Sawbones: A Novella (5 page)

The next sound is the driver’s door being slammed.

Laura knows that when the Bastard returns he’ll have another girl with him. And then they’ll be back on the road again. One Step closer to Christ knows what.

Chapter 9

It’s nearly midnight and we’re driving along the Interstate, listening to some bullshit talk radio station, because that’s all this God-damned car will pick up. Henry’s sitting in the passenger seat, arguing with the callers – even though they can’t hear him – and drinking from a fresh bottle of Old Kentucky.

I can’t decide if the smell of bourbon’s making me feel hungry or sick.

‘I just wanna say,’
says some cracker on the radio,
‘that this isn’t about gun control, it’s
about not treating women with the respect they deserve!’

“Course it’s about gun control, you stupid bitch!” says Henry, “How can it not be about gun control? How stupid are these people? Hello! Wake the fuck up. Isn’t about gun control my ass.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, “what do you expect from people who got nothing better to do on a Friday night than call some lame-ass radio show?”

Jack’s in the back, trying to sleep as the counties slowly drift by outside: McLean, Woodford, Tazewell, Peoria, Knox . . . We get a small laugh on the way out of Knox – the next county’s called ‘Henry’. “Hey, look,” I say, “you’re five miles away!”

Henry toasts the big sign with his name on it as we cross the county line.

Then twenty-five miles later we’re driving through the last chunk of Illinois, Rock Island. It’s not even eleven miles wide, but it takes us nearly half an hour to cross the border into Iowa. God-damned car steers like a boat, brakes like an oil tanker, and accelerates like . . . You know what? I can’t think of anything that accelerates this slowly. My fucking
apartment
moves faster than this.

The radio fizzes and crackles as the signal fades, so Henry fiddles with the dial. Back and forth, looking for something to listen to. We almost get a country and western station, but Henry says he’d rather listen to a fat guy farting. And then it’s more late night talk radio.

‘. . . in three weeks,’
says a man’s voice. ‘
OK, you’re listening to KFBM – Scott County Radio, all talk, all of the time. We’ll be back after these messages . . .’
Then it’s ads for tractor dealerships and farming shit.
‘Right, we’re on the air with a regular caller – Jason. What’s on your mind, Jason?’

‘Yeah, you see that
America’s Most Wanted
tonight? That Sawbones guy? Travellin’ all over the country and snatching girls?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘What I want to know is how come the Feds can’t catch this guy?’

“’Cause they’re assholes,
that’s
why,” says Henry, back into his bourbon again. “Tell you, half the people who call these programmes need locking up. The other half should be taken outside and shot. Back of the head. BAM!”

Then some woman calls in and proves Henry right.
‘You know what,’
she says, her voice all nasal, like she’s got a cold, or a finger jammed up there, hunting for her brain, ‘
I saw that Jones guy on the TV going on about his daughter. You know what I heard? I heard he was a mobster. He’s out there running drugs and prostitutes and murdering people, and we’re supposed to feel sorry for him because his daughter’s gone missing?’
She gives one of those sarcastic laughs. ‘
You know what I call it? I call it God’s judgement.
“
Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap!” It’s in the Bible, people –’

Henry looks at me, then switches the radio off. He doesn’t even bother shouting at it.

“So . . .” I say at last, “what we going to do when we get to Polk County?”

Henry shrugs and takes another swig. “We get ourselves a list of all the Winnebagos registered in Polk and we go visit each and every one. When we find the one with a hula Elvis and an ‘In God We Trust’ bumper sticker, we kick the shit out the owner and take him back to New Jersey.”

I nod. Wondering how the hell we’re going to get the list, but Henry’s a lot smarter than me – he’ll figure it out. “You think the Weasel in the morgue was right?” I ask. “That, you know, the girls might still be alive?”

Henry shudders. “Christ, I hope not.”

“Yeah . . . you’re probably right.” More miles drift by in silence. “What you think he does to them? You know, after he cuts their arms and legs off?”

“I don’t know, Mark,” he says to me, “and I don’t really want to know.”

