“Come on now, Terry. Stop with the bullshit. You knew we’d be swinging by to pay you a visit. Story didn’t add up. We checked in with some people. We know what happened.”
Still nothing. No sign of Terry. Pig sighed, kept the pistol in one hand, and shook a cigarette from its pack and clenched the smoke between his teeth. He lit up, sucked deep. “All right. Fuck it. I’m coming back, Terry. This ain’t the way this was supposed to go. The boss-man ain’t too happy. You know that.” He winked over at Uncle Henry and grinned—Pig was enjoying this. “Uncle Henry will kill the bitch. You know that, too.”
Alice peered up at Uncle Henry, and he stared right back, his expression dull and unreadable. As he pressed the pistol barrel tighter against her ear, one thought raced through her mind: Where in the hell are the cops?
With his cigarette tucked into the corner of his lips, Pig made his way down the hallway, the trailer’s floorboards squeaking and groaning under his every step. He disappeared into the back bedroom and the trailer turned quiet except for Uncle Henry’s labored breathing. Alice could feel the man’s hot breath on her neck. Could smell the cigarettes and coffee and butterscotch candy.
Uncle Henry kept the pistol shoved to the side of Alice’s head, his blue-gray eyes directed toward the hallway. His body tense. Rigid and waiting.
After a minute, Pig reemerged from the bedroom and lumbered down the hallway clutching Terry’s duffel bag in one hand, his pistol in the other. He tossed the duffel bag onto the couch, then dropped down on the cushions beside it. He lit another cigarette and stared at Alice the entire time.
“Well, shit, Alice. Holy fucking shit. You gonna fill me in or what? Seems like we got a situation back there in the bedroom. You and Terry must have had some kind of night. Some kind of night.”
Alice opened her mouth to say something, but the words weren’t there yet. It was all a bit much—Terry dead; the fat men with guns; being too damn drunk when it was barely twelve noon.
Pig blew out a cloud of gray smoke and shook his head at Uncle Henry. “Fucker’s dead.”
Alice felt the pressure from the pistol ease off her ear, and Uncle Henry stood back up with a grunt, knees popping like fireworks. “Dead? Whattaya mean?”
“I mean he’s stiff as a fucking board. Been dead for a few hours.” Pig turned his attention back on Alice. “Okay, Alice. Why don’t you start with who the fuck you are and what happened to dipshit back there? And if you start up with the games again, or the smart mouth, I swear to fucking God, I will fuck your shit up.”
Uncle Henry found one of the kitchen chairs and plopped down. He placed his gun on the kitchen table, took a well-used handkerchief from his pocket, and cleared out his nose. “Sweetheart, you should give Pig here some good honest answers. You really should. Or he’ll do as he says. I can vouch for that.”
Alice scooted back against the wall and rubbed at her ear. She could feel an indentation on her skin. “I work at Terry’s club.”
Pig nodded like it was no big surprise. “No shit? Thought you looked like a pole dancer.”
Alice shook her head. “I bartend. I’m not a stripper.”
“Well, oo-la-la. Excuse the fuck out of me.”
“I … I don’t remember everything. Was drinking last night. At the club after it closed. Don’t remember coming home with Terry. Don’t remember anything. He slipped some roofies in my drink.”
Pig worked on his cigarette and processed the information. “Roofies, huh? Sounds about like Terry’s style. So how exactly did numb-nuts end up dead?”
“What do you think? The guy was a coke-head.”
Pig nodded. “Got that much right. You fuck up his face?”
“I’m guessing, yeah. That’s what happens when you try something with me that I don’t want,” Alice said.
Uncle Henry chuckled.
“What? You a muff-diver?” Pig asked.
“You’re an asshole.”
Again, with Uncle Henry’s chuckling.
“All right, Alice. Jesus. Keep your panties on. We got what we came for and you saved us the trouble of what to do with Terry,” Pig said.
Alice watched as Uncle Henry picked up the pistol and slipped his finger behind the trigger.
“But what to do with you? That’s the million-dollar question we’ve got now.”
“You got your money. Your drugs. I’m not involved with any of this stuff,” Alice blurted. She didn’t mean to, but her voice went up a few octaves, making her sound desperate and pathetic.
