… Harley's face was too far down, as though somehow he'd managed to shove the steering wheel's hub into his mouth. And the back of his head-the hair was all dark and shiny wet, and something poked through it. Something-he saw it now-something that was red and pulpy and soft, studded with hard, jagged-edged pieces, curved like a broken bowl.
As he looked at Harley, a last pulse of blood surged, and the bits that had been inside the skull fell away, sliding in wet red tracks down the side of the face and neck. A rough triangle of bone, with hair on one surface, rattled onto the truck's running board.
Where the back of Harley's head had been, the steering wheel's hub poked through, the chrome and plastic emblem at the center mired in a sticky web.
"Fuck!" The sight, on top of all the beer, knocked his legs out from under him. He sat down hard on the dirt, looking at what was left of Harley and hearing-a million miles in the distance-the horn still singing away.
***
The wind chilled the wetness on his cheek, and Mike rubbed it with one hand. Red was smeared across his fingertips when he looked at them.
That made him smile, as he tightened his grip on the 'Vette's wheel and aimed it down the road. The anger that had welled up in him, when he'd seen the asshole and had remembered who he was, had ebbed back down into its nest around his heart. But the thrill, the memory of the strength that had come bursting into his arms-that remained.
It'd been easy-like spiking a melon on a fence post. He hadn't even had to think about it, just do it. The fucker, the stupid sonuvabitch, had had time for just one gargling cry before his nose and mouth had been caved in.
That was the way to deal with stupid motherfuckers like that. Mike straightened his arms, working the muscles in his shoulders. That was the way he was going to deal with all the stupid motherfuckers.
He pressed the accelerator down flat, and the 'Vette leapt forward, eating up the highway to the city.
***
It had gotten dark enough outside that she'd had to turn on the lamp over her desk. Anne leaned her chin on one hand, the knuckle of her little finger at the corner of her mouth. She'd managed to plow through twenty pages of the anatomy text; if she kept pushing, she might make it to the neurology section by midnight.
She could hear her mother rounding up the little kids, trying to get them all to the dinette table in the trailer's kitchen.
"Annie"-her mother knocked on the bedroom door-"you want some supper?"
"No," she shouted, not taking her eyes off the textbook. "Not right now." There was an apple and a carton of yogurt on the corner of the desk. That, plus a couple forays to go make some instant coffee, would get her through.
Quiet again, or as quiet as it ever got inside the trailer-the floor shook sometimes, when all the kids were running around. She heard the splash of water behind her.
She looked over her shoulder. The circle from the desk lamp didn't reach all the way over to the bed table. All she could see was the small, dark shape of Doot's tropical fish, swimming back and forth in the bowl. In the unlit corner of the room, the water was nearly as dark.
Maybe it was hungry. She wondered what to do about that. Maybe in a little while, she could go out to the kitchen and scrounge up some bread crumbs, drop them into the bowl. Or were tropical fish supposed to eat dead flies, and stuff like that?
She folded her arms on the desk, leaning over the anatomy text. It was Doot's stupid fish, after all; if it missed a meal before she could give it back to him, it wasn't her fault. She didn't even hear the next quick splash of water from the corner of the room.
In the dark bowl, the fish moved back and forth, its mouth brushing against the glass, then its tail as it flicked itself around.
The water turned darker as blood streamed from the fish's gills, making ribbons that turned to black, dissolving lace behind it.
TWENTY
The freeway's river of lights cut through the darkness. It was well past midnight by the time Mike reached the city's outskirts. He had had to slow the 'Vette down once he'd gotten onto the Interstate to keep from picking up a speed cop on his tail. Right now, he didn't feel like hassling with police; he had too much to take care of. It had taken a real effort of will, though, to keep from punching the 'Vette up to its limit.
He started switching lanes, moving over to the right. The freeway had curved into the city proper. He pulled the 'Vette out of gear and let it coast down the off-ramp, easing it to a halt at the stoplight at the bottom.
When the light changed, he drove one-handed, using the fingers of the other to comb his hair back down. He flexed the hand into a fist, then released it, feeling the muscles up into his arm, all working perfectly now. He smiled, squeezing the fist tighter.
Some people were going to be surprised to see him. The thought lifted one corner of his smile. Really surprised-he couldn't wait to see the look on their faces.
The knock on the apartment door woke him out of a drowsing slumber. Charlie raised his head, blinking. The TV in front of him showed Humphrey Bogart, colorized to look like either a fairy or a mortician's makeup demonstration, blowing cigarette smoke with Lauren Bacall. The two of them weren't anywhere near a door, so the sound hadn't come from there. It must've been here in the real world.
He turned his wrist, checking his watch. It wasn't even one a.m. So it couldn't be Aitch. He'd gone off to the White Eagle to catch the Paul DeLay Band, which usually meant he wouldn't be back until sunup. He had a thing going with one of the barmaids there. They'd go back to her place, since Aitch didn't believe in bringing people-women, especially-where they might see something they didn't need to know. You never knew who might also be dating a cop on the side.
