Blaze

by Richard Bachman

  According to police files, Blaisdell and Rackley had been a team for at least eight years before Blaisdell’s fall on the bunco rap, which had been a religious con just a little too complex for the big boy’s limited mental talents. At South Portland Correctional, he had taken an IQ test and scored low enough to be placed in a category called “borderline restricted.” In the margin, someone had written, in big red letters: RETARDED.

  Sterling found the details of the con itself quite amusing. In the gag, there was a big man in a wheelchair (Blaisdell) and a little guy pushing him who introduced himself to marks as the Rev. Gary Crowell (almost certainly Rackley). The Rev. Gary (as he styled himself) claimed to be raising money for a revivalist swing through Japan. If the marks — mostly old ladies with a little stashed in the bank — proved hard to convince, the Rev. Gary performed a miracle. He caused the big guy in the wheelchair to walk again, through the power of Jesus.

  The circumstances of the arrest were even more amusing. An octogenarian named Arlene Merrill got suspicious and called the police while the Rev. Gary and his “assistant” were in the living room. Then she walked back to the living room to talk to them until the police arrived.

  The Rev. Gary smelled it and took off. Blaisdell stayed. In his report, the arresting officer wrote, “Suspect said he did not flee because he had not been healed yet.”

  Sterling considered all this and decided that there were two kidnappers, after all. At least two. Rackley had to be in on it with him, a guy as dumb as Blaisdell sure hadn’t pulled this thing off alone.

  He picked up the phone, made a call. A few minutes later he got a callback that surprised him. George Thomas “Rasp” Rackley had died the previous year. He had been found knifed in the area of a known crap-game on the Portland docks.

  Shit. Someone else, then?

  Someone running the big lug the way Rackley no doubt once had?

  Just about had to be, didn’t there?

  By seven that night, a statewide all-points — what would become known as a BOLO a few years later — was out on Clayton Blaisdell, Jr.

  By that time Jerry Green of Gorham had discovered his Mustang had been stolen. The car was on State Police hot-sheets forty minutes or so later.

  Around that same time, Westbrook PD gave Sterling the number of a woman named Georgia Kingsbury. Ms. Kingsbury had been reading the evening paper when her son looked over her shoulder, pointed to the police sketch, and asked, “Why is that man from the laundrymat in the paper? And how come that doesn’t show the hole in his head?”

  Mrs. Kingsbury told Sterling: “I took one look and said oh my God.”

  At 7:40, Sterling and Granger arrived at the Kingsbury home. They showed mother and son a copy of Clayton Blaisdell, Jr.’s mug shot. The copy was blurry, but the Kingsburys’ identification was still immediate and positive. Sterling guessed that once you saw Blaisdell, you remembered him. That this hulk was the last person Norma Gerard had seen in her lifelong home made Sterling sick with anger.

  “He smiled at me,” the Kingsbury boy said.

  “That’s nice, son,” Sterling said, and ruffled his hair.

  The boy flinched away. “Your hand is cold,” he said.

  In the car Granger said, “You think it’s odd that the big boss would send a guy like that shopping for the kid? A guy so easy to remember?”

  When Sterling considered, he did think it a little odd, but Blaisdell’s shopping spree suggested something else, as well. It was optimistic, and so he preferred to concentrate on that. All that baby stuff suggested they meant to keep the kid alive, at least for awhile.

  Granger was still looking at him, waiting for an answer.

  So Sterling said, “Who knows why these mopes do anything? Come on, let’s go.”

  The all-but-positive ID of Blaisdell as one of the kidnappers went out to state and local law enforcement agencies at 8:05 PM. At 8:20, Sterling received a call from State Trooper Paul Hanscom, at the Portland barracks. Hanscom reported that a 1970 Mustang had been stolen from the same mall where Georgia Kingsbury had seen Blaisdell, and at approximately the same time. He wanted to know if the FBI would like that added to the APB. Sterling said the FBI would like that very much.

  Now Sterling decided that he knew the answer to Agent Granger’s question. It was really simple. The brains of the operation was brighter than Blaisdell — bright enough to hang back, especially with the added excuse of a baby to take care of — but not that bright.

