Grave Markings: 20th Anniversary Edition

by Arnzen, Michael A.

  He was driving a convertible. He thought this was odd, because he had never been inside a topless car before. The speed he traveled was frighteningly fast. He was not buckled in the seat, and his ears roared with the wind. His hands vibrated on the steering wheel. The green digits on the dashboard—a giant clock, he realized, which had replaced the speedometer…and every other gauge that should have been there—flickered numbers randomly, making time meaningless. He was caught in the middle, he knew, of a treadmill of nothingness, speeding toward a goal he would never reach, as if the road itself were racing beneath him, instead of the car. As if the highway were an endlessly long carpet of tar being yanked out from beneath him.

  And just as he wished the ride would end, he noticed a speck moving down the highway toward him. Another car?

  The speck became a dot. A silver dot coming at him. It quickly took shape as it approached: the dot lengthened into a tube, then a cylinder…then a dart. A long arrow-like dart, a finned spear rejected from the numbered board of a sun on the horizon. At its tip was a sharp needlepoint, the vehicle a giant syringe that sped toward him, growing in size…he saw that its silver chromatic tint was not paint at all, but liquid inside the syringe, sloshing in its hollow cylinder…not just liquid, but ink. A hypodermic needle filled with silver ink, and its driver was the faceless tattoo artist of his nightmares, wearing a grimy black patch over the space where an eye would be, a faceless pirate riding a gigantic syringe on the one-lane infinite highway…and he was so close now that the very tip of the approaching needlepoint was now blotting out the sunlight, engulfing Roberts in darkness….

  He slammed his foot on the floor—there were no pedals in his convertible, no brakes, no gas, no clutch, and he tried to turn but the wheel was concrete, a handle of stone more than a wheel, and the microscopic hole at the tip of the needle was now directly in front of his eyes, and the faceless pirate was laughing without a mouth….

  The two vehicles crashed and Roberts flew through the air, flying in his empty dream world toward the dartboard sun. And it felt good to fly, he felt free…free enough to possibly reach his goal on the horizon…

  Until he hit a road sign which neatly sliced him in half, sharply cutting him in the skull, between the eyes. And the sign—the same sign he had passed over and over in a blur of speed—read YOU ARE DOOMED as it entered into his brain, becoming a part of it, its letters melting into his mind….

  And he screamed himself awake, his shattering voice sounding like entirely someone else’s in his ears.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I.

  Roy Roberts had a splitting headache, wincing at the click-clacking equipment in the back of the KOPT van as the location crew moved through the city streets. He didn’t care if they thought he was a bit odd for not wanting to sit up front—but he didn’t feel very much like driving after last night’s dream (he’d taken a cab to work in the morning, which he used as an excuse for his lateness, but silly as it was, he had been too damned scared to drive).

  The dream made no sense to him. Why a nightmare? He hadn’t had one since he got the typewriter tattooed into his back—it was an enchanted talisman of some sort that protected him from his own fears. Or so he thought. Now it seemed worthless.

  No, the tattoo isn’t worthless, and you know it. It’s your job that’s giving you nightmares, making you do things you don’t want to do. Your own guilt is punishing you, and putting you through hell for it…like this assignment right now.

  He rubbed his temples, wishing he could erase the pain there with his fingertips.

  Seeing Schoenmacher’s cat the night before hadn’t helped matters, either. Dan had called Lockerman and Roberts—in the middle of the night, drunk off his ass, but claiming to have just got out of bed—slurring something about the Tattoo Killer, and they both rushed over to investigate what had happened.

  Roberts recalled his disgust at first seeing the desecrated cat—Clive, shaking from the cold and missing its coat, licking her hairless, tattooed body. It was a grotesque act, cleaning itself with that pink tongue, but Roberts thought it was symbolic of a certain pride, as well. The cat had been imprinted with the filth of a madman, and yet it still maintained the instinct to remain clean, to lick its wounds. Like a beautiful fashion model fifty years past her prime—refusing the ugliness of age, wearing make up and the latest fashions, no matter how badly time has disfigured her body. Ignoring change itself.

