The Camaro Murders (7 page)

Something Less Storied

February 7th, 1999

August Burroughs somewhere in the Upper Territory

Halfacre and I walked with Tickseed for a day before we reached this little town. Tickseed says it's a commune where a lot of travelers stay sometimes. I lost track, but I'd say we've been here about a month.

There are other folks about. Most congregate in this faded bar downtown, even though there's nothing to drink—not that anyone could. Others keep to themselves in one of the flimsy houses sprinkled here and there. Tickseed seems to know a lot of them.

One thing I can't make sense of is why the Territory looks so much like the real world. Sure, some of the sounds aren't there, and nothing has a smell, but otherwise I'd swear it was the land of the living.

People act the same, for the most part. They hang together in little pockets, all buddy-buddy. Sometimes they have spats or a falling out. Other times they just move on. All types of people, though…men and women, young and old.

I'm more restless than ever, and so is Halfacre. There doesn't seem to be a point in what we're doing here, seeing as the others come and go so often. Plus, I've got to deal with Tickseed telling me one thing, and the man from the cottage telling me another.

Tickseed calls him the Driver, and acts like he doesn't care for him that much. Tickseed still wanders off at night, though, saying he has business to check up on. This is when the Driver usually shows up.

The Driver has conflicting views on a lot of things—Conrad and the wanderlings, for one. Where Tickseed says they're little cannibals, the Driver says they don't mean harm to anyone. I can't say I've seen aggression from any of them except Conrad—and that was directed at Tickseed.

I get the feeling the Driver doesn't care for Tickseed either, because he makes it a point to leave before Tickseed returns. The Driver still says he needs my help, but I won't let him explain until he's answered all my questions. We usually meet at the bar.

Tonight, the Driver and I are sitting at one of the wobbly tables in the rear. Halfacre is next to me on the floor. Even lying down, he can almost put his head in my lap. His size makes people keep their distance.

I can't think of what to ask the Driver, and I'm tempted to re-hash the parts I don't understand. The super-physical stuff doesn't make sense. And I'm still coming to terms with why Halfacre is here. He isn't supposed to have a soul, and as far as I can figure, my soul is the only reason I'm here.

When I asked about this, the Driver said things aren't always straightforward when someone crosses over. Instead of just grabbing a snapshot of me, he grabbed one of Halfacre as well. The chemicals and electrical impulses in the dog's brain got in the way or something like that.

The Driver also told me we're not biological organisms. We don't have to eat or sleep, and we can't feel hot or cold. That's the confusing part. I'm not alive as much as when I was, well, alive, but I'm still vertical. I guess I don't know what classifies as biological. “So what happens to the dog when I find my ghost?” I nod at Halfacre.

“Common practice is to destroy your body. Since the dog is more or less part of you…” the Driver says before trailing off. He sits with his elbows on the table, the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt rolled up. “We don't have to talk about that now. I can tell you how it's done when it's time.”

I agree to change the subject. “Alright, so I'm not convinced about this Fold business. Why's it so important?”

The Driver nods. “It's a fair question. For one, I can tell you it's ordained by the Father.”

“I don't know the Father.” I haven't been to Sunday School since Grandma stopped making me go.

“That doesn't matter. The Fold doesn't require it. There will always be a need for us.”

“You mean as long as people are gettin' murdered,” I say.

“Yes.” The Driver pauses. “We could use you, but I won't twist your arm. There's something else—the reason why I need your help.”

Stalling isn't getting me anywhere. If helping the Driver can get me out of here, then I'm all ears. “Alright, I'll listen.”

The Driver lowers his voice. “There's a phenomenon sometimes observed among the living, where one of them is a bit more in tune with the Territory than he or she should be. We call them skeleton keys.”

I hold out my hand, signaling him to stop. “What do you mean, in tune?”

“I mean that if someone wanted, he could travel between the Territory and the real world by way of a skeleton key. It's one thing to slip in from the coffin, but a skeleton key would permit someone to roam freely.”

“Hey, remember I'm the new guy here. I don't know what you're trying to say.”

“Sorry,” the Driver says. “I thought maybe you picked up on some of the slang by now. I mean that you can't just cross over whenever you feel like it. There are limited places where it's possible to do so. A skeleton key changes that, which makes for easy abuse. Now here's the deal. There's a skeleton key in Graehling Station. Well, it's not there anymore—but it's coming back soon.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Don't worry about it. What's important is that conditions will be favorable to retrieve the key,” the Driver says.

“Slow down; you're losing me. Retrieve the key?”

The Driver shakes his head. “Sorry. This fellow—the key—he was supposed to die thirteen years ago. His name is Culver. It's too dangerous for him to continue to wander around, because people like your friend Tickseed want to find him and are getting closer.”

“What are you saying—that he has to die?” This conversation is going off the deep end.

