Candy from a Stranger

by Buckner, Daryl;

  “He’s my son! He’s my son and I’m not going to stop looking for him until I’m dead and buried, get me? Why doesn’t everyone just come out and say it? Why doesn’t everybody admit that they want to give up? They want to go home! They want to quit and not have to face it every day like I do and they’d be oh-so-happier if I’d just disappear and they don’t have to face how incompetent they are!” I was fuming. Burning.

  “Ben, I’m on your side.” Jeanie sounded tired, distracted.

  “Are you? Are you really? Jesus, if you are then come back home and support me!”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  I’m alone. I’m alone and totally, totally screwed.

  I said, “You can’t, or you won’t?”

  There was nothing but the faint static of the connection. Finally, Jeanie said, “I think you need to call this Fulton. At least he’s showing some interest.”

  Yeah, he’s interested in putting me in jail or the loony bin.

  I thought I felt a drop of moisture. Rocky was long-gone.

  “Ben?”

  Jesus…I’m drifting. I gave up and said, “Looks like it’s starting to rain. Look, I’ll call you once I settle a few things. I promise you: Fulton will be one of them. I’d better go. I…I love you.”

  A long pause. “Take care of yourself, Ben.” The connection broke.

  I was right. After the longest drought in decades, great sheets of rain started pouring down and I swung back-and-forth, thinking and drinking and feeling the tug of the Taurus .45 in my coat pocket. From now on it would never be more than an arm’s length away from me. I got soaked but I didn’t care. Somewhere after midnight I got into my car, tucked the gun under the seat, and carefully drove back to my house on Prospect looking for careless drivers, green Jeep Cherokees, government-issue sedans, and anybody-that-gave-a-damn. Didn’t see any.

  I retrieved the Judge from my coat, searched the house thoroughly, and put it on the night stand next to the bed. I barely had enough energy to get out of my wet clothes before I fell asleep, my soggy hair denting my pillow and my still-wet feet clogging the sheets. And I dreamt.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The smell of the grass is sweet. There’s dread in my heart but the smell is sweet. Sweet and hot but it’s also a lie. It promises life. Life and renewal and summers without end and yet I know it’s all a lie. I turn the corner and before I can focus on the van my legs have turned to stone. Faster! Faster! I scream at my legs but it’s all in slow motion as I near the white van, the wrapper cloud obscuring everything but the back window. The hand is there: pale and thin and it strikes the surface over and over again but there is no sound, only the rush of wind from the plastic tornado.

  Something is different. I can see a face. His mouth is open but I can’t hear what he’s saying, the roar from the swirling wrappers drowning out his words. After pounding on the back window, he finally relents and places his face up against the glass and I can see him. Finally I can see him! The blond hair, the wide blue eyes, I see him clearly and it is not my Lucas. Not Lucas who must be crying out “Daddy! Daddy! Help me... help me! You promised you’d…”

  As the van turns the corner and disappears, I see the face of Kyle Simmons fade away…

  *

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I hear myself say as I look out the front window. Still in the high nineties, the rain is coming down pretty good and the crazy kid is standing out in his front yard, skateboard tipped up by one toe, wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a striped t-shirt.

  I put my head out the door. “Hey! Kyle! You going skating in the park? Today? It’s raining like crazy.”

  Kyle just smiles, mimicking a mighty-he-man pose, and hops onto his board, one foot flying as he propels himself down the sidewalk. I’m just coming out of my drowsiness, mouth dry and cobwebs in my brain from a bad night’s sleep, when I realize that Kyle is wearing exactly the same clothing little Josh Herndon had on when he went to his own park only a little over a month ago. It seems like centuries.

  Today is Wednesday. I run into the bedroom, pocket the Judge in my old windbreaker, grab an apple out of the fridge, and head for the park; locking my door behind me. After all I’ve been through, something turns in my mind and I unlock the Volvo, grab the small red Nerf ball from where Lucas had left it in the back seat, relock the car and hurry to catch up with Kyle. As I pass Kyle’s front window I see Karen, she catches my eye and waves. Is that recognition in her face? Is that an expression of “oh good – Ben is going too. Ben will keep an eye on things?”

