Grave Markings: 20th Anniversary Edition

by Arnzen, Michael A.

  “Knew you’d like it. When I had the idea for it, I knew it would fit ya. So I went ahead and did it.”

  Roberts couldn’t stop staring at the tattoo, even though he knew he’d have a lifetime to do so. It was there, now and forever, his identity.

  “Wait, hold on. I almost forgot.” Corky walked back to the front of the room, and started to dig around in a desk drawer.

  Roberts looked at the tattoo, and cursed himself for ever doubting Corky’s originality and ability. He knew he’d been acting like a total putz lately—Corky had done such wonderful work out of friendship, and Roberts now felt guilty for not reciprocating.

  Corky returned with a camera. “Turn around, I want to get a picture of this.”

  “Excellent!” Roberts grudgingly put the hand mirror down, turned, and posed with his back muscles flexed for Corky. He tried to strike a pose like the ones he’d seen in the biker magazines: muscles flexed, macho look on his face, proud and tough and one-hundred percent Roy Roberts.

  Corky pressed a button and the room was drowned in a flash of bright light. The camera made a winding noise, and then a slick frame slid out from the camera’s mouth.

  A Polaroid—an instant photograph.

  They both watched as the photo developed: black to psychedelic yellow to a shining image of the insane journalist on his back.

  “Wow, that looks great! Can you take another for me?”

  Corky took the snapshot. Click, flash, wind, instant image.

  III.

  Mark Michael Kilpatrick stared into the living television screen, watching the red aquarium behind the glass squirm. He prodded the puffy and scabbed flesh that framed the window of wonder, like pressing the cellophane on a package of meat, and pondered the distribution of viscera. Then he pressed his face against the glass (it was cold), fogging it with his breath, crushing his nose to one side, absorbing the vision in close-up.

  Eyeballs, tongues, teeth swarmed and collected, mutated into a three-faced head, a red pyramid of faces that slowly twisted and twirled. Something hummed, vibrated inside, electric. The spinning demon head spiraled the organs that surrounded it, gradually, slowly, consuming them inside its vortex.

  His face was on fire, melting into the glass. He could no longer breathe—his lungs filled with sticky liquids. All vision blurred, thick black tar with splotches of red light bit into his eyelids.

  His mind joined the vortex. The message was imparted, and then he was painfully chewed with razors.

  And spit back out.

  Kilpatrick crawled away from Carvers, scrambling toward the aluminum trash can in the corner. He vomited. He vomited blood.

  The message was clear: three portraits remain intact.

  Three moments still enslave your art.

  Three pictures are GROWING.

  Time was running out. But art—true art—took time. No longer would he rush to peel the scabs inside. Let them harden, let them congeal. Then they would be easier to pick. Slowly.

  And they were almost ripe.

  He looked up at the trophies on his wall. A blank space was reserved for his next creation, an empty area like a clean slate, waiting patiently for him to fill it.

  He looked over at the body in the opposite corner of the room, a nude male, chubby with excess flesh. Shaved clean of all hair. Another clean slate.

  Kilpatrick crawled—his legs still would not carry his weight—toward the bedside table, where he kept his vials of ink. The dark rainbow of color, waiting for his storm of inspiration.

  Strength returned. He stood, grabbed several colors, and bounded over the bed toward the body.

  Visions poured from his mind, liquid, like hot rain.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I.

  Saturday morning his shoulder hurt like hell, like one big throbbing scab. After a quick, steamy shower, Roberts peeled away the fresh plastic trash bag square that he used to keep the tattoo dry (it was almost stuck on, as painful to rip away as a blood-soaked bandage). He looked at the tat in the mirror. It still looked wonderful, though in its freshness it looked a bit fake—like one of those kiddy rub-on tattoos that he used to play with when he was younger. Looking at it this way, Roberts felt like the thing would fade with time, wash and fleck away with age like all of the other things in his life that were good. Magnificence, happiness, wonder, all erased by time.

  It hurt. He considered smearing the remainder of Corky’s zinc oxide over the tattoo, but knew that it was much too good for that. It was worth the pain to leave it exposed, to show it off.

