I was surprised to see he wore a smile. “Route 6 is just up the way. Little pissant town of Homestead is through there. Their police station is right on the main drag.”
“You think we’ll have time to get inside?” I doubted this maniac could shoot anyone from a moving car, but once we stopped…
“I’ll park in the goddamn holding cell to get this psycho off my ass. He ain’t dicking around.”
I thought L.J. was going to miss Route 6, but at the last second he made an impressive bootlegger’s turn and careened onto the eastbound road. The tires found no purchase and we fishtailed helplessly toward the wooded shoulder. I was bracing for the roll when L.J. managed to wrench the car out of the spin and fly forward.
Off to the right, a green sign riddled with bullet holes announced ‘Homestead—1.’ Already disappearing in the distance, our tormentor had missed the exit completely and was doing a high speed U-turn to catch us. We were home free.
We both heard it at the same time. The mournful howling, the long, morbid cry from the darkness ahead. Through the blackness, we saw two widely spaced red lights, blinking opposite each other.
A goddamned train.
I could see it now, chugging along from the left, its spotlight illuminating the crossing. The two bars had already lowered as red warning lights flashed mockingly at us. No exit in that direction.
L.J. began to slow. In the remaining mirrors I could see the black car pull onto Route 6. We were trapped. No going back, no going forward.
“Stop the car,” I squeaked. “We’ll get out and run off into the dark.”
L.J’s face was as blank as a zombie’s. Just as the CD skipped and began playing a Looney Toons song, did I realize we were accelerating again.
“L.J., Jesus Christ, no!”
The speedometer needle shot up like an erection. We were barreling down the country road, heading towards the place where the train would be in a few seconds. The glaring headlights behind us made me realize we hadn’t shaken our tail.
‘Overture, curtain, lights…’ sang the radio.
L.J. bared his teeth and hunkered down over the wheel. “Hang on, Sherm.”
The engineer must have seen us. His whistle was no longer blasting long, solemn cries, but an incessant, warning alarm. The gates that stood across our path rushed towards us.
Our car mounted the slight rise that led to the crossing. I could feel the rumble of the train’s wheels through the floorboards.
The gate didn’t break off when we hit it, it bounced over the hood. L.J’s car was filled with the white light of the spotlight. I may have been screaming, but it was hard to tell over the deafening whistle.
Then it was over. The second barrier whammed off our car, the body scraped against the street, and we were through.
On with the show…
I never expected the other driver to follow us over the track, but he didn’t even slow down. Almost made it, too. Two more feet forward and the mysterious shooter would have cleared the locomotive. As it happened, the engine just clipped our pursuer’s rear bumper. That was all it took.
It was strangely silent in our car as the black sedan rolled twice, losing its hood and the passenger door, before landing on its wheels in the railroad ditch. L.J. immediately braked.
Already a quarter mile away, the engineer let out an impotent, angry blast on the air whistle. He wouldn’t be able to stop for miles. I pitied the guilt he must have felt.
I started to open my door.
“What the hell are you doing!” gasped L.J.
I gestured vaguely at the wreck.
“Why? He just tried to kill me! Kill us!”
I shrugged. This was my fault. I had to see what was in that car. I had to know.
“You coming?” I asked my companion. He rapidly shook his head. If I wasn’t mistaken, he was trying not to cry.
Steam poured out of the black automobile’s cracked engine with a whistling sound that rose eerily over the chug of the passing train. Green coolant oozed onto the disturbed earth. The roof of the car was flattened halfway down the shattered windshield.
I didn’t want to see what was inside. I didn’t want to find out. But I needed to, all the same. The engineer would have radioed someone about the wreck, so there was little time.
Even from a distance I could tell the driver’s door would never open again. I walked around to the other side, stepped over a hunk of plastic fender, braced myself, and looked in.
Other than at my grandfather’s funeral, I’d never seen a corpse. Even though the driver could not have survived the wreck, it took me a few seconds to mentally identify the crushed figure behind the wheel as a human body.