“Don't look at it that way. Remember—he should already be dead,” the Driver says.

I cut in. “And you want me to kill him?”

“No, I want you to gather his soul.” The Driver says this like he's afraid I'll misunderstand.

“Will he be alive after I gather his soul?”

“Not in the sense you're asking, no.”

“Then you
do
want me to kill him,” I say.

“Just think of him as already dead.”

I don't respond at first. I still wonder who the good guys are. Everyone has their own agenda here. “Why not someone else from the Fold?”

“It has to be someone who knows the area—someone who can sneak in and out without Tickseed knowing about it.” The Driver looks around to see if anybody is listening. “I'd do it, but Tickseed would expect that.”

“But how would he know?” I ask.

“Because he's been watching Culver. Where do you think he goes at night? He's trying to find a way into Culver's soul when he's dreaming.”

“Tickseed can't cross over on his own?” I'm confused.

“No. Only the Fold can. Or those who the Fold appoints.” The Driver gives me a knowing look.

“You're talking about me, then.” This isn't what I envisioned as a way out.

“Yes, if you'll help.”

“Wait, back up,” I say. “What do you mean about needing someone who knows the area?”

“To a certain extent, the Territory mirrors the physical world. The layers between here and there can be confusing if you're not familiar with their alignment. I can't have someone stumbling about, making people think they've seen a ghost.”

He's gone all scientific on me again. “Never mind, I don't need to know.” I look up and notice Tickseed standing in the doorway—he's early. Damn. This could get ugly fast. I haven't exactly advertised my conversations with the Driver. There's no telling how Tickseed will react.

The Driver catches me staring and turns to see Tickseed making his way over to the table. “Just meet me at the edge of town tomorrow night—after Tickseed leaves.” He stands. “You don't look like you're sold on all of this.”

“How can you tell?” I say while keeping an eye on Tickseed. “Why would I want to get mixed up in your problems?”

“We're not angels,” the Driver says like he's apologizing. “We're something much less storied.” Then he walks away.

I reach down and scratch Halfacre behind the ears, never taking my eyes off the Driver. If things go south, we might have to make a break for it. “Sit tight, boy.”

In a few steps the Driver is within striking distance, but neither he nor Tickseed reacts. They ignore one another as they pass. It's like they don't know each other.

Tickseed sits down where the Driver was, thumbs in his vest. “You know he's full of it.”

I don't reply. I just return his glare.

Tickseed raises his voice, annoyed. “You're not actually listening to what he says, are you? I told you he's an idealist.” He leans across the table and points at me with one of his skinny fingers. “And don't forget, I've been looking out for you. I'm going out of my way to find opportunities for you.”

“I don't follow,” I say.

“Everyone wants a chance at a level playing field. How many times were you denied that when you were alive? I'm just talking about what's fair and just. Love those who deserve to be loved; hate those who deserve to be hated. Your misfortune has afforded you prospects most never see.”

“Prospects for what?”

Tickseed's grin pulls tight around his eyes. “It's simple, really. You have a chance to get even. Revenge is a powerful motivator. It's one of the few desires we have left here. Might as well exploit it.”

The Driver wants me to do this; Tickseed wants me to do that. I'm tired of being pulled in two directions, and them wanting to use me because I don't know what's going on. “It does a lot of good when I'm stuck here,” I say.

“I have an idea or two on how we might get you over to the other side.” Tickseed is thoughtful. “Or maybe if you hang around the Driver long enough, he might even teach you how the Fold does it.”

“But what's really in it for me?” I want to vent. “I hear you both talk, talk, talk. Why should I listen? You can't offer me anything better than the next guy.”

“Now that's where you're wrong,” Tickseed says. “I'm the only one who can set you free. Why cling to an empty promise? The Fold will never make you happy. You and I—we've got to forge ahead and make our own road.”

My own road… He's right, I hate to say. I'm the last guy who wants to get sucked in to someone else's cause. I've always been my own man—never a follower. Not to mention the revenge talk kind of hits a chord.

Tickseed continues. “Do you know what I would love to see? The look on the face of that shovel-wielding inbreed when he sees you've come back for him—when he sees you're not content with death. Once he realizes what he's brought upon himself, it will have been worth it.”

I'd like to believe Tickseed. I really would. Maybe it's as easy as it sounds.

“Well, what do you say?” he asks. “Are you going to settle for what you've been given?”

Visitors

February 19th, 1999

Culver Crisp at the Manor Restaurant

The man and his dog—intruders in last night's dreams. I didn't want them there, but they appeared in every sequence, keeping pace with me. The man had the nervous look of someone who didn't know what he was supposed to be doing. What did he want?

The patrons in the Manor Restaurant can't answer that. The clink of silverware and coffee cups is the sound of their ignorance. They are oblivious to my presence.

