122 Rules (30 page)

“Okay. How?”

“Take me there, and I’ll show you.”

As much fun as traveling the world with her friend would be, practicality prevented Monica from jumping online and booking the next plane to Europe. “Ummm, the ‘good’ guys took my passport, and ‘Susan’ never got one. Besides, I’m dead, remember? I don’t have a job, and anyway, you didn’t happen to bring yours along, did you?”

“No, but as I recall, you got a little loan from your last employer. Anything can be had with the right amount of scratch.”

“Hmmm, true. So two unemployed chicks traveling the world together. One a dead thief, the other an accessory to robbery. Both fugitives from the law.”

“I love it. Sounds like a really bad movie. Now crank up
Pimps and Whores
!”

Monica grinned and spun the dial until the stereo rattled the windows. They sang the incomprehensible lyrics at the top of their lungs.

An hour later, Monica glanced up as she felt the car slow suddenly.

Angel flipped on the headlights as she peered up through a darkened windshield. “What the hell?”

Monica followed her gaze to a sky that had turned from blue to rolling black. The sudden shift in weather had come out of nowhere.

Heavy, dark clouds rolled towards them, flat on the bottom, immeasurable and jagged on the top. The sun perched, as though waiting to be consumed, while the nimbus digested the sky and established its sovereignty in the thin layer between the solidity of Earth and the vacuum of space. Following the ominous precursor, a fortress wall as dense and gray as slate pressed forward, blotting out hope and forming a new, despondent rule over the land.

“What is that?” Monica asked, fear gripping her heart.

“I think it’s rain.”

“What? No way.”

The clouds marched in from the side like a thousand knights on horseback, extending across the flat land and announcing the arrival of the Apocalypse. As though in answer to Monica’s denial, bright light flashed and flared within the blackness. A rumble surged through Monica’s chest, so low it registered in her heart instead of her ears, and she envisioned the clashing of Neptune’s trident against Satan’s pitchfork.

The wheat fields lining the highway on both sides rippled and swayed as the wind scurried away from the impending storm, reminding her of the movement of the unhappy ocean from back home.

Angel said, “Maybe that’s what they mean by waves of grain?”

“It could be. You’d better pull over.” Monica pointed. Ahead, several cars had already pulled off to the side of the road.

“Is that a good idea?”

“Well, these people live here, and that’s what they’re doing. Besides, in a minute I don’t think you’re going to be able to see.” The car rocked as a strong gust of wind nudged it like a grim deity brushing the vehicle with the back of his hand.

“Jesus,” Angel said. “I think you’re right.”

From the side of the road, they stared out the window as the first few heavy drops of rain pattered on the roof, the sound fat and thick. Monica had already turned down
Pimps and Whores
and now snapped off the stereo. They watched the wall of water make its way across the fields, turning the goldenrods gray before devouring them. The storm, less rain and more river from the sky, pummeled the car. Monica gaped. How could so much water be contained within the clouds?

Like a thousand blacksmiths wielding the tools of their trade, the rain hammered the windshield and hood and roof. Bright spider webs of light lit up the air as the day became night. In the distance, great arches of electricity, furious and merciless, punished the earth, striking it again and again. The sound permeated the car. Would the vehicle even survive? Or would it just fall apart—screws and rivets snapping as the fury of the storm peeled the sheet metal from its iron hide.

Monica focused on the raging with such intensity that she didn’t register the car driving past them until the two sat side by side. For an instant, she could make out the blurry driver leaning against the front window. The car’s wipers tried in vain to make glass transparent. The stranger, braving the storm, passed, and her attention turned once again to the goings-on outside.

The two women wrapped their arms around each other, eyes wide with wonder as Mother Nature displayed her bitchy side. Monica didn’t know how long they stayed like that—at least thirty minutes, maybe longer—but at some point, the pounding changed from a relentless thud to a hard knock. The deluge lessened, and the sky softened as the angry gods moved on to punish the denizens of adjacent lands. Like turning off a spigot, it just stopped—not trickling to a slow, but a sudden cessation. Just like when it began, a trail of flat gray clouds slid past and behind that, blue sky resumed.

The storm continued its march across the land and away from them, leaving Monica with the impression of having survived an angry mob or a stampede of scared cattle.

The women untangled themselves from each other and sat, stunned.

“Huh,” Angel said.

Monica peered through the front window. “I looked but didn’t see it.”

Angel craned forward, following Monica’s line of sight. “What?”

“A flying house.”

“Oh, you missed it? I saw it. Kinda overrated, actually. Hard to believe they made an entire movie about it, but it
was
a long time ago. Guess they didn’t have much else to write about.”

Angel’s hand shook as she released the parking break and dropped the transmission into drive. Pulling back on the road, she drove slower than before, evidently humbled by the brief appearance of the true master of the land.

* * *

Tyron Erebus picked up speed as the storm relented.
What is it with this place?
A little foul weather couldn’t deter him, and he drove past farm trucks, cars, and semis that had all pulled over when the rain started.
Pansies.
The road is straight
. He’d never driven on anything so uninteresting as this endless highway. At least New York had the crazy taxis, insane bicyclists, and wave upon wave of pedestrians and car traffic to keep him occupied. Here, nothingness stretched for hours. Without the waitress as a distraction—no, an appetizer—he’d have gone insane days ago.

The picture of the bitch and her friend that Barry had sent left him longing to sample the sweet main course and dessert. Oh, the waitress had tasted good, the way she’d screamed and begged, but he had much bigger plans for the other two women. They would be his compensation for spending so much time in this damned wasteland.