The blinking grade crossing lights illuminated the remains every other second. The force of the crash had rammed the steering wheel into his chest. He sat compressed in his seat, the steering column rammed into his torso, his neck slung back at an unnatural angle.
The face was immobile, bloodless, the eyes closed. In the red light, I recognized the shaven-headed, mustachioed mug of the guy who’d rolled me behind the pool hall.
The train passed and the lights stopped blinking, plunging me into darkness with the dead man. The thick odor of feces mingled with gasoline assaulted me, and I desperately wanted to leave. But not yet.
I couldn’t bring myself to frisk the dead man. But in the back seat, I found something. A cheap, imitation leather satchel, covered with broken glass. There had to be some kind of identification inside, some clue as to who the dead man really was. Reaching around, I managed to grab the case.
I returned to find L.J. out of his car, legs twitching, desperately eager to leave. Wordlessly, we sped off.
Ten silent minutes later, we reached Kingdom City. L.J. pulled over in the parking lot of the Country Kitchen, stepped out of the car, and threw up.
I felt terrible. I’d known this guy for a week and he’d nearly been killed because of me. I was a marked man. Not only was I in danger, anyone near me was too…John, or Steph, or Charlie…dear God, not Charlie.
L.J. had retrieved his cell phone with shaky hands.
“L.J., what are you doing?”
“Pol…” His voice came out as a squeak. He spit and took a breath. “Police.”
I grabbed his wrist. “No! They can’t help us.”
He looked at me, uncomprehending.
“I’m sorry I got you involved in this. I didn’t think things had gotten this bad. But this isn’t a matter for the cops.” At least, not according to Denton.
“Have you lost your mind, Sherman? That guy shot at us! You expect me to just forget the whole thing?”
I glanced around the brightly-lit parking lot, making sure no one overheard that interesting comment. “L.J., some people want to hurt me. I don’t know how to defuse the situation. Maybe I’ll have to get the cops involved, but for now, you’re still safe. No one saw your license number in the dark. Go back to the dorms. If Mr. Schultz notices I’m gone, tell him I had a family emergency or something. If you say anything about this, you’ll be in as much trouble as I am.”
The attack had obviously rattled my roommate, but he was not the kind of person to run away with no concern for me. “And what the hell are you going to be doing?”
“I gotta see a guy. If that doesn’t work, I promise I’ll get the police. But I’m leaving your name out of it.”
“Sherman…”
“Get going. Take the highway and maybe kinda stay in the dorm this weekend. I’ll be back by morning. Get going!”
He started to say something, then shrugged. He pulled out of the parking lot, still looking at me over his shoulder.
Hopefully he’d make it back safe. In the meantime, I had twelve hours to kill. Figuring I’d be safer inside than out, I entered the Country Kitchen, requested a corner booth, and flopped the stolen briefcase onto the table.
Most of the contents were generic: a pair of cheap sunglasses, half a thing of breath mints, and a car rental agreeme
nt with an illegible signature. The large manila envelope had my name on it, though.
Seriously. My name. Andrews, Sherman J.
The waitress interrupted me before I could open it. I ordered a lumberjack special with extra gravy, a side of grits, and lots of coffee. I wasn’t the least bit hungry, but I didn’t want anyone complaining about me taking up space here.
I examined the contents with increasing alarm. A copy of my Scholars’ Academy application, one of my schedule, and another of my ID. Printouts of all my questions about Rev. Gowen on the message boards. A snapshot of me entering the Missouri Historical Society. Another of me leaving Mark Twain with L.J., John and Aaron. That must have been the night I was attacked.
I was holding a dossier on myself. Had I not been in mortal danger, that would have been kind of cool. As it were, these guys must have started keeping tabs on me the second I found that letter from Rev. Gowen. As soon as I started getting snoopy, they acted.
How could they possibly be that organized? Denton claimed they were this secret brotherhood, but how many people—how much money—would it take to mobilize so quickly and effectively? I glanced around the restaurant, checking to see if I was being watched.
I turned over the final piece of paper. Handwritten directions. They started in Columbia and ended at…Ironton Cemetery?
