Harvey stepped out of the truck and said, “Morning, Robert. How you doing?”
Robert Chalmers stood behind the Hemi Cuda.
“How am I doing?” he said.
Chief Denton looked at him strangely. “Is everything alright?” he said.
He looked at Robert Chalmers and saw sweat beading on his forehead. Chalmers’s face blanched over pale, and there were bright red strawberry patches of blood filling his cheeks.
“Is this the car?” Denton said.
“The car?”
“That you called in as vandalized,” he said. “Sure looks like somebody beat the tar out of it.”
“Oh, no, no,” Chalmers said. “I bought this car a couple of weeks ago. I bought it like this. This is the way it looked when I bought it.”
He stepped around from the trunk. He wanted to direct Chief Denton away from the Cuda. Denton realized something was the matter with Robert Chalmers.
“Your cup of coffee,” Denton said.
He looked at the cup on top of the trunk. Robert looked up and realized he’d forgotten it, and he started to panic. Denton walked around back of the Hemi Cuda.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Robert said. “I meant to leave that there.”
Denton looked at him, chuckled, and picked up the cup. He started back toward the front of the Cuda, when suddenly, the trunk opened. It creaked with rust. Harvey Denton turned and saw the open trunk. Both men stood there at the front of the car. Neither could see inside the trunk from that angle.
“I’ll get that,” Robert said, and he pushed past Chief Denton. He knocked the cup of coffee up against Denton’s shirt.
“Son of a gun,” Denton said.
But Robert didn’t stop. He wanted to get the trunk closed.
“What in the world’s the matter with you, Robert?” Chief Denton said, wiping at the coffee on his shirt.
Robert Chalmers looked down inside the trunk and saw the sign. It was fixed as good as new.
For Sale $3,999
He remembered the split was between the “e” and the “l” in sale, but there was no sign of it ever having been split, now.
Oh, my God, he thought. And though Chief Denton wouldn’t know the broken sign from the new sign, Robert only wanted to close the trunk.
Denton’s suspicion was up, though, and he came around and looked at Chalmers. Robert’s hand was shaking, and he tried nervously to fasten the bungee cord.
“Okay, what’s in the trunk, Robert?” he said. “You got a body in there or something?”
He pushed Robert back. The trunk popped open, and both men stood there looking inside. Denton saw the sign, but it didn’t mean anything to him. He looked up into the recesses but saw nothing.
He reached down and picked up the sign.
“Is this what you’re nervous about?” Denton said.
He handed the coffee to Robert, and he held the sign out in front of him with two hands. Chief Denton looked from the sign to Robert and realized why he was nervous.
He said, “I wouldn’t put this sign on the car either. Not until you get some repair work done.” He handed it to Chalmers and said, “It’d be highway robbery.”
That afternoon, he drove the Cuda home.
He tried a Sony PlayStation next; it was one Angie had bought at a yard sale a week before the car accident. She’d thought it would make a nice gift for a nephew or niece. But when she got it home, she found -- like most electronic equipment bought at yard sales -- the PlayStation didn’t work. When activated, it just brought up a blue screen with a static-filled red line across the middle.
He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it (or any of her things) since the funeral. He’d buried Angie at Cactus Memorial Cemetery and left everything in the house pretty much as she had left it, even the broken Sony PlayStation.
And so, with a resolve he had not felt in eighteen months, he carried it out to the driveway, popped the trunk on the Cuda, and tossed the whole thing inside with a clatter.
The next morning, he woke groggy and bleary eyed.
He put on a brown terrycloth bathrobe, walked out to the driveway and removed the PlayStation from the trunk. When he connected it, he stood there stunned as the Sony title credits came up. The intro to Road Rage started with its edgy graphics.
He shook his head in disbelief. He brought up the game paddle, went through the opening commands, and started a brand new game.
“Welcome, Robert,” the game said.
And he sort of whooshed back onto his sofa and stared at the screen. The game worked just fine.
He didn’t move from the sofa until the telephone rang two hours later. He picked up the receiver, recognized his secretary’s voice, and slammed it down onto a glass-top end table adjacent to the sofa.
He could hear his secretary’s voice still squawking through the receiver, and so he slammed it down even harder. The glass on the table top cracked, and the earpiece to the receiver broke and fell to the floor. He threw the whole thing down onto the ceramic-tile floor, and it split in two. He picked it up and twisted it back and forth until the voice end broke from the earpiece end, and tiny wires spilled out like vesicles.
He picked up the end table and threw it down onto the floor. The glass shattered and spilled all over. He stomped at its leg, breaking it off, and then he picked up as much of the mess as he could and carried it out to the driveway.
Across the street three houses down, one of his neighbors stood watering her lawn with a green garden hose. She watched him throw the mess in the Cuda’s trunk.
Robert went back inside and returned with the rest of the broken end table and threw it into Cuda, too. Next, he went into the kitchen and brought back six dinner plates. One at a time, he threw them down on the driveway. The first plate exploded on the concrete, and Robert threw down the next, and the next, and the next.
