Nightrunners (16 page)

He put on a light sweater to fight the cool wind, kissed Becky on the forehead and went out to the shed.

He found the key and got some equipment out of there, decided to use a clown spinner on his setup. Then he went out to the dock and made a few practice casts. He still had the arm. Timing was a bit off, but he still had the arm, and for that he was grateful.

Somehow, it seemed very important that something be like—or at least close to—

how it used to be.

........

Becky found beneath the cabinet (looking through the cabin had suddenly become an obsession with her) a small TV with bent-over rabbit ears clothed in aluminum foil.

Christ, this could be the thing. A mind drainer. She got it out and put it on the drainboard, straightened the wounded ears and pinched the foil into place. She plugged it in, picked up a fuzzy station that seemed to be transmitting from the moon.

Oh boy, she thought, my all-time non-favorite,
Hogan 's Heroes.

But what the hell? She pulled up a chair, fixed herself another glass of iced tea (she had tossed off" three in the last thirty minutes) and began watching.

........

Monty cast the clown spinner.

Becky watched TV.

The black '66 sat in the pasture.

And along the highway, up and down blacktops and clay roads, the law ran around like little blind mice and caught no one.

EIGHT

1:30 P.M.

"You're kidding me. You want to stop at every house along here and ask these niggers if they've seen a car fitting Trawler's description? What're you? Nuts?"

"It's a long shot, but what else are we doing?"

"Look, don't you know it's niggers that killed Trawler?"

"No, I didn't know that. Neither do you."

"Dick to a doughnut that it is. When they catch these assholes they'll be niggers.

You think these niggers are going to turn in other niggers?"

"Larry, would you like to go another round?"

"Another round of what?"

"Never mind." Ted decided that when he found who had put him with Larry, they were going to die of slow torture. Maybe he'd pull their teeth out one by one with pliers.

That would get him wanned up, then he'd use tweezers on their hair, root by root. "Let's just do it. You don't like it, you can stay in the car."

"Okay, have it your way."

The third house they stopped at was owned by Malachi Roberts. Sitting in the drive, Larry said, "What a nigger shack."

"You going to stay in the car?"

"No, tired of staying in the car."

"Let me ask the questions."

"Hey, I only talk to niggers when I have to."

"Fine,"

They got out of the car and walked up to the house, knocked. A big black man wearing khaki work clothes answered the door. He was covered in grease.

"Officers," he said cordially.

"Afternoon," Ted said. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?"

"Suppose."

"It won't take but a minute."

"Ask. But make it pretty quick. I got to get back to the shop. Got a car waiting."

"Shop?"

"I'm a mechanic. Got a little shop down the road there, next to the highway."

"Yeah, I've seen it."

Larry went over and sat on the porch, dangled his feet in the empty flower bed.

Ted put one foot on the step and leaned an elbow on his knee.

"The twenty-ninth, two days back, a highway patrolman was killed not far from here. Now, I know I'm talking long shot, but he described the car as a '66 black Chevy.

Said it had several passengers—" "I saw it."

Larry, who had been watching the highway, turned to look at Malachi. Ted said,

"Sure? I mean it's been a couple days—"

"I saw it." Malachi went over to a big metal rocking chair that had once been green but was now covered with rust, and sat down. "It wasn't two days ago, though, it was one."

"They'd have been long gone by then," Larry said.

"No, I saw them."

"Tell me about it," Ted said.

"It was the night my wife died. Must have seen that old car about one or so in the morning. Couldn't sleep that night, was out here smoking my pipe. I saw the lights, heard . . . hell, felt that car coming, just like it was some kind of black cat carrying bad omens. When the lightning cracked I saw that car clear as if it was daylight, clearer than it is now. I could see people—if they was people —in it,"

"If they were people?" Ted asked.

Malachi, who was rocking slightly and staring off into space, stopped abruptly, looked at Ted. "You can go on and think me crazy, if you like, but them wasn't people in that car, they was evils. Some kind of evils. I could feel it as surely as I can feel anything."

"You're absolutely positive when you saw it?"

