The Speed Queen (19 page)

They were in there maybe thirty seconds. It could have been shorter or longer, I wasn't counting. The clock on the dash worked, Lamont was always proud of that, but I wasn't timing them. I had my finger over the order button, ready to see if everything was going okay.

Lamont came on. "We're in," he said. "Stand by."

"Standing by," I said.

It was like the astronauts talking.

Lamont left the mike open. "Over there," he was saying to someone. "Shut up and do it."

I heard the register peep and the drawer kick out. Then I heard the shots.

I wasn't there for that, so Natalie might be right. I don't know about Victor Nunez overpowering her, because he wasn't that big. He was chubby, one of those kids that jiggles, the kind that gets picked last —not someone who'd surprise you. Mr. Jefferies showed a bunch of diagrams in court, and from where Natalie says she was standing and where the door of the stockroom was, it looks like she just didn't know he was behind her. She'll never admit it though, because that would make it all her fault.

As far as I could tell, this is what happened. Lamont went in first. Everybody was inside, just like we planned. No one was by the phone, so Lamont pulled out his gun. He asked which one of them was the manager, and Donald Anderson said that he was. Lamont went around the counter to get everyone away from the register and the Order-Matic panel. At the same time, Natalie made Margo Styles take off the headset she used to do the drive-thru window. Lamont called me and started on the cash drawer. So far everything was going okay.

This whole time, Victor Nunez was in the stockroom, getting a bunch of cups. When he came out he must of seen Natalie standing there with the gun. It was noisy from the hiss of the grill and the bubbling of the Fry-o-lators, so maybe she didn't hear him. Maybe she was scared and froze up. Whatever. Either Victor Nunez stopped and decided to be a hero or he just reacted, no one knows. But the next thing he did was come up behind Natalie and grab for the gun.

Was there a struggle like in the movies? Did Lamont have to decide whether to risk shooting her, the great love of his life? I have no idea, I wasn't there. Natalie makes it sound like Victor Nunez practically had to break her wrist to get it, but that would of given everyone time to take cover. All I know is I heard a bunch of shots.

I don't know what order they hit everyone in. One hit Reggie Tyler in the ear. One hit the slush machine, because when I got there it was squirting all over the floor. One hit Donald Anderson in the side. One hit Victor Nunez and took most of one cheek away. And one hit Lamont in the ribs.

My first reaction was to hope we were doing the shooting. I'm sorry but it's true. I hung on to the steering wheel, waiting for the noise to stop.

Lamont swore and there was another shot. "That's what you get," he said.

A girl was crying in the background.

I looked around the lot. The family in the T-bird hadn't heard anything, which I thought was impossible.

"Margie," Natalie called, "get in here."

I looked in my purse to make sure the gun was still there. Gainey had chocolate sauce all over his chin.

"Mama'll be right back," I said.

I wondered if I should lock the doors or not. I left them open in case we had to move fast.

While I was walking along the side of the building, another car pulled in, a new Camaro convertible with a blonde in it, so blond her hair was almost white. She passed me and curled around the other side. I turned the corner in time to see the guy in the Tempest check her out. There were two doors, one to go in on the right, the out one on the left. They both had a sticker that said EMPLOYEES ONLY. I opened the in door and went in like I was just late for work.

The first thing I saw was Lamont holding his ribs. His shirt was soaked, and the hip of his jeans below it. He was next to the register, holding his gun on everyone. Natalie stood by the drink machine, holding hers out the same way.

They were all on the floor between the grill and the Fry-o-lators. A cloud of greasy smoke hung under the lights; the whole place reeked of meat. There was no music inside. Victor Nunez and Reggie Tyler were on the floor, but they were dead and you could tell. A piece of Victor's face stuck to the soft ice cream machine; his red visor lay on the grill, cooking. Reggie's legs were under him at a funny angle. The floor was tile and had a drain, and the blood was running into it. Kim Zwillich and Margo Styles were clutching each other. I forgot to take out my gun. I just stood there looking at everything. A Coke clock went around on the wall.

"He says the safe's not open," Lamont said, poking his gun at Donald Anderson. He was sitting in front of the others like he could protect them. He had a tic in his right eye, and his lip was starting to follow. He had on a white alligator shirt with the Sonic triangle over the heart while the rest of them had cheap red ones that buttoned up with a patch that said Sonic like it was a gas station.

