The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  “Are they keeping up?” asked Lazlo.

  “Janos is having to floor it on grades.”

  “That last sign said 8% downgrade and 10 switchbacks coming up. It’ll kill the brakes.”

  “Here they come. Should we drive ahead and have them meet us there?”

  “Hang on,” said Lazlo, getting out. “I’ll speak with them.”

  After the motor home parked, Lazlo went to the driver’s door. The window was open and he heard the Russians in back complaining with various Russian curses about how Janos drove.

  “I smell antifreeze and brake pads,” said Lazlo.

  “Like driving the Kremlin on wheels.”

  “I have an idea.”

  “We chain them to back bumper for ballast?”

  “Good one, but I have another idea.”

  Guzzo saw the motor home struggling on steep upgrades. He’d been this way before; the downgrade to Vernal would be hard on brakes. He kept his distance, watched for others following, but saw only tourists or locals in a hurry. As he rounded an outside hairpin, the red Caravan and motor home were stopped at an overlook. He found an out-of-sight pull off large enough for the 350. Several vehicles sped past, transmissions downshifting like rats in cages. He took his binoculars, ran across the road, and climbed an outcropping of rocks.

  After several minutes the Caravan moved on and Guzzo climbed down and ran back to the 350. He drove ahead, expecting to see both the Caravan and the motor home gone from the overlook. But when he rounded the curve, the motor home was still there.

  He slammed on the brakes, pulled to the side, and backed the 350 out of sight. When the motor home moved forward he’d be able to see it. Perhaps the engine overheated. Perhaps they’d switched drivers, Niki Gianakos and Lazlo Horvath now in the motor home. But his second sight told him something else. All four in the Caravan and they’d abandoned the beast.

  He started driving, but suddenly the motor home lurched onto the road. It gained speed on a long downgrade and he caught a glimpse of the Caravan far ahead. At the bottom of the downgrade with brake lights on all the way, the motor home’s rear brakes were smoking. Obviously, whichever one of the four was driving had failed to shift into a lower gear. It must be the Ukrainians, thought Guzzo. One of the Ukrainians at the wheel, unfamiliar with oversized American vehicles. If it was the Ukrainians, rather than Niki Gianakos, the original mark, and her friend Lazlo Horvath, they were definitely in the way. At the speed they were going, Guzzo wondered if they’d rendezvous with the Caravan before nightfall. Pescatore’s last messages kept running through his mind. The series of assignments coming to a head and the need to eliminate anyone in the way. Mountain driving, especially in a motor home, was difficult.

  Being familiar with the road from having driven a large tow truck on it not long ago was helpful. Guzzo waited until the Caravan was out of sight. The drop-off was treacherous, the motor home unwieldy and vulnerable. No other vehicles in sight and Guzzo had a 350 with oversized tires and bull bars. When the moment arrived, when the physics lined up, he began passing the motor home and turned the 350 into its front end to change its direction.

  He braked hard as the motor home’s momentum carried it through the barrier and over the edge. A cloud of dust rose from below, turning distant pines gray. Even though no other vehicles were around, Guzzo imagined a frantic witness account—coming around the corner, seeing the motor home go over, how terrible it was.

  After he parked and jumped out, the motor home was still crashing down the mountain, tearing itself to pieces. For a normal job he’d climb down and make certain they were dead. But the motor home was too far away and the red Caravan was still on the road, his mark either down there, or in the Caravan.

  Shredding, tearing, and screws popping came from below. Guzzo could not see himself smiling but, as he ran back to the 350, knew he was—motor home construction in reverse.

  Chapter 27

  Typical Camp Manila celebration. Hooray, Barracks One powder monkeys finished blasting a mountain pass on the Vernal road. Camp superintendent congratulated Barracks One before a sullen look to Barracks Three. They’d clear the rubble. A bulldozer had gone through and they’d do the rest, hand-loading the trucks.