Besides, Aitch would've used his own key to let himself in. So this was somebody unexpected-which was never good news. Charlie was all the way awake, with an adrenaline trickle raising the hair on his arms, when whoever it was knocked again.
He pushed himself up off the couch and went to the door. Looking through the peephole, he saw a face smiling back at him. He almost shit when he saw who it was.
"Hey, come on." The voice came muffled through the door. "I know somebody's home."
He opened the door a few inches, leaving the chain on.
"Hello, Charlie." Mike looked at him through the narrow gap. "Mind if I come in?"
Jesus fucking Christ. He couldn't believe it. The guy was just standing there, big as life. And smiling.
"Look." Mike spread his hands wide. "I'm clean." He patted the sides of his jeans. "I'm not carrying anything. Come on," he coaxed. "Just let me in and we'll talk a bit, okay? You know-I've come a long way just to say hello." The smile widened.
As though moving in a dream, Charlie unlatched the chain and swung the door open. He stepped back, keeping a careful distance as Mike came inside.
Mike shut the door behind himself. "How you been, Charlie?"
He shrugged. His thoughts were still bouncing off the walls of his skull, just seeing Mike standing there. And
looking all pulled together, healthy even, instead of busted up and bleeding. It was like it'd been some other Mike that they'd dumped off in the boonies. The only sign that it hadn't been, that it had really been this one, was the green short-sleeved shirt, the collarless kind that doctors wear in hospitals. It was what Mike had been wearing, with his name tag stitched over the breast pocket, when they'd taken him out for the drive. The shirt looked fucked up, at any rate: the green cloth was ripped in a couple of places and stained with something that could have been old dried blood. The bottom of one jeans leg flopped loose, showing the dirty yellow of a healing bruise beneath.
Mike gazed around the apartment. "Is Aitch around? I was hoping to see both you guys."
Charlie stood behind him, feeling sweat growing cold on his own neck. "Uh-he's out."
"Yeah?" Mike looked over his shoulder at him. "Taking care of some business, huh?"
He shook his head. "No… just out. That's all."
Mike nodded. Smiling to himself, he prowled around the apartment. He picked up the remote for the TV; he flicked through the channels-a Bob Newhart rerun, Preparation H, a car ad shot with shiny dark menace-then flicked it off. The picture snapped to dead grey. Mike flopped down in one of the chairs at the side of the sofa.
"Hey. Take it easy, for Christ's sake." The smile tilted up at Charlie. "What are you so worked up about? Huh? We're all friends here, aren't we?"
Charlie didn't say anything. He was wondering what the hell he'd been thinking of-if anything-when he'd let the guy in. There was a gun in the back bedroom-Aitch's nasty Diamondback-but that was a long way out of reach. Something about the way Mike was looking at him made him nervous about trying to go get the gun.
Mike was still being cool and smooth, his elbows draped over the arms of the chair. "There's beer in the fridge, isn't there? There usually is. Why don't you go get us a couple of beers? Then maybe you'll relax."
He turned and went to the kitchen-anything to get away from that smile-then came back with two chilled bottles, already opened. He handed one down to Mike.
Head tilted back, Mike drank, his throat working. He lowered the bottle, fist wrapped around the sweating label. "You still look nervous," he said. "I would've thought you'd be glad to see me. Old friends, and all that. Business colleagues." The smile turned sly. "Maybe… maybe you're just a little surprised."
Charlie sat down in the corner of the sofa farthest away. "Well-we worked you over pretty good." This was weird, sitting around and talking about it. He took a sip of his beer. "Least, I thought we did."
Mike shrugged. "Hey. Why don't we let bygones be bygones? I can understand why you guys were a little upset with me." He leaned forward, his thumb rubbing the neck of the bottle. "That's just the way it is in business sometimes. These little things happen, that's all. No reason we still can't be friends, is there? Maybe even do a little more business-hm?"
Weirder still. "Yeah, sure…"
" 'Yeah, sure.' " Mike's voice twisted sour. The smile showed the teeth at one corner of his mouth. "Because-after all-I know I can trust you guys. Can't I? If a little problem comes up, we can work it out. No sweat." The knuckles around the bottle had turned white. His face set harder, teeth grinding together. "You'd give a friend a chance to explain-wouldn't you? Instead of just fucking him over and dumping him off somewhere to die. You and Aitch wouldn't do something like that, would you?" His voice peaked to a knife edge. "I mean, you wouldn't do it now-"
The bottle in Mike's hand exploded, the brown glass crushed into the center of his fist. Foam streaked with red rolled down his wrist.
Charlie felt his spine burrowing into the sofa, his legs pushing him away from the other seated across from him. He stared as Mike, head down, his shoulders hunched, threw the bits of glass and the sopping, torn label onto the carpet. Red dripped off the ends of his fingers.
"Jesus Christ-" The words caught in his throat.
Mike had raised his head. He wasn't smiling now. His eyes were red, and wet.
The red brimmed over and ran down his cheek, a tear a razor would draw.
A spark jumped the gap in Charlie's spine, which the sight of Mike's bleeding eyes had torn, and he scrambled up from the sofa. The bottle he'd held struck the floor and spun across it, spewing out beer.
