Bedbugs (41 page)

“What the heck’s he doin’ buried out here?” I asked. I was hopin’ a sensible question might calm him down, but I gotta admit, I was scared shitless, too. Damned questions! You see? That’s how trouble always starts!

George shrugged frantically. “I dunno,” he said. “I mean, all my mother’s ever told me ‘bout him was I was named after him. He died a long time before I was born.”

“But why’s he buried out here?” I asked. My voice was shooting up the scale like one of them thermometers in those cartoons.

My cut knee was startin’ to sting. My legs were soaked up to the knees. My arms ‘n shoulders were wicked sore from pushing against the tombstone. All I wanted to do was get back to camp ‘n clean myself up before supper. I knew we was gonna catch a lickin’ for bein’ out so late, but I could face that prospect a heck of a lot easier than I could the idea that George’s grandfather was buried out here in the woods . . . that he was right down there where we’d moved the stone from.

George was about to say somethin’ when I saw—I swear to God I saw somethin’ movin’ behind him. He had his back to the gravestone, ‘n I swear to Christ one of them darker shadows under the trees seemed to, like, shift and start movin’ toward us. All I could do was whimper and point weakly at the hole in the ground behind George when I realized that the shadow was comin’ up out of the hole.

George saw where I was pointin’ to ‘n just as he started turning around to look, we both heard somethin’—a deep, hollow sound . . . like someone . . . sighin’.

I know we both heard it ‘cause George looked at me wide-eyed. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the spot above the grave where I could see this shadow gettin’ thicker ‘n blacker. It looked to me as though it was takin’ on a shape. I saw it move, and it seemed like this long, black arm was reaching out toward us. With a loud scream, I turned and started to run.

I wasn’t aware of anythin’ as I ran. I didn’t feel the water I splashed through or the branches that slapped against my face. I didn’t even hear George runnin’ along behind me. ‘N I certainly wasn’t about to turn around ‘n look! All I could think was that black shape was comin’ after us, bearin’ down on us from behind. That drove my feet with a speed they ain’t seen since, I’ll tell you that much.

It must’ve been luck more ‘n anythin’ else that kept me on the right path. I sure as hell had no idea where I was runnin’. It was so dark by then, I couldn’t even see my own feet as they went
slap-slap
on the soggy ground. I remember thinkin’ it was kinda strange how George hadn’t caught up with me. He’d always been a better runner than me. I figured maybe he’d gone up through Kimball’s field, but I just kept runnin’. I knew, sure as shit, that shadow was closing in behind me.

Finally, up ahead through the trees, I saw the camp lights. The back porch light was on, ‘n I could see two people—it had to be my mom and George’s mother—sittin’ out on the steps, probably just talkin’. I made that light my goal as I pumped my arms like they was pistons ‘n gave it a final burst of energy.

I broke out of the woods near them moss-covered stones where George ‘n me’d been sittin’ earlier that afternoon. Racin’ frantically across the lawn, I tried to call out for help, but nothin’ would come out. I was halfway to the camp when my foot got snagged on a tree root or somethin’, ‘n I went down face-first in the grass.

Panic still had me in its grip as I rolled over onto my back and started scramblin’ backwards, crab-like, as I stared at the woods behind me. Everything was pitch dark, but I collapsed on the ground ‘n cried out shrilly when I saw that one of them shadows under the trees was movin’ straight toward me. It came on silently, with a swiftness and a purpose that riveted me to the ground. I tried to get back up and run but couldn’t.

The shadow rushed at me out of the woods like a black freight train or somethin’. I knew it was gonna flatten me right there where I was. I tightened up into a ball ‘n waited, and then with a loud
whoosh
, it was on me, touchin’ me with cold, clammy hands. The shadow wrapped around me so tight I couldn’t breathe. The left side of my face felt like it was on fire, ‘n then it rushed past me, shooting up into the air and dissolving into the night sky, leavin’ behind this wicked nauseatin’ stench of swamp water and rot. It must’ve been then that I fainted.