  And now it was really just a matter of waiting for the net to tighten. And hoping –

  But Albert Sterling decided he could do more than just hope. At 10:15 that evening, he went down the hall to the men’s and checked the stalls and urinals. The place was empty. That didn’t surprise him. This was just a small office, really just a provincial bump on the FBI’s ass. Also, it was getting late.

  He went into one of the stalls, dropped to his knees, and folded his hands just as he had as a child. “God, this is Albert. If that baby is still alive, watch over him, would you? And if I get near the man who murdered Norma Gerard, please let him do something that will give me cause to kill the sonofabitch. Thank you. I pray in the name of Your Son, Jesus Christ.”

  And because the men’s room was still empty, he threw in a Hail Mary for good measure.

  Chapter 17

  THE BABY WOKE HIM UP at quarter to four in the morning, and a bottle didn’t comfort him. When the crying continued, Blaze began to be a little scared. He put a hand on Joe’s forehead. The skin felt cool, but the screams he was producing were frightening in their intensity. Blaze was afraid he’d bust a blood vessel, or something.

  He put Joe on the changing table. He took off his diapers and didn’t see how they could be the problem, either. They were dewy but not pooey. Blaze powdered the kid’s bottom and put on fresh didies. The screams continued. Blaze began to feel desperate as well as frightened.

  Blaze hoisted the shrieking infant onto his shoulder. He began to walk him in large circles around the kitchen. “Hushabye,” he said. “You’re all right. You’re okay. You’re rockin’. Go to sleep. Hushabye-hushaboo, zippity-doo. Shhh, baby, shhh. You’ll wake up a bear sleepin in the snow and he’ll want to eat us. Shhhhhhh.”

  Maybe it was the walking. Maybe it was the sound of Blaze’s voice. In any case, Joe’s screams shortened, then stopped. A few more turns around the shack’s kitchen and the baby’s head fell against the side of Blaze’s neck. His breathing lengthened into the long slow strokes of sleep.

  Blaze put him carefully down in the cradle and began to rock it. Joe stirred but did not wake. One small hand found its way into his mouth, and he began to chew furiously. Blaze started feeling better. Maybe there was nothing wrong, after all. The book said they chewed their hands that way when they were teething or hungry, and he was pretty sure Joe wasn’t hungry.

  He looked down at the baby and thought, more consciously this time, that Joe was sort of nice. Cute, too. Anybody could see that. It would be interesting to see him grow through all the stages the doctor talked about in Child and Baby Care. Joe was about ready to start crawling right now. Several times since Blaze had brought him to the shack, the little fucker had been right up on his hands and knees. Then he’d walk — and words would start coming out of all that babble — and then… then…

  Then he’d have somebody.

  The thought was unsettling. Blaze couldn’t sleep anymore. He got up and turned on the radio, keeping the volume low. He searched through the before-sunrise chatter of a thousand competing stations until he found the strong signal of WLOB.

  The four AM news had nothing fresh about the kidnapping. That seemed all right; the Gerards wouldn’t be getting his letter until later today. Maybe not even until tomorrow, depending on when the mail got picked up from the mall. Besides, he couldn’t see why they should have any leads. He’d been careful, and except for that guy at Oakwood (Blaze had already forgotten his name), he thought this was what George would have called “a
real clean gag.”

  Sometimes, after they pulled a good con, he and George would buy a bottle of Four Roses. Then they would go to a movie and chase the Roses with Coke they bought from the theater’s refreshment stand. If the movie was a long one, George would sometimes be almost too drunk to walk by the time the final credits rolled. He was smaller, and the booze got to him quicker. They had been good times. They made Blaze think about the times when him and old Johnny Cheltzman had palled around, snickering at those old movies the Nordica showed.

  Music came back on the radio. Joe was sleeping easily. Blaze thought he should go back to bed himself. There was a lot to do tomorrow. Or maybe even today. He wanted to send the Gerards another ransom note. He’d had a good idea for collecting the swag. It had come to him in a dream — a crazy one — he’d had the night before. He hadn’t been able to make head or tail of it then, but the sweet, heavy, dreamless sleep from which the baby’s crying had just roused him seemed to have clarified it. He’d tell them to drop the ransom from a plane. A small one that didn’t fly very high. In the letter he would say that the plane should fly south along Route 1 from Portland to the Massachusetts border, looking for a red signal light.

