Black Bird

by Greg Enslen

  “Are you okay, David? I’m worried about you.” She searched his eyes for some sign that he felt anything for her, but they gave no clues. She was a beautiful girl, with long, flowing brown hair that bounced and moved with an energy of its own. So many times he’d run his hands through her hair...

  He turned and walked over and grabbed his stuff, clocking out last and exiting the system. “Yeah, I’m fine.” The image of him and Bethany from his dream, out on that wooden raft with the huge tidal wave full of people towering over them, leapt into his mind, and he felt a sudden, overpowering urge to take her into his arms to protect her, to ask her for her forgiveness and beg her to take him back.

  He fought that urge away. “Let’s go.”

  “One more thing.”

  David started to object, dreading that she might want to talk more about them (or, more accurately, about what they had once been) but she swept past him and grabbed a computer data tape cartridge from the shelving above the main terminal and slipped it into a slot on the front of the tower unit sitting on the floor under the monitor and printer. She turned and walked past him, not saying anything, and after a moment, he followed.

  He didn’t want to walk out with her. David walked slowly up the aisle, checking the rows and shelves of CD’s and movies and advertising displays on either side of him as he moved slowly towards the front of the store. CYA, that’s my motto, he thought. Mel hates me as it is.

  Bethany was standing by the alarm panel, waiting. Lisa was talking to Franklin, who looked like a greyhound straining in his slip, waiting to be released to roam the countryside.

  Franklin turned as he saw David coming. “Backup tape in?”

  David glanced at Bethany. “Yeah, it’s in.” All of the computers in the store were directed by the main terminal, and the main computer ran a nightly backup subroutine, recording a log of all of the days’ transactions onto the small magnetic tape cartridge. David had forgotten to put it in twice in the past two years, and he had gotten written up on both occasions. Mel probably would not have tolerated another screw up, especially when David was already on Mel’s s-list.

  David saw one row of movies in the Drama section that did not look straight, and when he got to the door, he pointed over and asked Lisa to fix them. She turned and went to do them, saying nothing.

  David turned to Franklin. “Hot date?”

  Franklin smiled. “Yeah, Chrissy Smalls - she’s a junior, cheerleader. Very cute. We’re driving into D.C., Georgetown, to go to a new club, someplace called Liquid. Great name for a club, huh?” He adjusted his backpack and watched impatiently as Lisa straightened the videos.

  David shook his head. “Yeah, great name. But how can you go out so late? It’s almost 10:30, and even leaving right now, you won’t get there until midnight. Then you’ve got to find the club.”

  Lisa rejoined them, nodding simply to David, anger in her eyes. David didn’t really care - he knew that she and Bethany were close friends and she must’ve found out what had happened between them. That would explain the cold shoulder treatment he had been getting from Lisa for the past couple of weeks.

  Oh well, it couldn’t be helped.

  David turned and motioned to Bethany.

  She turned to the wall and, as everyone stood very still, she tapped a four-digit code onto the small, lighted panel set into the wall behind the main sales counter.

  “Okay,” she said, and then hurried around the counter as David unlocked the door and let everyone else out. He pulled his keys out from the inside of the lock and put them in the outside lock, leaving them hanging in the door. Bethany came out and locked the door behind her, tossing the keys to David. They had done it so many times, it was almost second nature. But usually she smiled at him when she tossed him the keys.

  David looked at Franklin, who had already started across the parking lot. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  Franklin shot him a conspiratorial grin. “Yeah, I sleep. Just not on the weekends.” he yelled as he jogged away across the blacktop towards his car.

  Lisa said goodnight to Bethany only, and then started towards her little red Toyota Tercel.

  The night was still warm from the day, and even the late-afternoon rain had done little to cool the air. It had been very warm lately in Liberty and all along the Eastern Seaboard, and David had heard on the Weather Channel that temperatures were something like 20 or 30 degrees above normal for this time of year. In some places, they had recorded record highs for September, a time of year that was usually windy, chilly, and hinting strongly at the approach of winter. David noticed the scent from the recent rain, but it didn’t lighten his mood at all.

  David and Bethany stood outside the doors of the darkened store and waited. Thirty seconds later, an abbreviated alarm sounded, three quick chirps that echoed across the puddled blacktop. The motion detector inside, clued by the code that Bethany had entered into the keypad, had detected no movement inside the video store for a specific amount of time and automatically powered up the security system. In the morning when Mel entered, he would have the same thirty seconds to unlock the door, enter the store, walk around the counter, and enter the code, or the alarms would go off - for real this time.

  As soon as the alarm signaled, David turned and started towards his Mazda 323. The rain had completely stopped but a thin mist, almost like a fog, still hung in the air. He looked up and saw that Bethany‘s little red Dodge Colt was parked only two spaces over from his car, and after a moment, he heard her footsteps following, matching his, and then he felt her walking beside him.

  “I don’t think Lisa likes you very much,” Bethany began. He could almost hear her thinking, trying to come up with something to say, something to talk about.

