It had a word painted in black above the windows where the name of the school district had probably once been.
PEQUOD
Terrific, Pamela thought. I’ve been captured by Captain Ahab.
She turned away from the bus and hurled herself at the rocky slope. She scrambled upward, climbing higher and higher, huffing and sweating, her throat clenched because of the pain shooting up from her feet.
‘Be careful you don’t hurt yourself,’ the driver called. ‘I didn’t shoot this feller just to have you fall and crack your head open.’
Stopping at the top of a boulder, Pamela put a hand against a steep wall of rock and turned sideways. She was surprised to find herself so high above the floor of the canyon.
The driver was just outside the front door of the bus, bent over and walking backward, dragging Rodney’s body by the wrists. The head, face up, wobbled from side to side between the driver’s straight arms. The body skidded along on its back. The feet shook and bounced.
‘What’re you doing?’ Pamela called.
Not bothering to look up, the driver answered, ‘Gotta dump him.’ Beyond the front of the bus he started dragging the body uphill. ‘It’d be a sight easier if you gave me a hand,’ he announced. ‘Not that I’m complaining. I killed him, after all – my duty to deal with his mortal remains. But a helping hand’d be appreciated.’
‘Where are you taking him?’
‘Up yonder.’ He dropped Rodney’s arms, then tilted back his head. Pamela supposed he was looking at her, but she couldn’t see his eyes because of the sunglasses. Raising an arm, he pointed in the direction he’d been dragging the body. ‘Yonder there,’ he said. ‘I’ll just give him the old heave-ho down the glory hole.’
‘What were you going to do with me?’ Pamela asked.
‘Take care of you, I reckon. Take you on down the road, soon as I’m done with my business here.’
‘How do I know you won’t . . . do something to me?’
‘What do you mean, hurt you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why would I wanna go and do that?’
‘Some men do.’
‘You mean like him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Look what I done to him.’
‘Why’d you do it?’
‘You wanna gab, come on down so I ain’t gotta yell.’ With that, he picked up Rodney’s arms and resumed dragging the body. Pamela watched him labor with it. She shook her head. Rodney was a lot bigger than the driver. It had to be a tough job, struggling uphill with a heavy body on a hot day like this.
He shot him for me. I’d be dead right now.
‘Hold on,’ she called. ‘I’ll come down and help.’
‘Much obliged.’ He dropped Rodney’s arms and sat down on a nearby rock.
I must be out of my mind, Pamela thought as she began to make her way down from the rocks. He’s out of his, for sure. But he did save my life. And he seems pretty much okay except for the fact that he drives around the desert with a bus full of dummies. Maybe there’s a good reason for that, she told herself. Right. A logical explanation. Even if he is nuts, she thought, maybe I can stay on his good side and he’ll treat me okay.
Near the bottom, she leaped the rest of the way to the ground. The hard earth smacked her wounded feet. She cried, ‘Ahhh!’ and hobbled over to the bus. She leaned against its side, propped a foot across her knee and inspected the damage. The sole was filthy, scratched and bloody. She supposed her other foot was just as bad, or worse.
‘Go on in the bus,’ the driver called, ‘and grab yourself some shoes.’ He was still sitting on the rock.
‘Really?’ Pamela called.
‘Just take ’em off a passenger. I’ll wait.’
‘Thank you!’ Pamela hobbled to the open front door, climbed aboard and stopped. The key was in the ignition. She stared at it.
I’ll never get another chance like this. She glanced through the windshield. The driver, sitting on the rock near Rodney’s body, wasn’t even watching. His head was turned away and tipped back as if he might be admiring the scenery.
Did he leave the key here on purpose? she wondered. Maybe it’s a trick or a test or something. To see if I try to make a getaway. Maybe he’s just careless, forgot to take the key with him. Or maybe it’s his way of telling me that I’m not his prisoner.
Who knows?
The hell with it, she thought. I told him I’d help with the body, so that’s what I’ll do.
She limped down the aisle to the seat behind the boy dummy. Both the young female mannequins wore knee socks and white sneakers.