  Blaze knew just how to do it: road-flares. He would buy half a dozen from the hardware store in town, and set them out in a little bunch at the place he picked. They would make a good hard light. He knew just the place, too: a logging road south of Ogunquit. There was a clearing on that road where the truckers sometimes pulled over to eat their lunches or catch a snooze in the sleepers they had behind their cabs. The clearing was close to Route 1, and a pilot flying down the highway couldn’t miss road-flares there, bunched close and shooting up like a big red flashlight. Blaze knew he still wouldn’t have much time, but he thought he’d have enough. That first logging road led to a network of unmarked rambles with names like Boggy Stream Road and Bumpnose Road. Blaze knew them all. One of them led to Route 41 and from there he could turn back north. Find a place to hide out until the heat cooled down. He had even considered Hetton House. It was empty and boarded up now, with a FOR SALE sign in front of it. Blaze had been by there several times in the last few years, drawn back like a little kid who’s had a scare in the neighborhood’s supposedly haunted house.

  Only for him, HH really was haunted. He should know; he was one of the ghosts.

  Anyway, it was going to be all right, that was the main thing. It had been scary for awhile, and he was sorry about the old lady (whose first name he had also forgotten), but now it was turned into a real clean g –

  “Blaze.”

  He glanced toward the bathroom. It was George, all right. The bathroom door was ajar, the way George always left it when he wanted to talk while he took a dump. “Crap coming out at both ends,” he’d said once when he was doing that, and both of them laughed. He could be funny when he wanted to, but he didn’t sound like he was in a funny mood this morning. Also, Blaze thought he had closed that door when he came out of the bathroom himself the last time. He supposed a draft could have blown it open again, but he didn’t feel any dra –

  “They’ve almost got you, Blaze,” George said. Then, in a kind of despairing growl: “Dumb shit.”

  “Who does?” Blaze asked.

  “The cops. Who did you think I meant, the Republican National Committee? The FBI. The State Police. Even the local humps in blue.”

  “No they ain’t. I been doin real good, George. Honest. It’s a clean gag. I’ll tell you what I did, how careful I w—”

  “If you don’t blow this shack, they’ll have you by noon tomorrow.”

  “How — what—”

  “You’re so stupid you can’t even get out of your own way. I don’t even know why I bother. You’ve made a dozen mistakes. If you’re lucky, the cops have only found six or eight so far.”

  Blaze hung his head. He could feel his face heating up. “What should I do?”

  “Roll outta this pop-stand. Right now.”

  “Where—”

  “And get rid of the kid,” George said. Almost as an afterthought.

  “What?”

  “Did I stutter? Get rid of him. He’s dead fuckin weight. You can collect the ransom without him.”

  “But if I take him back, how will I—”

  “I’m not talking about taking him back!” George stormed. “What do you think he is, a fuckin returnable bottle? I’m talking about killing him! Do it now!”

  Blaze shifted his feet. His heart was beating fast and he hoped George would get out of the bathroom soon because he had to pee and he couldn’t pee around no fuckin ghost. “Wait — I got to think. Maybe, George, if you went for a little walk — when you came back, we could work this out.”

  “You can’t think!” George’s voice rose until it was almost a howl. It was as if he were in pain. “Do the cops have to come and put a bullet in that stone you carry around on top of your neck before you realize that? You can’t think, Blaze! But I can!”

  His voice dropped. Became reasonable. Almost silky.

  “He’s asleep now, so he’ll never feel a thing. Get your pillow — it even smells like you, he’ll like that — and put it over his face. Hold it down real tight. I bet the parents are sure it’s happened already. They probably got to work making a little replacement Republican the next fuckin night. Then you can take your shot at collecting the swag. And go someplace warm. We always wanted that. Right? Right?”

  It was right. Someplace like Acapulco or the Bahamas.