  “Because it’s a long drive you’ll be on the Dodges an hour earlier.”

  The way he eyed them, crammed at the back table, everyone knew it was payback for the “accident” returning from the movie house. No more trips to Green River. Movies would be on the recreation hall’s projector. There were a few groans, but none from Barracks Three.

  It was a quiet night in Barracks Three, 38 men staring at ceiling knots and cracks. At lights out, Bela Voronko spoke up.

  “Tomorrow on the mountain we’ll be closer to God, who absolves us.”

  In the middle of the night one of the barge loaders from St. Louis wept. No one knew which except the two. Under normal circumstances there’d be a smart-ass remark, but these weren’t normal circumstances.

  Bela knew he wasn’t the only one awake. He’d stuffed the envelope containing Rose Buckles’ hair into his pillowcase. What if it were possible to speak with her? This hair once rooted in her head so close to his head. Would she approve of what they’d done? Or would she be angry? Especially with him because of his so-called “taking charge.” He felt tears in his eyes, and knew, by the eerie hush of the barracks, other eyes were the same.

  In a dark motel room in Rock Springs with the tan Buick parked outside, the lanky driver and his stocky partner also lay awake. They didn’t shed tears or hold hair.

  “It’s crazy,” said the stocky man.

  “What they did, or what Big Sal wants us to do?”

  “Both. Why can’t he leave it?”

  “His Uncle Rosario wants things like in the old days.”

  “Should dig his cronies out of their graves and have them do it. Ghosts chasing ghosts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those boys might as well be ghosts; they’ll die in trenches and FDR’s generals’ll send telegrams.”

  “You worried they’ll haunt us?”

  “I don’t like the boss using the word needling. How the hell do we needle them?”

  “We give the officers and LEMs a hard time along with the Barracks Three boys.”

  “So, whoever’s on the job with them tomorrow, that’s who we needle?”

  “Now you’ve got it.”

  “If Rosario had his way we’d plug a few and get the hell out. Our orders come from Big Sal, but Rosario talks to Al and the others. We do the needling, they plug a few and take off. Leaves us holding the bag.”

  “Big Sal won’t let that happen. Rosario’s practically dead and Big Sal’s taking over.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You hope so. You’re always saying you hope so. Get some sleep.”

  From the vulture’s viewpoint there should be flesh. Yet, a flyover south to north at sunup revealed nothing except split boulders and dust settling. After sunup, movement drew the vulture’s attention. Creatures aboard conveyances crawled into the rubble. All creatures eventually die. Therefore, soaring above the pass this day, and the next, was wise.

  The worksite was a mess. After the two Dodge trucks cut engines and fumes faded, Barracks Three men picked up the faint acrid smell of spent gunpowder still in the mountain air. Decken MaCade, a new LEM sent from Salt Lake City after other LEMs quit, drove the lead truck. Smart aleck Barracks Two boys had razzed Decken, making fun of how he tied his tie just so, saying things they thought they knew about Joseph Smith, asking how many wives Decken had.

  One of the St. Louis barge loaders drove the second truck, with the other riding shotgun. Bela, on the tail end of the second truck, was first to spot the tan Buick following in the distance. After the crew jumped off, the drivers restarted and turned around to back up to the mess. The Four H
orsemen, Nick the Greek (War), Jimmy (Conquest), George (Famine), and Bela (Death) stood together watching the trucks negotiate the narrow gaps between boulders.

  “You sure it was the same Buick?” asked Nick.

  “I’m sure,” said Bela.

  “Wonder what they want,” said George.

  “They’re here to kill us,” said Jimmy, loud enough to be heard over truck engines.

  Others standing nearby also heard and passed it around. Tensions were high, especially with staff hightailing it. Could be the same at all CCC camps. War putting everyone on a pinhead. A Barracks One powder monkey, in his spare time, painted pictures of naked women on pinheads. Everyone thought that was something, naked women on pinheads. But through the magnifying glass, they all looked like guys with tits.