The driver hadn’t said anything about taking socks. Would he mind?
Pamela pulled the shoes and socks off the nearest figure. Sitting on the aisle floor, she put them on. The socks felt almost as good as bandages. When she stood up, her feet still hurt but they felt protected. The socks’ arid soles made a springy cushion for them.
Would the driver get angry if she borrowed more? The rest of the mannequin’s outfit, for instance?
The plaid shorts and lime-green polo shirt looked cool and fresh. And clean.
Pamela felt miserable in the clothes she had on. They made her sweat. They made her itch. The sweater and skirt were not only heavy and hot but filthy. And covered with Rodney’s blood.
Besides, they’d been a gift from him.
An imitation of her high-school cheerleader costume, put together by Rodney so that he could get himself all turned on.
He had dressed her in it. Maybe he had dressed his other victims in it, too. Some might’ve been wearing it while he did horrible things to them. Perhaps some had even worn it after they’d been killed – the inside of the sweater and skirt touching their dead skin.
Pamela wished she hadn’t thought of that. Now I have to get out of this stuff.
She spotted the driver outside, still sitting. He seemed to be paying no attention to her or the bus. She crouched slightly, and couldn’t see him anymore. Staying low, she unfastened the Bermuda shorts and drew them down the mannequin’s legs. Then she unbuckled the safety belts, pulled the figure into the aisle and stripped off its knit shirt. Standing, she glanced at the driver. He was still sitting on the rock. So she tugged her skirt down. Squatting, she pulled the sweater off.
Pamela looked at herself. A lot of bruises and scratches and weals, but they didn’t concern her. What did concern her was the blood. She supposed that nearly all of it was Rodney’s blood. It must’ve soaked through the sweater. She didn’t want it getting on her clean clothes. Quickly, she turned the cheerleader skirt inside-out. She used both hands to towel off her skin with the skirt. The blood was damp, maybe kept moist by her sweat, so she was able to wipe off most of it. Then she tossed the skirt aside and slipped into the bright green polo shirt. Holding the mannequin’s shorts, she stood.
The driver was sitting on the rock, head down.
Pamela stepped into the shorts, pulled them up and fastened them. A bit loose, but not enough to matter. She tossed the old sweater and skirt onto an empty seat, then walked toward the front of the bus. Though her feet still hurt, this was the best they’d felt in a long time. The best she’d felt. The clothes were light. They seemed to float against her, not wrap her in heat and load her down. She wished there’d been undergarments to wear. This was like being half-undressed. The shorts were certainly better than the skirt had been, but the clinging knit shirt made it very obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
She supposed she could find something to wear over the shirt. Too hot around here already. The hell with it. She climbed down the stairs and stepped to the ground.
The driver raised his head. ‘Look at you,’ he said.
Pamela grimaced at him. ‘I grabbed a bit more than just shoes,’ she said. ‘I hope that’s okay. I mean, my stuff was horrible, and . . .’
‘You take whatever you want, girl. You’re welcome to it.’
‘That’s really nice of you. Thanks.’
> This guy isn’t going to attack me, she thought. He’s nice. Except maybe he’s just in a calm period right now between his fits of homicidal frenzy.
No, no, no, she told herself. He’s okay, he’s fine.
As she approached him, she held out her hand. ‘I’m Pamela,’ she said.
The driver stood up. He took her hand and gave it a small squeeze. His grip felt solid but restrained. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘My name’s Sharpe. Walter Sharpe.’ He released her hand. ‘You call me Sharpe.’
‘I go by Pamela, mostly.’
‘Howdy, Pamela.’
‘Howdy, Sharpe.’
‘That outfit there, it sure looks better on you than it did on Fran.’
‘Fran?’
‘The gal you took it offa. Fran Lowry.’
Oh wonderful, he’s got names for them.
‘Well, time’s a-wasting,’ he said. ‘What’s say we dump this ol’ boy? Pick an arm.’
