Deviation (15 page)

Dianne was sitting on the floor, the edge of the
bedspread pulled halfway into her lap. She was playing with it and
studying it, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The
creases and colorful patterns on the fabric kept morphing into new
configurations and she was almost hypnotized by it.

“You're really enjoying that blanket,”
Frank noted.

She looked up at him. She felt kind of thirsty but
she thought it might be her imagination. “Yes. I wish I had
one like this at home.” She realized with a start that she no
longer had a home, and while this normally would have upset her, it
didn't do so now. It was thanks to the acid, she knew. “How
long does this stuff last, anyway? I think you might have already
told me, but I forget.”

“It depends. It will probably start wearing off
noticeably after eight or ten hours.”

“Ten hours? I don't know if I'll be able to
stand it for ten hours.”

“Well, you're halfway there. I think you'll
manage.”

She blinked at him, surprised. “We've already
been here for five hours?” It didn't seem possible. It felt
like she'd just sat down twenty minutes ago.

“Almost.”

“But...” She watched him. He'd
apparently rolled about 20 or 30 joints and was in the process of
constructing a small log cabin out of them. “...what are you
doing?”

Frank set another joint into place. “I'm not
sure. I'm tripping quite hard.”

“Did you roll all those?”

“I must have. Would you like one?” He
reached over, offering her one.

Dianne accepted it. She rolled it around between her
fingers, admiring it. “You're really good at this. Mine
always fall apart and unroll while I'm smoking them.”

“It's a simple matter of practice.”

“I guess.”
She studied the joint closely. “My god, it's so
twisty!
”

“Would you like to smoke it?”

She looked back over at him. “I'm not sure. I
think I want a drink. I mean, not booze, but just... a soda or
something. I think I'm thirsty.”

“You're not sure?”

“No. But I keep thinking of it, so I must be.”

Frank scooped his joints into a big pile. “That's
probably the case.” He transferred the joints into the bag
which held the remainder of the weed. “I did see a vending
machine downstairs, when we came in. I'll go down and get you a
soda.”

“Diet Coke, if they have it.”

“Alright.” He stood up, a little
unsteady, and set the bag on the dresser. Then he checked his
pocket to make sure he had the room key and some change. “I'll
be right back.”

* * *

Downstairs, Frank found the vending machine just off
to the side of the front desk. There was a different clerk on duty
now, and he had a small television playing which was showing a
rebroadcast of the local nightly news. Frank pulled the change from
his pocket and began feeding it into the machine.

He wanted to get them each a can of soda, but the
price was so high he ran out of change after buying only one. He
took the soda and carried it over to the desk where the clerk, a
young man with a shaved head and glasses, was transfixed by what he
was watching on the small screen.

“Excuse me,” Frank said. He pulled out
his wallet and extracted a dollar bill. “Would I be able to
get change for the vending machine?”

The man looked over at him. He seemed surprised to
see Frank standing there. “It takes dollar bills,” he
said.

“Oh.” Frank felt stupid; he must have
known this already. The acid was very strong, making it difficult
to think clearly. He stared at the man, watching his head give off
colorful rays as if it were a small sun. “Sorry to bother
you.”

“No bother.” The man turned back to the
TV.

Frank followed his gaze. The sound was up loud enough
for him to hear, and he stood there a moment longer as the news
anchor relayed a story out of Milwaukee regarding the abduction of a
child from a Wal-mart store. There was an Amber Alert out for the
seven year old boy. As Frank watched, the screen changed to show a
photo of the boy and then it changed again to show an image that
made his blood run cold: a photograph of Douglas McKenzie. The
anchor went on to inform listeners that McKenzie was last seen
carrying the boy out of the store and driving away in a black
minivan. This had taken place hours ago, and since then police had
traced him to St. Paul's church on the east side of the city. The
next thing he saw on the screen was a video of St. Paul's engulfed
in flames, the fire reaching high up into the twilight sky. His
knees felt weak and he found it difficult to draw breath.

“You okay, buddy?” the clerk asked.

Frank nodded. The entire lobby was swimming around,
the motion almost nauseating him.

“Sick bastard. They say he might be responsible
for dozens of missing kids.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.” The clerk looked back to the TV.
“Why is it the most deranged killers always come from
Wisconsin?”

Frank put his wallet back in his pocket. He suddenly
felt the need to get away. When the screen changed again, there was
a photo of Father Stevens alongside a photo of himself. Possible
accomplices, the anchor was explaining. Wanted for questioning by
police.

The clerk turned his head and looked at Frank again.
He studied him closer this time, taking in the clerical collar and
the cassock. “Hey,” he said. He looked back at the TV
and then back to Frank. “Hey!”

“Don't jump to conclusions,” Frank warned.
He set the can of soda down and leaned over the counter. “I'd
like to check out now.”

