Dark Inside (5 page)

“Oh my God.”

The driver swerved his car straight into the motorcycle’s path, front fender meeting with back tire. The biker lost control; the machine spun sideways and into the path of a Mack truck. Both rider and bike were propelled toward Joe’s car. The guy’s body twisted and turned, doing airborne cartwheels, a rag doll tossed through the air. Joe slammed the brakes while spinning the steering wheel, sending them into the ditch.

Over the sound of Green Day, Michael heard the body as it smashed against the pavement. There was a squelching noise, like a water balloon exploding upon impact.

The truck came to a stop right at the base of the tree line. Michael’s body jerked against the seat belt, shooting pain along his chest and up into his shoulder.

“Oh my God, did you see that? Did you see that?” Joe’s voice raised several octaves. “I’m gonna hurl.” He barely managed to get the door open before the contents of his lunch forced their way up.

There had to be something wrong with his eyes. Michael knew he couldn’t have just witnessed that. Had the driver done it on purpose? It sure looked that way. What kind of person would do such a thing? He had to be wrong. People don’t do things like that.

Michael opened his own door and jumped out before Joe’s vomit smell overpowered him enough to attack his own
churning stomach. Scrambling up the ditch, he joined the group of onlookers surrounding the crash scene.

Several cars had stopped in the middle of the highway, including the Mack truck and the enraged driver. People got out of their vehicles, but they didn’t know what to do. Most of them stood around with bewildered expressions on their faces. Someone brought out a camera and started taking pictures.

The biker was dead. His body was sprawled in the road, leaving a thick trail of blood from where he’d skidded across the pavement. His helmet was still protecting his face, and Michael was glad he didn’t have to look at the guy’s eyes. Turning his gaze away, he searched for the driver of the car. If Michael had been the one to do something like this, he’d be a complete mess. Probably ready to go toss himself off the nearest overpass. A few months ago he’d hit a deer by accident and he still had nightmares about it. Hitting an animal was one thing; he couldn’t imagine the guilt of hurting a human.

The road-raged driver had parked his car a ways down the road. He moved back toward the crowd, his face bright red and breathing heavily. Talking to himself, he paused once to scream at an elderly couple cowering by their car.

The guy walked past the crowd of stunned onlookers, sidestepping the ruined motorcycle, and stopped in front of the body. He began to scream at the dead man, hurling a wrath of insults, while kicking at the motorcycle helmet.

The crowd froze. No one knew what to do. Someone started to cry, whimpering sounds mixing in with thudding sneaker kicks. Finally the trucker stepped forward, grabbing the guy by the back of his jacket and pulling him away. He spoke calmly considering the situation, but his words had little results. The enraged man turned his focus on the Mack
guy and began attacking, scratching at the trucker’s face as if he wanted to rip the poor guy’s eyes right out of their sockets.

It was enough to make Michael jump into action. He caught the attention of another man several feet away. The older guy, with a receding hairline, nodded at him. Both of them stepped forward. Michael pushed the insane man backward while the other grabbed him by the arms to try and stop his advances.

But the guy wasn’t going down without a fight. In the end, it took six of them to get him on his stomach, with both the trucker and a burly guy sitting on top of him. The enraged guy continued to scream, spittle flying from his lips as he cursed at anyone who got too close.

“Don’t move,” the balding man said. “I’ve got a phone in my car. I’ll call the police.”

Michael glanced over at Joe, who was sitting on a rock by the side of his truck, his face pasty. A few other people had joined him, mostly women and the elderly couple. Everyone was making an effort to stay as far away from the insane man as possible. Although he was momentarily subdued, Michael didn’t blame them.

“Phone’s out,” the guy said, returning to the scene. He was holding an iPhone. “I’m getting a signal, but I can’t get through. Anyone else have one that works?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the trucker said. He nodded back in the direction behind them. “Cops are coming. I can see the flashers.”

In the distance, Michael could see the red and blue lights as the police car tried to make its way through the group of onlookers. It seemed a little strange; the accident covered all four lanes of traffic, but there were fewer than a dozen cars stopped along the road. Shouldn’t there be more? Where
was everyone? Had the police already diverted traffic?