  Either that, or the cat was just a stupid animal.

  It was terrible that Schoenmacher’s cat had been tattooed by the Killer, but there was something worse that bothered Roberts about the whole affair: the psycho knew where Schoenmacher lived. And his latest message threatened even more tattoos—more killings—if they didn’t put the cat on the news.

  They had found the tattooed note on the cat’s belly, stenciled between the lines that created undulating breasts on Clive’s stomach. The note on the cat’s gut was a sick, childishly-crude poem:

  PUT mEOW-mEOW kITTY

  ON THE NEWS

  OR I’LL GiVE THiS CiTY

  MORE TATTOOS

  —MKI

  Roberts and Lockerman had exchanged glances—the three lower case “I’s” meant that Lockerman now knew who the third victim was—Clive, tattooed and left to survive in order to carry a message to the newsman. The fourth body, the one that provided the removed canvas of flesh in the museum, was still missing.

  KOPT ran the story of the cat as a follow-up to the “Museum Massacre” both Monday morning and afternoon. Bill Buckman, Roberts’ editor in chief, insisted on it, and even ran a video of the cat running around the studio, naked and shivering as it proudly displayed the Channel 12 logo. It was KOPT’s exclusive angle on the Tattoo Killer; none of the other stations were informed about the tattooed cat. Buckman was certain it would boost ratings, and keep the populace glued to Channel 12 until the psycho was caught. Schoenmacher was given the week off, and Roberts changed the facts around when the story aired to protect his friend’s privacy. The news version of the incident claimed that Clive was the studio pet, a stray feline that hung around the building at nights, mooching for food. Thus, the tattooing was relayed to the public as part of a personal attack on KOPT rather than Schoenmacher, making Channel 12 the victim. The twisted truth was factual, in its own way, since the Killer singled out Schoenmacher, mentioned the news in his poem, and put the station’s logo on the shaved cat. Roberts enjoyed changing the facts around as well, because he didn’t have to drag Schoenmacher’s pain out into the open. Buckman, naturally, agreed with Roberts’ invented story; it would get viewer empathy.

  Roberts had invited Schoenmacher to stay at his house until the Killer was caught, and the weatherman eagerly agreed. He was too frightened to stay at home, once he realized that the Killer now knew the location of his mountain condo. Lockerman assigned the rookies—Krantz and Collins—to stake out Schoenmacher’s condo for the time being, in case the psycho didn’t like KOPT’s treatment of the story and decided to take it out on Schoenmacher himself.

  The location van came to a halt, and Roberts closed his eyes, thankful to have made it to their destination in one piece. The events of the past few days were moving so quickly—the Tattoo Killer was now targeting him almost, by attacking his friend and the place where he worked—and his nightmares had returned. The events were swarming around him, almost swallowing him up in their speed, and so far he had done nothing about it. Like the convertible of his nightmare, he was not in control. The world around him was. All that was left was to accept the fact that hovered around in the back of his brain. That he was doomed.

  Dammit! No I’m NOT. There’s gotta be SOMETHING I can do about all this….

  “Hey, sleepy, you ready to go?”

  Roberts looked up at the cameraman who was twisting around in the front seat to face him.

  Roberts just shrug
ged.

  “Well, c’mon. We’ve got an interview to do.” The cameraman opened the van’s door with a creak, and stepped onto the cracked sidewalk in front of Corky’s Tattoos.

  II.

  The gray television screen hummed with electricity.

  Judy smiled: “…to get a better understanding of how tattoos work, KOPT’s Roy Roberts recently visited with a local tattoo artist—or, dermographer—where we get an inside look at the Tattoo Craze. Roy?”

  The little video balloon over Judy’s left shoulder expanded and filled the screen.