  After the trucks were backed in, Decken didn’t give orders, but instead heaved the first large rock into the bed of his truck. The racket on floorboards got the attention of those staring at a vulture.

  Work went on for a couple hours, filling the trucks, then several jumping on board to heave the rock and boulders off after the trucks drove north 100 yards to a steep downgrade where the rubble cascaded down like steel balls in a pinball machine tilted to the sky. At lunchtime, as the men sat on boulders chewing their bologna sandwiches and drinking cold lemonade, the two from the tan Buick showed up.

  Both wore hats, jackets open and ties loosened. They parked in front of the two backed in trucks and walked up like district office bosses. Decken was the only one wearing a tie and khaki rather than denims and they went to him, eyeballing the others. One guy was tall with big shoulders, the other short and beefy. They talked with Decken as the others ate.

  Afterwards the two went back to their Buick and spent a while turning it around on the narrow road. When they were gone Decken sat on a rock, looking like buzzards’ lunch. He didn’t move, not even wiping sweat from his brow. Bela walked up.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Those guys,” said Decken, staring into the distance where dust from the Buick still hung. “I think I’ll go back to Salt Lake.”

  “Why go back to Salt Lake?” asked Bela.

  George Minkus joined them. “What did they want?”

  Decken looked up to George and Bela. “They’ll kill me.”

  “They said that?” asked Bela.

  “Not exactly, but I got the message.”

  “What exactly did they say?” asked George.

  “They said tonight me and the other LEMs and night guard better disappear or we can kiss our asses goodbye. That’s when the short one opens his jacket and shows me his gun.”

  “He threatened to shoot you?”

  “He showed me his gun. Ain’t that enough?”

  “That’s enough,” said Bela.

  “What should we do?” asked Decken.

  Bela considered this, looking at the other men.

  “Tonight we’ll discover whether we are men or boys.”

  Evening meal. No officers, no LEMs, only enrollees, the kitchen crew, and barracks leaders. The chaplain’s assistant tried to say grace, but was late and mouths were full.

  “You think Decken spoke with the superintendent?” asked Jimmy.

  “Yeah, they deserted us,” said Nick.

  Bela scanned other tables. Everyone eating, not seeming to notice the absences of authority figures. “Perhaps we should wait before making judgments.”

  The evening dragged on. No classes. According to barracks leaders the instructors had a conference. As for officers, some kind of meeting in Green River called by the district commander. If officers returned that night, they’d be back late. A few guys started a table tennis contest.

  “Do you notice something?” Bela asked George.

  “Besides desertion by the brass?”

  “Yes, see how men watch the game, but are not following the ball?”

  “You would notice that.”

  “Also, more men are smoking.”

  That night in Barracks Three men flipped through magazines or wrote letters. There was little talk, especially after Jimmy and one of the St. Louis boys moved chairs that were usually around the potbelly stove and leaned them against the doors at either end of the barracks. Last time they’d done that was when a bear was near camp.

  After lights out they heard a vehicle outside. When they got up and looked out the windows, the faint outline of a Buick was visible in the dark. Inside the Buick a lit cigarette glowed. If someone tried to come in, the chairs leaning against the doors would simply tip over because the doors opened outward, but at least they’d know.

  Bela heard bunkmates speaking softly in the darkness. He turned toward George. “I wonder if I’ll ever get a chance to go back to my homeland.”

  “I thought this was your homeland,” said George.

  “Not where I was born,” said Bela. “Where I grew up.”

  The passenger in the tan Buick glanced at the orange glow of the driver’s cigarette. “Smoking heavy again? I don’t blame you. If I had a cigar I’d light up.”

  They were parked near Barracks Three as planned. The only electric light came from the other side of the barracks at the latrine building. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “Didn’t Al say the others were supposed to be back at the entrance road? I don’t see a damn thing back there.”