Someone pulled a blanket from their car and covered the dead man. Only, his body was too long, leaving the bottom part of his calves and his feet sticking out from under the plaid fabric. It couldn’t cover all the blood, either.

The police finally worked their way through the small crowd. Michael knew one of them, Clive Templeton, who had graduated from his high school only a few years earlier. Clive was the first to reach the scene. The other, Officer Burke, stopped to talk to the hyperventilating elderly couple.

“Everyone stand back,” Clive said. He talked with the balding guy and the trucker for a while. Michael didn’t get involved; he hadn’t seen anything different from the others. After a few minutes, Clive and Burke handcuffed the still-screaming man, grabbed him by the arms, and brought him up to his feet.

“Everyone can return to their cars,” Burke said. “There’s nothing more to see here.”

That didn’t seem right. Shouldn’t they be gathering information from the other bystanders? Michael was no criminal expert, but shouldn’t they have witness accounts for when this went to court? What if the guy pleaded not guilty? Stepping forward, he decided to offer up his phone number or something in case they needed him.

But the cops were ignoring him, pushing people back and away from the scene. The trucker got back in his cab and started up his engine. The balding guy came over to stand next to him.

“This is wrong,” Michael said.

“It’s strange all right,” the guy said.

“Shouldn’t they be doing more? I mean, there’s not even an ambulance here yet. What are they supposed to do with
the body? Put it by the side of the road and hope the wild animals don’t eat it?”

The guy snorted. “Maybe they’ve got one on the way.”

“I hope so.” He turned to hold out his hand to the balding man. “I’m Michael.”

“Evans.” They shook hands. Evans handed him a business card with his name on it. “Just in case. You never know if you might need it.”

Clive wandered over to where they stood. “I said back to your car,” he snapped. He was wearing sunglasses, the mirrored kind; it was impossible to read his expression. “Don’t make me kick your ass, Mikey boy. School’s out.”

Michael put the card in his back pocket, nodded at Clive, and backed away. There was something creepy about not being able to see the man’s eyes. Evans appeared to be thinking the same thing; he turned and headed back to his car without so much as a wave of his hand.

Back at the truck, Joe was inside, twisting the key, but the engine wasn’t roaring to life.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “Musta broke something when we hit the ditch. It ain’t starting.”

“Great.” Michael looked back at the officers. What would their reactions be? Most of the crowd had dispersed; a few people were putting their cars in gear and pulling back onto the highway. The trucker was gone, the tail end of his cargo disappearing around the bend. Evans waited at the side of the road, sitting behind the wheel, watching the officers. They were holding on to the enraged man, speaking to him in low voices. The guy didn’t look so angry anymore. His complexion was pale, eyes wide. He was trembling.

“I said, get back in your vehicles,” Burke said, walking over to the truck. He swung his weapon around until it was aimed
right at Michael’s head. “Don’t think I won’t shoot you, kid.”

Michael’s legs quivered as his body temperature dropped. He didn’t know how to respond. What words could he use to get that gun away from his face? He opened his mouth twice, but nothing came out. “Our truck’s not working,” he finally muttered, pointing a hand over in Joe’s direction. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the gun.

“That’s not my problem,” Burke said.

Evans’s car pulled up beside them. “Come with me,” the balding man said. “I’ll give you both a ride home.”

Burke nodded toward Evans, signaling that they should take the offer. Lowering his weapon, he turned his back and returned to where Clive held the handcuffed man. Michael glanced at Joe, who wasn’t waiting to be asked twice. They both climbed into the car, Joe stuffing his lanky body into the backseat.

“Thanks.” Michael rolled down his window as Evans started to pull away from the scene. As they distanced themselves, he watched the scene gradually growing smaller in the side mirror. They got only about fifty feet away when it happened.

Officer Burke was holding on to the driver one moment; the next he simply let go. The handcuffed man stood there for a few seconds, looking between the cops and the woods. Michael saw Clive give him a hard push.

