Lady in Flames (8 page)

What does this loony-toon want? Jackass is always butting in where he doesn’t belong. He makes a motion for me to lower the window.

The worn motor whines the whole way down. I lean out in hopes Willis will halt where he’s at. “What do you want?”

Willis strolls over in a slow, carefree shuffle. He stops a foot or so short of me. “Hey there, boy. Where you headed?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Never you mind.” He picks at something in his teeth.

“You’re not a cop, you know. You can’t just go pulling people over.”

Willis scratches his tilted head. One eye squints, as if he’s confused. “I’m not sure what to make of you, boy. This ain’t about the police. This is about information I’ve got that you ain’t privy to.”

“What information?”

“I’ve got ears all over this town and happened to come across something you might be interested in.” He snorts and then spits. “Now I know you was close with Doppler Jennings. I seen you with him a lot when he was still alive.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, I imagine you was plenty upset when he died.”

“I suppose.”

“You probably wanted to ring the neck of whoever done it—might even still want to today.”

“What are you getting at?”

Willis chuckles and then shrugs. “Turns out I know who run him down.”

His words hit like a sucker punch. “What did you say?”

“Yep, I know who done it. It was Buck Armstrong. He got good and liquored-up one night and then tried to drive home. I heard him admit it myself.”

My heart stops and drops into my stomach. The sides of my throat squeeze together like there are invisible hands around my neck. Then my heart pounds back into my chest. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.

I thought if I ever found out who killed Doppler it would be like something on the news. Someone who was passing through, someone who I’d never get to meet. A person I never heard of who got caught doing something they shouldn’t.

Willis leans forward, one hand on the door frame. He grins a snaggle-toothed smirk. “That Buck—he’s dirty. I know it. He got that dope Willard to fix his van for him. Helped him cover up the whole thing.”

“How do you know? I mean, how do you know for sure?” I don’t want to believe him. For anything this town’s worth I don’t want to believe him.

Willis leans back and his tone rises as if he’s annoyed. “I done told you that. I’ve got ears all over this town.” He pauses like he’s waiting for me to reply.

“Prove it.” I fight to hold back the wetness in my eyes. The rest of my body burns like I’m either going to explode or go into meltdown.

“Shit, son. I ain’t got to prove anything. You already believe me. I can see that plain as dirt.” He shifts from one leg to the other and says, “Now you go on and do what you got to do. I won’t stop you.”

I turn away, knuckles bound over the steering wheel. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. With one more watery glance at Willis, I slam the shifter back into drive and floor it.

The thrashed motor belly-aches the whole way down the road. I’m a missile as I pass the trailer park, the holler, and the mill. I curse all the lone houses I see on my way past the outskirts of town.

Letting out every obscenity I know, I pound my fist into the dash until the display on the radio goes dead. Buck? Buck Armstrong? That sloppy son of a bitch? All this time he’s been walking around, a free man. Never accused of nothing.

A cloudy film of the last twelve hours fills my head. Getting beaten. Breaking into the hardware. Setting the fire. Then years past creep in—times when Doppler was still here. Fishing. Taking swigs of his whiskey. Collecting cans along the roadside. I drive toward his place without really thinking about it.

Another ten minutes and I’m heading down the loneliest, most forgotten road in Halgraeve. No houses, no grain silos. Just a stringy, barbed wire fence that runs for miles.

When I reach the narrow drive, I’m done crying. Whatever’s inside me is just an ember now, but I’ve got all the aggression in the world to fuel that back up to a raging flame. I stop short of getting the car stuck and leave it near the road.

Trudging down the unplowed drive is a chore; the snow’s knee high. I can just make out Doppler’s old shack at the end. One side is close to being buried with all the drifting. The slate shingles hide under a thick blanket.

It’s really just a two-room cabin with a small workshop on the one end. Doppler kept junk he collected in there along with rusty old tools. I know the lock was busted on that door and so I start there.

Like I expect, the latch is loose and there’s nothing to keep me from getting in. Wedging enough room between the snow and door is another thing entirely, but with a few violent surges I’m able to squeeze past.

