Kill Whitey (19 page)

“Let’s see you get out of that, you son of a bitch!”

I slammed the forklift into reverse, backed up a few feet, and then crashed into the stack of lumber again. The metal strapping holding the two-by-fours onto the skid snapped, and the wood tumbled down. I turned the forklift around and tilted the forks even further. Whitey slid another few inches towards me. I stared into his eyes and what I saw there made me smile.

Fear.

For the first time since this whole mess had begun, Whitey was afraid.

That almost made things worth it, but then I remembered Darryl and Jesse and Yul.

“How does it feel?” I laughed. “How does it feel, you motherfucker? You’re gonna die!”

Whitey shook his head back and forth, spraying blood in all directions. His hands grasped the forks again, and this time they didn’t slip off. Slowly, incredibly, he began to push himself backward, trying to free himself from impalement. I spun the steering wheel and turned the forklift in a tight circle. The rear tires ran over a steaming pile of Whitey’s guts, flattening them across the pavement and squishing between the deep tread.

“You know, Whitey,” I taunted, “it’s too bad they didn’t have forklifts when Rasputin was around. He sure as shit wouldn’t have survived this either. Would have saved everyone a lot of trouble. Instead, they had to drown the bastard.”

Defiant, Whitey continued pushing himself up the tilted forks, trying to reach the end. I was wrong. Even this—impalement by heavy machinery—hadn’t killed him. But I knew what would. Drowning had worked on his ancestor, so it was good enough for him, too. At last, I knew for sure how to kill Whitey. I knew how to succeed where bullets and fire and stabbings had failed.

“Sondra,” I hollered, “if you can hear me, stay put. I’ll be back. I promise. Just wait for me here.”

Stomping the throttle, I raced down the row, passing by skids of lumber and building materials, and headed for the main gate. In the rearview mirror, I glimpsed Richard kneeling in the wreckage and throwing up on the scattered two-by-fours. I passed the flatbed truck and continued towards the exit. As we sped by the guard shack, I spotted Leon through the window. He was shouting into the telephone. His face was haggard and white. When he looked up and saw us, the phone slipped from his hand. I resisted the crazy impulse to wave at him. Instead, I tilted the forks as far back as they would go, impeding Whitey’s progress. He slid towards me again, smashing into the hydraulics.

“Don’t worry,” I yelled. “Almost done here. We’re just gonna go for a quick little ride. I know just the place for you.”

Something black and round slid out of Whitey’s chest and plopped onto the pavement. I ignored it. I’d become immune to the gore and the violence, immune to the ever-increasing atrocities. Whitey was nothing more than meat, and it was time for the slaughter.

I forgot all about Sondra and the lumber yard employees and the cops and my dead friends and my cat, and focused instead on my destination.

The shores of Lake Pinchot waited for us as the sun climbed high into the sky.

Looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

Then I saw the dark clouds on the horizon that spoke of the storm to come.

twenty-three

The gate was one of those chain-link jobs—part of the fence surrounding the lumber yard. It stood wide open as we approached. I barreled out into the road and turned left, heading for the State Park. Whitey’s body and dangling limbs shook as we bounced along. Each time he moved, more blood spurted from his mouth and more pieces of his insides splattered onto the asphalt. He’d stopped struggling. Maybe he was too weak or maybe the jostling kept him from trying. He just hung there from the forks, wriggling and jittering like a butterfly beneath a collector’s pin.

The forklift’s top speed was around twenty miles per hour. I kept the throttle open, silently urging it to go faster. There was no doubt in my mind that Leon had succeeded in calling the cops. A few minutes ago, I’d wanted them to show up. Now I didn’t. Not until I was finished with Whitey, and Sondra and the baby were safe once and for all.

Not until I’d had my revenge.

My grin felt savage, as if it were twisting my face into something unrecognizable.

I checked the rearview mirrors as we cruised along, looking for police cars or other emergency vehicles, but the road was clear. Indeed, it was deserted except for one car that came up behind me, moving fast. I swerved over to the side of the road and the terrain grew bumpier, jostling Whitey even more. The car, a beige Ford Taurus, refused to pass me. Instead, the driver slowed down and blew his horn.

“Go around,” I shouted, not looking back.

The forklift rattled and shook, and I was worried that Whitey might slip off. The forks were still tilted, but he could shift suddenly to the side. If that happened, the forks would rip right through his torso. Maybe that in itself would be enough to kill him, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Not now, when I had him succumbed and trapped. We were too close.

The Taurus beeped again. Still not looking back, I waved the driver around. Instead of passing me, he followed along right behind, his front bumper nearly rear-ending the forklift. I glanced back. The forklift weaved. The car was close enough that I could see the occupants now. The driver was a middle-aged, balding white guy wearing glasses and a floppy-brimmed sunhat pulled down over his forehead. A woman who was probably his wife sat next to him, gesturing wildly and apparently screaming at him, judging by how wide her mouth was open and how quickly it was moving. In the backseat, two little heads that probably belonged to his kids bobbed up and down, jockeying for a better view of the crazy man on the forklift. The driver blew the horn again, leaning on it this time—long and loud. Then he flashed his headlights at me.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Neither Whitey or the driver answered me—not that I’d expected them to.