  Roberts was glad he trusted Corky. He did not have nightmares since the tattoo was finished—he wondered if the incomplete tattoo, the inflamed skin, was to blame for the odd dreams before it was done, like bad food causes bad dreams.

  He dried off the rest of his body—not much, since he’d drip-dried staring at the tattoo—fixed his hair up, and shaved. In the bedroom, he slid on a pair of comfortable cutoffs with stringy denim that tickled the thighs. He went into the living room, shirtless.

  Schoenmacher was already up, drinking coffee. Bright morning sunbeams cut through the slatted living room blinds, gleaming sparks in floating dust motes like glitter. Dan sat forward in one of the leather recliners, watching television. In the light it looked like he was jailed by dust.

  “G’morning, Birdy. Any more coffee?”

  “Yeah, just made a fresh pot.” He didn’t take his eyes off the TV screen.

  The kitchen was clean. Roberts filled his favorite mug with the black liquid, sipped it. The pain in his shoulder was fading…maybe he was just a little rough on it in his sleep? Maybe his skin was getting a little thicker?

  He returned to the living room, sat beside Schoenmacher in another chair.

  Schoenmacher was watching the KOPT ad about the upcoming tattoo convention. The station would be running it not only on the news, but as filler between the mandatory public service announcements and station ID’s.

  The ad wasn’t airing at that precise moment…Schoenmacher had videotaped it from the news program the previous night, and was now watching it for some strange reason. Probably just to show Roberts, who hadn’t seen it yet. Schoenmacher had done quite a bit of the legwork on the project, since he was the only one who didn’t have to go to work. He printed up the flyers while Roberts was at the station Friday, and he posted them around town. Especially near tattoo shops and military hangouts, though he was a bit frightened of actually going into any of them for some reason—he didn’t know why he was scared of these places, he just was. He posted them on nearby telephone poles and blank walls, instead.

  Roberts watched the videotaped ad. Clips and sound bites of people making tattoos (including a few snippets from his interview with Corky) montaged together, with some announcer—it sounded like Rick Montag—hamming up the importance of the event. Roberts was almost embarrassed by the commercial…it sounded more like a tractor pull ad than anything else. But still, it would be effective enough to reach the Killer. “We’re really gonna pull this off, aren’t we?”

  “You better, after all the shit I had to do for this fucking thing on my vacation!” Dan chuckled, his beard now covering his face in a mat of brown hair like a faceful of rusty steel wool. He sipped his coffee. “I really think you guys are gonna catch the bastard.”

  Roberts turned to face him. “What do you mean, ‘you guys’? You don’t think you’re gonna get out of this, do ya?”

  Schoenmacher searched Roberts’ eyes, probing for empathy. He noticed something there, fear perhaps, near-panic in the way Schoenmacher’s eyeballs shifted around in the center of his pale, bearded face. “I can’t go to that convention, Roy. No way! I don’t want to be anywhere near that psycho tattoo bastard. He threatened to kill me, Roy!”

  Roberts squinted, not quite understanding Schoenmacher’s sudd
en turn. “You didn’t seem that scared before…I know the guy tattooed your cat, but that didn’t bother you much…”

  “It did, it really did, man.” Schoenmacher looked away. “This is all happening too fast. I can’t go through with it. I’m scared.” He covered his mouth with a hand. “And besides, I’m supposed to be at home, ‘recovering’ from all this bullshit. If Buckman finds out I was at the convention, I’d be up shit creek.”

  Roberts rubbed his temples. Schoenmacher was making excuses, he knew, but there was some truth to it. He’d been forced into the whole scheme, rushed into retaliating without any say-so in the matter. He was personally attacked by the Killer, unlike Roberts or Lockerman. Maybe it would be better to just let him sit it out….

  Or wimp out.

  “You’re right, Birdy,” Roberts said. “You’ve done more than your share of work on this project, anyway. I totally understand.”