Inside, I trip over old gas cans, ramming my left shin into the lip of one of them. They don’t budge because they’re full. Beyond them lies a workbench buried under boxes and paint cans. I remember smoking out here a lot.

The inside door is locked, but that hasn’t stopped me all day so I heave into it with a numb shoulder. It must be the sturdiest thing in the house because it won’t give. I resort to some of the forgotten tools lying nearby to destroy the latch but don’t succeed.

I give up and exit, marching around to the back of the house to jimmy the rear window with a screwdriver. The old wooden casing slips and I’m in, head first. The dusty kitchen floor feels as cold as the snow.

The layout’s just like I remember it. The paint spattered, analog radio, the lumpy brown couch, the wood-burning stove, the greasy refrigerator. So dead now.

Doppler once told me there was always going to be outsiders. That’s just the way society is. People want a scapegoat or a reason to feel like they’re better than you. He’d always sit me down on that couch and tell me how it was.

He might as well have been my dad. Hell, he was my dad for what it’s worth. Buck could never appreciate that. His dad’s still alive; the old crotchety bastard is holed up in the nursing home across town.

Rumor is that he always gives Buck an earful when he goes to visit. He’s supposed to be as big a loudmouth as Buck ever was. Suppose Buck were to lose his father? What then? How would he feel? Alone? An outsider?

I’ll bet Buck’s never suffered one bit. He’s a taker, always used to having his own way. Why should he get off the hook when everyone else has to own up? Why shouldn’t
he
have to pay for once? Why shouldn’t he be the one to feel like he’s got nothing else in the world?

My shin still aches from those gas cans. Those gas cans…

The Driver Intervenes

February 27
th
, 2002 2:19 PM

The Driver outside the Shoreline Motel

Grimley looks up at me from his place in the dirt, eyes begging me to tell him the rest of the story. “What happened next?”

The soul rests before him like a dim firefly in the glare of the daylight. I swear I can make out a shallow visage, mouth gaping in a silent scream.

I keep my eye on it, half wanting to snatch it away. The lure of the physical world tugs at my will. I know I could be back in Halgraeve in a matter of minutes if I just grab the soul and run.

Grimley’s innocent curiosity gets the better of me and his rapt attentiveness to whether the good guy wins earns my appreciation. I lean back from my crouch and find a seat on the ground before continuing.

“Still on his knees, Mason pleaded with Sinclane to remain calm and to think things through. It didn’t have to go down like this. When Sinclane shoved the barrel deeper into the back of his neck, he tried to appeal to his humanity or any shred of decency he might have.

“Having Mason on his knees fueled some kind of sick fascination in Sinclane. He gloried in being in control, the one calling the shots. Mason’s fate rested in his hands and he relished every second of it.

“Mason groveled. He was never more scared in his life. The only thing he could focus on was what might happen to his family if he was gone.

“Sinclane wouldn’t budge. He told himself he was unstoppable. No one else was around to see or hear it, and so he pulled the trigger as easy as if he was starting his car. No thought, no deliberation, just a casual flick of his finger.”

Grimley’s mouth quivers and his eyes turn down as if he might cry. He chokes back a few tearless sobs. “Why? Why did he do it? Why did Mason have to die?”

Not meaning to have upset him, I hesitate. I can’t conjure up a decent answer and so I shrug and tell him I don’t know. There’s no way to soften it up for him now, but I feel like I need to redeem myself for having laid it on him in such a blunt fashion.

“The story doesn’t end there. Do you want me to keep going?”

Grimley doesn’t answer at first. After a few seconds’ silence, he says, “Yeah, I guess.” His shoulders droop as if he’s giving in.

“Alright. Well, Sinclane stood over Mason’s body for several seconds, letting the moment settle. He knew he crossed a line, but instead of being filled with remorse or panic, he felt consumed with a new-found power. He sped away from the scene without a care in the world.

“It was a long time coming, but the tipping point that was necessary to push him into moral oblivion arrived. Sinclane breathed deep the path of destruction laid out before him. He looked forward to savoring the fruits of his wanton desires, psycho-power unbridled.

“Sinclane drove straight for Mason’s house. He sought to do worse than anything Mason might have feared in his last moments. Sinclane fancied himself a man of his word; he had to see through what he threatened.”