"Mister, I can't forget. I'm going to a funeral this afternoon, and I'm trying to do some work to get enough money so I can pay for the burying. I'm burying my wife. Night before last—early in the morning, really—I saw that car drive by and my wife died. You don't forget something like that. No. I'm going to have that night in my head for a long time."

"I'm sorry about your wife."

"Not half as sorry as I am."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about it?" "It turned off toward Minnanette.

That's all I know, except it's evil."

"Thanks. And again, I'm sorry about your wife."

"I've got to go to work. I've only got a couple hours before I got to clean up and go to the church."

"Understand. Thank you."

Ted and Larry went back to the car.

Ted said, "We got something,"

"What have we got?"

"We've got an ID on the car. He saw it."

"He says he saw it."

"It's a possibility. I believe him. You don't?"

Larry hesitated. "Not sure. But he's got his days mixed up."

"Maybe not. Probably not. He knows when his wife died and he saw the car that night— that morning. We just like to think that they're so scared of us that they've been driving like hell all the way to Louisiana."

"So they took a back road, could still be going to Louisiana."

"No doubt, but it was the morning of the thirtieth. That means they hid out a day somewhere. And if he spotted them along here, means they didn't get too far on the twenty-ninth after they killed Trawler. They're not idiots. They're playing it casual."

"The evils," Larry said, trying to adopt what he thought was a comic black voice.

"Well, Larry, they may not be demons from hell, but I'd say they're pretty evil.

They blew Trawler's brains all over the highway."

"Trawler was a dumb fuck. He'd gotten in the habit of working with a partner.

Things were so dull along here they had to team some of them up to keep from wasting so much gas. The partner was out, and he got careless on account of he was used to backup."

"We're teamed, Larry."

"Only because they think they got some bad boys out here. Bet it wasn't nothing but a bunch of drunk niggers."

"Doesn't matter. We're dealing with some coldblooded killers, and if that old man wants to call them evils, that suits me fine. Christ, imagine, having to go to work the day you're burying your wife, just so you can pay to have her put down."

"If the stupid fuck had burial insurance he wouldn't have that problem."

Ted shook his head, they drove out of there, toward the cutoff for Minnanette.

NINE

5:20 P.M.

Monty's casting was good, but his catching was bad. So far, nothing. Unless floating weeds counted. He'd nabbed enough of those to weave a basket.

He cast once more, but didn't reel it in. He decided to sit down on the dock and reel. He felt certain he was still good enough to make a good cast sitting down.

When he sat, he threw his left hand behind him and pain jumped into it. Jerking it to him, he felt worse pain. He held the hand in front of him. An old hook, half-shiny, half-rusty, had been lodged in the dock, and now it was lodged in his hand. It hurt like hell.

And Becky's dream came to him—the last one. The one with the bloody hand and the bright, sharp object sticking out of it. For the hook, though rusted, had areas of brightness, and as he held the hand before him, it flashed in the sun.

"Now wait a minute here, now wait just a minute here," he said aloud. Then to himself: My God, this isn't an episode of
The Twilight Zone,
for goodness' sake, get a grip. You'll be talking crazy as Becky.

("I could see this hand, Monty, and it was bloody, and something bright and sharp
was
sticking out of it, and the dream hurt me so bad, and it felt so close to home.")
We're talking coincidence. That's it. That's all. He looked at his hand, at the bright object, at the blood.

He dropped the rod and reel, didn't notice that it had slipped off into the water.

Standing, looking at his hand as though mesmerized, he began to walk back to the cabin.

He went inside, and though he tried to remain calm, his voice squeaked when he called, "Becky?"

No answer. Only the sound of the TV; a car on TV.

"Becky?" He could see her sitting in the kitchen, the top of her head showing just above the bar.

"Becky?"

No answer.

He went over there.

And Becky looked frozen. She sat stiffly in the chair and there were huge plops of sweat on her face and her eyes were wide and there was a moaning noise coming from her throat.

