Die Dog or Eat the Hatchet (22 page)

Look at
this
fucking hick
, Hingle thought, as the ape clambered out of the tow truck. A squat troll of a man. Balding up top, with a mane of mullet hair. Reminded Hingle of the redneck comedian, Gallagher. Maybe the mullet was some kind of tribute? He could imagine this goon laughing his ass off as Gallagher smashed watermelons with his sledgehammer. The tow truck driver was wearing the same coveralls as his brother, but even filthier, if that was possible. And they
had
to be brothers—twins, maybe—the inbred likeness was unmistakable. DWIGHT was stitched on his breast. Hingle wondered if there was a third brother, and what his folks might’ve called him; there couldn’t be many names left beginning with ‘Dw—’.

“Car trouble?” Dwight said.

Clearly the brains of the outfit, Hingle thought, with a glance at the clapped-out Bug. Dwayne got the matinee idol looks—comparatively, at least—while Dwight was gifted with the ability to state the fucking obvious.

“Sure looks like it,” Hingle said.

When he killed this hick with the same knife he’d used on his brother, Hingle figured he’d be doing the world a rare favor. Cleaning some pollution from the gene pool. But first he’d let him fix the Bug. And if he couldn’t, then he’d just take his truck. Sure as hell beat hiking through the woods again.

“Well,” Dwight said, “then you’re lucky I happened along.”

All but dragging his knuckles along the ground, Dwight joined Hingle beside the upraised hood at the back of the Bug. He frowned at the engine in that way grease monkeys do before they fleece you. “Uh-huh,” he said, finally.

“Sounds expensive,” Hingle said.

“Mister,” Dwight said, “your first mistake’s not buying American.”

He scowled at the Volkswagen and shook his head disapprovingly.

“Your second mistake’s right here.”

He pointed a filthy finger towards the back of the engine.

“Come take a look at this …”

Humoring the guy, Hingle stooped forward for a closer look—

—and Dwight clipped him upside the head with the tire-iron, and he slumped to the road like a sack of cement.

The townie lay twitching on his back. Blood pooled on the asphalt and haloed his head where the back of his skull had split. His eyes were in orbit, his legs drumming the ground like he was dancing a jig. Dwight waited patiently for the townie to lie still, as he knew from experience would happen right about …
now
.

He crouched down beside the fella to check his pulse.

Still beating strong.

A good clean capture.

Satisfied the townie would keep, Dwight hoisted the fella onto his shoulder and carried him effortlessly around the Bug. He draped him across the front seats. Blood rained from his scalp wound into the footwell. Dwight closed the door on him, slammed the hood down over the engine, and hooked his winch to the back of the Bug. Then he clapped the muck off his hands, started up the truck, and towed the car back to the house, singing tunelessly to himself.

He pulled up in the yard and unhooked the Bug from the truck. Hauled the townie from the car by his ankles and started dragging him. The fella’s outstretched arms dug ruts in the dirt as Dwight dragged him to the bulkhead doors alongside the house. Dwight raised the bulkhead doors and lugged the townie down to the root cellar. A naked light bulb dangled from the ceiling. Dwight yanked the cord and dirty light shone down on the rough earthen floor.

Hanging down from the wooden rafters were two rusted lengths of chain with handcuffs at the ends of them. Dwight clapped the cuffs around the townie’s wrists, and then hauled on a pulley and hoisted the chains till the fella hung suspended from the ceiling like a decrepit Christ, with only the tips of his big toes brushing the ground. The townie’s shoulder blades groaned like old wood as his arms were forced to take his weight, and he gave a pained moan in his sleep.

Dwight fetched a sling blade down from the pegboard wall—some folks called it a Kaiser blade, Dwight always called it a sling blade. With a few practiced slashes, he stripped the townie of his duds and left him wearing just his shorts. He tossed the townie’s clothes into the corner of the cellar.

The fillet knife fell from inside the jean jacket. Dwight didn’t think much of it. A man had every right to protect himself. There were a lot of sick people out there in the world. He fetched up the fillet knife and added his new toy to the tools on the pegboard.

