The Camaro Murders (9 page)

Last Night on Earth

February 20th, 1999

Culver Crisp inside his childhood home

Outside the Manor Restaurant, I collapsed into a snow bank. It was the shock of cold against my cheeks that snapped me out of whatever stupor I fell into.

I stumbled away from there, feeling old and empty. My bones resonated with a dull ache my heart could barely counter. Each step lacked motive, and I didn't understand why I felt so hollow.

All afternoon I rested, alternating between the couch and the patch of carpet in front of the fireplace. I'm back on the couch now, and I think I must be coming down with something. Worse, I've sunk into a deeper mental rift than before.

I've wasted my life, waiting for things to get better. There was never a guarantee they would; I only bought into the idea that the next phase of growing up would bring satisfaction.

I now see that's elusive. The family will break down, friendships will die, and love will dissolve into loathing. This certainty is because of men who've forgotten decency, and little boys who are cowards. I am of this lot and am as much to blame as any.

Now I'm left to play out my heart's petty schemes, useless in their own right. There's nothing worse than the taste of regret. It burns in my stomach, poisoning me. If I could go back and do different…maybe I could have saved her.

What would Starla be like today, if she were still here…if she were still alive? I know she's dead but I never want to believe it. Somehow I hoped she would come back one day, like nothing ever happened.

Would she be the same person I knew at seven? The girl who wanted a big fuzzy dog? No, we would've gone our separate ways. It's only idealism fooling me into thinking there would be anything lasting between us. Reality is waiting for me to choke it down along with the rest of the lies fed to boys in small towns. I don't know if I can keep it from coming back up.

In the last two days, the house has started to look more and more like I remember it, even though it's nearly empty. Who knew I'd sit here someday by myself and wonder how I got here?

The little version of me played with matchbox cars on this floor, watched T.V from this couch. I've lost so much of me since then. It's like my soul leaks. Every day a little more dribbles out. I wonder when there will be nothing left…

Huddling deeper into my jacket, I cringe at how morose I've become. It scares me. What would someone else say if they could read my thoughts? Would they be shocked and disgusted? How fast would they recoil? The thing I want the most—to let someone in—is what I fear most.

In the morning, I'll walk to the bus stop and catch a ride back to school. Once there, the numbing aspects of student life will deaden this part of my brain, and the longing won't be so acute. Class, research papers, the noise in the hallway, they all medicate.

Unfortunately it's short-lived. I'll get sick of that medicine and want to leave. I feel out of place at school, but I know I don't belong here in this house—in this town. Again, it's the impatience of the here and now, the lie of thinking things will sort themselves out after I move on to whatever I'm supposed to do with my life.

Then there's always a nagging fear: there isn't anything I'm supposed to do with my life. I'm not supposed to be here. This fear is like any other sobering reality, the constants in life I can't ignore. My misplacement in this world is as certain as my reflection in the mirror.

I move to the floor and slide closer to the ebbing fire. Knees drawn to my chest, I listen to the wind begin to pick up outside, swirling inside the chimney. The fire needs stoking though I'm not motivated to gather more wood from the garage. I waver for several minutes, watching the licking flames fizzle into glowing embers.

Standing is like staggering under a heavy load. The chill in the room is more piercing now that my limbs aren't drawn against my body. Dizzy, I stumble to the window to see if it's snowing yet.

I draw back the shades and I'm struck with the sense that I'm dreaming. The yard is featureless under a layer of white; its dull glow cast by a clear sky and moonlight. There is no movement save for giant flakes falling in slow motion. It's as if I can hear the silence through the foggy glass.

The most striking feature is near the lone pine tree—the outline of a man and a large dog facing me. They're just shadows, really, but I'm transfixed. Should I be more concerned that my dreams and reality have now blurred?

There's an odd calm about the scene—the blistering cold, harsh and foreboding, and the two figures on the lawn, resolute. Somehow I know they're waiting for me—waiting to grant safe passage. But to where?

I decide this doesn't matter yet. I'm not afraid of them. My questions will be answered soon. I reach out to the window sill to steady myself because I'm feeling less coherent. Slipping, I stop short of total collapse and lean against the freezing glass. Breathing comes and goes at intervals, fogging up my view. I grope with a clumsy hand to wipe away the moisture.

The man and the dog are still there. “I'm ready to go,” I say in a parched voice. Why did I say this? It just came out, the first thing that came to mind. At this, my legs give way and I fall to my knees. I take one more breath. “I'm ready to go.”

The Wicked and Despair

January 16th, 1987

The Driver somewhere in the Upper Territory

From the hood of the Camaro, I hear a low rumble further up the road. The mechanical whirring begins to slow as I see the outline of an old school bus coming around the bend. Its orange lights are afloat.