I couldn’t pull over. No fucking way. The lumber yard and fields lay behind us and now the road was cutting through the forest. The trees grew close to the roadside, and there wasn’t enough room for the forklift. More importantly, stopping or slowing down now would only increase Whitey’s chances of escaping. True, he was still now, just hanging there, impaled and limp. But he wasn’t fooling me. I’d seen this act before. The man who couldn’t die was playing dead. Soon as he saw an opening, he’d take it, and someone else would die for my stupidity.

Well,
I vowed,
not this time.

I stuck out one arm and waved the Taurus around again. This time, the driver took the hint. Accelerating, he went around me, giving the forklift a wide berth and swerving into the oncoming lane. As they pulled even with us, the car slowed again. All four family members stared in horror. The woman had a cell phone pressed to one ear, but her mouth hung open, unmoving. The kids gaped, expressions of horror frozen on their faces. There were two of them—a boy and a girl. The girl had pigtails. The boy had his finger up his nose. Apparently, he was so shocked by what he saw that he’d forgotten all about it.

Whitey became animated again. He raised one arm and waved at them. The little boy pulled his finger out of his nose and waved back. Whitey’s face twisted into a garish smile, made hideous by his multiple injuries—all tendons and teeth and sinew. Wet and red. The little boy began to cry.

The Taurus sped away, still hugging the oncoming traffic lane. It swerved a little, as if the driver was having trouble. I pitied them. The perfect, All-American Nuclear Family, out for a day’s drive. Maybe heading out on vacation—Ocean City, Baltimore, Washington D.C., Hershey Park, or one of a hundred other nearby destinations. Summer vacation. Making memories that would last a lifetime. But now they’d taken a detour and seen something else they’d never forget. This memory would never fade, especially for the children. They’d see it for the rest of their lives, every time they closed their eyes.

The madness and grotesqueries that always swirled around in Whitey’s wake had infected someone else.

I swore they would be the last.

The car got back into our lane about two hundred yards down the road. I did the same. The tires crunched over a bottle and then the ride smoothed out again. Whitey was motionless again. Just hanging out. I suppressed a giggle. It scared me. I was afraid that if I started laughing now, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

We passed a sign on the right—
Lake Pinchot State Park, 1 Mile Ahead
. I breathed a sigh of relief. Almost over now. End of the road.

Another car appeared on the horizon, racing towards me. My heart pounded and my breath caught in my throat. I figured it was the cops, at first, but there were no flashing lights or sirens. As the vehicle drew closer, I saw that it was a blue Chevy Nova, completely restored, chrome rims, custom paint-job—the works. Any other time, I’d have slowed down and admired it. The motor hummed, much louder than the forklift’s engine. Megadeth’s ‘In My Time of Dying’ blared from the speakers. I could feel the bass, even over the forklift’s vibrations. The irony of the song choice was not lost on me. I wondered if Whitey appreciated it, too. Probably not. He didn’t strike me as a fan of Dave Mustaine. The Nova’s driver raced past us without slowing. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed us. If I’d had a car like that, I probably wouldn’t have been paying attention to what was around me either. I’d be too busy eating up the highway.

I took the exit for Lake Pinchot. Asphalt gave way to gravel and stone. The forklift bounced along the stone road. The propane tank rattled behind me, but I didn’t slow down. I willed the forklift to go faster. Whitey grew active again. Once more, he gripped the bloodstained forks and pushed himself backwards, dragging his ruined flesh across the steel. Luckily, each bump impeded his progress. I started aiming for potholes, mindful to hit them slow so the impact wouldn’t knock him loose. I wanted him shaken—not freed.

Both the lake and the surrounding State Forest were open to the public. There were no guards or rangers or gates. We passed a few signs. One said ‘Welcome to Lake Pinchot’ and another was a list of rules and regulations—what time the park closed, warnings about campfires and alcoholic beverages—stuff like that. I didn’t see anything that told me murder was prohibited.

Whitey had given up on trying to free himself. Maybe he’d realized it was futile and had resigned himself to his fate, or maybe he was reserving his strength, preparing to make a final attempt when the time was right. I don’t know. But he went limp again. His body was motionless—lifeless—except for his eyes. They still moved, promising menace and death and butchery.

I drove down a wooded lane and into the park. Oak, pine, maple, and elm trees loomed over us on each side. Even though the sun was still shining from between the steadily darkening clouds, there was no light beneath the foliage. The deep shadows among the tree trunks reminded me of our flight through the sewer. I wondered where Sondra had gone and if she was okay. The cops were probably swarming the lumber yard by now. Had she been caught, or had she got away? Maybe she was following me. I hoped not. Chances were good that the woman in the Ford Taurus had called the police on her cell phone. I checked the rearview mirror again, but there was still no sign of pursuit.