Chapter 10

The back of a filthy Winnebago

Laura’s almost asleep when the side door is flung open. Orange streetlight spills in through the opening, draining the colour out of everything. The Bastard’s back and he’s not alone – he’s got a girl thrown over his shoulder.

He dumps her on the Winnebago’s filthy carpet, then climbs in after her, pulls the door shut, and switches on the pale, flickering lights. The Bastard grabs the new girl by the armpits and drags her backwards until she’s up against the fridge, then cable-ties her hands and feet to one of the rings bolted into the floor. He’s humming
Nearer, My God, to Thee
as he works, with a great big grin on his face.

And then he strokes her leg, starting at the ankle and going all the way up to the fleshy part of her thigh. Squeezing it as he bites his bottom lip.

The Bastard shivers, crosses himself. Then stands.

“Repent,” he says, throwing his arms wide, “for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.” He smiles down at them. “Now we can all go back to the garden.”

He ducks back outside, returning with the kitten in its cardboard box, stroking its fur and telling it how good it’s been. How special. The Bastard puts the box back under the table, then picks his way between the five women, staying out of Laura’s kicking range. He may be a bastard, but he’s not stupid.

For a brief moment he sings the opening bars of
Home on the Range
, then he pushes through into the driver’s compartment, and switches off the light. The Winnebago’s engine rumbles into life.

Laura knows that when they get wherever they’re going, it’ll make what’s happened so far look like a trip to Disneyland. This is just the warm-up act. What comes next is going to be more horrible than any of them can imagine.

Chapter 11

Saturday

Three in the morning and I’ve got a headache like you wouldn’t believe. The car’s been getting slower and slower all night, no matter how hard I press the accelerator. Its engine has started making clanking noises, and the effort of keeping the shuddering steering wheel straight is beginning to tell.

Jack’s asleep on the back seat with his knees curled up, snoring gently. Henry’s dozed off too, the half-bottle of Old Kentucky drained and hurled out the window about a dozen miles ago.

So now it’s just me and the rattling cough of the car as something in the engine eats itself. This God-damn thing’s going to fall to pieces long before we get to Polk County. And so am I.

I blink at the dashboard, trying to figure out what the little yellow light means. Then I tap the glass and find out as the fuel gauge needle does a rapid crash to empty. Son-of-a-bitch.

Luckily there’s a Casey’s General Store not far off the Interstate, its red and yellow signs glowing in the pitch-black night. I drive the car down the off-ramp and onto the forecourt.

Henry wakes up as I’m filling the tank. He yawns and stretches, then clambers out into the cold night. “What time is it?” he asks, blinking up at the bright lights – and when I tell him he swears. “How come it’s taking so long?”

I grit my teeth. “Because you said we had to steal this ancient, God-damned piece-of-crap Ford Crown Victoria.
That’s
why.”

He wipes the sleep out of his eyes. “We’ll get something faster when we hit Des Moines.”

“Sixty, seventy miles. About two and a bit hours in this piece of – ”

“OK,” he says, “OK, you don’t like the car. I
get
it. Fill her up and we’ll see if we can’t find something a little closer.” Henry closes his eyes and shudders. “Gotta take a crap . . .” Then he starts towards the store, muttering as he goes, “God-damned morons. Fifty-four Ford Crown Victoria’s a classic . . .”

I finish filling up, and pay at the pump – using my credit card in the machine – then follow Henry into Casey’s. Doesn’t matter where you go, pretty much every Casey’s General Store is the same. There’s a big fat woman, with a basket full of donuts and Diet Coke, arguing with the spotty kid behind the counter about the ‘three for two’ hot pizza slices.

I ignore her, and go for the hot filter coffee in the far corner. Maybe get some gum too; something to keep me awake for the rest of the drive. And because I’m in a shitty mood, I don’t get anything for Jack or Henry.

And then I feel guilty and get a six-pack of root beer and two big bags of tortilla chips. I’m paying for them when I realise there’s a Winnebago on the forecourt. It’s brown. I catch a glimpse of the driver as he sticks the nozzle back in the pump and pays. A man, dressed in black, glasses . . .

The spotty youth behind the counter tells me to have a nice day – even though it’s half-three in the God-damned morning. He’s holding out my credit card.