Pamela chose Rodney’s left arm. She lifted it by the wrist. Sharpe, at her side, picked up the right arm. They began walking backward, dragging him.
‘I want to thank you for, you know, saving me. He was about to kill me.’
‘Figured he weren’t up to much good.’
‘He murdered my husband last night.’
For a few moments, Sharpe didn’t say anything. Then he shook his head. ‘That’s a real shame. I’m sorry to hear it. My God, he made a widow outta you. Makes me double-glad I put that bullet through his skull.’
‘We’d only been married for six months.’
‘A real shame,’ Sharpe said.
‘He showed me Jim’s body.’ Pamela was a little surprised to hear herself telling Sharpe about such things. Dragging Rodney and telling her secrets. ‘It was . . . in the bathroom. He showed it to me on the way out . . . when we were leaving. Jim was on the floor, but . . .’
The memory suddenly made her retch and double over. As she heaved, she saw through teary eyes her vomit cascading down onto Rodney’s face.
‘That’s all right,’ Sharpe murmured, gently patting her back. ‘Get it all out. You’ll feel a whole lot better, you just dump it all out on him.’
When Pamela was done vomiting, she remained bent over with her hands on her knees. Her vision was blurry with tears. Her chest hurt. Her throat and nasal passages felt scorched.
‘Here,’ Sharpe said, ‘I got a hanky for you.’
‘I’ll . . . mess it up.’
‘You need it more than me.’
He held a red bandanna under her face, so she took it. She wiped her face and blew her nose, then straightened up and stepped a couple of paces backward. Rodney’s face was carpeted with colorful, chunky glop.
Last night’s pizza.
Jim had phoned Pizza Guy to order it for home delivery. Pepperoni and sausage, thin crust, with extra cheese. They’d eaten it in the living room on TV trays, drinking beer and watching a tape of the previous night’s Letterman show. Jim’s last meal. His last Letterman show. His last everything.
Pamela started to weep, but then she saw how Rodney’s open mouth was full to the brim.
She suddenly lost interest in crying.
She turned away and gagged again. It hurt her in the chest and across her back. She wondered if she’d somehow damaged herself with all the vomiting. She concentrated, trying not to gag anymore.
Just don’t think about the puke in his mouth. She retched all over again.
‘You okay?’ Sharpe asked.
‘No,’ Pamela gasped.
‘Don’t look at him. Tell you what. You just stay here and take it easy. I’ll see to this feller.’
Without looking around, she nodded.
‘Good thing he’s already dead,’ Sharpe announced. ‘If he weren’t, he’d likely be wishin’ he was.’
Pamela laughed. She couldn’t help it. Just a small laugh. It hurt, but not as much as the gagging.
She heard Rodney being dragged away. Then she felt guilty about making Sharpe do all the work, so she hurried after him.
Keeping her gaze on him, she said, ‘I’ll take a hand.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I just won’t look at him.’
So Sharpe turned an arm over to her. She clutched its wrist with both hands. Side by side, she and Sharpe trudged backward, dragging the body. She stared off to the left to avoid looking at Rodney.
‘Where did you say we’re taking him?’ she asked.
‘Up to the glory hole.’
‘The glory hole?’
‘Used to be a lot of mines round these parts. Some of the pits, they just got left behind, open and all, when the ore played out. I found this here glory hole a few years back. I doubt much of anyone knows it’s here, ’cept me and maybe a couple of old prospectors.’
‘Do you live somewhere nearby?’
‘Yup. In yonder bus.’
Don’t ask! But she couldn’t seem to help herself. ‘With the others?’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
Don’t, don’t, don’t! ‘With . . . Fran and . . . uh . . .’ she said. She turned her head the other way, forcing herself not to focus on Rodney, and looked at Sharpe’s face. ‘Who are they?’
‘Well, they ain’t so much whos as they’re whats.’
‘Oh. Okay. What are they?’
He turned his head and smiled at her. ‘You telling me you don’t know?’
‘Well . . .’
‘They’re store dummies,’ Sharpe said, and looked over his shoulder.