When the townie came to, the first thing he’d see was the pegboard. And as a new guest, he’d get to choose the first tool that went to work on him. Dwight always got a kick out of that; watching the meat agonize over which of the tools was likely to cause them the least amount of pain. They’d always be surprised. In the right hands, even the most innocent-looking tool could find your sweet spot and make you sing. Take a spoon, for instance. A spoon could crush a testicle, or scoop an eyeball right out of its socket.

Dwight made a mental note:
Spoon
.

Leaving the townie hanging from the rafters, Dwight shuffled back and canted his head like an artist admiring his work. He reckoned he’d earned a beer for his efforts. In the corner of the cellar was a refrigerator chest. Dwight hauled up the lid and reached down past the dismembered census taker. The fella’s dying scream was literally frozen on his face. Dumb bastard knocked on the wrong door with his questions.
“And how many people are currently residing in this abode?” he’d asked. “Living or dead?” Dwight had replied, before he whapped him over the head with a meat mallet.
Dwight shoved the census taker’s torso aside and fished a can of Keystone from the bottom of the refrigerator chest. He took a long pull and smacked his lips and nodded. “Yep.” What more could you say?

Glugging his beer, Dwight trudged upstairs to the kitchen. He called Dwayne at the filling station to let him know the meat was ready and waiting to be tenderized—oh, and to fetch home more beer, they were almost out.

When Dwayne didn’t answer the phone, Dwight was tempted to get started on the new fella without him. But he knew he’d catch hell if he dared. An hour later and Dwayne still wasn’t answering the phone and Dwight was out of beer by now and getting antsy. “Goddamn it, Dwayne …” What was keeping that runt?

Stomping outside the house, Dwight leapt in his truck and gunned the engine. Hitting the gas, he was so angry with Dwayne that he reversed the truck into the Bug, cursing at the crunch of metal and glass. The Bug jolted forward, its nose crumpling against the oak tree next to the house. Deciding he’d check for damage to his truck when he returned—and vent his frustrations on the townie if he found any—Dwight threw the truck into gear and then floored it away down the trail, starting out to the filling station to see what was keeping his brother.

Tilly startled awake as the Bug gave a violent jolt that pitched Dwayne’s deadweight off her. She quickly braced her arms against his chest to prevent him rolling back and crushing her. Her wrists bent back painfully, her arms buckling and burning under the strain. She couldn’t hold him like this much longer. She gulped greedily for air while she could, ignoring the hellish stench inside the trunk as the car continued to roll—

And then the Bug thudded to a sudden stop, striking something that crumpled the trunk and twisted one corner of the lid up into a sneer. A sliver of moonlight shone through the gap. Clean air wafted across her face. Tilly raised her head gratefully towards the gap and inhaled deeply.

Before her arms collapsed, and Dwayne fell back on top of her, she pressed her back against the floor of the trunk, kicking upwards with all her strength at the damaged trunk lid. She gritted her teeth against the pain and kicked until her bare feet were bloody … and slowly but surely the gap began to widen. Still kicking, she grunted determinedly as more clean air breathed inside—

The trunk lid clattered open, squealing up on its hinges. Moonlight blinded her.

Lurching up inside the trunk, Tilly released her grip on Dwayne and let him slump to the floor across her legs. She raised her bound hands to shield her eyes from the glaring light.
Where was she? Where had Hingle brought her?

Through the cracks of her fingers she saw an overgrown yard choked with weeds, strewn with the hulks of rusted junk cars through which sprouted tall grass and sunflowers. Crickets chirred in the tall grass. A ramshackle farmhouse loomed above her. The faded white clapboard was bearded with creepers and lichen. Above the buckled porch were two windows. One window was boarded over with wooden slats; reflected in the grimy glass of the other, the lunatic eye of the moon winked at Tilly. An old oak tree sagged against the side of the house. A withered black branch overhung the porch roof. A tire-swing dangled from the branch like a fishing line with a Goodyear lure. The tire was chewed-up and mangled.

Tilly glanced at Betsy Bug’s nose crumpled against the tree and knew at once that even if she had the keys, she wasn’t driving anywhere. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was she was free. She couldn’t see Hingle anywhere … but that didn’t mean he wasn’t close. She had to get out of here. Right now. While she could—

She wormed her legs out from under Dwayne and massaged some life into them, hissing as they prickled with pins and needles. She tried to stand but her legs were still numb and refused to support her. Her bound hands made it difficult to climb down from the trunk. Clinging to the trunk like a nervous swimmer at the pool edge, she lowered herself gingerly to the ground.

