The Zombies Of Lake Woebegotten (6 page)

Levitt flicked a switch and the chainsaw went silent. What with the gunshot and the yelling—they’d all been yelling, Otto realized, except Levitt, who’d been silent since he stopped laughing—the sudden silence made his ears tingle and everything feel too airless and big.

“What do you think, boys?” Levitt said. “Should we keep this one alive to interrogate? See what he knows?” And he laughed, but this was a wheezy little old man’s haw-haw-haw, not the big belly laughs he’d come out with before.

“I told you there were zombies,” Rufus said, staring down at the mess he’d made of the zombie at his feet.

“Wish somebody’d told me. I would have put a lock on the cellar door. Maybe finally invested in that acid bath I’ve been thinking about all those years.” Levitt sat down on his couch beside his chainsaw, fished around in the drawer of the end table, and came out with a pack of cigarettes. “I only ever smoke after I kill somebody,” he said, as if by way of apology. “I figure this counts. Sure got the same thrill, anyway.”

Rufus lifted his head, frowned, and said, “I knew the dead were rising, but how’d they get into your house? So many?”

“Maybe the place is built on an old Indian burial ground,” Levitt said. “Happens all the time.”

“That guy’s not an Indian,” Rufus said, pointing at the stumped zombie. “And he doesn’t look like he’s been dead that long.”

“Darn it. Was hoping you’d buy the Indian burial ground thing. Oh well. Better come clean. These all came out of my basement.” Levitt puffed on his cigarette and blew out a halo of smoke. They all observed the ring in silence. A good smoke ring was worth appreciating. “That’s the problem with shallow graves. I’ve never been a good housekeeper. One fella I buried and dissolved with lye, now
he’s
not going to stand up again and cause any trouble. Turned him into human lutefisk.” Levitt grinned. “I’ve been waiting to make that joke forever. This is very liberating.”

Otto didn’t understand what was going on, so he was alarmed when Dolph raised the rifle again and pointed it at Mr. Levitt. “You’re saying you killed these people?”

“Killed, and then
re
-killed tonight. Though tonight it was self-defense.” Levitt looked up at the ceiling, squinting, in thought. “Couldn’t try me twice for the same murder anyway, though, could they? Something about double jeopardy maybe? Well, I was never a lawyer, and didn’t worry too much about how I’d defend myself. Figured I’d never get caught. Didn’t expect to become a footnote in the books until after I fell over from a heart attack or blew a blood vessel in my brain and some grand-nephew or something came and tried to clean out the house and found what I’d been up to all these years. Doesn’t much matter now though. The dead are rising, which makes me think I’m going to be pretty far down on the list of priorities for law enforcement.”

“Mr. Levitt. You’re a serial killer. Holy fuck,” Rufus said.

“Language,” Otto said.

7. Mustang Sally

E
ileen picked pretty much the worse possible day to finally kill her husband, but there was no way she could have known, and really, there’s probably no ideal day to kill your spouse, and at least she didn’t do it on Valentine’s Day or his birthday or their anniversary or any of the other holiday minefields that litter the average longtime married couple’s year.

When Eileen got home from her assignation with Dolph she saw her husband Brent Munson’s truck, a brand new shiny black Ford Behemoth, parked in the driveway, which meant he’d stopped off at home for a long lunchtime quickie. She’d done the same at the grocery store, but even though she was just as unfaithful as her husband, at least she didn’t commit adultery in her own home, and at least Dolph was human. Eileen lugged her free groceries in through the front door and set down her burdens on the kitchen counter, then stepped to the door that led to the garage and put her ear to the wood.

From the other side of the door came the gentle squeak of a car rocking on its shocks, which meant she was right. Brent was at it again. He could at least have the decency to take his dirty business elsewhere. Today was as good a day as any to go ahead with her plans, she figured. Brent was here now. He hadn’t even started the radio yet, which meant he was still into the foreplay stage. She had some time, probably about an hour, before he came inside, and that was assuming he skipped the afterglow.