He managed to get around the side of the sofa and start for the apartment's front door, his hands already straining for the knob-
Mike's arm, the red hand at the end of it, circled his neck. The impact of Mike's spring from the chair, an animal's uncoiling leap, brought them both down. The floor knocked the breath from Charlie's lungs.
All he wanted to do was get away from the face that was like a clawed mask now, the blood tracks over the cheeks and mingling at the throat. He twisted onto his shoulder, Mike's arm dragging across his neck. He got his hands up, pushing against the red face.
The other's rage swelled, his lips drawing back from his teeth. The blood wasn't just tearing from Mike's eye but seeping from his pores; Charlie felt it blossoming underneath his own straining hands.
Mike's hand, a bit of glass still glittering in the wounded palm, reached up and clawed into Charlie's face. The thumb pressed in toward his teeth, the web between the first two fingers tight against his nostrils. He fought for breath, feeling the glass shard cutting his bottom lip.
The hand tightened, fingertips curling in. He had both of his own on Mike's wrist, but he couldn't bend it away.
His jaw snapped, the hinge breaking free under the digging point of Mike's thumb. A shaft of pain shot up through the center of his head, battering against the top of his skull.
The blind face was above him, the red welling from the eyes and dangling like a wet string across his own. A hissing noise came from between Mike's rigidly clamped teeth.
His cheek tore, the skin ripping under the point of the other's thumb. He felt a molar break, blood pulsing from the socket as the thumb lodged against the roof of his mouth.
The pain sang and burned. He couldn't see the other's face now; it was gone behind the red that washed through his own eyes.
Another breaking noise, bone snapping. He couldn't breathe. The red burst, the agony becoming a black thing that swallowed him.
The last thing-beyond pain, beyond the red that flooded his brain-the last thing he felt was the other's hand, the tips of the fingers coming together, the fist clutching the shards of bone and trembling pulp.
***
As though it had been an egg, crushed in his hand. Mike staggered backward a step, catching his balance. His own head had still been swimming, his pulse pounding and roaring, when he'd stood up.
He twisted his shoulder and wiped one eye clear. His lashes were sticky with blood, but he could see. He looked at his hand, the one that had grabbed hold of Charlie's face, and saw the looped clotting mire, flecked with bone. The wet stuff smeared across the front of his shirt as he wiped it off his hand.
He pulled the shirt off over his head, and used it to mop his face. The raw smell of sweat and blood caught in his breath. The shirt was soaked red in a few seconds. Looking down, he saw Charlie's corpse at his feet.
The arms were outflung, palms upward, the fingers curling. Those hands were streaked with red as well, from fighting and pushing against Mike's face.
Face… Charlie didn't have one now. The biggest piece left was a splinter of the jawbone, sticking up from the ruin. From the brow line to a flap of skin hanging over the jagged opening of the windpipe, the red bubbled, spreading and sinking into the carpet.
Mike closed his eyes, swaying where he stood, feeling the adrenaline drain from his arms-and the other, stronger currents that had surged inside him. The anger ebbed away, but the memory remained.
He smiled, letting his breath slow, his heart gathering its strength back into himself.
He dropped the shirt-a sodden rag now-on Charlie's stomach. He could wash off the rest of the blood in the bathroom. And take a shirt from the closet in the bedroom. He turned away fr
om the thing on the floor and walked toward the rear of the apartment, leaving red footprints that grew lighter with each step.
TWENTY-ONE
He had thought-somehow-that she would look different. Doot rested on his side, his face propped up on his hand, looking at her. Or maybe he hadn't thought about it at all; it had just happened. The moonlight tracing in through the window slits turned her skin all silver. She breathed slowly, eyes closed.
Maybe he'd expected, if he had thought about it at all, that her breasts would be bigger. The way she dressed, anyone would have thought so. But they were like a child's; he could cover one with his hand, the soft lower curve resting against the side of his thumb. He reached out and pulled the edge of the blanket over them. The night air had turned cold.
She opened her eyes when he brushed a strand of her hair away from her brow. She smiled drowsily and snuggled closer to him.
"When I first saw you…" He didn't know if she heard him. She looked as if she had drifted back asleep, one of her hands pressed against his bare chest. "When you came to the house," he whispered, "and you asked for me-I'd never seen anything like you. Not for real. You were like… like something out of a Z Z Top video."
He said it as a joke, even though it was true. He'd guessed she was awake, because her smile had started to show again.
She looked up at him. "That's sweet." She lifted her head and kissed him. "You're nice, too."
They lay together, the night sifting past them. He awoke-he didn't know if he'd fallen asleep for more than a minute-and saw that the line of moonlight had changed its angle. Now it fell a few inches away from him and the sleeping woman and on the open suitcase. The bright things inside, the hypodermics and vials, the plastic cylinders half full of capsules, shone with a dull radiance.
He eased his arm from under Lindy's weight, reached out and brought the case's lid down, softly, without making a sound. Then he pushed it away, into the dark where it couldn't be seen.