Just like Denton had said.
My coffee arrived, and I quickly replaced everything in the attaché case, adding the battered photo of Rev. Gowen and friends as an afterthought. I then turned off my cell phone. The fewer people that could find me, the better. I sipped my coffee and reviewed what I knew.
• Gowen and his buddies had been interested in Saberhagen back in the 1930s, and most of them had been killed.
• I was interested in Rev. Gowen. In one week I’d been assaulted twice, and been the victim of a very well-planned assassination attempt. And a guy was dead. Jesus.
• Powerful people wanted me out of the way. Permanently.
• Did I mentioned they wanted me dead?
My food arrived. The waitress smiled down at me. “Looks like you’ve been having a rough night.”
The story of the train accident would be all over the news tomorrow. I didn’t need her remembering the upset customer who showed up right afterward.
“Huh? No, I’ve just been driving all night, down from Minnesota…eh? I’m supposed to meet a friend in the morning, hope you don’t mind if I’m here a while, kay?”
I picked at my food. There was one man who could still help me. Everything depended on that.
– Chapter Eleven –
“I’m sorry,” said the buck-toothed, horse-faced nurse. “Visiting hours don’t start until noon. You’ll have to wait forty minutes or so.”
I’d hitched a ride back to Fulton with a trucker I’d met in the restaurant parking lot. He ignored my youth and panicked demeanor. I ignored him feeling me out about an anonymous homosexual encounter in the back of the cab. He dropped me off in front of the Fulton Psychiatric Hospital. Denton’s home sweet home. I needed to talk to him, and didn’t feel like hanging around the waiting room.
“I’m kind of in a rush,” I said with my come-hither grin. “Is there any way you could make an exception?”
The nurse wrinkled her nose and smiled. “I’m sorry. If you’d care to have a seat, I’ll call you as soon as you can go in.”
I switched to my slightly condescending, exasperated smile. “Ma’am, I’ve been driving for hours and I’d just as soon not sit again. Could you do me a favor and buzz me in early?”
The nurse downshifted her smile a click. “Sir, I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. Please try to be patient.”
Time for the secret weapon. The barely concealed wrathful smile. “Listen, I don’t want to cause trouble here…”
The nurse’s smile left her eyes. “Then I suggest you do not. I’ve been working with the mentally ill for fifteen years, and I seriously doubt you can do anything I can’t handle.” She stared at me until I blinked.
Not wishing to admit total defeat, I leaned against the wall and studied the voluminous list of visitor regulations. No sharp objects. All packages subject to inspection. No alcoholic beverages. Visitors may be asked to leave at any time.
Under the sign, someone with a Sharpie had written No public toilet. Doctor has less than fifty dollars after dark.
I whiled away the next twenty minutes reading pamphlets like Understanding Depression, Ten Warning Signs of Bipolar Disorder, and Violencia Domestica: Una Problema para Todos. Occasionally I’d look at the nurse who would show me her monolithic front teeth.
Ten minutes before the hour hand touched the twelve, she motioned me over. I dropped Dealing with Schizophrenia and approached the desk.
“You’ll need to fill out a short form before entering. Which patient are you here to see?”
“Denton Dubbs.”
The nurse fumbled the papers she was holding. “Mr. Dubbs?” Her eyes grew round and her voice cracked. She punched a button on her intercom machine. “Dr. Garcia? Please come to reception. There’s someone here to see Denton Dubbs.” She emphasized the name as if I had asked to be voluntarily lobotomized.
There are several reasons why the staff will summon the management and few of them are good. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing at all.” She flashed me her most insincere smile yet. “How do you know Mr. Dubbs?”
“He’s a friend of the family. I said I’d look in on him when I passed through. Look, what’s…”
The door behind the desk opened, and a smiling, dark-complected man in his fifties popped out. He had iron-grey hair, a long-sleeved business shirt, and a snappy-looking bow tie. He made a beeline for me before I could decide if I wanted to duck out.
“Hello, Mr….?”