"He can open it," I said. "He's got the combination."

"I don't have it," Donald Anderson pleaded. "I just started working this week."

"Get over there," Lamont said.

"I don't have it!"

Lamont took a step and Donald Anderson crawled toward the corner. His knees left trails in the blood.

Natalie swore and Kim Zwillich and Margo Styles huddled closer.

Over the Order-Matic, a woman said, "I need a number three and a rainbow slush with a dash of vanilla."

Lamont looked at Donald Anderson, then looked at me.

"Did you get that?" the woman said. It had to be the blonde in the Camaro, at least I hoped so.

I stepped over a fallen stack of cups and punched the button for stall 17.

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Is that with or without fries?"

"With."

"Large or small?"

"Large."

"What would you like on that three?"

"Everything please."

"What size slush —small, medium or large?"

"Large, and I'd like just a dash of vanilla ice cream on top."

"Okay. I said, and rang it up like a regular order. "That's a number three with everything, large fry, large rainbow with vanilla. Will there be anything else?"

"That's it," she said.

I totaled it. "That'll be three forty-four. We'll have your order out to you in a jiff. Thanks tor cruising Sonic."

Behind me in the corner, Donald Anderson was working at the combination. Lamont had the gun on him, jabbing him in the back of the head with the barrel.

"Who else would know it?" Lamont said.

"He knows it," I said. "The manager handles all the money."

Outside, the family in the T-bird were leaving. The guy in the Tempest had a book open.

The Order-Matic let out a blast of static. "Excuse me," the blonde said, "can I get that number three without tomatoes?"

"No tomatoes on that three," I said, like I was saying it to someone. "No problem, ma'am."

"Thank you."

"Bring one of them over here," Lamont called, and Natalie grabbed Kim Zwillich by the arm and broke her away from Margo Styles. Victor Nunez and Reggie Tyler just laid there, draining.

"How long is this going to take?" I said. "Should I get this lady's order?"

"Can you get it?" Lamont said.

"I can try," I said.

Not all the burgers on the grill were burnt. I fixed a number three, got a large fry from under the heat lamp and ran a rainbow slush. The machine dribbled cause it had been hit; I was afraid there wouldn't be enough, but there was. I tried not to look at the ice cream machine. I put the lid on and got the straw and the napkins. When the tray was ready I set it on the counter.

"Take your shirt off," I told Margo Styles, and she did.

It was warm, the armpits sopping. The headband of her visor was damp. I took her change apron and fastened the strap behind my back. It wasn't until I was outside that I remembered the no tomato.

"That's all right," the blonde in the Camaro said. "I can pick them off."

It was a beautiful car, I said, and she told me how she liked it, what it could do. I could feel the guy in the Tempest watching us. I thought how I'd like to get in and just go, hit the interstate and just motor.

I made change and started walking away when she called, "What about those little candies, don't I get one?"

Heading for the door, I saw my shoes had left bloody prints on the walk.

When I went back inside, the bodies were gone, just a big smear of blood on the tiles, the lines left by their heels. Natalie was herding Margo Styles toward the back with a big kitchen knife in one hand and the gun in the other. Margo Styles was crawling on her hands and knees and Natalie was kicking her. Lamont and Donald Anderson were still working on the safe; Donald Anderson was sobbing and bleeding from one ear. Beside them, Kim Zwillich was King on the floor with her eyes closed and blood all over her front. The tip of one of her fingers lay on the floor like a dropped Tater Tot.

"How's it going?" I said.

"It's not," Lamont said. "He says he can't remember it. I'm beginning to think he really doesn't."

"He's scared."

"And I'm not," Lamont said.

From the back came a scream, then pleading, then another scream. Everything on the grill was smoking now. I grabbed a handful of peppermints and checked the clock.

"Three more minutes," I said. "It's coming up on lunchtime."

In the back Margo Styles was screaming. It was good to get outside in the fresh air.

"Thank you," the blonde said.

"You're very welcome, ma'am," I said. "It sure is a beautiful car."

I looked around the other corner to make sure the Roadrunner was okay, and it was. A yellow Coronet pulled in, and right behind it a Ranchero with a pinball machine in back.

