Father of the Deceased

by Egon Grimes

  The Bantam Family Circus came to town and Newt was there with several friends, taking in the action on his 5S. He’d recorded and then deleted several ten minute sets of footage. It was boring.

  The first blast sounded, he was ready.

  People ran in every direction, screaming and flailing. Newt’s friends tore along the path toward the rides. He centered the viewfinder on his friend Rosa, a girl he’d secretly hated since she told everyone in third grade that Newt had skid marks in his underwear. She was a friend based on group selection. She was one of the first to reach the parameter, and her body shot into the air, one of her legs detaching, though never straying too far from the rest of the body.

  It was incredible.

  Newt lost view of her momentarily, but recovered as her body was landing. Crunch. The sound of her bones breaking was faint, but apparent, an ominous whisper below the screams. Then the shots rang out. It had been unimaginable only seconds earlier.

  Those shots…like something from American TV news!

  With the video still capturing action, he hid behind a rigged ring toss game, holding his arm out to follow the noise. The small camera caught enough, distorted sound, but clear picture. After everything settled, Newt filmed several hundred injured and dozens killed. He also shot the face of the man brandishing the automatic rifle and a man slinking behind looking to attempt to follow. The sound of the emergency vehicles put an end to the recording, as Newt knew the cops would steal his phone if they caught him, he quickly posted the video on YouTube: Massacre in Chatham HELP!

  32

  The video went viral before it made it to the old fashioned network news stations. Lou watched Channel 10 Eye on the News when, as it was a slow night, they switched to the horror recently concluded up north. It was a cut and blurred version. Still, Lou saw his partner jogging along, handgun poised and ready. He reversed his PVR and saw the man from the night vision shots and the border video.

  His phone rang and he knew it was going to be bad, how bad depended on whether it was the captain or Rhoda.

  “Hello.”

  “What the sweet hell is going on?” D’Souza shouted.

  The better of two choices.

  “No idea, sir. Moe must have figured something out.”

  “Bullshit. You tell him anything from here on and your nuts are in a vice. Hear me?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  As soon as the phone disconnected it rang.

  “Please not Rhoda.” He looked at his caller I.D. and cringed.

  “Lou, we are going up there to get him before he gets killed. If I lose a child and my husband in the same week, you will have to look after Ruby ‘cause I’ll lose my fucking mind and it will be your fault. Do you hear what I am saying, Lou?” He didn’t answer. “Lou!”

  “Yeah. I don’t know that we should.”

  “Shut the hell up and pack a bag. I’m coming.” A sniffling sob began on the other end of the line.

  “Rhoda?”

  “Get ready, my mother is on her way here to watch Ruby and I’m coming over there. Can you watch credit cards like they do on Law and Order?”

  “What? Why?”

  “Maurice isn’t answering his phone and isn’t returning my messages. I think we can find him if he uses the card, that’s all.”

  “Can’t you just look on your online banking?”

  Rhoda was silenced for a moment and then resumed. “Get ready, Lou,” she said and hung up.

  How did I become Moe’s babysitter?

  Things hadn’t been so great in the Hill household for the last six, eight, maybe ten months. Hell, they’d been awful. Lou was sure his wife was looking for an excuse to take off. He’d long suspected her of cheating and in his sour moments, feeling hurt and betrayed, hooked up with a college girl who got turned on by a man in uniform.

  Denise began to suspect that Lou did something stupid and feeling hurt and betrayed herself had a nice weekend away with her boss. It was always so much worse when the woman did it. It wasn’t only sex, it was companionship, bonding.

  She won’t kill you. She’ll leave and take the boys, but that was going to happen anyway, wasn’t it?

  He crept upstairs, glanced in the boys’ room, they were asleep and Lou was ready to burst. Glow from the television flickered, but the lights on the upper floor were off. Denise was watching some old Nicholas Cage movie, but had fallen asleep. Lou crept along, filled a suitcase and began assessing his choices in life for the millionth time. He walked toward her, fighting back his tears he sat on the edge of the bed. She stirred. “I love you,” he whispered, wondering how long it had been since he uttered the phrase.