Outside, the guy in black climbs back into the Winnebago. Fuck.

Probably not him, but I’m gonna have to check it out.

I’m pushing out through the door when the Winnebago’s engine starts up, its headlights sweeping across the forecourt as it turns back towards the Interstate. That’s when I get a look at the front, there’s a little statue of Jesus and a hoola Elvis on the dashboard. It’s him!

Behind me the spotty till-jockey is shouting, “Sir? You forgot the stuff you bought! Sir?”

“Henry!” I’m running for the car. “HENRY! GET YOUR ASS OUT THAT DAMN TOILET!”

No sign of him, and I can’t wait. I jump in behind the wheel and crank over that gritty, crappy engine. It clicks, groans, whines then grumbles back to life, complaining that I won’t let it die in peace.

I tell it to stop fucking moaning and put my foot down. There’s a grinding sound as I work up through the gears, swearing to God that this is the last time Henry
ever
gets to pick the car we steal. “Move, you piece of shit!”

“What the fuck?” It’s Jack, he’s sitting up in the back, bleary-eyed as I throw the Ford round and back onto the Interstate. Following the Winnebago. “Where’s Henry?”

“It’s HIM!” I say, pointing through the wind-shield at the little red dots in the distance – the motor home’s tail lights, “He was getting gas! I saw him, right there on the forecourt!”

“Henry was getting gas?”

“Not Henry, you moron! Sawbones!”

And suddenly Jack’s wide awake. “Fuck!” He ducks out of view, but he’s back moments later clutching that Glock nine mm of his. Then Jack’s left leg appears in the gap between the front seats.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting into the front . . .”

We’re gaining on the Winnebago. It’s slow and it’s painful – and the Ford’s engine sounds like it’s about to explode – but we’re closing in.

I slap his foot away. “Will you sit your ass down?”

“God-damnit,” says Jack, “Pull over so I can swap seats.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me! Took me long enough to get this piece-of-shit up to forty the first time, I am
not
pulling over.”

Something goes CLANGKiGKiGKiG under the hood and I know we’ve only got one chance at this. I grip the steering wheel even tighter and say a prayer to the God of Dying Automobiles.

“Shoot out the tyres!”

“But I – ”

“Just fucking shoot them!”

I check my rear-view mirror to see if Jack’s doing what he’s told, and that’s when I notice the big cloud of grey smoke billowing out the back of our car.

“Oh, Jesus . . .” Jack winds down his window and sticks his arm out. There’s a hard CRACK and a flash of light as the Glock fires.

Up front I see a little round hole edged in shiny metal appear on the back of the Winnebago. CRACK and there’s another one, slightly higher and to the left.

“I said shoot the tyres!”

“You think it’s so damn easy, you try it!” CRACK.

The Winnebago starts to pull away from us. The guy driving must have finally worked out someone’s shooting the shit out of his motor home. I go to stick my foot down, but it’s already flat to the floor. And our Ford Crown Victoria’s getting slower.

The engine isn’t going CLANGKiGKiGKiG any more, now it sounds like a waste disposal unit eating a brick.

“Shoot the damn tyres!”

Another three shots, all wide of the mark. The Ford’s knackered engine makes one last painful grinding noise and gives up the ghost. I can hear bits of crank case pinging loose and bouncing off the bodywork. Steam gushes out of the radiator, all the warning lights come on, all the gauges go dead, and I got no steering.

The car hisses its way to a full stop in the middle of the road. Steam billowing out the front, smoke billowing out the back.

And all Jack and I can do is watch the Winnebago drive away.

FUCK!

Chapter 12

The back of a filthy Winnebago

The motor home’s full of muffled screaming. Laura’s trying to push herself as far away from the mess as possible, but the noose round her neck makes it impossible. All she can do is keep her eyes tight shut and try not to be sick. With the gag rammed deep into her mouth she’d probably choke to death.

After a while the screaming settles into sobbing, and then whimpering.

And then something like terrified silence.

It might be an hour later, or it might be two, but at long last the Winnebago leaves the main roads and turns onto gravel. But instead of coming to a halt, it just keeps going, the little stones making a white-noise sound beneath the wheels as they drive and drive and drive . . .