Pig dropped his cigarette in a half-empty bottle of warm beer where it fizzled and black smoke wisped from the glass neck like a summoned genie. “Well, you’re wrong about that. You are involved whether you like it or not. How’d you know about the money anyways? You planning to skip town with Terry before he OD’d?”
“No. I worked for the guy. Poured drinks. That’s all. He drugged me. Brought me back here. When I woke up, he was dead. That’s it. That’s all I know.”
“But the money, Alice. How’d you know about that? Been snooping this morning?” Pig played with his pistol. Tossed it from hand to hand.
“Look. I don’t care about the money. Terry got what was coming to him, if you ask me. I don’t know you guys. I don’t know anything. I just want to walk out that door and forget about all this.”
As Pig shoved himself off the couch and towered over her, Uncle Henry followed suit at the same time, like it was a synchronized routine. They both stared down at her with their pistols dangling at their sides.
“Problem is you do know us. You know what we look like. That’s the problem. You stink of booze, but I’m betting you’re sober enough to ID us.” He gazed over at Uncle Henry and the big man nodded in agreement. “Damn shame, Alice. I’m sorry about Terry slipping you some drugs and trying to fuck you and everything, but that’s all done. Probably serves you right working at that kind of place anyways. We’re all guilty by who we choose to associate with. That’s the problem.”
“Please. Just let me go.” Alice hated the sound of her voice, the desperation, the pleading.
“And then what? It seems to me that you got a big fucking mouth. You really think that we can trust you keeping it shut? Sorry, Alice. No can do.”
Pig’s droopy eye went to Terry’s stereo console that housed two massive speakers. “Looks like a new purchase. Fucker’s been spending our money. Christ.” He powered up the stereo and took a moment to peruse Terry’s collection of CDs. His fingers drifted along the rows of CDs until stopping on one in particular that caught his eye.
He slipped the disc into the player and AC/DC’s “Hells Bells” started to thump throughout the trailer. He cranked the volume loud enough that he had to shout to be heard. “Okay, Alice, let’s do this shit.”
Uncle Henry was on her before she had a chance to move—the obese man moved quickly despite his massive girth. He flipped her over, pressed his knee into her lower back, and shoved her head to the floor.
Alice could only groan as the wind squeezed out of her lungs. She fought him—kicked her legs, tried to push herself up—but he outweighed her by a good one hundred pounds. He was not only big, but strong as a damn ox.
“Hush now, sweetheart. This will be quick,” Uncle Henry whispered into her ear, forcing his knee down even harder.
Brian Johnson shrieked the gravelly chorus to “Hells Bells,” barely eclipsing the steady pulse of a bass guitar and rapid beat of the drums. Pig mouthed the words, well familiar with the song, picked up a dingy throw pillow from the couch, and shoved it over the crown of Alice’s head.
Alice kicked and flailed some more, but it didn’t matter. She grew still and thought about Jason and about her parents that she hadn’t seen or talked to in over six years. Her mind raced with all the heartache and pain and loneliness she had endured for so long. Maybe it was better this way. To put an end to her pointless life.
As Pig pressed the barrel of his pistol into the pillow, another low-thudding sound joined AC/DC
’s explosive canon-fire chorus.
Alice’s face smashed into the carpet that stank of dirty feet. She had a sideways, distorted view of the front door between Pig’s sneakers. From under the door, she saw something move out on the porch. Somebody outside. She watched as the front door burst open, spilling a bright blast of sunlight into the kitchen. Two sets of feet wearing shiny, black boots with thick heels stepped inside the trailer.
Pop. Pop.
Pig slammed against the wall, one bullet obliterating his spine, the other entering through the base of his neck and exiting right below his Adam’s apple. A spray of crimson showered down on Alice like liquid confetti, and she watched the man fold, dead before he hit the floor.
Uncle Henry pivoted, stared down the barrels of service revolvers held by two Harrisburg police officers. They shouted over the music, but Uncle Henry couldn’t make out what they were saying. Not that it really mattered—their message was clear. Put the gun down on the ground. Put it down now.