Another twenty feet and it takes full form, creaking to a stop where I've pulled the car off along the shoulder. Tiny faces peek out of the dirty windows. They regard me with a playful curiosity as I slide from the hood and approach the door.

It opens to reveal Jasper behind the wheel. One massive forearm comes to rest on the seatback as he turns to face me. “They were looking for you,” he says, gesturing towards the bus full of wanderlings.

I nod and step onboard, but I can't find anything to say. Jasper knows what I'm going to do.

“Let it go,” he says. His eyes are searching.

“I can't.” I refuse to meet them and instead look at the floorboard. There's a tug at my shirt sleeve, and I turn to find Conrad at my feet, looking earnest.

I take him by the hand, and lead him off the bus. We step away toward the car and watch the other wanderlings follow. Soon they are all huddled around us.

Jasper reaches for the door and says, “Bury it here, son. Bury all of it.” Then the door folds shut and the bus lumbers away, disappearing in the night.

I turn to the children and repeat something Jasper once said to me. “We fall away from our best selves from time to time. That's the price we pay for our free will.” I don't expect a response and feel stupid for saying it.

The wanderlings are silent before stepping towards each other, crowding together. It appears as if they're stepping into a single-file line behind Conrad, but they are really intertwining their bodies, condensing into one.

When they have finished, I hold the passenger side door open and help them into the car. They smile a collective smile which I struggle to return. Am I using them?

I question the role I will play in this madness, and if it will eventually consume me. I'm going back to the farm, drawn by a sick sense of duty. The urge to file down the rough-hewn edges of unfinished work is the only thing left.

I start the motor and then we're moving, the car hammering out its endless drone. Every time I look over to the passenger seat, the wanderlings have a new face—sometimes a little boy, sometimes a girl. There are probably fifty of them in there. This is some strange game to them, child's play with grown-up consequences.

They understand grief; there's no questioning that. Does that make them vengeful? I've never asked, and won't ask now. I'm content to leave them be as the car pulls us along dimly lit stretches of asphalt.

The endless trees are stick figures; they wave at us as we blast through pockets of mist. There's no one else out here, no travelers to get in our way. The road is ours.

I floor the accelerator and allow my thoughts to race. Clouds melt into the faces of people I used to know, now left behind. Years spent alive rush past like a pedestrian scene and vanish in the rearview.

The girl appears in my mind, racing out of the woods and into the field. The old man follows close behind. It nauseates whatever's inside of me, watching her stumble and fall over and over as the scene replays in my mind.

Why did he do it? He had no reason. Only because he could… Should he die for this? Do I want him to die?

I struggle for control of myself. The wanderlings can't see me upset. They're here because of me, but I don't want them emotionally involved. They're only doing me a favor.

I've heard how wanderlings sometimes get too close to people's dreams and accidentally manifest themselves as nightmares. That's where the idea came from. The kind of terror the girl felt—and the boy. I want Mendelssohn to know the same panic and horror ten-fold, if I can get the wanderlings close enough to his consciousness.

Jasper doesn't condone; to him it's foolishness. It's like I'm a small child throwing a tantrum. Still, he lectured me about the consequences of my actions.

Part of me thinks he's right, but a sense of justice overrules. I know how far I can take this. I'm just going to scare Mendelssohn, that's all.

Still, I don't know if I'll find satisfaction, but I have to try. Sleepless nights leave me scrambling for an elusive sanity. There has to be some way to get peace of mind.

The dense fog ahead demands my attention. It swallows the road and the car. A quarter mile inside and I steer straight for the sleeve. Speed doesn't matter; as soon as the car hits, we momentarily stick. Then with a slow and steady pull, we dissolve.

For several seconds we're in between and everything is black, but I have our destination clearly in mind. As smooth as we entered the sleeve, we exit and once again assume a substantial form.

The Mendelssohn farm waits in the darkness, black against field and sky. A single window burns with lamplight. I stop the car when we near the field adjacent to the house.

The wanderlings reach for the passenger-side door, and then step down out of the car. They begin to separate as I follow them to the edge of the field. After they free themselves from each other and stand on their own, a few advance toward the house while Conrad and I look on.

Soon I hear their children's chatter amongst the darkening countryside, whispers and murmurs breaking the silence of winter's hollow chorus. It's beautiful.

Conrad is at my side, and looks to me for direction as the last of them depart for the house.

I quietly nod my consent, and watch him turn and follow, the prattle of his fellow wanderlings rising in urgency. Almost in unison, the burbling mass of them begins to gel into shadowy cohesiveness.

Their outline dissipates as they pass through the tired walls of the house; its ramshackle clapboard soaks them in like a sponge. They will enter Mendelssohn's consciousness momentarily, saturating it.

I stand near and listen, waiting for him to feel the fear of children, and then I will be off to find my ghost.