“I'll bet you would.” There was a
telephone beneath the counter and within seconds the man had the
receiver up to his ear and was dialing an unseen number. It was a
short one, probably no more than three digits.

“Put the phone down,” Frank ordered. He
looked for a way to get behind the counter. There was a small
hinged section off to the side and he stepped over and lifted it up.
“Let's talk this over.”

“Stay back!” the clerk shouted. Then,
into the phone: “Hi. My name is Greg Lindross and I'm calling
from the Rodeway Inn in Bellevue. There's a man here...”

Frank was around the counter before Greg could finish
his sentence. There was very little time to think. He grabbed the
phone's handset from beneath the counter and without the slightest
hesitation smashed it against the side of Greg's head. The little
bell rang and Greg grunted, staggering back a step but not dropping
the phone. He hunched over, attempting to protect himself from
further assault as he continued to try and relay his message.

“...from the TV... the priest...”

Frank hit him again with the handset and then tore the
phone out of his grip. In a wild delirium, he began wrapping the
phone cord around Greg's neck. Greg yelled and beat his fists at
him, but Frank wasn't deterred. He got the cord good and tight and
then yanked it savagely, causing Greg to gasp and fall to his knees.
His fingers tore at the cord as his face turned red, his eyes
bulging in their sockets.

“You would have done well to give me a chance to
explain,” Frank told him. He maintained his grip as Greg
flailed around, kicking and punching in a frenzied attempt to free
himself. There was no one else in the lobby, thankfully; just Frank
and Greg and the voice of an operator on the other end of the phone.

“Sir?” the shrill voice was asking. “Sir,
are you there?”

Frank ripped the phone cord from the wall. He held
the other cord with one hand, the fight going out of the clerk very
quickly as his face turned a deep shade of purple. It was
impossible to tell if it was really purple or if was an effect of
the LSD, but Frank supposed it didn't matter. He held on until
Greg's body went completely limp and slid lifelessly to the floor.
Then he released it and straightened up.

“Thank you, my lord,” he muttered. “Thy
kingdom come – for this grace has for its object good things
to come.”

He shoved Greg's body closer to the counter, so that
it wasn't visible from the other side. Then he made his way back
around and purchased another can of soda from the machine. He was
breathing very quickly, his heart pounding.

* * *

“You did what?” Dianne asked
incredulously. She was still sitting on the floor, her back against
the bed as she peered up at him.

“I had no choice. He was going to turn me in.”

“You could have...” She rubbed her chin,
trying to think. “Jeez, I don't know. Maybe just tied him up
or something?”

“This was easier.”

She stared at him. “Maybe.”

“Trust me, Dianne. He was a threat to our
safety. Anyway, we've really got to get moving. He told them the
Rodeway in Bellevue. They could be here any minute.” He
crossed the room, stuffed the bag of joints into his pocket and then
grabbed both their bags.

Dianne stood up. “I didn't even get to take a
shower. Or sleep.”

“I'm sorry.”

She found her bottle of rum and her purse, and then
began putting on her jacket. “Where are we going to go?”

“I don't know. Away from here.”

“Who's going to drive? We're still tripping.”

“I'll manage. We really have no choice.”

She nodded. “They're going to be looking for
you all over now. A manhunt.”

“They can
look. As long as we get out of here and disappear, they'll have no
idea
where
to look.”

“But the TV. Anyone might recognize you.”
She ran a finger along his collar. “Especially with the way
you're dressed.”

“We'll worry about that later. We've really got
to go.”

They made their way hastily out of the room and down
the stairs. As Frank got the Escort back onto the road he could
hear a lone police siren somewhere off in the distance.

It was the middle of the night and there were very few
cars on the road as Frank made his way back toward Interstate 80.
He drove slowly, with the window rolled down. There was a problem
with the wiper blades, and though it was no longer raining, the
windshield was badly streaked and he was unable to do anything about
it.

“How can you even see?” Dianne asked.
“The windshield looks like a kaleidoscope.”

Frank poked his head out the window to get a better
look and then ducked back inside. “One thing at a time.
We've got to get away from that motel.” He drove on, doing 20
mph in a 40 mph zone. It felt like he was going much faster; the
scenery was zipping past at an almost dizzying pace.

“I'm just glad you didn't use our real names.
He would have put that in the computer.”

“Shit!”

Dianne was opening up a pine tree shaped air freshener
she'd found under the seat. It filled the car with an intoxicating
stink and she quickly slipped it back into its plastic sleeve and
returned it to its place beneath the seat. “I know you
didn't. I saw you pay in cash and write down a fake name.”

“I know. I just wish I had thought to take our
money back. We could have used it in the long run.”

“Oh, don't worry about that.”

Frank was squinting, trying to see through the window.
“Is that...? No, it can't be.”

