Tales of Sin and Madness (26 page)

I’ll knock ‘em dead
.

He picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.

He was shocked to find the hallway crowded with police. Some were talking with occupants of the apartment building; others were walking up and down the staircase that led to the sixth floor, which, Clayton saw, had yellow police tape tied to its posts.

“Clayton!”

Clayton looked over to see Herbert Jones. Herbert was another fifth floor resident and liked to know everything that was happening.

“Jesus Christ, what a circus,” the old man said, grinning and shaking his head. He was still in his bathrobe.

Clayton gazed at the diminutive, gray-haired man. “What the hell happened?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

Clayton shook his head.

“Young Rose Hawkins was murdered last night.”

Clayton’s head swirled. “Murdered? Rose?”

“That’s what I said. She was butchered. While she was asleep. Cops think it’s the work of that serial killer. You know, the one that kills women while they’re asleep in their homes.”

“They do?”

The old man grinned, displaying shriveled yellow teeth. “Nah, not really. That’s only what I reckon. But I bet I’m right.”

Clayton watched the goings on in a daze. Police dashing about, taking statements, looking for clues. It was all so surreal.

“I’ll bet the cops will want to talk to you,” Herbert said.

“Huh?”

Clayton began to panic. Did they think he did it? Did somebody see him last night?

“The cops. They’ll want to speak to you. I mean, hell, you do live right under the poor girl.” Herbert leaned in close. He smelled of sweat and coffee. “Did ya hear anything last night?”

Clayton shook his head and relaxed a little. “No. Only her footsteps.”

“Waiting for Hal?”

Clayton nodded.

“He’s the one who found her. What a thing to come home to, huh?”

“I heard her speaking to him,” Clayton said, his thoughts trailing off, remembering the events of last night.

“It seems that between her speaking with Hal and him coming home, the killer broke into their apartment. Must’ve been watching her or something I reckon. I mean, how the hell else did he know when to break in and get her?”

“That’s when I fell asleep,” Clayton said, his voice distant.

“Well you should have heard the commotion after Hal found the body. Christ, the place was packed with cops and paramedics. You didn’t hear any of it?”

“No.”

Herbert whistled. “Boy, you sure are a heavy sleeper.”

“Well I’ve been tired lately. Do they know who did it?”

“They’re the cops. What do you think?” Herbert laughed. “Hal’s their main suspect at the moment, but that’s not because of any hard evidence, just standard cop procedure. They’ve been talking to everyone in the building all morning, but they haven’t found any clues, apart from the one the killer left behind. Shit, the only clue they do have is because the killer was careless.”

“Left what behind?”

“Well, according to Mrs. Dally up in room six-sixteen, they found a necklace of some sort. Big old glass thing. Wasn’t Rose’s or Hal’s, according to Hal. So they figured it had to have been the killer’s. Of course, the cops won’t admit to that. There was a struggle, you see. Apparently Rose fought like a…” Herbert stopped when a policeman walked over.

“Who are you?”

It took a moment for Clayton to realise that the cop was speaking to him. “Clayton Patterson.”

“You the one who lives in this apartment?”

Clayton nodded.

“Well then, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions,” the policeman said, flipping open his notebook. The policeman eyed Herbert. “Do you mind, sir?”

“Sorry, officer.” Herbert scurried off, his bathrobe flapping behind him.

“Okay, son. What’s your name again?”

“I’m late for a job interview,” Clayton said.

The policeman huffed and one side of his mouth curled. “Son, you’re going to have to miss this one.”

Clayton dropped his briefcase. It clattered to the floor, its emptiness echoing his own feelings. “I didn’t want the job anyway.”

The policeman nodded. “Your full name, please.”

* * *

Clayton glanced at the alarm clock: 12:50.

He waited. When the footsteps didn’t come, he let out a sigh.

Not that he was expecting any.

Still, there was something missing now. It was too quiet. It seemed he had gotten used to the late night ritual.

He glanced over at the window, at the stream of moonlight that cut a bright line into his apartment. There was no light, either.

Nor would there ever be, Clayton knew.

It had vanished, along with Rose’s life.

Clayton shivered, despite the warm breeze drifting in through the open window. And even though he was exhausted, there would be no sleep for him tonight.

NOTES:

I’m a big fan of murder-mystery stories, and magazines such as
Ellery Queen
and
Alfred Hitchcock
. I wrote this story specifically with the idea of submitting it to
Ellery Queen
. A tough market, and sure enough, a few months later I received my first rejection letter from the legendary mystery magazine. But, not too long after, Eric from Nocturne Press came to me asking if I had anything I could send him for the premiere issue of
Post Mortem
magazine. I had this story fresh in my mind, so I sent him the story, he liked it and bought it.

THE CYCLE

It was as unbelievable and grotesque as anything he had ever seen.

The sign read:
Road kill for sale. Good ‘n’ fresh.

That was ghoulish enough, but it was what was written beside it, crudely, in fading red paint that really appealed to Craig’s sense of the macabre:
Souls for sale.

Wearing only jeans and a cap, Craig Becker stepped out of the dust-coloured Jeep Cherokee (its air conditioner had been on the blink for the past few days, since around Montgomery) and towelled the sweat from his face with his black
Easy Rider
T-shirt which stank of long drives, cheap motels and, suitably, of weed. His body was tanned and, despite the love handles that were creeping over the sides of his jeans and the curls on his chest that were starting to gray, in good shape.