Uncle Henry did just the opposite. He didn’t appear alarmed or scared or caught off guard. In fact, he appeared remarkably calm. He squeezed off a round, catching the cop closest to him in the thigh, and ripping through the femoral artery. The man toppled backward, driving him and his partner back out the front door. Blood sprouted from the cop’s leg like a broken sprinkler head.
Uncle Henry staggered to his feet and squeezed the trigger twice more. The injured cop’s face morphed into a mass of flying flesh and bone.
Alice pulled into the fetal position, her screams barely audible over the next AC/DC track, “Shoot to Thrill.” She covered her head, and couldn’t look up—wouldn’t look up.
Uncle Henry went after the second cop. He grabbed the man by his black boot and yanked him back inside the trailer, moving the two-hundred-pound police officer as easily as if he were dragging a bag of dirty laundry. The cop slid across the blood-smeared linoleum floor and smacked into the corner of the refrigerator. His head snapped back, scarlet leaking from an ugly gash above his nose.
Uncle Henry slammed the front door closed, his labored breathing growling from deep inside his throat. His lips pulled back over his teeth as he brought his pistol up. Aimed it directly at the cop’s head.
Alice finally looked up. Saw what was about to happen. She took a breath and kicked out with both feet, catching the fat man in the shin. It was enough force to knock him backward, right into a growing puddle of blood. Uncle Henry slipped and came down hard on his wide backside as he squeezed the trigger. The shot went low and wide, missing the cop’s head by a few inches, but instead, shredding his shoulder.
Uncle Henry struggled on the floor like a mammoth overturned sea turtle, growling and swearing. He still gripped the pistol in his beefy hand. A part of him. Not going anywhere. A few feet from his flailing arms and legs, the cop managed to get to the sitting position and switched his gun to his other hand—the one with the shoulder blade still intact.
Uncle Henry flipped over onto his belly, aimed and squeezed. Pop. The bullet ripped into the cop’s stomach, leaving a ragged two-inch hole behind it.
Somehow, the cop still held his pistol and tried to aim it in the direction of the big man.
Uncle Henry leapt forward and dropped onto the man’s chest—the cop’s howls choked short as Henry wrapped his hands around the man’s throat and squeezed.
Alice crawled away from the two men entangled in a death embrace. She saw the cop’s eyes bulge, his face growing purple. The cop fought for his life but was quickly losing the battle. Too much pain. Too much blood loss. Alice screamed for it all to end, but Uncle Henry’s primitive growls and the blaring music muffled her high-pitched pleas.
Another Pop. And a hole blew through Uncle Henry’s back, lifting his camouflage jacket with a puff, and blossoming gouts of red dotted the trailer’s ceiling. The big man went limp and slumped forward onto the police officer.
The cop sucked in air, and when he expelled ragged breath, red, speckled foam bubbled from the corners of his mouth. His breath quickened, his chest struggling to lift Uncle Henry’s dead weight that pressed down on top of him.
Alice continued to push away from both men, crawling across the floor until she pressed up against the thudding stereo speakers. AC/DC kept singing as the pungent odor of gun smoke drifted into the air, plumes of black hugging the ceiling.
She felt wetness roll down her face. She wiped at it, thinking it was a mixture of all their blood, but when she stared at her palms, the liquid was clear. Across the room, the cop took a final few gasps, shuddered to a stop. The music faded to quiet and then the third track began to thump from the speakers. “What Do You Do for Money, Honey?”
CHAPTER SIX
SNOW FELL STEADILY. Thick white flakes tumbled down from a gray sky, making visibility limited. Alice had the truck’s windshield wipers snapping at full speed, but it didn’t help much. She could barely see ten feet in front of her as the tires chewed a path through the slush on the street.
Alice couldn’t drive a stick transmission worth a damn. She eased her foot onto the clutch and ground the gear stick accidentally into fourth—missing third entirely—and the engine revved low, causing Terry’s truck to lurch and shudder, knocking her forward and almost off the cold vinyl seats. She neglected to put on her seat belt. Wasn’t exactly thinking straight.
“Christ, Alice. Keep it together.”
