by J. D. Barker
“If that’s true, how would Oliver know you would bring flowers?”
“I don’t know.”
The image of the man in the alley popped into my mind. I tried to stamp it back, but he grew more vivid, the dry, old, burned-looking flesh, the hollow eyes looking back at me.
Your little girlfriend did this.
“You said she shows up on the same day every year, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah, August 8.”
Dunk’s eyes narrowed, and I could see his brain churning. “Then we’ve got one year to come up with a plan.”
“For what?”
“To follow them. We’re going to figure out where those SUVs go when they leave here.”
August 8, 1988
Twelve Years Old
Log 08/08/1988—
Subject “D” within expected parameters.
Audio/video recording.
“They let him have a phone today.”
“Seriously? How did that work?”
“Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving side of that call.”
“No, sir.”
“Who did he call?”
“They dialed for him. They did that way back when he was little, too, but I don’t think he understood what was really happening back then.”
“Now he does?”
“Now he certainly does.”
“And he still did it?”
“Yep.”
“You know what’s worse?”
“What?”
“I think he wanted to do it. When they finished and he hung up, he was smiling. That little shit got off on it.”
“Somebody needs to put him down.”
“They’d never do that. He’s too valuable.”
“No? I bet there is a thick red binder somewhere in this place detailing several ways to end his miserable existence.”
“How did they do it?”
“Do what?”
“The phone call.”
“Lou said the doctor brought an extension in there with her, then someone dialed from up here in the booth and transferred the call. A little light blinked on at the phone, the kid picked up, and did his thing.”
“Efficient.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Weird how it works over the phone or in person, as long as it’s live, but not on a recording.”
“One of the world’s great mysteries.”
Silence.
“Would you do it?”
“What?”
“You know.”
“End him? Knock him off? Punch his clock? Put him in the dirt? Kick his bucket? Send him swimming with concrete shoes? Take him for a walk over the rainbow bridge?”
“Yeah.”
“See these hands? How nice and smooth they are? I’m not built for dirty work.”
“I would.”
“You know we’re being recorded, right?”
“Nobody listens to this shit.”
“Still shouldn’t say those kind of things aloud.”
“Just think them to myself?”
“Yeah.”
“So you think about killing him, but you don’t want to talk about it?”
“Now you’re twisting my words. I didn’t say that.”
“It’s not right to leave him in there like that, to spend his life in a box. Nobody should have to live like that, not even him.”
“Since when do you have a conscience?”
“Even worse, what happens if he gets out?”
“They won’t let him get out. He’d never make it out of the building.”
“You don’t think so? With what he can do?”
“There are built-in safeties, protocols, probably a million things in place to keep that from happening.”
“Have you ever been briefed on a single one?”
Silence.
—Charter Observation Team – 309
1
The summer of 1988 was one of the wettest in Pittsburgh history, and August 8 was no exception. By the time 5 p.m. rolled around, there were flash flood warnings in effect for most of the city.
Auntie Jo said Mom would understand if she postponed her annual cemetery visit until after the monsoon broke. She also added that she hoped this would be the year my dad’s grave flooded and he floated off and disappeared in one of the three rivers so my mom could finally rest in peace without that “Good for nothing, piece of garbage, alcohol-soaked excuse for a human being” beside her. I noted that Auntie Jo said all this as she finished her third glass of wine and puffed away on the first cigarette of her second pack of the day from the comfort of her recliner at our apartment window.
Neither Dunk nor I heard from Detective Faustino Brier in the past year. There also wasn’t much news about Andy Olin Flack in the paper or on television after that initial story. Turns out, nobody really wanted to hear about a “piddler-diddler.” Most probably thought he got what he deserved.
At exactly 5 p.m., I left the apartment, thankful Auntie Jo insisted I take an umbrella and my jacket, and by 5:30 p.m. (after visiting the graves of my parents), I trudged up the soggy hill, past the glistening mausoleums, and took a seat at the bench, immediately regretting that I didn’t bring a towel or something to dry off the seat. Within seconds, my jeans were soaked, my bum was wet, and I was beginning to have second thoughts.
“Red Leader to Red One, come in, Red One, over.”
Dunk insisted we use some of my money to buy walkie-talkies, and although I didn’t want to at first, I couldn’t see his plan working without them. The Radio Shack on Brownsville Road carried a large selection, and after a detailed comparison of the various models and attributes, we decided on four Wouxun KG-UV899s with dual band 136-174MHz 400-520MHz FM transmitters. They had a range of nearly two miles and were small compared to some of the others, easily concealed.
I reached inside my jacket and pressed the transmit button on the radio stashed in the inner pocket. “Red One in position, over.”
“Roger. Red Two, report?”
There was a crackle of static, then: “Red Two in position. It’s cold as balls out here, over.”
“Noted, over.”