  Only in Texas. It’s so hot that I can’t wear the windbreaker coat but it’s pissing down wet and the dry grass and trees around me almost sigh in relief. With my coat balled up in my lap, I take a seat at a picnic table under an eave of the restroom’s tile roof at the end of the parking lot and watch Kyle make endless loops, ignoring the wet pavement and oblivious to his drenched clothes and hair. Other people had more sense; we are totally alone. The day turns into noon and I wish I’d brought a paperback. After an eternity of bright sunshine, the grayness of the cloudy sky is depressing and the humid air oppressive. Compulsively twisting my wedding band, I watch Kyle attempt some complicated maneuver and marvel at the limitless energy of the young, probably drawn from a well that is endless and regenerated by the sure knowledge that every day is a good day and that nothing really bad can happen.

  Throwing my coat around me for protection from the rain, I ease out of the bench and walk to the restroom, hoping it’s cleaner than the last time I took advantage of it. Finishing, I started thinking of how good it would be to sit back with a drink inside my dinky little house with the air set low watching the rain come down outside the big picture window. Stepping outside, I realize that Kyle and I are no longer alone.

  Arnie.

  The Bono’s van is parked in a middle space, halfway between Kyle and me, the open door with its step-up facing away from me.

  *

  “Hey! Kind of wet out here, isn’t it?”

  The face is alone. The face is alone and the hunger is so strong that it feels righteous, like He has looked down and decided that this is perfect – this is perfect and true and this is the day and the unclean and the rebellious shall be driven away, made to recant their sins and wander the desert of hell for eternity.

  I say, “Hey, buddy – I’ve got some extra stock of Red Hots in my truck... c’mere, I’ll let you have some for free…”

  And it’s that easy. As He said it would be. I stand on the bottom step of the door, the hankie in one hand behind my back and the candy in my other hand, holding it out for the greedy, the vain, the selfish…

  Something is wrong. Something behind me…

  *

  Moving behind the rear of the van I slowly tugged on the back doors and for a second my heart stopped as they refused to budge but the rain has just made them sticky. The right one finally gave way and I eased it open, praying my actions are unheard as I kneel down behind a pile of boxes. The click of the door is muffled by the rain, the running engine, and the steady whoosh back-and-forth of the delivery van’s windshield wipers. Arnie is standing in the front doorway, thin work gloves on his hands, talking to Kyle and holding a rag behind his back. In a split-second I take in everything about my surroundings: a short walkway between two walls of racks and boxes, filled with condiments and candies. There is a small utility desk attached near the front, and on top of the counter is a bag of Keeley’s Red Hots and a plastic bottle. Even from my concealment I can smell the ether-like odor.

  Arnie is saying: “Hey buddy – I’ve got some extra stock of Red Hots in the truck... c’mere, I’ll let you have some for free…” and his hand reaches for the bag of candies.

  And then I stood up.

  Kyle can’t see me but he sees Arnie turn towards me and I’m sure that Kyle must see Arnie’s eyes go to something other than the offered candy.

  Arnie’s eyes are on the Judge.

  Arnie’s eyes sw
ivel between my eyes and the gun as I whisper, “I’m sorry, I must have been mistaken. I’m all out of extras today.”

  Arnie freezes a moment. I waggle the gun. I’m sure there’s no mistaking the look in my eye.

  Slowly, Arnie faces Kyle on the pavement. “I’m sorry, I must have been mistaken. I’m all out of extras today.”

  I waggle the gun again. I softly said, “Sorry, kid. Maybe next time.”

  “Sorry kid. Maybe next time.” Arnie’s a fast learner.

  Arnie’s blond Dutch Boy is impeccable and his blue eyes, though strained and angry, are pure cobalt but I take great satisfaction at the torrent of sweat rolling down his cheeks. I say in a whisper, “Sure is rainy – maybe you ought to go home and call it a day.”

  Arnie repeats what I said and I hear Kyle mumble a “thanks anyway, mister…”

  Again, “Well, gotta get back to work.” I level the gun at Arnie’s head. “Roll the door closed.”