  “Oh well, I’ve never liked her either.” His tone was short, clipped, as he nervously toyed with the keys in his hand. He didn’t want to talk to her, not after what he’d done to her. It was for the best anyway - he would be leaving soon, as soon as he got his money, and he didn’t want to hurt her anymore. And if they were still dating, happy together, the decision to stay or leave would be that much harder. For now, he just wanted to get in his car and go home to his junky apartment and pretend that none of it had ever happened.

  How could he have ever expected to be happy? He should have never even tried. Everybody involved would have been a lot happier if he had just never asked Bethany out in the first place.

  She was quiet, probably trying to think of something to say, but nothing was coming and they were almost to their cars. She stopped, touching him on the arm and making him stop and turn around. She was staring at him. “David, I love you.”

  He hesitated for a moment and then continued on, saying nothing.

  “Did you hear me, David? Don’t you even care how I feel about you?” She hurried to catch up and when he glanced at her again, there were tears in her eyes.

  He stopped by his car and turned, putting the key in the door. “Yes, I heard you, Bethany.” He pulled the door open and stepped around it, leaning into the crook between the door and the rain-moistened doorframe, getting the arms of his sweatshirt a little wet in the process. He didn’t notice. “But the thing is, I don’t care. You might love me, but I don’t love you.”

  He was lying and she probably knew it, but he had to say something to hurt her so that she would finally leave him alone. She needed to move on with her life, without him.

  He looked at her crying, and it tore him up inside more than he would ever admit. David decided that if he was ever going to end their relationship once and for all, this would be the perfect moment.

  He spoke up, his voice only cracking a little.

  “Just get over it, Bethany. I did.”

  He got into his car and drove away, leaving her standing, sobbing alone in the middle of a dark, rain-puddled parking lot.

  Jack drove due east and, as the road curved northward, he continued to watch the road behind him. It was 1 A.M., and he drove slowly and methodicall
y, trying not to attract any undue attention, but wanting more than anything to put some serious mileage between him and those bodies lying on the road back there.

  One Ninety-five and one ninety-six, he thought.

  He knew that in most cases, cops were required to report in on their car radios at regular intervals, and that if they failed to check in, alarms would be raised. Jack was also sure that in Florida, as in most other states, it was customary for policemen to call in their latest location, or 10-20, at any time they were preparing to leave their cars, even for something as simple as pulling over a car for a Saturday night sobriety check.

  The cops were probably all over the scene by now.

  Not that it mattered much. The two bodies wouldn’t have anything interesting to say (except to a forensic pathologist) to anybody. It had been a deserted, lonely stretch of road east of that small town, so there had been no witnesses. The gun that he had used to kill both of them had been in his possession for many years, ever since the incident in Liberty. It was impossible for them to match up the bullet and a serial number without the actual weapon, and it was lying on the passenger seat next to him.

  A word drifted up from the depths of his murky brain and burst into his consciousness:

  videotape

  He had seen a thing on “60 Minutes” once about how some patrol cars had recently been outfitted with ceiling-mounted video cameras that taped routine traffic stops and the like. They had used the film from one of those cameras to catch a pair of punk cop killers in Virginia a few years back, and ever since that incident, he had read that they had become very popular, acting as a sort of insurance policy for the patrolling policemen.

  Had the cop’s car had one? Jack hadn’t even thought to look. What if he had had one? The license plate on Jack’s van was valid, even though he had four other plates, all stolen, in the back of the van that could be used to replace the real one. The real plate was licensed in California to a Jerrold Fyres, to match one of his fake ID’s. If there had been a video camera in the cop’s car, then all they would get would be an alias. Still, he should change the plates the next time he stopped.

  And a description of his van. How could he have been so stupid, not to check?

  He began to beat his hand on the dashboard of the van, hard. Up and down, loud snaps as his hand hit the hard dash. Blood welled up around the moons of his fingernails after about ten good slaps, and he started to feel better. He stopped, but the hand continued to throb.

  But he really hadn’t had time to check the car, because he hadn’t stayed at the scene very long after.

  After he'd shot the cop, Jack had removed the cop’s gun from its holster, careful not to touch anything that could leave a latent fingerprint, and tucked the new gun down into his belt as the cop took his last gasping, ragged breaths.

  Jack had gone back to the van and opened up the back. The van was a large one, longer than most, that Jack had had rebuilt and refurbished on the inside to suit his particular needs. Directly behind the van’s driver and passenger seats was a smallish kitchen and dinette area, with a small microwave, a small refrigerator, a pop-out stove, and a little port-o-potty that slid back out of the way under the sink. There was also a small table and benches lining both sides of the van, and above these seats were the sturdy wooden racks that held his big glass jars.

  The last seven feet of the van, where a bed had been originally before Jack had begun his modifications, was open area, the bare floor completely covered with slick linoleum. On either side of this flat area, was a row of thick metal loops and hooks, running above a series of shallow locked cabinets where he kept many of his tools and implements. One of those cabinets was specifically for holding his instruments.

  Also in the back of the van were the two windowed doors that stood wide open, and beneath the black curtains were two more locked cabinets, built into the hollow areas of the back doors. When these cabinets were opened, the hinged doors folded down and locked into place, creating a sizable table area. When he was working on his victims, he had found that he needed someplace to set down his tools, and so he had built these in for just that purpose.

