The Light at the End (39 page)

No charges were pressed. In the end, it was easier to construct a myth from whole cloth, using only the inescapable snippets of reality. There was no getting around the victims, of course, and no way around Rudy; but the survivors of the hunt were encouraged to disappear for a while, lick their wounds, recuperate behind a swaddling screen of welcome anonymity. They were happy to oblige.

Twenty-nine deaths had resulted directly from that first late-night joyride on the RR train. Of those, nineteen were credited to Rudy Pasko. Some, like Peggy Lewin and Dod “The Bod” Stebbits, were just as easily swept into the bottomless caseload of murders
not
committed by Rudy Pasko; others, like the derelict vampires, were never even brought up at all. At the same time, much was made of the butchered roommates, the rats and dead children in his apartment, the decapitated bag lady, the writing on the walls, the splatter-film slayings, the staking of Ian Macklay, and the “indiscriminate savagery” of his final killing spree.

The pièce de résistance, of course, remained the carnage on the “Terror Train.” Detective Brenner and the others who were pressured to create more palatable fictions for the public were at least free to admit that “We have no idea how he did it. We’ll probably never know. It’s our guess that they’ll still be wondering in 150 years.”

Rudy Pasko was captured and killed, as the legend would have it, by a pair of veteran patrolmen named Sweeney and Anderson. For their imaginary heroics, they got a lot of publicity, a nice set of brownie points, and a free boot up the ladder. Brenner ate a lot of shit, spat it out in sanitized form, performed to everyone’s satisfaction, and took his benefits under the table.

For almost three weeks, Rudy’s name enjoyed the kind of notoriety that he’d always hungered for in life. His picture was in all the papers, along with sketchy and highly speculative recountings of his sordid life and times. He joined the lofty pantheon of celebrated psychos, became one with the likes of Charles Manson, Jim Jones, Ed Gein, Jack the Ripper, and the Boston Strangler.

TV docu-dramas were conceived and announced: one of them boasted its “sensitive, upbeat portrayal of the tough, courageous cops who risked everything to stop the ‘Subway Psycho.’”

Ed Koch brought him up in speeches. Johnny Carson made Rudy Pasko jokes in his opening monologues. Jimmy Swaggart and his Bible-thumping hordes branded him a “demon from Hell” and made up wild stories about him; oddly enough, they were much closer to the truth than anyone dreamed.

His moment in the sun, as it were, took endless forms. His name popped up at cocktail parties and American Legion posts, flicking off the tip of every waggling tongue in the civilized world. He even made his way into the common street parlance, where guys like Three Card Monty would come back at hecklers with lines like, “Who do you think you
are
, blood? Fuckin’ Rudy
Pasko
or sumpin’?”

Then the weeks turned into months, and the public imagination was inevitably diverted. New robberies, rapes, and murders. Wars and rumors of wars. Rising interest rates. Dwindling attention spans. One disaster after another, all trotted out in front of the collective eye like ducks in a shooting gallery, given their fifteen seconds in the light, then banished to the oblivion on the other side.

The press conferences were over. The families had assembled, the funerals had been staged, the bodies were long in the ground. The blood had been scoured and sandblasted off. The phosphor dots flickered and faded away.

Rudy Pasko was all but forgotten.

*

On the hill
…

Autumn, and the year’s slow skidding on the downhill side. Trees, many trees, rapt with deathly metamorphosis, resplendent in their funeral attire. A light breeze, rippling through the raiments. A mellowed sun, softly sustaining their glow. And the colors: the bright orange and rich red and yellow, the gold and the brown and the lingering green.

In the clearing
…

A rolling plateau of freshly manicured lawn. A narrow road, winding through it like a thin, gray ribbon, trailing down to the bottom of the hill. A few scattered wreaths. A few severed bouquets.

Rows and rows of sculpted stone, carved and autographed by death.

In front of the grave
…

Joseph stood, for a moment, in silently thrumming indecision. He’d been fine on the drive out, without a crack in his outward composure; but standing there, with the moment finally at hand, he wavered slightly on his feet and in his will to see it through.

The breeze tugged gently at the collar of his denim jacket, ran tentative phantom fingers through his hair.
It’s nice out here
, he thought, smiling faintly.
Man, you could’ve done worse than to have family in Monroe. Why you left this place for the city is something I’ll never understand
. He got a sudden vivid flash of the cemeteries in Queens… Calvary, New Calvary, Mt. Zion, Evergreen… and he shuddered, picturing the endless acres of cramped and anonymous tombstones, in tight little rows that stretched for miles.

He remembered cruising with Ian once down the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, and Ian had said, “Jesus, it must be
standing room only
in that place! I mean, look at the way those things are packed together!” He’d smacked himself across the forehead, flashed a typical wildass grin, and added, “If I ever wind up in there, make sure they put down S.R.O. instead of R.I.P., okay?” It had been funny at the time.

“Wiseass,” Joseph muttered, and his voice brought him back to the present. Looking down at Ian’s grave, it was almost funny again; and he laughed, less from genuine amusement than from simple need. “You crazy little bastard. Nothing sacred in
your
book. That was for sure.”

Ian’s headstone stared back at him, mute and gray. Joseph took a last drag off his cigarette and then hunkered down on his haunches, grinding the butt out on a patch of ungrown soil. He set down the paper bag that was in his other hand, and it faintly tinkled: the sound of glass on glass.

In the valley, in the distance, a lone car was approaching. The size of a horsefly, from where he crouched, but already he could hear the mellow drone of its engine.
Sound really carries in the country
, he mused. It was something that he planned on getting used to, very soon.