  “Well, gotta go back to work.” and Arnie closes the door.

  I motion Arnie back from the door and take the plastic bottle and recap it, placing it in my coat pocket. Waggling the gun, I said, “Get in the driver’s seat.”

  With a scowl on his face Arnie complies, with what looks like a handkerchief sliding from his hand to the floor, and I slide into the passenger seat next to him. Arnie’s arms are on the broad steering wheel and his tone is almost one of bewilderment. “Hey, look man – we don’t carry cash and there’s no drugs. Why don’t you just get out of here, and I promise I won’t say anything to anyone.” His words are as heartfelt as anything scripted for the movies but his eyes betray him. He knows what I’m after and he knows I’m not going anywhere.

  I let him stew. Unless I miss my guess, the warm, sticky air on his nice white uniform and the steady rolling sweat down his face is making him very uncomfortable. Holding the gun at waist level I leverage a cigarette out of a pack with my free hand and light it up. His eyes are blue stones of hate.

  Finally, he says, “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Well, Arnie,” He does a double-take at my familiarity with his name even though it’s printed on his overalls. “What I want is for you and me to take a little ride.” My smoke feels cool and oh-so-satisfying.

  A little bit of his composure is starting to crack. “Wha... Why? Where are we going?”

  The van is still idling and the windshield wipers are beating a steady rumba against the glass. I take a good long look at the large gold key labeled “ABUS” hanging from the ring at the ignition, draw a full lungful of smoke and blow it in the direction of his face.

  “Well, Arnie…” I lean close, pressing the Judge into his ribs and smiling maliciously, “…We’re going home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  No one could have seen us leave and Kyle is safe and probably on his way home, but in my paranoia my eyes dart back-and-forth from Arnie to Arnie’s rear-view mirror as we make our way to highway 79. Arnie’s uniform is soaked with perspiration. His back is ram-rod straight and his gloved hands are steady on the wheel, but I can see hate coming off from him in waves.

  As we make the entrance ramp I say, “Two miles under the speed limit, no fancy moves, I’m watching the turn signals. Just do as I say.”

  Arnie is recovering a little. His lip goes up in a sneer. “And if I don’t?”

  We hit freeway speed and the van merges. I take the .45 and bury it in his crotch. “You got any sons, Arnie?”

  He blanches. “No.”

  “You so much as twitch and I’ll make sure you never have a chance to. You get me?”

  Arnie nods and says, “A truck this big, going this fast, what’s to stop me from just plowing into the concrete divider... or maybe a tree?”

  “Good point, Arnie,” I say as I buckle my seat strap. I nudge the gun a little farther. “This is a Taurus .45, Arnold. It’s a gift from my father, a hand-me-down if-you-will, and I just recently had it serviced. I had them adjust the action on it so it has a very fine hair-trigger on it and to tell you the truth – I’m feeling a little nervous here and there’s no telling what may happen. I’m just praying I don’t sneeze because I’d hate to see your nice new overalls get all messy.” I stub my cigarette butt out on his dash. His eyes go wide.

  “What’s the matter? Did I just break a god-damn company rule?”

  A quick glance at his crotch and then Arnie becomes frosty. “What difference does it make to you? You’re one of them. The blasphemers. ‘Thou shall not take the Lord’s name in vain’ – but you don’t care. You walk through the world spitting and cursing and fouling the earth with your diseased mouth – but you’ll see. Your time is coming!”

  “Oh Arnie, you couldn’t be more right.” I say as I point to the Kerrville cutoff, “My time is coming.”

  *

  Arnie’s body seems to be shrinking as we pull into the long driveway leading up to the old Mueller place. As we took each intersection to reach this place, Arnie reacted to each command from me as if it were a slap in the face. As we slowly passed the burnt-out hulk of his old home, he looked at it and set his jaw in a firm line. That’s right, you son-of-a-bitch. I’ve got your number.

  “Pull around back.” I said, “Park where you usually park.” Arnie gave me a look that said: I’ll kill you.