In the beginning, Laven had wanted this job taken care of with little fanfare. The mob boss demanded Tyron make it look like an accident, so he’d set the bitch’s house to blow up from a “gas leak.” Only somehow, he’d missed. He cursed himself for not staying around to witness the carnage, to make sure the job had been completed. But he had wanted out of that dreary place. Besides, the small town left him no place to hide. If he had stayed, he
would
have been noticed.

Barry, the little weasel, lacked the appropriate level of caution. Tyron detested the man and wanted to cut his balls off, sauté them in butter and garlic as the slimy lawyer watched, and then force-feed them to him. But as he picked up speed through the soggy Kansas countryside, he had to admit his gratitude for being released to take care of the situation however he wanted.

Tyron’s mind wandered to the endless possibilities and his sweet, sweet reward.

38

Sam trailed Tyron and came close to catching up when the day transformed into night. Clouds barreled in from the east. He made a U-turn on the highway and flew to a barn he had passed a few miles back. Just as he guided the bike through the big sliding door, the skies opened up, drowning the land in a torrent of water so thick, if he had been standing in it he wouldn’t have been able to see his hand in front of his face. Sam had been all over, exposed to just about every weather condition imaginable, but nothing rivaled the sudden storms in the central part of the country.

Rows of empty horse stalls filled the barn, and a large combine parked against the opposite wall. The machine looked old but still serviceable. While Sam sat on a pile of hay, the storm pounded as if a thrash metal band had decided to hold an impromptu concert within the barn.

Sam opened a map on his phone. The blip representing Tyron continued to move. When everyone else stopped, parking next to the road to wait for the storm to pass, the killer continued in spite of the deluge—driven by a blind, incomprehensible hatred.

To gather any information on the girls’ plans, Sam had stopped at Nan’s Little Big Diner and Gas. When he pulled into the eatery, a black-and-white cruiser sat out front.

Instead of coming to partake of a burger or the lemon-meringue pie, the house specialty, the police officers clustered around a small group of employees in the back corner of the restaurant. As Sam stood by the door near the
Please wait to be seated
sign, he observed the group huddled together, talking in earnest. One of the women saw him and came over.

“Good afternoon,” she said without really meaning it, her eyes puffy and face red. “Just one?”

“Yes, please.”

“This way.” She headed off into the depths of the restaurant. In the awkward period of time between the breakfast and lunch rush, only a smattering of patrons lined the seats here and there. “Will this do?” she asked, indicating a booth.

“This is fine.” He slid in.

She set a menu in front of him, told him someone would be around to take his order in a bit, and turned to leave.

He touched her arm, stopping her. “What’s going on?” He glanced toward the group talking to the police. Sam recognized her type—the sort of person that, when asked the right question, would open up, pouring forth a wealth of information. She didn’t disappoint.

She peeked back over her shoulder then returned her attention to Sam with a conspiratorial spark glinting in her otherwise tired eyes. “The police are investigating a murder. Someone killed Coral, one of the waitresses here.”

“What? Are you serious? What happened?” Sam did not question her sincerity, nor did he doubt who murdered the waitress.

“As a heart attack. Someone broke into her house last night, and they…they…” A fat tear lolled down her swollen cheek. “They killed her in the most disgusting way. Tortured her and raped her. Who would do that? Coral was the sweetest person. What kind of vile filth would do that? Why? Why for God’s sake?”

“Are there any suspects?”

“Maybe. A man came in asking about her yesterday afternoon. That’s why the police are here. I hope they nail the son of a bitch.” She glanced toward the officers and waitstaff. “I need to get back.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

She left, rejoining the little group in the corner. Sam pulled out his phone and began typing. A few minutes later, he reviewed the police report for the murdered waitress. Each section of the document contained the usual, matter-of-fact, clipped language of “cop-speak.” Killers became “perpetrators” and “suspects.” Family homes became “crime scenes,” and those killed became “the Victim,” or, in the case of multiple murders, “Victim A,” “Victim B,” and so forth.

He’d read hundreds, probably thousands, of these narrations about man’s dark brutality, but the gruesome nature of this one surprised even him.

The waitress—the report labeled her “female victim”—had been raped while also being sliced apart. Based on the cut patterns, Sam deduced “the perp” wanted her alive, avoiding lethal incisions to prolong his twisted sense of fun. She must have passed out from pain several times, for her wet pillow and mattress suggested he’d dumped water over her face to revive her. When he either finished or grew bored, he cut her wrists, leaving or watching her bleed to death. The lacerated piece of meat on the mattress bore little resemblance to a human.

For centuries, psychologists have debated how the human spirit could plummet to such depths. What exactly could render a person capable of committing horrific, violent atrocities against the innocent? Some believed nature ran amuck—a perverse code deep in human DNA designed to destroy the weak and purify the species. Others theorized sickness altered the brain, brought on by a physical ailment or defect, such as a tumor or a virus, the perpetrator contracted as a child during some fundamental development stage. A third school of thought blamed mental illnesses, such as schizophrenia or anosognosia, which drove the individual to unload automatic weapons in crowded shopping malls and classrooms full of school children. In these cases, perpetrators taken alive often reported voices within the confines of their own mind telling them—commanding them, often screaming at them—to destroy the pure and innocent.

All of these diagnoses suffered from the same fundamental problem: the removal of responsibility from the deranged, turning butchers and slaughterers into victims themselves. The unhinged blamed their atrocious actions on whatever excuses the people with the wall plaques and alphabets of acronyms after their names formulated to defend them. This same pool of people didn’t view these destroyers of humanity as the depraved lunatics they were but as patients, the term itself implying the possibility of a cure. In this twisted perspective, everyone held the victim title.