"Becky, Beck, Beck—?" The TV caught his eye. He turned, looked at it. A fuzzy black and white picture was showing, but ... it didn't look right. The dark car on the tube looked hazy, unreal. Its motor sounded distorted, like an animal growling, and its headlights looked like bright, round eyes.

The damn car gave him the creeps', had the feel of a horror movie. Yes, that was it, they were showing an old black and white horror movie.

He turned away from the tube, said "Becky?" He reached out and shook her.

"Baby?"

Her eyes jerked open.

"Beck . , ." he started, but behind him he heard Lucille Ball yell, "Waaahhh, Ricky."

He jerked to look at the set. The car was gone. It was the old
I Love Lucy
show and it was in midscene, and in better focus . . . But how?

"Monty," Becky said, "your hand!"

TEN

5:49 P.M., and counting . . .

Minnanette was a nice little town; didn't have trouble; didn't know pain. Oh, it had wild kids now and then and maybe they'd get in a fight or drink a little too much beer, but nothing that could really run the rest of the world a good race—far as violence went.

In all its years of existence, the spiciest thing known to happen was that Hiram Ryan, ten years back, had put a pistol to his head and tried to blow his brains out over his wife who'd run off with Tully Grishom, an insurance salesman from Tulsa, Oklahoma.

But Hiram's aim had been a little off and it hadn't killed him. Hadn't helped him, though.

Lived in the Rusk State Hospital. Pop used to say, "It's a shame. Old Hiram, he ain't nothing but a turnip green now."

But after this night, Minnanette would have tales to tell. None of them particularly pleasant.

........

Pop was sitting in Pop's, at the counter, looking out the window at the fast-falling dusk, thinking: Hope the wife brings me something good for supper tonight. That goddamned Mexican TV dinner from last night is still burning my asshole.

He'd been burping and farting around the store all day. And once he'd gotten embarrassed when Mrs. Banks had asked, "Do you smell that, Pop? Smells like something has gone sour somewhere."

Something had, all right. His guts. But he blamed it on the peanut pattie.

He looked at the clock. His dinner should arrive any minute. After that, just a couple hours until closing time.

........

Five minutes later Pop got his dinner and a kiss from his wife. Then she left and he pulled back the napkin and found a fabulous meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, green onions and iced tea. And for dessert, the clincher. Chocolate pudding with whipped cream. Everything a favorite of his, and he enjoyed every mouthful.

Except dessert. He ended up missing that.

........

About the time Pop was sitting in Pop's contemplating his dinner, Moses Franklin was busy cussing his dogs and loading them in his pickup. After he loaded them, he tossed his gun, a bologna sandwich and a couple of beers into the cab, then he looked at the sky and saw that the moon was starting to poke out. He thought: Look out, possums, here I come.

........

And while Pop was contemplating his dinner and Moses was threatening possums, Minnanette's crew of hell-raisers—least that's how they liked to think of themselves—

were getting ready for a few Halloween pranks and lots of beer. There were four of them, all fifteen, and all pretty smashed. They'd been over in Old Man Reed's pasture knocking them back, and now they were ready to soap a few windows, shit on a few doorsteps and throw a few eggs, by God.

They tossed off one more beer apiece, in that manful manner they'd been practicing, climbed into the little white Dodge Dart, said a few healthy "Whoopies" and a couple of good "Goddamns," and were off.

........

Larry and Ted had made three trips to Minnanette already, each time by different back-road routes, and each time they had turned around in Pop's drive, and each time the old man had waved at them, and they had returned the wave. It looked as if all roads led to Pop's.

It was getting to be a pretty unexciting habit.

Finally, they decided to start back to the highway, go on up the road a bit, stop at a truckstop they knew and grab a bite to eat. After that, maybe they'd cruise another back-road route to Minnanette. Maybe. Ted was pretty anxious to just call it a day. He was tired of riding and Larry was starting in on the niggers, the Catholics and the goddamned commies again. Another hour of that and Ted feared he was going to start alongside Larry's head with the barrel of his service revolver. So, it was with more than a little bit of relief that Ted pulled into the truckstop thinking of chicken fried steak and catsup-covered french fries.