The Siege (31 page)

Once he got the cruiser into the barn, he swung the door closed and, using the boards and bent-over nails he had removed earlier, nailed the doors shut. He realized that the doors might not be as secure as before, but it was good enough for his purposes. He didn’t care if anyone broke into the barn and found the cruiser, so long as he and Tasha were long gone by then.

Hocker then spent the next hour or so with Winfield’s flashlight in hand, going through the cruiser from the trunk to the glove compartment. There was a small first aid box in the front which, Hocker realized, he and Tasha could use. He put that and a small, backup flashlight on the barn floor and went to the back of the cruiser.

The trunk had the most interesting stuff, and Hocker found it increasingly frustrating when he realized he was going to have to leave most of this equipment behind. There was a pillow, blanket, oxygen tank, and a few other medical emergency supplies, as well as assorted tools and weapons. What struck Hocker’s fancy the most was the riot gun. His own gun, and even Winfield’s service revolver, had no power compared to the stopping force of this baby. Hocker fondled the rifle like a ten-year-old who had just gotten his first Daisy pump-action BB gun for Christmas. “You beautiful mother fucker!” he exclaimed, his breath warm on the rifle butt as he pressed the heel into his shoulder and sighted along the smooth metal barrel. His finger tensed, burning to flip the safety off and squeeze the trigger all the way back to see what this baby could do to the wall of the barn. But, there was no telling who might be within hearing range. Gunshots in the night, even during hunting season, would certainly warrant a call to the police from curious neighbors.

Hocker put the rifle on the ground with the first aid box and spare flashlight, figuring he had to get something for all his trouble. He spent a little more time shuffling through the contents of the trunk, but everything else looked like useless shit to him. If there was an easy way to carry it, he would have taken more; but they had made it this far without much gear, they could do without. He threw most of it onto the barn floor and slammed the trunk lid shut.

Back in the front seat of the cruiser, Hocker directed his flashlight beam onto the police radio. A small red light was glowing, so Hocker assumed it was on and ready to use. He thought how funny it would be to switch on the radio and call the station. Maybe he could pretend to be Officer Winfield. Again, though, he passed on the idea because it would be damned foolish to alert any other cops that Winfield was in trouble.

“Yeah,” Hocker said as he spit out the car door onto the floor. “He’s in deep trouble, all right.”

Suddenly, the radio hissed and a voice crackled from the receiver.

“One-niner!… One-niner! Do you copy? Over.”

Hocker’s tensed, wondering if Winfield was “One-niner.” If he was, and he didn’t answer, then headquarters would know he was in trouble, Hocker’s eyes darted from the radio to the small doorway leading back up to the house. His hand was shaking as he reached out, ready to pick up the microphone and talk if he really had to.

The message was repeated and then, much to Hocker’s relief, another voice came on, this one so full of static he couldn’t make out any of the words. He could tell, though, from what the voice said, that “One-niner” had responded.

Hocker eased back in the cruiser’s seat and ran his forearm over his brow. His heart was thumping softly in his chest, and there was a warm dampness in his armpits. In the glow of the flashlight, he leaned forward and studied the radio for a moment. At last, he found the
on/off
switch and pushed it with his thumb. The tiny red bulb on the upper left corner of the radio winked off, and Hocker felt even more relieved.

After a fruitless second search of the glove compartment, Hocker eased out of the driver’s seat. He carefully balanced the flashlight on an old barrel near the barn wall so its beam shone straight into the cruiser. Then Hocker picked up the riot gun, snapped off the safety, and took aim at the black box of the police radio. The rifle slammed into his shoulder when he squeezed off two shots in rapid succession. There was a snap and a sizzle of electricity, as shards of plastic splattered the floor of the car.

“That’ll shut
you
the fuck up,
one-mother-humpin-niner
!”