  “What do you say, Blaze-a-roonie? Am I right or am I right with Eversharp?”

  “You’re right, George. I guess.”

  “You know I am. It’s how we roll.”

  Suddenly nothing was simple anymore. If George said the police were close and getting closer, on that he was probably right. George had always had a sharp nose for blue. And the kid would slow him down if he left here in a hurry — George was right about that, too. His job now was to collect that fuckin ransom and then hide out someplace. But killing the kid? Killing Joe?

  It suddenly occurred to Blaze that if he did kill him — and very, very gently — Joe would go right to heaven and be a baby angel there. So maybe George was right about that, too. Blaze himself was pretty sure he himself was going to hell, as were most other people. It was a dirty world, and the longer you lived, the dirtier you got.

  He grabbed his pillow and carried it back to the main room, where Joe slept by the stove. His hand had fallen out of his mouth, but the fingers still bore the marks of his frantic chewing. It was a painful world, too. Not just dirty but painful. Teething was only the first and least of it.

  Blaze stood over the cradle, holding the pillow, its case still dark with layers of hair-tonic he’d left on it. Back when he still had hair to put it on.

  George was always right — except when he wasn’t. To Blaze this still felt wrong.

  “Jeez,” he said, and the word had a watery sound.

  “Do it quick,” George said from the bathroom. “Don’t make him suffer.”

  Blaze knelt down and put the pillow over the baby’s face. His elbows were in the cradle, placed on either side of that small ribcage, and he could feel Joe’s breath pull in twice — stop — pull in once more — stop again. Joe stirred and arched his back. He twisted his head at the same time, and began to breathe again. Blaze pressed the pillow tighter.

  He didn’t cry. Blaze thought it might be better if the kid would cry. For the baby to die silently, like an insect, seemed worse than pitiful. It was horrible. Blaze took the pillow away.

  Joe turned his head, opened his eyes, closed them, smiled, and put his thumb in his mouth. Then he was just sleeping again.

  Blaze was breathing in ragged gasps. Sweat stood out in beads on his dented forehead. He looked at the pillow, still in his fisted hands, and dropped it as if it were hot. He began to tremble, and he grasped his belly to stop it. It wouldn’t stop. Soon he was shaking all over. His muscles hummed like telegraph wires.

/>   “Finish it, Blaze.”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t, I’m in the breeze.”

  “Go, then.”

  “You think you’re going to keep him, don’t you?” In the bathroom, George laughed. It sounded like a chuckling drain-pipe. “You poor sap. You let him live and he’ll grow up hating your guts. They’ll see to it. Those good people. Those good rich asshole Republican millionaires. Didn’t I never teach you nothing, Blaze? Let me say it in words even a sap can understand: if you were on fire, they wouldn’t piss on you to put you out.”

  Blaze looked down at the floor, where the terrible pillow lay. He was still shaking, but now his face was burning, too. He knew George was right. Still he said, “I don’t plan to catch on fire, George.”

  “You don’t plan nothing! Blazer, when that happy little goo-goo doll of yours grows up to be a man, he’ll go ten miles out of his way just to spit on your fuckin grave. Now for the last time, kill that kid!”

  “No.”

  Suddenly George was gone. And maybe he really had been there all along, because Blaze was sure he felt something — some presence — leave the shack. No windows opened and no doors slammed, but yes: the shack was emptier than it had been.

  Blaze walked over to the bathroom door and booted it open. Nothing there but the sink. A rusty shower. And the crapper.

  He tried to go back to sleep and couldn’t. What he’d almost done hung inside his head like a curtain. And what George had said. They’ve almost got you. And If you don’t blow this shack, they’ll have you by noon tomorrow.

  And worst of all: When he grows up to be a man, he’ll go ten miles out of his way just to spit on your fuckin grave.

  For the first time Blaze felt really hunted. In a way he felt already caught — like a bug struggling in a web from which there is no escape. Lines from old movies started occurring to him. Take him dead or alive. If you don’t come out now, we’re comin in, and we’re comin in shootin. Put up your hands, scumbucket — it’s all over.