Whitey’s head slumped forward and his eyes fluttered twice, then closed. He didn’t open them again.

“Hey,” I shouted. “Wake up. We’re almost there.”

Suddenly, there was an explosion overhead. I jumped in the seat, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel, and my foot slipped off the throttle. Immediately, our speed decreased. I accelerated again, glancing around to see where the shot had come from. Another loud boom echoed across the park, and I realized that it wasn’t gunfire. It was thunder. The storm drew closer.

The noise disturbed Whitey. He opened his eyes again and looked around, as if unsure where he was. Then his gaze fell on me and his eyes narrowed.

My stomach fluttered.

There was a parking lot near the lake. I’d expected to encounter a few swimmers or fishermen, maybe even some boaters or campers, but instead, the lot was deserted. A small shack stood between the parking lot and the shoreline. A giant plywood ice cream cone was nailed to the roof. A large sign advertised sno-cones, pizza, french fries, hot dogs, and ice cold beverages, but the door was shut and a ‘Closed’ sign dangled from the counter window.

The sky grew darker. Thunder rumbled again. Something cold splattered against my burned scalp. Then another. Fat raindrops pelted the forklift. Then the clouds opened up and the rain began in full. Lightning flashed across the horizon, zigzagging between the clouds and then striking somewhere deep inside the forest.

I drove past the concession stand and onto a grassy area. It had been mowed recently. The grass clippings were fresh. I looked around again, searching for a groundskeeper, but we were alone.

It seemed fitting, somehow. Felt right.

Along the shoreline was a concrete boat ramp and a long, wooden pier that extended out over the lake. I considered both, and then, after a second’s hesitation, I turned towards the pier. The supports were made out of telephone poles and the boards were thick and sturdy. It looked solid enough. I was sure it would hold the forklift’s weight.

We clattered out onto the pier. It groaned beneath us, but held. I took my foot off the accelerator and pumped the brakes, slowing us to a crawl. The rain fell harder. Another loud blast of thunder cracked overhead, and I ducked instinctively. My heart rate increased. I was terrified and excited at the same time. I wondered what Whitey was feeling, but his eyes were closed again, and he wasn’t moving.

Raindrops struck the lake’s surface, making thousands of concentric rings. More lightning flashed overhead. I stopped the forklift at the edge of the pier. The forks stuck out over the water. The lake was deep at this point. At least fifteen feet. I’d heard it was even deeper further out, and there were sinkholes in the bottom, supposedly leading down into underwater caverns. Wouldn’t have surprised me. Central Pennsylvania is littered with limestone caverns and old mine shafts. There’s an abandoned iron ore mine out between Spring Grove and Hanover that’s supposed to be bottomless. Supposed to be haunted, too. Bullshit, of course, but people had drowned there over the years and their bodies were never found.

The engine idled choppily. I turned around and checked the gauge on the propane bottle, wiping the rain away so I could read it. The tank was almost empty, but that didn’t matter. We’d reached our destination and would go no further. At least, not together. Not thinking clearly, I turned the key to the off position. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was just a combination of fear and shock and sheer exhaustion. The pain in my head returned again, throbbing in time with my pulse. The engine choked, sputtered, and then died. Silence descended. Even the thunder seemed to pause.

“End of the road, you fucker!”

Whitey didn’t respond. Didn’t move. His eyes remained closed. The blood that had been gushing from his mouth was starting to congeal.

“Hey, Whitey! Wake the hell up. We’re here. Don’t go to sleep on me now.”

Nothing.

“Shit…”

Could it be that he was finally dead, or was this just one more attempt at deceit? Unsure, I decided there was only one way to find out. I turned the key and the forklift stuttered to life again. The hydraulics squealed. The engine backfired. The chains rattled.

Whitey remained stationary—immobile.

Lifeless.

My shoulders sagged. The strength drained from my body and weariness seeped into my limbs. I closed my eyes. Rain streamed down my face. I felt robbed of my victory. Cheated out of my revenge. I thought of Darryl and Yul and how they’d died, and of Jesse, whose body, for all I knew, was lying in a ditch somewhere. I thought of the innocent cops that had been slaughtered, and the butchery at the lumber yard. I remembered Webster, and his plaintive howls during the gunfight at my apartment. And more than any of these, I thought of Sondra. Of what she’d been through. Her life. The terrors she’d faced just to come here in search of a dream, and how that dream had been trampled and pissed on instead.

So much cruelty. So much needless death. All because of one man.

The man on the end of my forklift.

Zakhar Putin, a.k.a. Whitey Putin.

And now he was dead and I felt nothing. Not vindication. Not peace. There was no solace in this death. No joy or exultation. No sense of justice or victory. All I felt was bitter resentment that he’d died before I had a chance to enjoy it. That his soul—if he even had a soul—had slipped away without me seeing it. I’d wanted him to suffer the way he’d made others suffer. The way Rasputin had suffered.