Her legs folded beneath her and she landed on her butt more heavily than she’d anticipated. Her teeth clacked together, biting her tongue and bringing fresh tears to her eyes. Shattered glass from the broken car headlights crunched under her butt and gouged her thighs. Barely registering the pain, she snatched up a shard of glass, and began sawing awkwardly through her pantyhose shackles. She glanced about anxiously—the yard, the house—expecting Hingle to appear before she could finish sawing through the nylon. The way her hose always laddered, she wouldn’t have thought it would be this difficult. Then the fabric tore and she clawed her hands free with a cry of relief, rubbing first her grazed wrists, and then her numb legs, the feeling slowly prickling back.

Clutching the car for balance, Tilly staggered to her feet.

Blood rushed to her head and the world teetered sickeningly around her. She shut her eyes and sucked deep breaths until the nausea passed—

Something roared in front of her. Her eyes snapped open in time to see the dog bolting out from under the porch. Its claws raked the mud as it hurtled across the yard towards her, the chain around its neck unspooling with a jangle. Its fur was matted with dried blood, standing up in spikes along the ridged muscles of its back. Its ears were pricked back on a bullet-shaped skull that was more gargoyle than pit bull. Its fangs were bared as it charged her.

There was nowhere to run, not before it pounced.

Cowering back against the Bug, Tilly slammed the trunk shut and clambered onto the lid, scrambling up the oak tree and lifting her legs out of harm’s way.

The dog slammed against the trunk beneath her bare feet. It strained on its hind legs to reach her. Saliva sprayed from its chops as it snapped at her heels.

She hauled herself higher up the tree, branches raking her face and drawing blood as she butted upwards through the foliage. She found an uneasy perch upon an outstretched limb and huddled there gasping for breath and gaping down at the dog. It prowled around the tree, barking furiously at her.

Tilly shook her head in disbelief.

Treed by a fucking dog
… What the hell next?

Dwight wasn’t the sharpest tool in the cellar torture chamber, but even he knew something smelled rotten at RITTER GAS & TOW. His first clue was the puddle of blood on the forecourt next to the Special Gas pump. Clue number two was lying nearby: His brother’s prized
Baywatch
cap. Dwight struggled to recall the last time he’d seen Dwayne not wearing it. Dwayne was sensitive about his thinning hair. Dwight told him he just ought to take the plunge and grow it out long at the back like he did and then no one would notice. But Dwayne wouldn’t listen, reckoned he knowed it all.

Inside the filling station, the store sign was flipped to CLOSED, but the door was unlocked, and the register was empty and the counter unmanned. That wasn’t like Dwayne at all. Normally he’d be sitting at the counter with Old Lady Crenshaw snug on his lap, the two lovebirds watching
Baywatch
on the portable TV.

Dwight fetched the mason jar from under the counter.

“Where’s Dwayne at, Mrs. C?” Shaking her up like a snow globe.

Mrs. Crenshaw silently bobbed and butted against the glass. If she knew, she wasn’t telling.

The TV was on with the sound muted. Tuned to local news. Dwight was about to switch it off and lock up the store and then head back home to see if Dwayne had showed up there, when a photo of the fella he’d just hung in the cellar flashed across the screen.

Frowning, Dwight turned up the sound: “—the hunt for escaped mass-murderer Terrence LeRoy Hingle continues tonight. Hingle, also known as the Sorority Slayer, escaped earlier this evening from the Pine Grove State Hospital after killing several orderlies. He remains at large and is known to be highly dangerous. Police have warned the public not to approach him and to remain vigilant until he is apprehended—” Dwight shut off the TV.

Highly dangerous, my ass.
But maybe this Hingle fella had done something to Dwayne? And Dwight didn’t like the thought of leaving the Jarvis gal alone in the house with a madman. Hell, anything could happen.

He hustled from the store and back to his truck. Fetched Dwayne’s bloody cap off the forecourt and frowned at it. Nope, Dwight didn’t like the look of this at all. For all their bickering, Dwayne was kin, his baby brother by five minutes. It filled Dwight with dread that something might’ve happened to him. He leapt in the truck and hit the gas and floored it home.