Red Two was Willy Trudeau, who insisted on being called “Tru Dat” when he wasn’t Red Two. He also claimed to be the next big white rapper. An odd claim, considering there had yet to be any good white rappers. His red hair, pale skin, and obscene amount of freckles did little to help the image he attempted to cast with his oversize Adidas tennis shoes and assortment of track suits he insisted on wearing at all times. There was also the career ending fact that he couldn’t rap—he had zero rhythm, and he danced like a muppet having a seizure. His only shot at rapping for a living was if he stood in line behind Dunk while he conned the Devil out of a car, then worked out a side deal of his own. Without such intervention, he was destined to become an accountant in a track suit and flashy tennis shoes.
Dunk gave Willy twenty dollars from my money. In exchange, Willy “Tru Dat” agreed to help today, no questions asked.
“Red One, this is Red Leader. Can you describe the vehicles again?”
We had covered this. I pressed the transmit button. “White SUVs, at least three of them. Maybe more, maybe less. They’ll be identical, probably driving together. Over.”
“This is Red Two. Do we have a make and model? Over.”
Willy knew we didn’t. He’d been razzing me about that since we brought him in.
“Negative,” I replied.
“Red Leader, this is Red Two. Upon return to base, I would like to conduct a vote to revoke the man card of Red One. Any boy who cannot identify a vehicle by make and model or engine sound should be relegated to washing Barbie’s Corvette for the remainder of their childhood, over.”
“This is Red Leader, agreed. Over.”
“Screw you both.”
“You forgot to say, over. Over.”
“Screw you both, over.”
“No thank you, over,” Willy replied. “Still
cold as balls, over.”
I shivered. I was freezing. I should have grabbed a heavier jacket. The rain beat at the top of the umbrella and cascaded over the sides, splashing up around me. My jeans and shoes were soaked, and even though the sun wouldn’t go down for another two hours, it was lost behind the dark storm clouds and downpour.
I rubbed my hands together and noted that the small spot where Stella had written her message on the far corner of the bench had finally been painted over, the black metal shimmering under a bead of rainwater.
The radio in my jacket squealed. A loud, piercing bolt of feedback.
I saw the headlights then, three—no, four—approaching vehicles. I jammed down the transmit button. “I’ve got four vehicles coming down Tranquility Lane toward me. I think it’s them.”
“I’ve been watching the road. They didn’t pass me. Did you see them, Red Two?”
“Negative.”
Static.
I pressed the button. “They passed one of you. There’s no other way in. Over.”
Static.
The four SUVs came to a stop in a line at the center of the road. Their headlights were on due to the rain, and the beams sliced through the weather, illuminating the blacktop and the gravestones on either side. The wiper blades on the first SUV sloshed back and forth, batting away the water with a rhythmic thump thump.
I reached into my jacket, slow this time. I didn’t want to draw attention and pressed the button. “It’s them. Four SUVs, all white.”
Another squeal erupted from the walkie-talkie, and then it fell silent.
No response from Dunk or Willy.
I couldn’t see inside the SUVs. The interiors appeared black, shadows, lost behind the storm.
I pressed the button again. “Are either of you there? Can you hear me?”
I waited for the doors of the SUVs to open, for Ms. Oliver and the others to come out. The SUVs just sat there—the headlights watching me, the windshield wipers continuing their dance.
Thump thump.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Something was wrong.
Another squeal from the radio, then static, then nothing.
I stood up.
The engine of the first SUV roared, the tires spun, then caught on the wet pavement, and the white vehicle rocketed past me with the others following closely behind. I jumped out of their path and fell back onto the bench, the umbrella tumbling from my hand. The wind grabbed it and it flew down the hill, bouncing this way and that like a pinball over the various headstones.
My eyes locked on the passing SUVs. For one brief second, I thought I saw Stella pressed against the glass of the third one. Then they were gone.
I got to my feet, pulled the walkie-talkie from my jacket, and ran toward the woods, slipping in the slick grass. “They’re leaving! They’re leaving! Do you hear me?”
Dunk was first to break through the fading static. “We lost you there for a second. Repeat?”
“Something must be wrong. They stopped and sat there, and then they all took off. They’re following Tranquility around the edge of the cemetery. They should be coming around to the entrance any second now!”
More static.
“Red Two, this is Red Leader. Draw closer until you have visual on the entrance. I’ll do the same, we need to figure out what direction—”
I lost them as I crossed into the trees.
The large canopy of oaks blocked much of the rain, and I ran faster, twisting through the trees and underbrush, stirring the damp leaves plastered to the ground. I tripped and nearly dropped over a fallen branch about as thick as my leg. Somehow, I regained my balance while still on the move, my arms floundering in the air to keep me upright.
I broke through the trees on the other side.
“—Don’t see anything yet. This rain blows. I’m…Static…cemetery on my left,” Willy yelled into the radio, breathing heavy.
I spotted my bike about a hundred feet down the road, lying on its side in the ditch at the edge of the forest. I ran for it. “I’m at my bike! I’m gonna come up Nobles toward Brownsville!”