  All day long things have been happening that didn’t make sense at the time, but now seemed to mysteriously fall in place. Serendipity, synchronicity – I had no explanation. I felt the red Nerf ball in my pocket, the bottle of suspicious liquid. Behind Arnie’s seat lay a cardboard box filled with miscellaneous items: screwdrivers, pamphlets, a flashlight. On top lay a nice new roll of semi-clear packing tape.

  Retrieving the hankie/rag from where it had fallen, I pulled out the plastic bottle, uncapped it, and poured a generous amount into the cloth. Arnie had just thrown the van into park and even though his arms struggled to fend me off I smothered his face with the rag and he fell limply against the driver’s side door.

  “Nighty-night, Arnold.”

  I literally threw the asshole out of the open door of the van, his body colliding with the grassy dirt with a satisfying whump. Replacing the .45 in my pocket, I grab the roll of packing tape, step out of the van and drag the unconscious delivery man to the front of the shed, hitting as many half-buried stones as I could.

  The rain has settled to a drizzle, the wet ground painting a mud line up and down Arnie’s white overalls. With a quick glance at the road line – no one there, I take the gold key to the large ABUS padlock and it swings free.

  *

  “I’m going to kill you!” Arnie’s head is swinging wildly back-and-forth as his eyes clear and he takes in the barn-like surroundings and the pile of aged fertilizer bags I’ve stacked up for a seat in front of him. I’ve secured arms, legs, and chest with multiple layers of tape to the high-backed wooden chair in the center of the shed and he struggles in vain against their hold.

  Getting up, I run a finger over a fine layer of dust on the wood workbench. Holding my hand up, I said, “Arnie, Arnie, Arnie – you’ve really been letting the old homestead go.”

  Still struggling, Arnie’s temple has a huge vein standing out from it and his red face is wet and smudged with dirt. He is almost hyper-ventilating and mucous runs from his nose.

  In a choking voice, Arnie says, “What in the hell do you want!?”

  Setting myself on my bag seat, I light a cigarette and lean into his face, spilling exhaled smoke into his eyes. Arnie doesn’t like that.

  “Stop it! Stop it! Why are you doing this to me?” The vein is pulsing like a drum. “What do you want?!”

  Casually taking a puff, I say, “Well, Arnold – I’m glad you asked me that question.” I examine the glowing end of my cigarette and his eyes follow mine. “What do I want?”

  I get closer to his face and I can smell the fear and hate coming off of him. I said, “My name is Benjamin Cain. On May twenty-eighth of last year, a Sunday, you took my son,
Lucas Cain, from a playground at Jefferson Elementary School in Austin.” I paused, seeing his eyes grow wider. “What do I want?” Now my face has grown crimson and I struggle to keep from losing control.

  “I want you to tell me where he is. I want you to tell me where he’s buried.” I pull back but without losing eye contact. “I want you to tell me where all of them are buried.”

  Arnie’s eyes go from blue pinpoints to wide saucers as he sees beyond the beard, beyond my longer hair, and recalls the man drinking coffee in Jolene’s Quik-Stop in Smithville.

  “You!” he says.

  My smile is death. “Me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I take my glowing cigarette, blow on the end of it, and drive it into Arnie’s right cheek. He howls with pain at an ear-splitting volume.

  “Wrong answer,” I say.

  Arnie is thrashing against the tape binding him but his eyes are darting between the pile of shovels and hoes and the wall over the workbench. No – at the belt hanging on the wall over the workbench.

  Arnie’s voice is guttural, feral. “You can’t just kidnap somebody off of the street and imprison them!”

  Grinding out the butt, I withdraw a fresh one and light it. “Why not? You did.”

  He’s about to say something but I hold up the cigarette in front of his face. “Now,” I say, “I can do this all night. Can you? Why don’t you spare yourself the trouble and tell me? Where is my son? Where are the others?”

  “You’re nuts. I…”

  I plunge the cigarette into the same spot as before and smell burning flesh.

  “Wrong answer.”

  It takes several minutes before the screams wind down. Again, Arnie eyes the tools, the belt.

  I say, “Go ahead and scream all you want. We’re too far for anybody to hear. You should know that, right? After all, nobody heard the screams of your parents – or your brother.”