Dianne sat forward in her seat, trying to see what he
was seeing. It did no good. She could only see the windshield
itself, looking alive and staring back at her. “What?”

“It looks like a family of kangaroos, up ahead
on the side of the road.”

For some reason, the idea of such a thing terrified
her. “Kangaroos?”

“It can't be, I know. But that's what it looks
like.”

They slowly drove past a group of young men, two of
them wearing hooded sweatshirts. Dianne sighed and sat back in her
seat. She was feeling paranoid and worried, and still plenty
drugged. “Are you sure you even killed that guy? Maybe you
just think you did.”

“I'm quite certain I did. His face was swollen
and purple, and he'd stopped breathing.”

“Still...”

“He's dead, Dianne. Forget him.”

“It just pisses me off. He didn't even give you
a chance to explain. We did nothing, and we were denied a room that
we paid for.”

“True. But there's nothing we can do about it.
The cops are probably there by now.” He stepped a little
harder on the gas. “I'm kind of getting the hang of this now.
We should be okay.”

His words soothed her and she leaned her head back on
the headrest, closing her eyes. It did very little to stop the
onslaught of visuals which were still chaotically prevalent behind
her eyelids. She took a deep breath and attempted to calm her
nerves. There was no point in worrying about everything. In this
new life of hers, there were bound to be a great deal of unexpected
twists and sudden developments. If she were smart, she'd learn to
benefit from them.

The car coasted along, stopping occasionally when
Frank was able to make out the stop signs or when he couldn't quite
see where he was going. They were very close to getting back on the
highway when he suddenly collided with the rear end of a Buick
Skylark which was parked along the side of the road. The impact
came as a jolting shock to both of them, although they were moving
so slowly that neither of them were hurt.

“Sorry about that,” Frank offered. He put
the car in reverse and backed up a bit.

“It's okay. But I think I heard the headlights
shatter.”

There had been an aggressive sound of crunching
plastic. It would be a real problem if their headlights were out.
“Shit,” Frank muttered, realizing by the reflection on
the back of the ancient Skylark that the right headlight was indeed
out.

Dianne looked at him in the gloom. “What should
we do?”

“I'm not sure. Do you know how to hot-wire a
car?”

“Of course not.”

“Me either.”

“Maybe we could just steal a headlight.”

“Or hide until the sun comes up. It's only a
few more hours.”

“Too bad we can't go back to our room.”

“Sorry.”

“It's okay.”

Frank opened his door and climbed out of the car.

“Where are you going?”

“I just want to take a look at the damage.
Maybe I can fix the light. If it's just a broken bulb, we can get
one at any auto parts store.”

Dianne grabbed her purse and opened her own door,
following him out. She was getting used to the acid now. She
thought she might even miss the effects when they finally wore off.
Everything was new and unprecedented and the night filled her with a
sense of real adventure.

“Shit,” Frank cursed. “We're going
to need more than just a bulb.”

Dianne stepped closer to the front of the car, taking
in the damage. As she did, she noticed another car traveling toward
them from the same direction they'd just come. Frank looked up,
too, sensing its approach.

“It's not a cop,” Dianne said, mild relief
in her voice.

She saw his hand move to the pocket of his cassock,
where she knew he'd stashed Lester's pistol after they left the
motel. After reassuring himself that the gun was still there he let
his hand fall away. “Hopefully he'll just drive past.”

They waited, and to their dismay the car pulled right
up to them and stopped. A single occupant could be seen inside, an
older man with both hands on the wheel. He looked out at them for
what seemed a long time and then finally put his car in park and
began to climb out.

“You folks need any help?” he asked. He
was in his late 50's, with a wild ring of white hair circling the
back of his head.

“I think we're okay,” Frank told him.
“Unless you've got a spare headlight.”

The old man feigned a laugh. “Can't help you
there. Is that your only problem? A headlight?”

“For the time being, yes,” Frank
responded.

The man surprised him then by sauntering over for a
closer look. He nodded and smiled at Dianne as he passed by. “I've
been fixing cars for a living for almost 40 years. I might be able
to rig something up for you.”

Dianne was staring at his car. It was a Honda Civic,
almost new. The keys were in the ignition and it was still running.

“Oh, bloody hell,” the man said, observing
the damage close up. “You rear-ended that poor bastard. A
Skylark, too! I haven't seen one of those in ages.”

“We got the worst of it,” Frank told him.

“True. But I doubt you can claim it was his
fault.”

“No one is blaming anyone. I just want to get
that light fixed so I can get moving.”

“Well, it's all busted up. You're going to have
to get some new parts. See here? The whole assembly is in pieces.”

“I'm aware of that.” Frank caught
Dianne's eye and attempted to gauge her reaction to this unexpected
interloper. He was unable to do so, although he could clearly sense
she was contemplating something.