The truck’s momentum finally caught up with fourth gear. She slammed on the gas pedal and sped through a yellow light. She spotted the glow of the neon sign for the Comfort Manor up ahead on the right side of the street. Almost there. Once she got back to her room, she could think this thing through a little bit better. Think at all, for that matter. The vodka clung to her brain like a pile of wet rags and her ears still buzzed from all the gunshots.
The truck reeked of Terry’s cheap aftershave and cans of Skoal that littered the floor, and Alice cranked down the window for some fresh air. The truck started to drift on a patch of ice, and Alice clutched the steering wheel with sweaty palms and finally managed to gain traction. She glanced down at her vise-like hands, dotted with spots of dried blood. Whose blood exactly, she had no idea.
When she peered back out the windshield, red taillights blinked back at her through a wall of white. She slammed down hard, locking the brakes and skidding on a section of black ice before stopping a few inches from the bumper of a blue Cadillac waiting to turn into a 7-Eleven. Her heart thudded even harder, the pounding ringing in her ears, reminding her that she had two hangovers sitting on top of one another.
When she’d made her hasty exit out of Terry’s trailer, nobody had been staring out their windows at her, curious about all the commotion—the music, the gunfire, the cop car. Maybe everybody was at work, or maybe nobody really cared. Maybe the neighbors were used to loud disturbances and the police paying visits to Terry’s. The important thing was that no one saw her spin out of Terry’s small lot, kicking gravel against the trailer and barreling out of the trailer park like a house on fire.
At least she didn’t think so.
The blue Cadillac in front of her appeared to be making a career out of their turn into the 7-Eleven parking lot, slowing down to an almost complete stop.
Alice pounded on the horn three or four times, then shook the steering wheel. “God damn it. Move already.”
A hand extended out the Caddy’s window and promptly flipped her the bird.
Alice wanted to slam on the gas and smash into the back of the Caddy. She wanted to plow through anything and anybody that stood in her way, but instead, she bit her lip, took a deep breath, and waited. Three or four seconds felt like an eternity.
Then, finally, mercifully, the Cadillac pulled into the parking lot, and the driver flipped her one more bird for the road. Alice jammed the truck back into first gear and lurched forward once again. She released the clutch too soon, and the truck rattled and almost stalled, then she gave it more gas and the engine leveled off. She had neve
r wanted to get back to her motel room this badly before. She wanted to be in her room—water-stained walls, mildewy carpets and all—grab everything she owned, and go.
This is a bad idea.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn back, call the cops—again—and let this thing play out the sensible way, the right way, but since when did she do things the right way?
She rode second gear into the Comfort Manor’s parking lot, sparks flying from taking a speed bump too fast, and squealed to an abrupt stop in front of her unit. Lucky number seven. She grabbed Terry’s duffel bag, dug her room key from her purse, and jumped out of the truck.
* * *
The room stood in complete disarray—just the way she had left it. Smelled of booze and cigarette smoke. Clothes everywhere, bed unmade. She didn’t get housekeeping in her room—not for the rate she was paying, and that was just fine with her. She didn’t want a bunch of maids snooping through her stuff. Alice wasn’t being judgmental. She had done the maid thing. Vacuumed, mopped, scrubbed, and picked up after slobs for three months at a Motel 6 in Bethlehem. Or maybe it was in Lancaster. Either way, she did her share of rummaging through suitcases, toiletry bags, and dresser drawers, looking for cash or jewelry, stealing anything she could sell to buy food and booze.
Alice closed the door and leaned back against the flimsy piece of prefab wood. She took a few deep breaths and tried to steady her thundering heartbeat. Everything seemed to be spinning. The room turned and jerked in front of her, like she got hit on the back of the head with a brick.
Five men were dead. Two of them cops. The entire trailer splattered with blood. And what did she do? She walked away from all of it and stole ninety-one thousand dollars.
As for the drugs, she left those behind in Terry’s trailer. An impulsive decision really. Besides, she had no use for them—she might be a drunk, but a drug addict she was not. She scattered the bags of cocaine and bottles of pills around the bodies of Pig and Uncle Henry. Maybe it would throw off the cops when they discovered the scene. Maybe the cash wouldn’t be missed. Maybe the entire situation would go down as a drug transaction gone wrong.
The Guilt We Carry Page 4