“Andrews.” What was all this about? Maybe Denton had lied about being out of the asylum on a pass. Maybe the doctor thought I had helped him escape.
“I’m Doctor Garcia. You’re here to see Denton Dubbs?”
“Yes. Look, I really don’t…”
“Please come with me.” He smiled a smile that would have calmed even the most violent bipolar, depressed schizophrenic. “It won’t take a moment.”
“Um, okay.”
As we left, Dr. Garcia bent over the nurse’s desk. “Janet, please send Martin to my office.”
I followed the doctor down a short corridor and into a small office.
“Please, have a seat.”
I sat in a comfy chair, taking a moment to glance around the room. Citations, degrees, and pictures of the doctor with his family lined the walls, as well as a poster that read You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps. I tried to equal the doctor’s calm.
“Doctor, what’s going on here?”
At that moment, the door opened and a large black man entered; fat, but with the bulk that showed he’d be an easy match for most men. He was dressed all in white. I noted with amusement I was actually seeing one of the proverbial men in white coats who were supposed to come and take away crazy people.
Suddenly, the thought didn’t seem funny at all. Martin was big enough to break my back with one hand. Why had the doctor summoned him? What had Denton said about how he wound up here?
Dr. Garcia caught Martin’s eye and glanced in my direction. Horrible thoughts burst into my head: secret hospitals where people disappeared, hidden asylums where the sane were drugged, restrained, and tossed into padded cells for the rest of their lives so they couldn’t tell the world what they knew.
Martin looked at me for a long moment, then shook his head, almost imperceptibly. The doctor nodded. Without a word, Martin left.
“Mr. Andrews, I apologize.” Dr. Garcia fiddled with a paperweight. “You’ve come at an unfortunate time.”
“I’ve had my share of unfortunate times, lately. Would you mind getting to the point?”
The doctor seemed to have trouble meeting my eyes. “Young man, ther
e’s no easy way to say this. Last night, Mr. Dubbs…Denton…was violently attacked.”
I leapt from my chair and slammed my palms on the desk so hard that the doctor was forced to look up. “What do you mean, attacked? Is he okay? What the hell happened?”
“Last night, around one in the morning, Mr. Dubbs got up to use the restroom. Near as we can tell, someone had broken in. They tried to strangle him with a rope. A noose. We suspect they wanted to make it look like a suicide. If Martin hadn’t stopped to use the facilities, there’s no telling what might have happened.”
“Is he okay?”
“Mr. Dubbs suffered a crushed trachea. He’ll recover, but he’s not in great shape. The assailant escaped out a window that Martin was too large to fit through. Um, do you recognize this man?” The doctor held up a police sketch that was a ringer for Dan Cooper.
“Never saw him in my life.”
“Do you have any idea who would have wanted to do this? We operate a secure hospital and this does not seem like a random attack.”
“No idea. I haven’t seen Denton in years. I was in the area and thought I’d stop by. You’re certain he’s okay?”
“He’s stable, and should make a full recovery. Listen, this isn’t how we run our hospital. Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm Mr. Dubbs? An old associate? Someone he owed money to, perhaps?”
“Not a clue.”
The doctor sighed. “I was afraid of that. Well, if you’d like to look in on Denton, you may. He can’t talk, but he may appreciate the company.”
“I’d like that.”
“I’ll have Martin escort you.”
Martin, who’d been waiting outside, led me back down the hall to a large, metal door. I could tell he was watching me. Having a patient almost murdered on his shift obviously didn’t sit well with the guard. He was probably hoping I’d attack Denton so he could even the score. As Martin punched in a code on a keypad, I reminded myself not to make any sudden moves.
I’d never been in an insane asylum and was half expecting metal cages and straw on a stone floor. The ward’s day room, as it turned out, looked more like the youth center at a Baptist church. Several worn-looking couches surrounded a television. A few card tables lined the walls, covered with magazines, board games, and puzzles. A ping-pong table stood in one corner and a Coke machine and a coffeepot flanked the far wall.
Everyone Dies in the End Page 10