  A close-up of the sign CORKY’S TATTOOS filled the TV screen. The camera panned and a tall man wearing a suit came into the picture, gripping a microphone. Lettering flashed briefly on the bottom of the screen: Roy Roberts, Reporting. The man’s sharp voice came out of the speaker on the side of the TV. “What do you think of when you hear the word ‘tattoo’? A motorcycle bandit? A soldier of fortune? A pirate sailor with a hook for a hand? Or maybe a Gypsy?”

  The camera closed-in on his face, which was gleaming with a thin filament of sweat in the afternoon sun. “Well, you might be surprised to learn that such stereotypes are clichés by today’s standards, and that tattooing is as much a popular art form as painting or sculpture. In fact, people have been ‘getting inked’ since the dawn of man.”

  The screen cut to an interior shot. A large, gray-bearded man with a pony tail, dressed in a black T-shirt and a leather cap ran a tattoo machine over some unseen person’s arm. The buzzing sound of the needle increased in volume as the camera closed in on the tip of the needle, trailing ink over flesh.

  The screen was replaced with a shot of the bearded man sitting behind his desk, legs propped up on the desktop as his mouth moved. The reporter’s voice was drowning him out: “This is a local tattoo artist who goes by the name of Corky. I asked Corky a few questions about his work, and what he thinks of the increasing popularity of tattoos.”

  The sound quality audibly shifted as the boom mic took over. “Tell me, sir, why do you do what you do?”

  Corky winked at the reporter who was off-screen and then leaned back. “Well, mostly I do it for the money…” The camera crew could be heard chuckling at the answer. Corky smirked. “But I must admit that there’s more to it than that. It makes me feel good. I’m a firm believer in having a career you can enjoy. Tattooing is an art form, a way of seeing, more than anything else. It allows me to express myself, and there’s no better way to make a living than that. Not that it doesn’t take a certain skill, too, to work the equipment. Same thing as a painter who uses oils and brushes, only I use ink and needles instead.” He grinned at the camera. “Needles make some people queasy, but that’s half the fun of the job!”

  Roberts: “And what does a person receiving one of your tattoos get out of it?”

  “Well…it’s an exchange, really. They give me a little bit of their skin, and I give them the best damned work I can. After all, getting a tattoo isn’t for everybody; it’s a very personal, intimate communication, and you gotta be willing to give as much as you’re willing to get. And it’s permanent…even the new laser surgery techniques aren’t all that good at removing the buggers. It’s quite thrilling, really.”

  “And painful.”

  Corky shrugged his shoulders. “Pain is a part of life. Believe it or not, I’ve seen more men cry like babies than women. But like I said, it takes guts to get tattooed. Not only because of the pain—because you gotta live with it your whole life. But it’s definitely worth it.”

  “That brings me to my next question. What sort of people get tattoos?”

  “Everyone and anyone. From the most outlaw of bikers to the straightest of suits. Some folks think it’s fashionable or trendy—it tends to come in and out of style every five years or so. But to most people it’s a life-style. I get some weirdos…but you gotta remember that they’re people, too. Tattoos don’t really have the stigma that they used to; people are more open-minded these days, and the art has improved tremendously since the sixties. But there’s one thing that everyone I’ve tattooed has in common.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “They’ve all got a unique personality. An identity. I just help bring it out. And all of my customers have the sort of guts I was talking about before. You gotta have guts, really, to be yourself in the first place. With all the pressures from society to conform…well, it’s just difficult, that’s all. It takes a certain bravery, a particular strength, to get some ink permanently stained into your hide. It really does.

  “On the flip side of things,” Corky continued, crossing his legs, “tattoos can conceal, just as they reveal. People have asked me to cover moles, acne, all sorts of strange things. And old tattoos, too, of course, but that’s beside the point. I never really understood why folks would want to cover up birthmarks and acne, though…those things are natural markers of identity, just as much as tattoos are artistic ones. And when tattoos become a mask of some sort—a cover-up of reality—well, then it kinda demeans the whole point of the thing.”

  Roberts coughed. “And what are your thoughts regarding the current incidents of forced tattooing in the city?”