He opened the bag. There were two cool pints of Guinness inside. He took them out, set them down, crumpled up the empty bag and stuffed it into his back pocket. Then he reached into his jacket, palmed his Swiss Army knife, and used the bottle opener to uncap them. A thin white mist wafted out from their open mouths.

“I’m leaving today,” he said, turning back to address the grave. “I am finally going. All my stuff’s in the van.” He smiled, a brief and bittersweet muscular reaction.

“Yeah, I can hear you now,” he continued, and then pulled off a passable Ian Macklay imitation. “‘So what the hell took you so long, might I ask? Sensitivity training through the Learning Exchange? Advanced Toe-Sucking seminars three times a month?’” Again he laughed, head ruefully shaking. “Fucking smartass.”

God, this is weird
, Joseph thought.
He can’t hear you. You know it. You spend too much time talking to tombstones these days
. Below, the car was getting closer. He hoped that it wouldn’t come up. Performing the ritual was hard enough; he did not want an audience.

Joseph pocketed the caps and the butt, then picked up the pints and stood. He took several steps to the right before moving inward; there was something about the idea of walking over Ian’s body that made slugs seem to crawl in his stomach. At the tombstone, he stopped and eased himself down, sitting cross-legged beside it.

“Yeah. Well. So here’s how it is,” he said finally. “I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you, champ. I just wanted to tell you where I’m going. So you’d know.” He snorted and smiled, gently mocking himself and the scene’s slow unfolding. “I just really wanted to talk to you. That’s what it boils down to. I just really wanted to talk.”

“I… I brought you somethin’.”

Joseph held the pints aloft, watched them glisten in the sun. He leaned one shoulder against the tombstone, rubbing briefly against it as he might have with his friend in a rare, tipsy moment of intimacy. Then he grinned and clinked the bottles together.

“To us, man. Forever. To The Defender and his faithful teenage sidekick, Butch S-S-Sampson…”

He was starting to cry a little, and that was just fine. The last few months had seen his emotions move closer and closer to the surface. He no longer felt caged inside himself, and the weight on his shoulders was gone. It was easier to laugh, easier to cry, and both were somehow sweeter than they’d ever been before. Slowly but surely, he was making his peace with the world.

With a jittering right hand, he poured about three ounces of Guinness on Ian’s grave, then set the bottle down at the foot of the tombstone and swigged deeply on the pint in his left. He fought to speak clearly, without tears.

“Allan’s got a cousin who owns a print shop down in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.” Joseph cleared his throat. “Says he can give me a job. Delivery, print-shop assistant, that land of thing. Doesn’t pay as much, but it’s cheaper out there, and I’ve got a couple thousand from Mama’s insurance to hold me over ‘til I’m on my feet. Should be okay…”

The wind blew, a faint chill rustling through the grass. Joseph paused, to light another smoke, cupping the flame in his hands. He looked at Ian’s mute grave, smiled, and shook his head.

“You know, ol’ Stevie might be a man yet.” He laughed. “He split town right after the hunt, went back to stay with his parents. I thought that was the last I’d see of him; but the little fucker called me two weeks ago, said he was in New York to pick up the rest of his stuff, wanted to take me to dinner.”

“It was all right. He looked a couple of thousand years older for the wear, but he’s not such a geek anymore.” He snorted, took a swig. “Just wanted to thank me. Turns out he’s up in Stamford now, studying computer programming. Figures, huh? Christ…”

The sun was starting its majestic descent into the horizon, tinting the underside of the clouds with broad sweeps of purple and gold, beaming heavenly spotlights down into the valley. The sound of the car was very close now, though he’d forgotten completely about it; and he looked up to see a long-faced family drive slowly past on the narrow cemetery road. He waved to them, and they nodded in return; theirs was a passing communion, not an intrusion.

Wonder who they’re mourning
, he thought, and the echo of the words washed through him in waves of longing and loss and love. He paused, steeling himself. The car rolled off into the sunset.

“Josalyn and Allan are very tight these days.” This was going to be the hardest part, he knew. “Allan’s in a neck brace, but he’s okay. Makes him look like a giant ring pacifier.” He laughed, took a short swig, and paused. “Josalyn saved his life, you know. You would have been proud.” He leaned forward, grinning fiercely. “She kicked Rudy’s ass, Ian. She really cleaned that pinhead’s clock.”

He finished his Guinness, reached for Ian’s, thought better of it. His smile faded.

“She and Allan are…”
Say it. Get it out
. “They’re getting really close, buddy.” He lowered his voice. “They still see too much of you in each other’s eyes to be more than just close. But they will. That’s my guess.”

The sun’s last rays were playing across the sky, a magnificent spectacle that went largely unnoticed by the solitary figure on the hill. The air bit ever so slightly as Joseph stood and flipped the collar of his jacket up. Tonight would be chilly, no doubt about it.

He choked a little, back in his throat.

“Time heals, my man,” he said. “The pain fades, if you let it. They won’t ever forget you… hell, it’s half love for you that brought ‘em together in the
first
place…” He let it trail off.

From Ian’s grave, silence.

“You understand, don’t you?” Expecting no answer. Gauging his own feelings for a sense of right-or-wrongness.

He felt fine. He felt… clean.

“They’ll never forget you, boss.” A tear rolled down Joseph’s cheek. He let it. “And neither will I. You’re a fucking hero, and don’t you forget it. I…”

“I love you, Ian. Wherever you are, you’ll always be right here.” He thumped his denim-covered chest. “Rest in peace, man. And if you’re still kickin’ around somewhere… be happy.”

Joseph Hunter took one last look at the trees, the hill, the silent grave. He would not need to come back. It was done. He smiled, acknowledging it at last.

Then he turned. Fished the keys from his pocket.

And walked away.