Eileen took her big sun tea jar down from the cupboard and rummaged around in the cabinets under the sink, removing a jug of bleach and the bottle of pure acetone she’d bought last week from the hardware store. She poured almost a gallon of the bleach into the tea jar—clear glass with a few pretty little flowers painted on—then went to the freezer for a big bag of crushed ice, pouring that into the jar too. It would be nice to just give Brent a big tall glass of iced bleach to drink when he came in all sweaty and spent, but he’d probably notice the smell, and there’d be questions after. Her original plan was better.
 

She measured five tablespoons of acetone and poured that over the ice, then leaned down to look into the jar. The internet said it could take anywhere from ten minutes to twenty minutes for the reaction to start, but in the meantime, she had to keep an eye on it in case the ice started to melt. Boring, but this was what you might call the calm before the storm, so she was trying to be mindful and live in the moment like her meditation books said. Before deciding on murder she’d tried meditation, which hadn’t worked out ultimately, but she’d gotten some useful things out of it, including more flexible leg muscles from all the sitting lotus position, and that stretchiness had come in handy with Dolph. Making love in the cramped office of a grocery store required a certain degree of physical fitness.
 

The ice started melting, so she topped off the jar a few times, keeping it full. Meanwhile the car radio in the garage started playing some power ballad by an ’80s hair band, Eileen wasn’t sure which one, but it was the usual, and that meant things were well underway with Brent’s ritual. He’d be nearing the climax—and his own climax, of course—before too much longer, but you couldn’t hurry chemistry.
 

Even if Brent came in and saw her and asked what she was doing and she said “Making ridiculously dangerous homemade chloroform from a recipe I found on the internet,” he’d probably just grunt and make a sandwich, since he never really listened to her anyway. He had no idea she was cheating on him with Dolph, that she had been for months, and she wasn’t entirely sure he’d care, though maybe he would—men were funny. Even with his own true love in the garage there, he might still have some possessive feelings about Eileen.
 

The liquid in the jar was getting good and cloudy, and the green tint from the bleach was gone, so now all she had to do was wait some more, half an hour or so. She put the groceries away, and loaded the dishwasher, and cleaned underneath the burners on the stove, and put a bowl of vinegar in the microwave and ran it for a minute, which was practically magic, it loosened all the nasty hardened gunk that stuck inside on the walls, she’d learned that on the internet, too, and took a soft sponge and cleaned out the inside and rearranged the cans in the pantry alphabetically and then let herself look at the jar again.

The ice was gone, and the liquid was settled and pretty clear again, and down at the bottom there was a good-size clear bubble that was, she knew, the denser liquid blob of chloroform. She skimmed off most of the top liquid with a spoon, and then carefully poured the remainder down the sink, holding her breath while she did it, because if she accidentally tilted too far and sent the chloroform down the sink, she’d have to start all over again. No wonder people shot each other. Trying to kill somebody less obviously was a lot of work.
 

Finally there was nothing left in the jar but the bubble of chloroform, assuming the internet had given her the right instructions, which was always a question. It would be funny if she’d just made oven cleaner or something, wouldn’t it?
 

Eileen opened up the big flour container and fished around inside until she found the plastic bag she’d hidden in there, and gently removed it. The bag contained a separation funnel, a funny looking piece of glassware she’d had to send away for special, and it was the only part of her plan that worried her, because what did a housewife in Lake Woebegotten need with a piece of special chemistry equipment? If anybody got suspicious… but she knew the town police, Harry and Stevie Ray, and they knew her. They’d never peg her for a killer, so she didn’t think they’d dig around too deep. Still, she wished she could have used an eyedropper or something, but apparently chloroform liked to eat plastic.
 

She was poised to try to use the separation funnel to slurp up the chloroform, though she wasn’t exactly sure how that worked, when she stopped. What was she doing? Why did she need to carefully slurp the stuff up anyway? She wasn’t going to store it. The recipe online said she needed a separation funnel, so she’d bought one from a chemical supply house, but for her purposes, what good was it?
 