He held the rifle across his chest, only vaguely aware that he was panting with excitement. Now that he had started, though, there swelled inside him, like a noxious, black cloud, a compulsion to do more damage. Gripping the rifle by the barrel, he cocked his arms back and swung the rifle around as if he was swinging for the “green monster” in Fenway Park. One of the blue bubble lights on the cruiser’s roof shattered, sending fragments of plastic flying into the darkness.

Without a moment’s pause, Hocker kicked the cruiser door shut and then slammed the rifle butt into the side window. A spider web of cracks, sickly white in the flashlight’s glow, spread across the window. Hocker saw a brief flash of his own face reflected in the window, a mosaic of wild eyes and wide grin. A low laughter sounded like distant thunder in his chest.

For the next several minutes, Hocker completely lost all sense of where he was and what he was doing. His mind felt like a raging red fire consuming everything it touched as he hammered and pounded the rifle butt against the police cruiser. Mirrors and sirens and lights and windows were smashed into useless junk; everywhere on the car fist-sized dents appeared like twisted flowers. And all the while, Hocker was laughing wildly.

The frenzy stopped almost as fast as it had begun. Hocker let the rifle drop to the barn floor as he leaned over with his hands on his knees. He was panting like a racehorse. Sweat ran down from his brow and stung his eyes. He didn’t notice tiny cuts on his hands from flying glass and metal. Staggering backward, he slammed into the barn wall and almost fell down as he inspected the damage he had done. In just minutes, the cruiser had become a total wreck. Oh, he had no doubt the engine would still start up and he could drive that sucker out of here; but this baby was going to be a long time in the body shop! “All right,” he muttered as he rubbed his arm across his mouth. The unnoticed cuts left smeary blood streaks on his cheeks. His jacket sleeve came away foamy with pink-streaked saliva. Through his exhaustion, he felt a great satisfaction, a tremendous relief almost, as if he had just seen the cruiser get swept up in a raging sheet of flame!

Now wouldn’t that be something?
he thought.

That was what he really wanted! More than wanted… he
needed
to see towering sheets of orange flame sucked skyward beneath a heavy belly of black smoke! He wanted to see a windstorm of sparks corkscrewing into the night, taking the cruiser, the barn, and the whole fucking house with it!

His first instinct was to siphon gasoline from the cruiser, and—yes, he remembered seeing a reserve tank of gasoline in the cruiser’s trunk! He could get five, maybe ten gallons of gas even if the cruiser was low on fuel. But these cops always keep their tanks full, don’t they? With that much gasoline, he could easily splash enough around the barn so he could get a ripping good blaze going before the town’s firefighters had time to respond. His fingers itched, and his mind burned to do it; just as he had not allowed himself the luxury of letting the cop’s siren whine, he knew that a fire would attract unwelcome attention.

If this urge became unbearable, Hocker thought, there was always the potato barn they had seen last night, where the men had been drinking together. There was also that ancient barn Tasha had told him she had found when she was making her way back from her “ball-kicking” encounter with the cops. Oh, there were plenty of opportunities around this town for things to go
whoosh!
All it came down to was a question of “what” and “when.” Right now, he was exhausted from wrecking Winfield’s cruiser. The next thing to do was to make sure Winfield himself, once he came to, was in no position to cause him any trouble. So, with the riot gun under his arm, he gathered up the flashlight, first aid kit, extra ammunition for the rifle and went back to the house.

“We’ll take care of our guest first,” he said aloud, snickering to himself. “Then we’ll see what other opportunities might come our way.” He whistled jauntily as he went up to the back door of the farmhouse and called out, “Hey, L
ooo
-sy, I’m home!”

VIII

D
ale couldn’t stop his hands from shaking as he sat in the front seat of his car, trying to break open the blister pack that held four brand-new double-A batteries. He and Donna were parked in front of the local LaVerdier’s. The street light was shining down on them with a cold, blue light.

“There’s a diagram here showing which way they go in,” Donna said as she held the miniature cassette recorder up to the light.

Dale grunted and swore softly under his breath when his fingers fumbled, and the package stayed sealed.

“I have a nail file you can use,” Donna said. She picked up her purse and started rifling through it.