  Schoenmacher grimaced, ashamed. But the corners of his mouth still crinkled up slightly, the frown burying a hidden smile.

  They shook hands, forgoing the clubhouse handshake for a grip of strength. Roberts felt guilty, apologetic. “And I’m sorry about Judy, too. You said you wanted me to report what she said, and so I did. Had to be honest, man.”

  “I understand completely.” Schoenmacher’s grip loosened. “But she doesn’t.”

  Roberts went into the kitchen for a refill. Schoenmacher rewound the tape.

  II.

  The weather was pretty good. They decided to have another barbecue, since Sunday’s convention seemed years away. Lockerman came over, hurdling the back fence like a track star, a relay racer carrying hot dogs and buns instead of a baton. Holding up his end of the last barbecue barter with Roberts, he brought plenty of beer with him, too, tucked inside a brown knapsack.

  As Roberts put the meat over glowing coals, Lockerman started to spell out what he expected Schoenmacher to do at the convention—specific duties were planned out for all three of them. The weatherman looked up at the sky evasively, embarrassed.

  Roberts came to his rescue, turning and pointing a barbecue fork at Lockerman. “Birdy isn’t coming.”

  “What?” Lockerman’s face exploded open in shock. Eyebrows raised high on his dark forehead, he faced Schoenmacher. “What?”

  Schoenmacher just stared at him, sideways, his pupils pinpricks in the corners of his eyes.

  “You chicken shit bastard…”

  “Listen, John,” Roberts interrupted, “he’s been through a lot lately. Leave him alone.”

  Schoenmacher sat up, looked Lockerman directly in the eyes. “I just don’t want to go, okay? I’ve done my fair share on this little sting operation of yours, and that’s all I’m gonna do. As a friend, I thought you’d respect that.” He quickly stood, swung open Roberts’ back door. He stopped, called over his shoulder. “Anyone else want a beer?”

  Momentary silence. Lockerman staring out at the backyard; Roberts flipping burgers.

  “Sure, I’ll take one, Birdy,” Roberts said, not looking back. The screen door slammed shut.

  Roberts sat beside Lockerman. The cop surveyed the backyard, avoiding his stare. The burgers sizzled and popped loudly, as if mimicking Lockerman’s thoughts. “This whole thing’s been a little rough on him, that’s all. I don’t think he’s ready for this sort of thing—and it wouldn’t be right to have him there if he was too nervous. He might screw up, and blow the whole setup. The Killer’s already targeted him once…if he sees Birdy there, he might fuck with him again.” Roberts leaned his chin on an upraised palm. “At least we’re anonymous. He wouldn’t know who we were. But Birdy’s on the tube almost every night. I would hate myself if something happened to him…”

  Lockerman didn’t reply.

  “So take it easy on him, okay?”

  Lockerman grimaced, blinking. He nodded. “Okay, all right. You’re probably right.” He stood, went inside to join Schoenmacher.

  Roberts could hear their muffled voices. Both sounded apologetic. He looked out at his backyard, at the grass. Although he hadn’t mowed the lawn recently, the yard had improved, a blanket of dark green. As if the sun had yanked the color up through the dirt.

  They returned, arm in arm, with three cans of cold beer. Both rolled their eyes, feeling stupid, but glad to have the whole argument done with.

  They drowned away the rest of the afternoon, chugging beer and trying to forget about the upcoming convention. Roberts showed off his new tattoo: Schoenmacher said he was jealous, and that he might get his Birdy covered up some day; Lockerman said he didn’t understand what the big deal was—and he came up with the sorry excuse that he’d never get a tattoo because no one would be able to see it on his black skin, anyway. Roberts remained quiet most of the time, though, as Schoenmacher and Lockerman spent the time cajoling each other, trying to erase their embarrassment. Watching the two buddy up like Boy Scouts, Roberts wondered if Corky would fit into the group, whether they’d bond or snub each other.

  He doubted Corky would even want to be a part of them. And vice versa.

  And he was beginning to feel a little bit like he’d outgrown these friends, that Corky was more his style. More realistic and interesting. More adult. More himself.