Hours later—warm ‘n dry ‘n tucked into my bed with clean sheets—I woke up. I could feel this thick pad of bandage on the left side of my face. I started babblin’, tellin’ my mom ‘bout what had happened. I kept askin’ if George was back yet—if he was all right, but my mom just tucked the blanket up under my chin ‘n told me to get some rest. She left the room, but I wouldn’t let her turn out the light.

‘T’wasn’t until the next day, round ‘bout noon, that they finally told me what had happened to George.

After my mom heard me ‘n found me sprawled on the lawn, she and George’s mom carried me inside. I started talkin’ real crazy, they said, like I was out of my head, but once they pieced together what we’d done, George’s father called the Windham police ‘n then headed out to the grave alone. It wasn’t until later, once I thought about it, that I realized he went straight out there like he’d known all along where that grave was. I was told he found George not twenty feet from the opened grave. He was lyin’ facedown in the muck, dead as could be.

Years later, before she died, my mom told me the doctor said George had died of cardiac arrest. A heart attack!

I’m an old man now. I’ve had to live with this fair to middlin’ sized scar on the left side of my face my whole life. Now, I’ve had a bit of heart trouble my whole life, too, so I know what it’s like to have a bad ticker. But one of the questions I have after all these years is—how in the hell can a ten-year-old boy die of a heart attack? Sure, I know all about them congenital diseases ‘n such, but still I wonder if maybe George didn’t die of pure fright.

‘N that’s somethin’ I’ve been wonderin’ about all my life. What in the blazes did George see that could do that to him? What was down under that stone, what was down in that hole we’d made by pushin’ over that gravestone?

The nurses here think it’s kinda funny, ‘specially now that it’s August again, how every day ‘round six o’clock, after supper, I won’t let ‘em take me outside. No matter how much they try to convince me what a beautiful day it is and that I need some fresh air, I won’t go out there on the lawn as evenin’ approaches. I just don’t wanna see them late summer shadows, inchin’ their way across the lawn. No way! ‘Cause you know—and this is my last question: who the hell knows what those shadows are as they slip out silently from the woods behind the rest home?

Like I said, I sure hope to hell I never meet George again so’s I can ask him!

—for Glenn Chadbourne

3:52 p.m.

F
ifteen minutes after Angelo Martelli shot his boss, Tony Vincenza, Angelo’s rented car broke down. It didn’t cough or sputter or stall even once; it just seized up and died. Angelo gripped the steering wheel tightly as he jerked it hard to the right, and the car coasted to a dead stop on the gravel shoulder of the road. Clenching his fists in controlled frustration, he pressed his hands against his forehead, sucked in a deep breath, and glared out at the snow-covered road ahead.

“You
lou-sy moth-er fuck-er
!” he whispered harshly.

Each syllable came out a tiny puff of steam. Then, with a tight, controlled grunt, he brought one fist down hard against the dashboard.

That was it.

His only demonstration of anger.

Now that this new situation had presented itself, he had to clear his mind so he could think things through.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned back against the, car seat and mentally ran through everything he had done so far to cover his tracks. He was a hitman, and in his line of work it didn’t pay to be sloppy or leave any loose ends. Angelo was one of the best in the business. He made up operating procedures Tony had always teased him were overly cautious. In fact, Tony and a few of his close associates had nicknamed Angelo “Overkill,” but that pleased rather than bothered Angelo.

Besides, he didn’t have to concern himself with Tony anymore.

But Angelo prided himself on his caution. He wasn’t the kind of man who left anything to chance. He never traveled with a weapon, always making arrangements through a third party to have what he needed at his destination. He had enough phony I.D.s to fill ten wallets, and he could come up with iron-clad alibis that would convince a Supreme Court justice . . . but
this!

He couldn’t have accounted for a goddamned breakdown!