  She stirred a bit and mumbled a meaningless echo, “Love you too,” as she realized what she’d said her eyes shot open. Looking up at Lou, his face wet with a few tears he couldn’t fight. “What are you doing?”

  “I have to go. Moe is in trouble and Rhoda is losing her mind. I have to help her find him. My fault he knew where to go to find the guy who dug up his daughter.”

  “Somebody dug up his daughter? You told me they messed with the grave, stuck a dead body in it, but…”

  “You can’t mention this to anyone, but the guy cut her tongue out and took it with him.”

  “No.”

  “So, I’ll be gone for a couple days.” The doorbell sounded, twice. “Shit, Denise, I know things haven’t been good for a while. They’ve been horrible, but I want to try. I love you.”

  It was her turn to cry. “No, Lou. I think I want…a break…a divorce.”

  “Can we please discuss it when I come home? Please, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  The doorbell ding-donged again.

  “Okay.”

  Lou smiled and leaned down to kiss his wife on the lips. Reluctant at first, but warming to the familiar feel, she kissed back and watched him leave. That kiss sealed it, she didn’t love him anymore and they both knew it. Lou would try to ignore that knowledge.

  Rhoda parked Maurice’s cruiser on the street and stood in Lou’s doorstep, ready to hit the button for a fourth time when she heard footsteps. Backing up and once seeing the flood of light came from the fixture on the outside of the home lit, she stepped down. Lou emerged.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Quiet,” he said as he swung open the garage door, revealing two cars.

  Off duty, Lou drove a 1983 Toyota Supra-3, very similar to the one Inspector Gadget drove, minus the extra bells and whistles. It was his baby.

  “Get in,” he told Rhoda. “We can’t take a state car.”

  The Supra-3 was ocean blue, over gray accents, with heavy plastic louvers over the back window. The engine purred when it started and the steering wheel shook. Comfort wasn’t the goal of the Supra-3 and especially not Lou’s Supra-3. That particular model had one purpose and that was to go clench your cheeks fast.

  Rhoda tossed her bag into the back next to Lou’s and slid into the bucket seat. “Will this old car make it all the way to Canada?”

  “Watch your mouth.” Lou patted the dash. “Has he used his card tonight?”

  “Not that it says online, but it is an hour late, at least.”

  “Do you have your passport?”

  “Jesus, Lou, just get going. First you pull it to the R and then once you get it out into the street, put it to the D.”

  “Settle.”

  Minute after minute Rhoda refreshed the online banking page on her Blackberry. The glow was annoying, but necessary. Three hours on the road, travelling only a touch over the reasonable speed, the online banking site finally came up with some information.

  33

  Maurice and Alice snuck past a handful of local cops. And as if the information had finally struck her, blindsided her even, she tried to cover her nudity. She slowed and veered toward her trailer.

  When Maurice turned he saw the bloody girl heading back to her trailer. A local officer walked in her direction, but she remained in the shadows. Mau
rice bolted, scooping her body as he went.

  “No, please, I need clothes.”

  “Shh, if the cops see you, they’ll take you in for questioning. Trust me please, you’re the only chance I have at saving my daughter.”

  “Your daughter? But I need clothes.”

  “I’ll get you some, just play dead and I’ll explain everything.”

  “My trailer is right there.”

  “Shut up,” Maurice whispered and began a trot toward his Jeep.

  “Hey, you there, stop!”

  “I can’t officer, this girl is hurt and it looks like the medics already have their fill,” Maurice said, slowing down a little to convey his message.

  “Is she dead?”

  “Not yet, but if I don’t hurry…” He cleared earshot and let the sentiment carry him away from the officer.

  Maurice opened the Jeep’s hatch and Alice climbed in. The public that hadn’t visited the circus showed up to peep in on the disaster. Oohs and ahhs, things like that happened across the water, over in Detroit, but not in Chatham. Maurice honked to clear a path for the Jeep and drove as quickly.