  Schoenmacher went inside near dusk, and passed out on the sofa. Lockerman gathered his knapsack, and got ready to leave, dizzy and teetering on his heels. He gave Roberts an over-exaggerated handshake. “Well, Roy. It’s been fun. See you Sunday, when we catch this motherfucker.”

  “Yeah. See ya.” Roberts, for some reason, no longer felt enthused.

  Lockerman slapped him on the back. “You’ll have your story in no time, man.” Lockerman stumbled away, taking the long way back to his house.

  As Roberts slowly cleaned up his back patio, he reminded himself that Lockerman was right: the capture of the Tattoo Killer would be a news story he would be more than happy to write. Finally.

  III.

  Saturday’s mail was late, as usual. Judy Thomas had the sneaking suspicion that the postman was so slow on Saturdays because he had someone’s bored housewife down the block who he literally played post office with. But the mail on Saturdays was usually the best, too. Her mailbox would always be stuffed with the mail order catalogues she loved so much, her favorite magazines that she could spend the weekend with, letters from Mom, and other welcome surprises. The good mail: no bills, no junk mail, and most importantly, no fan mail.

  Not that she ever received fan mail at home. Her address wasn’t listed in the phone book, and the only people who knew it other than the government and the utility companies was KOPT.

  She peeked out from behind dark purple curtains, searching the awkward angle that revealed the mailbox out front. Nope, no mail yet. Damn.

  As Judy leaned back on her couch, she wondered if the mailman saved all the good mail for Saturdays on purpose; after all, she never got much of anything during the work week. Perhaps he sorted out the good stuff, saving it for Saturday out of laziness…or making it a very special day, just for her?

  If so, then he probably expected to get something out of it. Something like another mistress to add to his weekly list. Another quick, easy, special delivery.

  She walked into the kitchen and ground more coffee beans to make a second pot. The crunching noise was loud, disturbing. She wondered if the neighbors could hear it. She knew that they were probably listening, watching, waiting to catch a glimpse of her in her morning attire. Or to see if she was waking up later in the morning than usual; fodder for their gossip.

  Judy sat down at the kitchen table, looking sadly at the tulip that was wilting in its glass vase at the table’s center. She adjusted the tight waistband of her shorts, shimmied side to side as she tucked in her tight T-shirt, shoving the lower part of the large collegiate imprint—UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN COLORADO—deep belo
w her slim waist, effectively burying the word COLORADO.

  She wondered if Schoenmacher was just like the mailman in a way—saving his niceties up for that “special day” of their date, a facade that covered up the way he really was when she didn’t see him, and all along having ulterior sexual motives. Penting up his lust for a special delivery.

  She heard the familiar metallic creak of her mailbox being opened, closed.

  Judy poured another cup of coffee, sipped it, and gave the postman plenty of time to move further down the block. She stared at her wilting tulip, wondering if it, too, could use a cup of coffee.

  She finished her hot drink, rolled the empty cup in her palms for a while to absorb its heat, and then crept softly to the front door, rechecking the box through the curtains. The top of a bright white envelope and the colorful cover of a catalog peeked slightly out from under the lid.

  She gently fondled the doorknob, opened the door slightly, reached a hand out to get the mail. She snatched it, and quickly brought her arm back inside the closing door.

  The catalogue was from T.S. Cruise, her favorite outfitters. The envelope had her address on it—crisply typed, without a return address. A family member?

  She returned to the kitchen, set the catalog and the envelope on a light blue place mat, and poured more coffee. Only two good things in the mail today, so she figured she might as well take her time enjoying it.

  She slowly set the hot mug down, and picked up the envelope. She held it up to the light—the inside was shaded by blue plaid—a security envelope, obviously.

  She opened it up with a thin, plastic letter opener that had flowers on the blunt end of it.

  She pulled out the letter. It was a yellow sheet of legal pad. The bleach odor hit her instantly, and she knew it was a piece of Fuck-Me mail before she even read the typed words, all in capitals: “I STILL THINK WE SHOULD FUCK, BITCH.”