  He opened the left panel and folded down the door, locking it in place to form a wide shelf, colored a rusty brownish-red, stained by the blood of the dead. Behind the door was a series of hooks, each holding an object, some shiny and pointy and deadly serious, others blunt and menacing-looking. The cabinet also contained a rolled-up kit of sharp tools and tweezers and pliers, tools of his trade.

  He pulled out his large pair of hedge trimmers and walked back over to the cop’s prone body. The cop was dead now, his blood seeping in a hundred different directions away from the body, like lines of rats fleeing a burning building. Most of the blood ran off towards the side of the road away from the van and the police car, welling in a shallow impression near the gravel shoulder.

  Jack knelt beside the cop and lifted up the cop’s right hand and casually snipped off part of the right thumb. It didn’t bleed much. Jack caught the thumb before it could hit the pavement.

  He stood and walked over to the girl. He also so that the dark bird had returned and was sitting on the roof of the police cruiser, watching him. The girl was laying mostly in darkness, but he could see her legs and chest easily, illuminated by the glow of the patrol car’s headlights. He could not see her face, but he had seen it before, and he had no need to see it dead.

  He kneeled by her left foot and snipped off the smallest toe - he had to have the proof. He noticed that as lifted her leg up, it had already grown cold.

  He ignored the strange bird and walked back over to the van. After hanging the hedge trimmers back on their hook, he climbed up into the back of the van. The vinyl area was still slick from the girl’s blood and sweat. He stepped over carefully onto the carpeted part. He would have to clean that up before he could sleep in his regular place on the vinyl floor.

  He stepped around the smallish table and pulled open the refrigerator. Opening the freezer area, he pulled out a blue ice tray. The tray held several other small objects, pink and frosted with a rime of ice crystals. Jack shook the ice tray slightly and smiled, watching the eight little pieces of fingers and toes jostle around in their little individual compartments.

  He dropped the girl’s toe into one of the empty chambers, following it with the cop’s thumb in another blue cell. It was too big to fit. He shook the tray once more, just for fun, and then put the tray back in the freezer to keep them fresh until he had a chance to cure them.

  Hopping down from the van again, he reached into the same open cabinet that held the hedge trimmers and pulled out a very large knife. He also pulled out an old but sturdy pair of rubber gloves.

  get a move on – what if a car comes over that rise

  As he walked over to the cop, he looked both ways on the darkened highway, but he saw no indications of lights or anyone coming. Pulling the gloves on, he had a few more things to do before he could leave, but he knew that he was tempting his luck by staying out here so long.

  Kneeling beside the cop again, he cut the cop’s shirt away and began his work. It only took a few minutes.

  Finally, Jack stood and threw the man's heart as far as he could towards the beach. It landed in the sand and rolled out of his sight. The cops or an animal might find it - he didn’t really care.

  It was a tradition of his, something he’d always wished he had time to do to Beaumont. He leaned over and took the man’s gold badge, putting it in his pocket. He always kept the badges.

  When he was finished, he glanced at his watch. It had been less than ten minutes since he had first seen the splash of police lights in the side mirror of his van. He probably would have time to do something or two to the girl before he had to leave.

  He grabbed his knife and was starting over to where her prone body lay when a pair of glaring white headlights suddenly crested the distant hill, coming from the direction of Carabelle.

  The car was probably sti
ll a mile or two away, but Jack bolted for the van, figuring as he went. Two minutes, maybe three, before the car or truck or whatever it was got here. There was no way that the car wouldn’t stop - hell, the cop was lying right on the yellow line that separated the two lanes. The patrol car’s lights were still on, lighting the area. No way they wouldn’t stop.

  He pitched the bloody knife into the back of the van and slammed the doors closed. He ran around the front and climbed up into the drivers’ seat, starting the van and punching the gas pedal all in one smooth motion. The van’s headlights stayed off, but he could pick out the glow of the yellow line to follow, so he drove by moonlight only for a few minutes. Thank God for the full moon.

  He had watched in his side mirror as the headlights of the approaching car slowed as they reached the scene and stopped, joining the other glowing set of headlights.

  Jack had watched, but the headlights had not followed.

  And three hours later he was still glancing at his side mirror, but only once every minute or so. His palms were still slick on the steering wheel. He had gotten away so quickly that for the first several nervous miles he had driven with the rubber gloves on, still covering his sweaty hands, and now the steering wheel was slick with the cop’s blood.

  TOO CLOSE. The words repeated over and over in his head like some kind of psychotic chant.

  if the cop had had a partner

  if the girl had gotten away

  If the people in car that had scared him away, what if they had gotten a good description of Jack’s van? They had to have seen the van, glowing white in the dull light of the sunrise, pulling away. Only a blind person could have missed it! It hadn’t been that far. He had seen their lights, so what was to say that they hadn’t seen his van, lighted by the patrol car’s still shining headlights? It wasn’t that hard to imagine that they, whoever THEY were, they were giving a description