I might reach out and strike with no provocation, or toss my meal to the floor in disgust. It would be a stupid way to get noticed, but it would relieve my anonymity.

The restaurant is just like it's always been—a small counter in front with a perimeter of tables, serving three meals a day to truckers and the elderly. I guess I'm the oddball today, though no one seems to object.

What if I put one of them to the floor and just screamed at them? I'd stand over their shocked and frightened form and let loose about what my life has amounted to. It would be easier than making friends who don't want to hear about it—easier than twisting someone's arm to get them to care.

Maybe I don't need someone to listen after all. I'm not conversational. My walk here was unnoticed, as will my walk back to my old house. Just a little sustenance and the use of the facilities, then I'll be on my way, slipping through the cracks of someone's faulty memory.

The waitress refills my coffee cup and I thank her. What I don't tell her is that the man with the dog spoke. This is another first—no one in my dreams has ever addressed me.

All morning I've thought it over. I set the expectation that the dreams mean something, and I take it for granted that they don't change. Now I want to know why they finally did.

More importantly is what, if any, significance lays in what the man said. “Hey, you've got to come with us,” were his words.

Go with them where? It's not a very convincing plea for my obedience. There's nothing to see in that wasteland—just bodies and other horrors to which I'm very much desensitized. Blood and bowels don't bother me anymore, but it doesn't mean I want to see them.

I'm not so naive as to think there aren't things in this world beyond my comprehension—I'm finite. I just don't know where to draw the line between the supernatural and a psychotic episode.

No doubt, there are things wrong with me. I'm probably clinically depressed. My dreams might as well be hallucinations. And I harbor guilt and regret for past events which were largely outside my control. Self-diagnosis makes me wonder if the crazy person knows he's crazy.

The waitress asks me if I need anything else. As she waits for my reply, I notice the grease spots on her apron have formed little continents. The pad of paper where she writes her orders is stuffed into the front pocket. Hands on her hips like she's supporting her back, her pose reminds me of Starla's mom.

I tell her that I'm fine and watch her scurry off to a patron two seats down the counter. She's not expecting a big tip, so she doesn't dote on me. I don't blame her. I wouldn't expect much from me either.

She has her life cut out for her, predictable and simple in this diner. I'm sure she has hopes and dreams, some of which she's probably given up on. I wonder if she asks herself if this is all we get.

I'd answer, “Afraid so, sister. You look worn down. I thought you would've figured that out by now. Or are you the type of person who holds on to hope? I can't tell—maybe you're content to be content. Maybe you don't feel like crawling back into the womb when you wake up like some of us do.”

Anyway, that's the way I'd like to answer. In reality, I'd stumble over a few non-committal comments which would amount to “I don't know.” If she even bothered to ask…

Of course there's no reason for her to confide in me. I might even look like a trusting person, but she's got little to gain by taking a chance on a stranger. She can't be much older than thirty, and I consider what I might say to her if we met within the context of a movie script.

I continue to study her. A little rough around the edges…not quite svelte…but certainly not unattractive. She's what I'd expect to see running around a dive like this.

There's no ring on her finger, and I imagine she goes home to an apartment with a cat. She probably eats most of her dinners alone in front of the T.V. Or maybe she hangs out at the bar in the bowling alley and knows all the regulars.

There could be a boyfriend, but I guess it doesn't matter. I'm just another creep who wonders what she's doing later. I'm not sure why I'm thinking about her. She's not into me. She probably can't wait for me to leave.

Mind games provide relief for only a moment before I'm dwelling on my condition again.
My condition
. I like to call it that. It helps me cope with guilt and the dreams. If I can make myself believe it's not really my fault, that I'm not partially to blame, then I can feel sorry for myself.

Of course self-pity never lasts. Starla went into those woods with me, and I left her alone. What kind of friend does that? The kind of friend who's more concerned about looking tough and saving face. Kids are stupid.

Coming back to the house was a poor idea; I'll admit that now. I'm just digging up the past, but there's that bittersweet nostalgia for which I haven't lost the taste. I just wanted a reminder of how things were, even if it hurts. Sometimes I think the memory is worth the loss; other times I'm not so sure.

Maybe I'm not seeing things in perspective. Whatever happened to Starla is a tragedy; I won't ever marginalize that. I just don't know if it should have such a lasting impact on me. I've let it shape so much of who I am…

I button up my coat and take a glance around the restaurant. I feel sluggish, like the deep fried aroma of this place has saturated me. The speckled countertop, the tattered menus, everything is so simplistic…I feel like I don't belong here anymore.

A few bills find their way from my pocket to the counter. I turn towards the door. My legs are sapped and reluctant to comply, but manage to stagger their way outside. I'm really not feeling well…head is light and airy…a little warm. A ripple of nausea in my middle…then I'm falling.