The man was staring at Frank, his back to Dianne.
“Say, you're not a priest, are you?”

“I am.”

The man looked suddenly troubled. “There was
just a thing on the radio about a priest. Or was it a reverend?
Something about a little boy. A kidnapping.”

Frank's pulse began to accelerate. “It wasn't
me, I assure you.”

The old man eyed him suspiciously. “Where you
headed, anyway? This time of night?”

“What business is that of yours?”

He shrugged. “I'm just asking, is all.”
He looked back at the damaged cars. “Something just doesn't
seem right here.”

“You're a nosy old fellow, aren't you?”
Frank's hand slipped into his pocket. He didn't want to kill this
man, but he would if he had to.

“How the hell did you hit that car, anyway? You
been drinking?”

“Why don't you climb back into your car and
leave us alone? We don't require your assistance, or your trivial
inquiries.”

The man seemed to grow angry at the comment. He
balled his hands into fists. “I only stopped to see if I
could help. You don't have to be an asshole about it.”

“We don't need your help.”

He stared Frank in the eyes. “I wish I had paid
more attention to that report on the radio. I got a bad feeling
about you, mister.”

“Thanks for stopping. You can leave now.”

The man nodded, his eyes squinting as he studied
Frank. “Maybe I will. Maybe I'll put the news back on and
listen more closely this time.” He glanced at the license
plate on Dianne's car, taking it in. “Maybe I'll let my
friend Tommy know about your little accident, too.”

Frank felt a stab of panic. “Tommy?”

“Detective Tom Hanson, Bellevue Police
Department.”

Frank was very close to involving his gun. He
hesitated, sensing that Dianne had an idea of her own.

Their visitor was smiling contemptuously. “Tommy'll
get to the bottom of this, no question about it.”

“I'll ask you one more time to leave,”
Frank warned.

The man noticed Frank's hand clutching an unseen
object in his pocket. His smile disappeared. “Oh, so now
you're threatening me? I suppose that makes my decision a little
easier.” He began to turn around to check on Dianne, but just
as he did her arm came around from behind, catching him by surprise.
He never even saw the little paring knife she held as it tore open
his throat, sending great gouts of blood coursing down his chest and
gurgling to the street below. He screamed and clutched at the
gaping wound, staggering back as she jumped out of the way. As the
man fell to his knees, bleating like a wounded pig, Dianne leaned
over, putting her hands on her knees and breathing harshly.

Frank stepped up to her, placing a hand on her back.
“I didn't expect that,” he confessed dryly. He glanced
up and down the street, worrying someone would happen by and see
what had happened. So far there was no one.

“Neither did I. I just...” She looked
down at the man dying in the street. “I'm really getting
tired of people making it their business to fuck with my life.”

“I know just how you feel.”

She straightened up and hugged him, the knife still
clutched in one hand. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“Why can't they just leave us alone? I've never
once in my entire life gone up to someone and poked my nose into
what didn't concern me.”

“Shit beetles, Dianne. They don't think, they
merely act and react.”

“They suck!”

“They do indeed.” He held her for a
moment as the stranger finished dying and then he kissed the top of
her head. “Do you have a tool kit in your car? Or at least a
screwdriver?”

“Yes. There's a silly little kit under the
front passenger seat. It's not good for much.”

“It's good enough for what we need it for.”
He released her and stepped back. “We've got to move. Are
you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Can you start transferring our things?
Put them all in the Honda.”

She smiled, her pupils still fully dilated from the
acid. “Alright.”

While Dianne busied herself moving their suitcases and
liquor, Frank found the tool kit and quickly removed the license
plates from the Escort. He put them on the back seat of the Honda
and then helped Dianne with the last few bottles of booze. When
they had everything out of her car, he stepped up to the corpse and
bent over.

“Are you ready for this?”

She was grinning. She felt insane. She thought for a
moment that she might really be insane and the thought made her grin
even wider. “Our third one.”

“Our forth, if you count the desk clerk.”

“Jesus. Where are we going to put him?”

“In the trunk.”

“Of my car?”

“Yes. Make sure you get all your paperwork out
of the glove-box when we're done. They'll trace it eventually,
maybe, but we won't make it any easier for them than we have to.”

Before moving the man, Frank removed the wallet from
his back pocket. Mr. Horace Newton was from Plattsmouth, Nebraska.
Frank helped himself to the small amount of cash and then shoved the
wallet back into Horace's pocket.

“He's quite bloody,” he warned Dianne.
“Try not to get too much of it on you.”

Horace was small, and relatively thin. They had no
problem transferring him to the trunk, and within half a minute
Frank had it closed, the body gone from sight. While Dianne removed
her papers from the glove-box, he found the VIN between the
dashboard and windshield and scraped at it with a screwdriver,
rendering it unreadable. Another car drove by during this time, but
the driver didn't even slow down.