Eileen remembered the old joke about the woman who always cut the ends off her roast before putting it in the oven, until her husband asked why she did that. “I don’t know,” she said, “that’s how my mother taught me. Let me ask her.” So she called her mother, who said, “I don’t know, that’s just how your grandmother taught me to do it. Let’s ask her why.” So they called up the grandmother, who said, “I always cut the end off the roast because my roasting pan was too small to hold the whole thing!” Eileen had made the same mistake, doing something because it’s how she was
told
to, without thinking about why.

She tossed the separation funnel in the trash can, and stuck a dishtowel down in the bottom of the jar, soaking up the chloroform.

Holding the cloth out at arm’s length, because even from here she could smell it, and knocking herself out wasn’t part of the plan, she opened the door to the garage.

Brent was in there, and as she’d assumed, he was screwing his car again.
 

The bitch was a cherry red vintage muscle car that Brent called Mustang Sally, and he’d lavished her with attention from the moment a desperate fella with a gambling problem brought her to Brent’s car lot for a quick handful of cash. He’d spent countless hours tinkering with her, buffing her, scavenging pick-and-pulls for slightly-shinier versions of her already perfectly acceptable fixtures and doodads, and at first Eileen hadn’t minded—anything that kept him busy and occupied and out from underfoot during the inevitable hours he was at home instead of at the dealership was fine with her. She first got suspicious the day she found him cleaning the leather upholstery in the back seat while buck naked, but he said it was hot in the garage, and it was, so she’d let it go, and anyway, what was she supposed to think?
 

She’d only realized what was really going on because Brent was so hopelessly non-tech-savvy, and he didn’t know how to clear his browser history or delete his cookies or otherwise cover his tracks online, so she’d gotten bored one evening while he was out caressing Sally’s undercarriage and started poking around through the history to see what kind of porn he was looking at; she didn’t doubt for a minute that he
was
looking, she only hoped he didn’t make a mess while doing so, but she didn’t skimp on the hand sanitizer after touching the keyboard just in case.

It hadn’t even looked like porn, at first, just support groups for people who called themselves objectophiles, which apparently meant people who liked to have sex with objects, and not even necessarily woman- or man- or even animal-shaped objects. There was a woman in love with a fire hydrant, and a guy who liked having sex with his specially modified juicer (which just seemed dangerous to Eileen, though maybe the danger made it hotter, that was certainly her experience with Dolph) and links to a whole separate site about people who were in love with their cars, called “AutoErotic Connection,” which was some kind of joke, she gathered. There were pictures, mostly crude drawings, fortunately, but some photographs, too.
 

Including one of Brent, wearing a cheap plastic Lone Ranger Mask, otherwise buck naked, with his nether regions displayed on Sally’s gleaming hood.

Never one to shrink from a fight, she’d confronted Brent about it, expecting denial, shame, tears, and begging in that approximate order, but instead he’d simply shrugged and said, “I’m a man, Eileen. I masturbate. Been doing it pretty regular since I was thirteen.”

“This isn’t playing with yourself, Brent. There’s another woman, and just because she’s a car doesn’t make any difference to me.”

“The heart knows what it wants, Eileen. If you feel like you need to leave me over this, go with my blessing. The kids are grown and it’s not like we’re spending Saturday nights slow dancing anyway. I like having you here, like how we can lean on each other, but I don’t have a lot of happiness in my life, and I’m not letting you take this away.” And he’d turned his back on her and gone out to the garage and they’d never spoken of it again.

That was back in September, and she’d been plotting his murder ever since. Killing him so soon before Christmas seemed a little cold, but it would spare them false attempts at holiday cheer, and it wasn’t like the twins were coming home, they were too busy going on ski trips with their college friends. In a way, the timing was good. Lots of people got depressed and did themselves in during the holidays, she’d read.
 

Brent had the trunk open and he was thrusting, having made some modifications to the trunk’s interior to accommodate such peculiar habits, and he was so deep into his groove that he never noticed when she put the chloroform rag over his face. He slumped and fell to the concrete, and she looked down at his naked unconscious body, expecting some twinge of remorse or regret, but all she felt was disgust. Brent spent all his time sitting behind a desk at the dealership, not like Dolph, who had to stay active moving boxes around in the storeroom and such. The difference showed.