“No, no,” Dale said. His voice was distorted by the edge of the package in his mouth. “I think I’ve got it.” He gave the battery pack a quick pull, and the batteries shook out and fell to the floor. He swore softly as he leaned over and fished around, trying to find the batteries in the dark. Once he found them, he took the recorder from Donna and, squinting to read the directions, slid the batteries in, one by one. He felt like he was loading bullets into a gun. Snapping the cover back on, he sat back in the seat and let out a long, whistling exhalation.

“You’ve still got the tape, I hope,” Donna said.

Dale quickly slapped his jacket pockets, then his shirt pocket. Panic flooded him when he didn’t feel the tape, but when he reached inside his jacket, he found it in his shirt pocket, where it had been all the time.

“Are you ready for this?” he said, snapping open the plastic hood and sliding the tape into position.

“Never been more ready,” Donna said with a trembling in her voice.

“I feel like I’m prying into someone’s private diary,” Dale said. He grimaced as he turned the recorder over in his hand, found the play button, and pressed it. For the next three minutes he and Donna listened as the voice of Dale’s closest friend, dead for three days now, filled the car.

“…
Testing… testing
…”

There was the shrill sound of whistling, and faintly, below that, the rumble of a car engine.

“
All right, seems to be working. I don’t know where to start really. The date, the date, yeah. It’s Friday, August, August… Damn! I can’t remember! The twenty-something! I’ve gotta think. Let’s see. It’s after midnight, I know that much ’cause I was at the home between eleven and eleven thirty. So, okay, after midnight. I’ve gotta keep my head straight about this, but Jesus Christ! Who could? Fuck!
”

“He sounds really upset,” Donna said, glancing at Dale. Her eyes were dark hollows in the blue glow of the street light.

“Understatement of the year,” Dale said, hushing her with a wave of his hand as the tape played.

“
I’m driving south, on Route 2-A, out of Dyer, heading toward Haynesville. What I’ve seen and learned in the last few days will… would make anyone think they were crazy!
”

There was a long pause, filled only by the sound of the car’s engine.

“
No one will ever believe what I’m going to say. Maybe I’m doing this to… to keep my own sanity… to say it out loud so I can… can…
”

Larry’s voice suddenly broke off into a wild laughter that quickly shot up the scale until it cracked.

“
Gotta get a grip on myself and talk… talk fast ’cause I think they’re… oh, shit! Who’s that behind me? Headlight! I think they’re after me. Okay, talk fast. What I know, what I’ve found out, is basically so simple it’s… it’s crazy! The roads up here have always been a problem… mostly ’cause they were built along old wagon trails that were never designed for motor vehicles. So, okay—that makes sense. But for years, now, we’ve been trying to improve some of these roads up in the County. ’Cause of the logging trucks and other stuff, there have been a lot of fatalities. I… shit!…
”

There was a loud smashing sound, and, faintly, the squeal of tires.

“
It is them! They know I’m on to them!
”

“Stop it a second,” Donna said, as she gave Dale’s arm a quick shake.

Dale snapped the recorder off and looked at her. His whole body had gone cold as soon as he had heard Larry say that someone was following him. There was no doubt that Larry had recorded this message just before he died.

“I don’t think we should listen to any more of this until we play it for Winfield,” Donna said. Her voice was shaking so much her teeth chattered. Her breathing came in short hitches. Dale knew she’d be lighting a cigarette soon.

“I’ve got to hear the rest of it first,” Dale said. He popped the play button, and Larry’s frantic voice filled the car again.

“
I don’t know the details of all of this, but I do know that there are reasons certain people don’t want any road improvements up here. They want people to keep having accidents and dying on the roads! They need them!
”

Larry’s voice kept fading in and out on the recorder, and Dale had the impression Larry was frantically dividing his attention between dictating his report and watching whoever was following behind him. In his mind, Dale saw the flashing headlights that had threatened to run him and Donna off the road. There was no doubt it was the same person, but who was it?