  “Maybe they went with Al to get more ammo.”

  “Where’ll they get ammo this time of night?”

  “All I know is he said something about ammo. Keep your shirt on.”

  “Putting a scare into these boys is nuts. No matter what we do it won’t be enough. Big Sal has his damn driver Lonzo call us and says put the fear of God into these boys. Al talks to Rosario and it’s another story. What’re we supposed to do? I didn’t join this outfit to kill kids.”

  “Don’t let Al hear you talk like that.”

  “How’s a guy supposed to talk? Maybe we should get the hell out of here?”

  “Then what?”

  “Drive to Mexico, change our names. I was thinking of enlisting in the Army.”

  Silence for a while, then the driver heard a sound from his open window like the crackle of tires on stone. He studied the rearview mirror and noticed a momentary movement in the blackness behind them. “I think the others are back there at the entrance. Lights off but I heard tires. So, okay, let’s say we go into the barracks, show our guns, and scare their skivvies off. You think it’s gonna end there?”

  “Only way Big Sal’ll be satisfied is if we plug the kids responsible.”

  The driver put his cigarette out in the ashtray. “We’ll end up with the Army after us.”

  “We arranged for them not to be here tonight?”

  “But if they come back and find bodies—”

  “All right, all right. We go in and scare the crap out of’em. Al and the others will back us if there’s trouble. But there ain’t gonna be trouble from no goddamn kids!”

  “You guarantee it?”

  The passenger took out his revolver, held it up to the dim light coming over the roof of Barracks Three. “This guarantees it.”

  “All that guarantees is someone’s gonna get it.”

  The passenger took his time putting away his revolver. “The way Al talks, and us being the ones that have to go in—”

  “If we’re being set up, I don’t want any part of it.”

  “You and me both.”

  George Minkus once told Bela how, as a kid, he was able to creep up on anyone at night. He’d put on dark clothing head to toe, get his eyes used to the dark, control his breathing, and move slowly, feeling ahead like a bug with antennae. George snuck up on his parents and was introduced to sex. He snuck up on whoever was it in hide-and-seek. He’d always find a way, even when home was a streetlight pole with the lamp lit. He
did this by patiently watching the other kid for a time, then using this knowledge to make his slow, insect-like moves.

  Black socks for George’s hands and feet came from Jimmy. Black pants and shirt came from Jethro. The knit watch cap was George’s own.

  After George crept back in through the little used narrow back door, out of sight of the Buick up the road, Bela and the others gathered in the center of the barracks at the potbelly stove. Bela and George sat with their backs against the cool stove while others lay or knelt on the floor, the 38 like puzzle pieces, all ears toward the whispering.

  George became visible only when he pulled off his knit watch cap and the socks on his hands. “We’re in trouble.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They’re supposed to scare us. They have guns and a guy named Al supposedly went for more ammo.”

  A shuffling in the puzzle around the stove. Bela knew others wanted to ask questions. “Everyone stay silent. It’s best if only George and I speak.”

  “He’s right,” said George. “The less noise the better.”

  “Do they plan to shoot anyone?”

  “I hate to say it, but they mentioned Big Sal, who I assume is Sal’s father. Supposedly this Big Sal guy wants ringleaders shot.”

  Bela said, “That’s me, if they need to shoot someone—”

  George interrupted. “But after that, it seemed they’d be satisfied scaring the crap out of us. I had the crap scared out of me listening. Keeping control of my breathing was tough. The other thing…supposedly there are more hoods backing them up.”

  “The ones in the black Buick?”

  “I didn’t see it, but it could have been out on the road. These two are worried they might be patsies. Another thing, even though they arranged to have the officers gone tonight, they’re afraid what the Army could do to them.”

  “That’s on our side,” said Bela. “But still, if they need to shoot one—”

  “Forget it,” said George. “We all agreed Sal got what he deserved. He planned another girl down the road. Isn’t that right?”