  “It [beep]s. It gives us folks who work hard at what we’re doing a bad name, and probably scares a lot of customers away. It’s like graffiti: it’s vandalism of the flesh, and nobody likes to look at it.

  “Ya know, I think there’s something your listeners should know…”

  “Speak your mind,” Roberts said uneasily.

  “Tattoo artists are legitimate businessmen. I know I am. I own this here shop and a quad down on Abriendo. I know other artists who are respected members of this community. I think it’s a shame that the respect we’ve all worked so hard to get is crumbling away all because of one [beep]ing nutcase, going around inkin’ folks without their say-so.”

  The burly man’s face darkened with color: “And another thing…if you’re watching this show, Mr. Tattoo Cuckoo—and I bet you are—I think that you should know that if the pigs ever catch you, you’ll be lucky that we didn’t find you first.”

  The interview ended, cutting to a shot of Roberts sitting in the barber’s chair. Corky leaned forward with the tattoo machine in his hands, moving it toward Roberts’ arm. “From Corky’s Tattoos, this is Roy Roberts, reporting.”

  The framed image shrank into the right corner of the television screen. Judy turned sideways to face Rick Montag, giggling. “’Tattoo Cuckoo.’ That’s a good one.”

  Rick acted cocky: “Maybe I ought to get one, what do you think?”

  Judy smiled at the camera instead of him. “We’ll be back in a moment.”

  The KOPT jingle replaced her false laughter as the station identification came on. A small-framed inset showed a tattooed cat walking around on newspaper in a closet. Then came a commercial for lotion.

  III.

  Kilpatrick was bright red when he stood and turned off the set. He stared at the blank screen, grinning at the demon that lived inside.

  Then he shook his fists and rotated his shoulders, like a boxer. “I did it! I fucking did it!” He jigged, his loose underwear shaking like a hula skirt as he madly gyrated his hips, fucking the air. “YES!”

  As he danced across the bedroom floor, slip-sliding on the open newspapers sprawled there like the bottom of a bird’s cage, Kilpatrick felt he could die quite happily that very moment.

  He had become immortal. His essence was etched into the annals of history forever, now. On videotapes, film reels, computer disks, and newsprint. In the library and in the press vaults and studio archives. His art, forever framed in the records of man.

  History was made. He had gone public.

  He danced, forcing Cheri Carvers to stand up and dance with him, holding her tight against his filthy body as he swung around the room (carefully avoiding the various pu
ddles of her urine and feces). She flopped side to side in his arms, sliding down his naked chest, but he still managed to drag her around in his insane waltz of joy.

  A thought struck him.

  He dropped Carvers; she slunk to the floor, her tapestry of eyeballs crinkling in the newspapers, the eyes on her kneecaps blackened blind from the smudge of inky newsprint.

  No VCR.

  How could he watch it again? How could he add his latest victory to his trophy case, along with the articles from the Gazette? After all, he was public now. And he had to stay public.

  He thought about all the other masters of art, the club which he had finally joined. These artists—Rembrandt, Dali, Mapplethorpe, and on and on—these artists had all attained a special moment like this one, achieving popularity. He could not let his own piece of the pie get old, worn out like a fad. He would have to maintain the public’s interest. He would have to become a classic.

  Would it happen?

  He looked over at his wall of clippings and photographs. Count your blessings…

  Still, he would get a VCR. Perhaps steal one out of the weatherman’s place—that bastard sure lived in a rich neighborhood. He couldn’t stop now, not if he wanted to. Keep the public watching, keep the station reporting on him, keep things moving right along. All he needed was a VCR. To preserve these moments of victory.

  Even so, his latest conquest was now preserved in his mind. It was important, essential that he never forget it. The image of the televised cat was burned forever into his eyes. And other information, as well…names, faces, places, things he would gladly deal with when the time came. Information that would surely help him continue his mission, help him stay public. The news was now serving in his kingdom, in his court.