"Forget it," I told Lamont. "We've got to get going." In a way, it wasn't really me; it was the speed and the situation. Everything was just clicking. It was like work, I was just doing what I had to do.

Lamont hauled Donald Anderson up from his knees. "Get her," he told me, so I did.

I'd like to apologize to the Zwillich family for what I'm going to say next, even though I know they heard some of it at the trial.

I couldn't lift her so I dragged her by her wrists. Her hands were all chopped up. She was missing two fingers, and there were cuts on the backs that were still bleeding. In the middle of dragging her past the grill, her eyes opened. She was already slippery and she started fighting me, twisting out of my grip. I grabbed the first thing I could find —a metal spatula —and hit her across the face with it. I got a good grip again and hauled her through the mess and past the ice machine. Up front, the Order-Matic came on, some lady saying, "I'd like a Supersonic with cheese, onion, mayo, and that's it." Another guy said, "I need a corn dog and a medium Dr Pepper." While I was dragging Kim Zwillich back toward the freezer, I tried to keep the orders separate in my mind, because I thought I'd have to stall them. It was easier that way, having something to think about. God knows what Natalie and Lamont were thinking.

I'm not sure if it was Lamont's idea or Natalie's. It wasn't mine. I've worked in enough restaurants to be afraid of getting trapped in one of those things. I'd never do that to someone else.

Part of it was because of the noise, I guess, that and they'd be harder to find.

We didn't use the walk-in fridge because it was full of lettuce crates and boxes of cheese and gallon jars of mayo and pickles; there wasn't enough room for all five of them.

In the freezer they kept long white boxes of burgers with the Sonic logo on them, and chicken patties. The whole thing was no bigger than the cell I'm in right now. If you touched the walls, your finger would stick to the metal for a second and leave a print. There were steel racks on both sides of a center aisle; on the racks were those plastic baskets strawberries come in, except they were filled with Tater Tots. You had to count out just the right number. When someone ordered them, you'd just dump a basket in the Fry-o-lator.

They went in in this order: first Victor Nunez and Reggie Tyler, then Margo Styles, then Donald Anderson, and finally Kim Zwillich. The only one fully conscious was Donald Anderson, and he was crying. Margo Styles had passed out from the cuts on her front. Kim Zwillich was mumbling something, a prayer or maybe just gibberish.

"Put that away," Lamont told Natalie, and she threw the knife across the room into a sink. Her one fist looked like she'd dipped it in a bucket of red paint. Her eyes were dilated, just a ring of color left, like the sun during an eclipse, and I looked at her and I thought, how did she keep from getting it all over her?

I didn't stab any of them. I didn't have the knife. And I didn't have the time to stab Margo Styles eighty-nine times. I was taking care of everything else.

Part of why I might die tonight is the eighty-nine times. I know this is going to sound cold, but it doesn't matter if it was eighty-nine times or just one. It doesn't matter that Natalie cut off Kim Zwillich's fingers. Mr. Jefferies disagrees with me; he says that's exactly what matters to a jury. While that might be true, I don't think it's right. Dead is dead.

But I understand all your readers will want the nasty details. That's what makes it fun for them. I mean, I love the thing in The Gunslinger where he goes into the town and the people turn on him and he just slices them up in that big battle. I like those big battles. You get to go way overboard with those little gross-out details. I figure that's what you'll want to do here. I'm not sure how you'll do that with real people because it would be hard on their families, but if it's fiction I guess it doesn't matter. You can just change their names. Nobody believes the people in your books are real anyway. That's what makes it fun.

To get the combination — at least that's what happened with Kim Zwillich. With Margo Styles, I couldn't tell you why. I know being in there right then made me feel like everything had gone crazy, like I couldn't be part of this even though I knew I was. It was a weird kind of high, like when you're driving and you realize you're driving and have been for a while. I don't know why she did it. Maybe because she's a crazy, evil person.

And you know who does it in her book, don't you? She has me looking at her the whole time too, like I wanted to do the same things to her. And people believe it because it makes sense, there's some kind of motive behind it. Why she did it is just a mystery.

We were all angry about Lamont getting shot, but that didn't stop me from feeling bad for the girls and for Reggie Tyler and even for Victor Nunez, who kind of started it all. I didn't want anyone else to get hurt. I just wanted to lock them in the freezer and get the heck out of there.