Right now, fifteen minutes after a hit, a broken-down car was a loose end Angelo couldn’t afford or tolerate. He reassured himself that, of course, he hadn’t rented the car under his own name. That was standard procedure, but he had taken the extra precaution of wearing thick horn-rim glasses and a blond wig when he picked up the car; so even if someone had photographed him, no one was going to connect him with anything. The major consideration right now was, should he stay with the car or abandon it?

The smart thing might just be to find some other way to get the hell out of this boondock state. He knew the police had equipment that could identify a tire print almost as accurately as a fingerprint. If they matched the tires of this car with evidence they’d eventually find at Tony’s isolated cottage on Echo Lake—whenever Tony’s body was discovered—then maybe it’d be wisest to leave the car and get the hell out of Maine as fast as he could.

Then again, if there wasn’t anything seriously wrong with the car and he could get it repaired quickly, it might be smart to return it to the rental agency as if nothing had happened. With what Phil Belario had fronted him for this most recent job, he could easily pay for repairs and return the car rather than cause any kind of fuss that might draw undue attention to him. Hell, he could buy six or seven of these babies with what would be in his bank account as of nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Right now, the important thing was just to get his ass back to Philly.

“Lousy mother fucker,” he said again, glancing up and down the lonely stretch of country back road. The sky was the color of soot, and snow-draped pines leaned heavily over the road, their branches groaning and snapping in the cold. With evening no more than an hour away, everything looked lonely and cold. Angelo had no idea how far it was to the nearest phone booth, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to risk using his cell phone. He thought he remembered passing a gas station a few miles back, but for all he knew there might be something closer up ahead. Maybe doing the hit out here in the boondocks hadn’t been such a great idea. If only he had been on the Maine Turnpike, maybe across the New Hampshire border, before the rental car shit the bed.

“Okay, okay,” Angelo reassured himself. “No need to panic. Nothing to worry about. Everything’s covered.”

Pulling his leather gloves tightly up to his wrists, he snapped open the car door and stepped out into the frigid January afternoon. The first breath he took nearly froze his lungs and made him cough so hard he almost choked. He was doubled over by the driver’s door, coughing, when a battered pickup truck loaded high with bales of hay roared past him. Flecks of yellow hay chaff and a tornado of black exhaust swirled in its wake as Angelo straightened up and—too late—waved his arms to signal for the driver to stop.

“Fuckin’ hick!”

He shook his gloved fist high in the air.

“I hope to fuck I see you broken down on the side of the road next!”

He was watching the receding truck so intently he didn’t notice the mud-splattered Subaru that had glided to a stop behind his stalled rental until the driver’s door opened and slammed shut.

4:07 p.m.

“S
o, Frank, what did you say you do for work?”

Momentarily distracted as he stared at the road ahead, Angelo shook his head and, glancing at the driver, offered a standard line.

“Oh, I sell insurance—life insurance out of an office in Boston.”

The driver, a young man in his late twenties or early thirties, had introduced himself as Mark St. Pierre, a history teacher at a local high school. He seemed like a nice enough fellow, but right now Angelo had enough on his mind. He was in no mood for making friends on the road.

“So, were you up this way for business or pleasure?”

Angelo chuckled. “I can’t for the life of me imagine why anyone would come up to Maine in January for pleasure.”

“Not unless they’re going skiing, I suppose,” Mark said. “Then again—No offense, Frank, but you don’t exactly strike me as the skiing type.”

“No, no—I’m not,” Angelo replied. “I was seeing a client in Augusta.”

His gaze shifted to the road ahead. His hands clenched in his lap when he saw the overloaded hay truck up ahead. It was moving slower now, spouting thick, black exhaust as it struggled to make the steep grade of the hill. Angelo smiled and, shaking his head, said, “That’s the lousy son-of-a-bitch who almost clipped me when I got out of my car.”

“Yeah, I saw that,” Mark replied. “I thought it looked like he came pretty close. Well, don’t worry. I think there’s a long stretch of open road after the top of this hill. We’ll leave him in the dust.”