Grimley interrupts. “He better not hurt that family.”

“Just keep listening. Sinclane arrived at Mason’s house to find his wife locking up for the night. He barged his way in, gun in hand, and tossed her to the ground like she was garbage.

“Already in bed, Mason’s boys came downstairs and tried to intervene. Sinclane wrangled them up, bloodied their noses, and tied them with their pajama bottoms.

“Dazed and sobbing, the wife crawled toward the phone before Sinclane caught her. He dragged her by one leg back into the entryway where her children lay bound and bottomless.

“He jammed the gun beneath her chin, straddled her, and said filthy things. He promised that all he said would come true. That’s when he heard the deep burble of motors growling together at various revolutions.

“Sinclane twitched, not wanting to give in to the fear trying to wedge its way into his mind. He smacked the wife once more to get her to be quiet while he listened.

“The roar grew steadier and fiercer as Sinclane’s fear gave way to a sweaty panic. He didn’t believe in the Night Drivers. He couldn’t. They were just made up. He swore and stood when soon the walls of the house shook with bellowing exhausts.

“Sinclane barreled through the front door and stomped out to the front lawn. Eight ominous black cars rippled and bulged under the last shreds of dusk.

“Sinclane stood there, calling down curses on them and taunting them to do something. Then his left knee exploded. He wasn’t sure whether he saw the muzzle flash first, or whether he heard the crack of gunfire. All he knew was the searing, jagged pain in his mangled knee.

“Collapsed, Sinclane howled in throaty, raspy yelps. He foamed at the mouth and gnashed his teeth, cursing once again. His nervous system went into overdrive and he forced himself up on his elbows.

“A shotgun blast came next, ripping his chest and the lower half of his face to shreds, twisting him backward. Sinclane lay on the damp grass, his consciousness splintered, when he heard car doors open and then slam shut.

“The muffled plunk of footsteps carried across the lawn and then two dark figures stared down at him. They grabbed him with rough hands and dragged him toward the street. One of them tied a chain to his bumper. The other end he tied around Sinclane’s ankles.

“Sinclane couldn’t voice ‘No’ like he wanted to. He could only wait as car doors slammed again, motors revved, and the Night Drivers accelerated into the night with his bloody, ragged body dragging behind.”

Grimley and I sit in silence for several minutes. He peers at the ground, forehead wrinkled as if he’s thinking things over.

“Can I have the soul now?” I’ve wasted too much time as it is. I hope he relents; reasoning with a wanderling often proves a maddening descent into the unreasonable.

Grimley sighs. “Yeah, OK.” With gentle hands he leans to pass it to me.

I accept it and a faint tickle flits across my palms—the extent of what I can feel. “Thanks.”

We both stand and Grimley begins to walk away, little feet mashing down the grass in deliberate steps. Then he turns back, face shied away as if he’s afraid of what I’ll say. “Are there other bad men like Sinclane in the world?”

“Yes.”

“Do you kill them?”

“Sometimes.”

Grimley sets his mouth firm as if he’s reluctant but satisfied with that answer. Then he turns and walks off toward the road.

I proceed across the front lawn to where the car waits. Cradled in my arms, the soul burns calm. For now it will have to hide in the duffel bag in the back seat. It’s been two days out-of-body; it will be OK for another day or two until I can construct a new body for it.

After securing the soul, I start the motor and hustle the Camaro back the direction I came. Grimley’s sad little form fades in the rearview.

By this time events have come to a head in Halgraeve. There won’t be any turning back for anyone involved there; each will have to walk the path he’s chosen. Where those paths cross is the problem.

The washed-out, sunny waterfront streaks by in hazy blur. Soon I’m past Summerland and into a dull, poorly defined, decaying dreamscape.

Chalky hills loom in the distance; soggy, water-logged brush hangs morose on either side of the pitted road. It makes for a jarring ride, each defect in the asphalt communicated through the wheels and frame.

There’s a sleeve at the outermost reaches of this lonely void, a pathway to the physical world. I steer for it like I’ve done so many times before. The sleeve’s foggy lining will draw me into the vacuum within and then slingshot me into the living.