‘Well, I know that. But . . .’
‘Better hold up, we’re here.’ Sharpe let go of Rodney’s arm.
Keeping her gaze away from the body, Pamela crouched and set the other arm on the ground. Then she stood and turned around.
‘That’s it there,’ Sharpe said, nodding.
The hole just a little farther up the slope from them looked like the mouth of a cave.
A vertical cave. Pamela walked slowly toward it. Sharpe stayed by her side.
‘You don’t wanna get too close,’ he warned.
A few strides more, and Pamela suddenly found that she couldn’t walk any closer to the hole. Her legs, going shaky and weak, seemed to know they were near enough. They stopped her. She had an urge to back away, but she fought it. Bending her knees slightly, she stood her ground.
Sharpe stopped beside her.
‘It’s a hole, all right,’ she said.
‘Goes straight down,’ Sharpe told her.
‘Very far?’
‘Far enough.’
‘It seems like . . . a horrible place to leave someone.’
‘No more than what I reckon he deserves. ’Sides, he’s dead. He won’t know no better. You just stand pat, and I’ll take care of him.’
Sharpe went to get Rodney.
From where Pamela stood, she could see only partway down the mouth of the hole. The far wall of it was bright with sunlight. She supposed that the sunlight must peter out, farther down. Get dimmer and dimmer until there was none at all – blackness. Sharpe stepped past her. He was bent over and trudging backward, dragging Rodney by the wrists.
‘Be careful,’ Pamela said.
‘Yup.’
He kept walking backward, closer and closer to the edge of the glory hole.
‘Sharpe!’
His head lifted, but he didn’t stop.
‘Watch where you’re going!’
‘Oh, don’t worry about this ol’ boy.’
He was only about two paces from the pit, and still backing up.
‘Damn it, Sharpe! You’re gonna fall in!’
At the very rim of the pit, he halted and let go of Rodney’s wrists. He stood up straight. He grinned at Pamela. ‘No need to fret. I ain’t exactly a novice at this.’
‘Would you please get away from the edge!’
‘Sure.’ He stepped over Rodney’s body.
Pamela took a deep, trembling breath.
Standing over
Rodney’s feet, Sharpe turned his head toward her. ‘I already emptied his pockets for him, back on the bus. Anything you want before I give him the ol’ heave-ho?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, then.’ He lowered himself to his knees, clutched Rodney around the ankles, and pushed. The body started scooting headfirst toward the pit.
Pamela looked at Rodney’s face. Much of the mess must’ve slid off, but he still had gobs of vomit clinging to his face. It still filled his open mouth. It covered his one remaining eye and was packed in the socket where his other eye used to be. She imagined cold pizza hurl trickling down his throat. Thick cheesy lumps of it.
Pamela swallowed hard and looked away.
He deserves it, she told herself. He deserves everything. When she looked again, his head was over the hole, tipped way back. His shoulders were at the edge.
Sharpe kept shoving.
Rodney’s arms flopped into the hole. Soon, his back was bent so much that he looked as if his spine might snap. Sharpe let go of the body’s ankles.
Rodney’s feet kicked toward the sky. Heels up, he plunged straight down and vanished.
‘Jesus,’ Pamela muttered. A moment later there came a thudding sound.
Sharpe stood up. ‘What was the feller’s name?’ he asked. ‘I like to know their names.’
‘Rodney Pinkham.’
‘Mind if I say a few words over him?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘Much obliged.’ Cupping both hands to the sides of his mouth, Sharpe lowered his head and called, ‘Good riddance, Rodney Pinkham. Rot in peace.’
Chapter Seven
Norman nearly always locked his car before leaving it. This time he decided not to bother.
Norman climbed out, shut the door without locking it, and stepped to the gasoline pump marked REGULAR UNLEADED. After filling his tank, he walked no more than fifty feet to the gas-station office. No waiting. Stepped right up to the counter, gave his pump number, handed over a twenty-dollar bill, accepted his change and headed for the door.
The Glory Bus Page 5