“What the hell?” Michael turned in his seat. Evans slammed on the brakes as the motorcycle killer ran, hands still cuffed behind his back, straight for the tree line.

He never got a chance. Burke raised his gun, aimed, and shot the man before his feet left the pavement. The guy flew forward, hitting the ground and rolling several times before coming to a stop at the bottom of the ditch.

“He just shot that guy,” Joe blurted.

“Get us out of here, now,” Michael said to Evans, surprised
at how calm his voice sounded. Inside, his thoughts were screaming. From behind them, Clive turned his gun toward them and pulled the trigger.

“Get down,” Evans shouted as he slammed his foot on the gas.

The rear window shattered, spraying Joe with glass. He ducked, even as Evans pulled away, spinning tires and leaving smoking black marks on the pavement.

They spent the next five minutes driving at top speed, but it didn’t look like the police officers were going to give chase. Eventually Evans slowed the car down to a reasonable pace.

Michael found his phone in his pocket but paused when he realized he had no idea who he should call. If he dialed 911 would anyone believe them? He’d just witnessed the entire thing and he couldn’t quite understand what happened. He punched the numbers into the phone anyway, but all he got was a busy signal. He tried a second time. Then a third. This time he got a recording: There are too many people trying to get through—please dial again. What the hell was going on? He’d never heard of 911 being busy before. Who else was there? Dad was in Denver on business, and he couldn’t think of any reason for actually calling him except he was terrified. Finally he dialed Dad’s number regardless, but the call didn’t go through. He didn’t even get an out-of-service message.

“Phone’s not working,” he said.

“Radio’s out too,” Evans said. “I can’t get any of the stations. I can’t even get dead air. It’s weird. Maybe the trees?”

“We always get radio here,” Joe said. “There’s a broadcasting tower not too far away.”

“Then it’s something else,” Evans said.

They drove along in silence for a bit. Joe kept busy picking bits of glass off the backseat and tossing them out the window. Finally he raised his head and looked around bewilderedly. “I
need to get home,” he said. “Mom’s gonna pitch a fit when she finds out I left the truck behind.”

“We’re sure as hell not going back to get it,” Michael said.

“It’s our only car, too,” Joe said. “The Jeep’s in the shop. Dad took it in this morning for a brake job. I’m supposed to drive him back there tonight to pick it up.”

“They’ll understand.”

“I don’t know. Dad was in a real pissy mood this morning. He was acting weird.”

“Let’s just worry about getting home in one piece.”

“I can drop you off,” Evans said. “Where are you from?”

“Whitefish,” Michael said.

“I know where that is. I’m staying at the hotel there.”

“Thanks.”

It didn’t take long to get back to town. Michael gave Evans directions, and they pulled up to Joe’s house first. He got out without saying a word and headed up the steps to his front porch. He was in shock. Michael didn’t blame him. Had they really just witnessed both a murder and an execution?

When Evans pulled into the driveway in front of Michael’s apartment, the building was quiet. What had he been expecting? Flashing blue and red lights? Would Clive and Burke come back for him? He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t think they knew where he lived, but that didn’t really mean much. They were cops, after all. They’d find him if they wanted to.

Evans must have read his mind. “If they come back for you, I’m staying at the Super Eight. Room six-fourteen. Come and find me if you need help.”

Michael nodded and got out of the car. As he watched the balding man drive off, his hand closed around the business card in his back pocket.

The stranger was less squeamish about moving among the dead. As he worked his way across the bus, he stopped every few feet to reposition the bodies in order to see their faces. Aries struggled along behind him, trying to keep her balance. There weren’t many free spots to put her feet. She didn’t want to accidentally step on anyone’s arm or fingers—or, even worse, someone’s face—and the thought that one wrong movement might send her tumbling down onto the pile of bodies terrified her. So she followed the stranger carefully, stepping where he stepped, and held on to the seat frames as tightly as possible.

He picked up someone by his jacket and shoved him aside. Underneath were more bodies. They were piled on top of one another like a collapsed cheerleading pyramid. He reached out his hand and checked the pulse on someone’s wrist. “This one’s still alive.”