  As they’d reached the onramp for the 401 Alice squeaked from the back, “Mister, can you get me something to wear, please?”

  “Yeah.” He looked into his rear-view, catching only her silhouette.

  She expelled a heavy breath. “I need something to wear, please…and tampons.”

  “Can you still feel the man, or is it men?” he asked pulling into the twenty-four hour convenience store and pharmacy, going beyond the entrance by half a mile to hide from any potentially suspicious eyes.

  “I don’t know, I think, maybe.”

  He opened his door a crack and the dark shape in the back looked like a man for a second. He popped at the knees, readying himself, but it was only the girl. “What do you mean? You’ve got to try. You can’t lose him.”

  As they sat still something rumbled in her brain, the drag was beginning again. “Ah, please hurry, it is starting to hurt. The fingers are in my head.”

  Maurice ran into the store, not understanding what Alice meant. He grabbed a London Rippers baseball t-shirt and bikini, all three pieces black with a sinister effigy of Jack the Ripper screen printed on all. He bolted for the feminine hygiene aisle, once he located the correct overhead sign, and purchased the same box that was in his bathroom at home.

  At the till, Maurice pulled out his VISA card and paid the total, gave the man a grave look. The man backed up a little, feeling uneasy once he noticed the blood all over Maurice coupled with the products he was purchasing. Luckily, for Maurice and Alice, the two employees of Lucky 13 Convenience and Pharmacy had no knowledge of the goings on just a handful of blocks away.

  Without thinking, he shot open the hatch and tossed the bag into Alice, she was covering her body. “Please hurry, it is getting stronger.”

  “Right.”

  “Hurry! I can feel him. Get back on the highway. Please, it hurts so much.”

  The Jeep now stood in the way of itself and seemed almost too large to get around in time to keep pace. He shot out of the lot and whipped around to the entrance.

  The pain in Alice’s head subsided the further he drove until about the forty-five minute mark and she screamed. The pain returned and in full force, she writhed and bounced in the back. Her movements rocking the Jeep as Maurice drove.

  “Okay, I get it.” He slowed and drove through the grassy divide onto the westbound 401.

  Two-minutes later, she didn’t hurt at all.

  London.

  London. That’ll be easy. Go in and ask the first guy you see if he’s seen a dude carting around a severed tongue.

  Once into London, the pain stopped altogether and didn’t start again, no matter how far they drove. It seemed pointless and Maurice wheeled back to the highway to stop at a motor inn. The girl didn’t have any more ideas. It appeared that the pain was a proximity deal, but that was a guess.

  Alice remained in the Jeep while Maurice went in to pay, using his VISA again. The plan was to stay in the room, let the girl shower and once the pain started, they would be back on the road, hopefully able to overtake the man on the highway.

  A half circle of rooms. Maurice moved the Jeep to the doorstep of number nine. The rear bumper backed, almost into the building, leaving barely enough room to swing open the hatch door. He did his best not to look at the almost naked and bloody girl. She was huddled and obviously scared. They spoke very little on their travel to London and he wondered if it was going to hit her in some serious and detrimental way.

  She’d killed a man, a friend.

  He took the suitcase into the room and dropped it onto the bathroom floor, flicked on the light and gave a quick glance. It was shabby and aged, but appeared clean.

  “Alice,” he called as he walked toward the Jeep.

  “Wait outside for a bit,” she snapped, her eyes following him as he walked. She had the bag of clothes like a safety blanket.

  Walking past the Jeep and standing in the gravel lot, looking out to a long ignored industrial section, Maurice took a deep breath. Long yellow grass rose several feet high. Hunks of discarded cinder block with jagged rebar sat among the tall grass. Looking to the left revealed much of the same.

  How did he control her? If someone has the power to do this, then what can you do? Get your goddamn head on. You have to call Rhoda, tell her you are coming home right away… Normal people don’t steal tongues. Normal people can’t control minds. You are not crazy. Rosalind needs help.