“I see them! I see them! Four white Chevy Suburbans! They just turned left out of the cemetery, heading north on Brownsville. Passing Birmingham right now!” Dunk said.
I dragged my bike from the ditch, almost dropped the radio, then climbed on the wet seat and pedaled as hard as I could, heading east on Nobles, the heavy raindrops pelting me in the face and the icy wind slashing my cheeks.
“I…see you…Dunk!” Willy crackled, out of breath. “I just passed the cemetery. Where are the…” Static again.
“…Left on Nobles! I repeat, they made a left on Nobles! Thatch, they’re coming toward you!” Dunk shouted. “I almost had them. They got caught in traffic. I just turned on Nobles, and they’re about a hundred yards ahead of me, picking up speed. Thatch, do you see them?”
Nobles Lane appeared deserted. I pressed the transmit button. “Negative, nothing yet. Maybe they took one of the side roads.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” Dunk replied. “All those streets are dead ends.”
I pedaled harder, my legs throbbing. “Maybe they went to a house back there.”
My radio let out a loud squeal, and I saw the headlights come around the bend ahead.
“I see them! I see them!”
Static.
“Dunk!”
The first SUV had their high beams on, and the thick, white light sliced through the rain. Standing water sprayed in their wake, a tall plume nearly twice the height of the vehicle. The speed limit on Nobles was thirty miles per hour. They were doing at least twice that and picking up speed. The three other SUVs keeping pace behind the first, only a few feet separating each.
“Dunk!” I shouted again into the radio.
Nothing.
I hammered my legs down into the pavement, and with one quick jerk, I spun my bike around in the opposite direction and began peddling as fast as I could back the way I had come.
The engine grew louder at my back.
My eyes took in the road, the guardrails on both sides of the pavement, the trees beyond that. I knew this stretch of road. There was no place for me to go until Denise Street and Colerain, and that was nearly a half mile ahead. I’d never make it.
The light of their high beams crept up the pavement, first behind me, then even, then they lit up the road ahead turning the rain into a white curtain, a wall.
The SUV revved again, it sounded like it was right on top of me and I dared not look back.
The driver hit the horn and held the button down, a shrill scream.
Then they hit me.
They hit me hard.
The SUV slammed into the back tire of my bike and jerked to the left with a force strong enough to launch me from the road and over the metal guardrail. Everything got deathly silent, and the next second seemed to drag on for an hour.
With the impact, I lost the radio as well as my grip on the handlebars. The seat disappeared beneath me. I crashed into the ground, landing on my right shoulder with a sickening crunch. My leg folded up under me, then got yanked back out straight as I rolled. I’m not sure what happened after my head hit the ground. All went real quiet.
2
The dream.
Daddy fastened me into my car seat.
Chocolate milk.
Outside Auntie Jo’s apartment.
Daddy opened my door.
Daddy removed something from the seat beside me, gave that something to Auntie Jo.
Something.
Unknown something.
Driving again.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, Jack?”
“What was in the box?”
“What box?”
“The box you gave Auntie Jo.”
“Oh, that box,” he dad replied. “Nothing, Jack. Nothing at all.”
White SUV in our path.
White SUV blocking the road.
&n
bsp; “Why would you give Auntie Jo a box of nothing?”
Awful squeal of tires.
“Not now, Jack. Daddy’s busy.”
3
“Thatch?”
“Thatch, can you hear me?”
When my eyes opened, a giant bat hovered over me. Enormous wings spread wide and flapping. We were under water and the bat stared down at me, screaming my name over the thunderous sound of the pounding waves at the surface.
“Thatch!”
I blinked.
Not a bat.
Dunk.
Dunk standing over me with his jacket open, holding both sides out to block the rain.
“Don’t move, Jack.”
“They hit…”
“I saw.”
“We need to get help!” Willy said from somewhere behind me. “He needs an ambulance!”
Dunk leaned in closer. “Can you hear me, Jack?”
I nodded.
“Can you say my name?”
“Yeah.”
“Say it.”
“Why?”
Duncan slapped my cheek with the open palm of his hand. “Say it!”
“Duncan Bellino.”
“What year is it?”
“1988.”
“Who’s the president?”
“Oh, come on.”
“Say it?”
“Ronald Reagan.”
I tried to sit up, fell back down, my head splashing in the muddy earth.
“He shouldn’t move. Don’t let him move until we get someone out here,” Willy said. “I’ll ride back out to Brownsville and find help.”
“Where are they?” I said softly.
“Gone. They ran you off the road and didn’t even slow down. I lost track of them after they turned the corner up there.”
“Where’s my shoe?”
“Oh shit, look at his leg. The way it’s bent,” Willy said.
Dunk turned to him. “If you’re gonna go and get help, then go and get help! Otherwise, shut the fuck up!”
“What’s wrong with my leg?”
Willy backed up, the rain running down his soaked head and clothes and puddling at his feet. He got on his bike and pedaled off.