Flinging the damp shirt across the back of his neck and shoulders to block the fiery sun, Craig crunched over dirt to the stand by the side of the road. The stench of dead flesh was strong

Contrary to what the sign proclaimed, the road kill looked neither good nor fresh – flies swarmed the collection of dead possum, fox, deer and other assorted road kill and buzzed around the scores of tins. 

“Howdy,” the man sitting behind the stand said, accent typically southern.

“G’day,” Craig said. “Hot.”

The man stood, looked up at the rich blue sky and nodded. “Suppose it is. What can I do you for?”

The man was stick-thin and ugly. Not ugly in the deformed, inbred way that Craig had seen in countless films, but in a ‘poor son-of-a-bitch got the bad end of the deal, looks like a monkey crossed with a weasel, no woman with one good eye would ever go near’, sort of way.

“Saw your sign. Thought I’d stop and take a look. It’s not every day you see this kind of thing for sale.”

Thin lips peeled back, unveiling stubby yellow teeth. “No, don’t suppose you would see this kind of thing in…England?”

Craig shook his head. “Right blood-line, wrong country. Australia. Melbourne.”

“Aus..tra…li…a,” the man said thickly. “What brings ya’ll the way down here? Grand Canyon’s about a thousand miles that away.”

“I’m no tourist,” Craig said, pointing to his cap. “I’m a regular Joe.”

The rat-like man squinted up at the cap. “I love Bush,” he read. “That supposed to be some kinda joke? Who’s Bush?”

Lordy
, Craig thought, but smiled and said, “It’s a play on words. You know…George Dubya as opposed to a lady’s…” Craig could tell by the man’s blank stare that this guy knew a hell of a lot about road kill, and that was about it. “Anyway,” Craig said, scanning the array of dead animals, “I’m driving around America, doing the quest thing, trying to find the real America, just like Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper.” Craig went for his T-shirt, but decided against it. If the guy didn’t know who the President of his own country was, then he surely wouldn’t know…

“You mean like in that movie?
Easy Rider
?”

“That’s right,” Craig said, surprised. “Except I’m riding in a Jeep, not on a Harley. Not nearly as romantic, but hell, don’t wanna die before I see this country. Don’t wanna end up as road…” Craig swallowed. “Name’s Craig, by the way.”

“Almus,” the man said. “You hungry?”

Craig hadn’t eaten anything since the bacon and eggs this morning. He wasn’t a big fan of either food, but the diner –
Patty’s Good Eat In
– had offered little else that wasn’t deep fried, or that didn’t require him to look up a dictionary to find out what it was.

 “Sure,” he said. “You got a barbecue going nearby or something?” Craig looked past the stand and into the woods, but couldn’t see a house.

 “No,” Almus squawked. “I meant did ya want to buy some road kill?”

Craig’s stomach lurched. Was this guy serious?

A distant cry cut Almus’s laughter short. It had sounded like some big cat or a wolf. Almus looked over his shoulder, and when he turned back, he looked unnerved. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to laugh at ya.”

“Forget it. So people buy these dead animals…for food?”

“’Course. Why else?”

Craig thought for a moment. “To get stuffed and mounted?” he offered.

“This here’s good eatin’. You’d be surprised how tasty these critters are. An’ it’s a good business, too. It don’t cost nothing for me to get them; I just wait ‘til some animal is run over, then I scrape it off the road, clean it up a bit, an’ sell it.”

“You sell many?”

“I do all right.” He turned to the line of strung up, flat-as-a-pancake carcasses, tails hanging limply, fur bloody, dead eyes glaring. “Now, I’ve got fox, beaver, wild cat, deer…”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Craig said, the hot afternoon air making it difficult for him to breathe. All he could smell was baking meat. “I’m suddenly not that hungry.”

Almus shrugged. “Suit yourself.” A gleam sparkled in his otherwise glassy eyes. He moved over to the table next to the one that housed the road kill. Craig followed. “Would you be more interested in one of these?”

Tins of varying sizes sat atop a splintery table. There were around twenty, the smallest being the size of a coffee tin, the largest the size of a paint can. Most of them were rusted and full of dints; some still bore their labels, though most of the brands were faded, and those that Craig could read he had never heard of.

“These the souls?” Craig asked.

Almus nodded, the twinkle in his eyes growing more fervent.

There was something distinctly odd about this man – and it wasn’t just his homely looks or that he sold road kill and souls by the side of the road in backwater, USA. Craig sensed purpose in him, a deeper intelligence that he was trying desperately to cover up.

“When a varmint is killed, their soul escapes and floats up to heaven…or down to hell, depending on what God sees fit. Only, if you’re quick enough, you can catch the dead critter’s soul. You have to be quick, mind you, or else you’ll miss your chance. And you gotta know how to catch it.”

“And you know how to?”

“I got ‘em right here, don’t I?”

Craig eyed the rows of tins, could barely contain his smile, but was fascinated by this man and what his bizarre roadside stand represented. It was capitalism at its most primitive. Yessiree, he had definitely found the spirit of America.

“Whose souls are they?”

“These road kill, mostly.”

“Can I see one?”

Almus shook his head. “’Fraid not. You have to buy one first before you can open a tin up. These are mighty powerful things. They may be the souls of simple animals, but they’re souls all the same.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Buy one and find out.”

It was all bullshit, of course. Craig knew this was just a clever, albeit morbid, way of making money off of stupid and equally morbid tourists. During his two-month road trip, he had seen roadside vendors selling bottled air, water that was supposed to cure cancer, even locks of pubic hair from virgins. In a land where everything was for sale and nothing was too absurd, selling the souls of dead animals was just another way of squeezing every bit of milk and sucking all the honey from her generous and bountiful supply.