  He opened the driver’s door and reached for his cigarettes. He then knocked on the door to the room. There was no answer and he turned the knob. Automatic lock.

  “Ah, piss.” He lit a smoke and waited.

  Minutes passed like seconds and the cigarette reached its orange filter and Maurice walked to the office, there was a little convenience store inside. After paying nearly double what he would in Indiana for a pack, he returned to the room, Player’s Light in hand.

  This time when he knocked the door opened. Alice ran across the room after opening the door, she wore a pair of Maurice’s briefs and one of his shirts. The Rippers gear he picked up had too much blood and hung wet in the bathroom. She sat on one of the two beds, tucked up to her armpits in a large blanket.

  He tossed the cigarettes onto the empty bed and went to the washroom.

  Alice moved the bag to the empty bed and Maurice quickly dropped his dirty clothing. Made a quick search and was dressed in seconds. “The guy, did you see him and I mean ever see him, before he came to take the brain?”

  “No,” Alice said, fearful.

  “Are you sure? I need you to think very hard.”

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Shit! I’ve never seen him before. I would remember.”

  “All right, did you meet anyone strange yesterday or today?”

  “No, no stranger than usual. I’m the fortune-teller. I usually spend all night telling teens they are going to get laid soon or become rockstars.”

  “Can you communicate with the dead?” Maurice rubbed the back of his neck as he asked.

  “What?”

  “You don’t do séances or anything like that?

  “I’m a phony, a fun little gag. I only started having dreams two days ago about what I did to Alejandro, but I didn’t have any control.”

  “You didn’t say anything about dreams.”

  “Well, I had dreams. It was almost exactly what happened. I dreamt I had sex with Alejandro and he was calling me Melanie the whole time and then I carved a hole in his skull big enough to pull out the brain. I think he was crazy or something. Like he was really seeing this Melanie chick.”

  Just like the border guard.

  “Did anything weird happen the day you had your first dream?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Anybody strange, anyone different from your usual crowd come to have
their fortune told?”

  Alice sat thinking, her body jittered when it came to her. “There was an old man. He was super creepy. He did kind of look like the ugly man. Maybe, I didn’t see the ugly one so good. He came into my tent, the one off the end of my trailer. I was giving him the regular crap, but he told me to stop. He took my hands, held them funny.” She paused in remembrance. “His hands were boney and awful. I could see all of his veins, disgusting.”

  “Did he say anything after he took your hands?”

  “Not really, just rubbed them with his thumbs and told me my future would hurt and that sometimes it is best to go along with things. I thought he was going to try to rape me or something. I wondered if he didn’t have a gun or a knife. He was so gross.”

  “Better to go along with things. Hmm, did he say anything else?”

  “He told me someday I would be a part of something great. I was about to scream, but he let go of my hands, smiled, his gums were all bloody and he took off his little hat and bent forward, like in a curtsey or whatever. He was so gross. Ugh, his hair was all matted and disgusting, filthy.”

  Coincidence. Maybe.

  “Could be nothing. Did you see the guy who shot the place up?”

  “No. Do you think they’re all dead? Like the workers? Were they targeted?”

  “A lot of people died. It was a mess, I am glad this isn’t my jurisdiction,” Maurice said as he lit and then puffed on a cigarette.

  “You’re a cop?”

  “Sure, I’m tracking a man that dug up my dead daughter and cut her tongue out. The same man who shot your show to pieces.” The words flowed from his mouth with too much ease, it felt surreal, but it was his reality, where his life was.

  “Weird. Can I have one?”

  Maurice held out the package and Alice reached out from beneath the blanket to take the pack and lighter. She wore one of Maurice’s pajama shirts, a battered old fundraiser T from the time he marched for breast cancer. It hung low at the collar and Maurice found his eyes climbing on down. She caught his eyes and snapped back.

  “Sorry,” Maurice mumbled.