His neighbor’s eyes widened, but she kept on with her garden hose.
Robert picked up the broken pieces from the plates and threw them into the trunk. Then, he looked up and saw his lawn mower inside the garage. He pushed it out to the Cuda and began pulling and wrenching at its handle. He overturned the mower; gas and fluids trickled out of its side. He turned it upside down and kicked at it until the handle started to bend.
He turned it over and twisted back and forth, but it was a sturdy John Deere. And so Robert retrieved a sledgehammer from inside the garage, returned to the mower in the driveway, and proceeded to beat the thing.
“Come on!” he muttered.
He hefted the sledgehammer up in the air. It whickered down ferociously and slammed into the lawn mower’s engine. Pieces of hard plastic exploded up into the air and out onto the lawn. Robert hefted the sledgehammer up again and brought it down with a thunderous force. Fluids from the mower splattered up over him, and the engine cracked in two. He took a sideswipe at it, now, like a heavy-duty golf swing. Parts from the mower flew out across the lawn.
His neighbor just stared, water spraying from her hose.
He hefted the battered mower up into the air and threw it down inside. He staggered out into the yard and retrieved the broken parts and threw them into the trunk, too. He wiped at the motor oil that had splattered on his face, and he eyed the mess he had made. The mower’s handle was bent but still stuck out of the trunk; so he hefted up the sledgehammer and slammed it down, again and again, until he was able to force the trunk shut.
He latched the blue bungee cord to keep it closed, and then he turned and waved at his neighbor. He pointed at the trunk.
“You wouldn’t believe what this thing can do!” he said.
His neighbor took a couple steps backward, nodding her head. She had a frightened smile on her face.
On the night of April 7th, Robert stayed late at the used-car showroom. Everyone else had gone home, and the lights were off inside his office. He sat at a desk, his computer screen bright in front of him. Hours had passed since he’d eaten or had something to drink.
Suddenly, he saw something move outside in the lot. He ducked back behind the window and peered out into the darkness. In the dim light, he saw three teenagers near the junkyard.
One of the boys jumped up on the hood of a Chrysler LeBaron, opened up his fly, and urinated.
“Son of a bitch,” Robert said.
The other boys cackled, and one spat on the hood. The third boy kicked at the LeBaron’s headlight, and Robert heard the tinkle of glass rain down on the pavement. His face turned red with fury, but he was torn between yelling out the window and calling the police. He wanted to walk out there and rub their puny little faces in what they were doing to his Chrysler.
The first boy leapt down from the hood, and the three walked over to a shiny black Ford Explorer. One of the boys removed something from his leather jacket and threw it at the Explorer’s side. There was a metallic clang! And Robert saw the Chinese throwing star impaled in the side. The two other boys had throwing stars, too, and they each took turns throwing them at the side of the Ford.
“Why the little shits,” he said. He retrieved his .357 from his desk.
He held it there in the darkness of his office and looked at it in the light coming from the computer screen. The handgun gleamed, its barrel black, and Robert saw the bullets in the chamber. He almost took the bullets out; he just wanted to scare the boys, not kill them. But he thought better of it. They looked to be about seventeen, and Lord knows, they might be carrying guns of their own. Robert moistened his lips nervously and stormed over to the door.
“Hey you!” he shouted, bursting out from the showroom.
The boys looked up, and their giggling stopped. One of the teenagers took off running, and the first one shouted at him.
“Just what’s the idea,” Robert said. “These are my cars!” He held the gun at his side. Then, he recognized the kid. “Hey, I know you. You’re Ronnie Milton’s kid. Your name’s Dale.”
Dale Milton had greasy black hair and a cocky gleam in his blue eyes. Everything about him breathed arrogance and swagger.
“Yeah, and what’s it to you?” Dale said.
Chalmers looked from Dale to the second boy.
“Yeah,” the second said. “What’s it to you?”
“You just did about a thousand dollars worth of damage to two of my cars,” Robert said. “That’s what it is to me.”
The second boy saw Robert’s handgun. It was dark, and he took two steps back.
“He’s got a gun, Dale,” the boy said.
Dale smirked and said, “I’ll bet you fifty bucks this peckerwood doesn’t know how to use it.”
“Listen,” Chalmers said. “You’re gonna have to pay for the damage you did to my cars. You don’t want any more trouble than you’re already in--”
Dale said, “It ain’t the two of us who are in trouble.”
He reached inside his leather jacket and removed a giant butcher’s knife. Its steel blade shined silver in the darkness, and Dale held it up like he was ready to fight.
Dale began circling Robert. The second boy just goaded him on, pumping his fist, shouting for him to “learn this dude some respect.” Robert stepped out away from the Ford and looked into Dale’s eyes. He realized the boy wasn’t afraid; the kid would kill him on sheer bravado and swagger.
There was an awkward moment where Robert realized what he had gotten himself into; he didn’t want to have to fight this kid, and he certainly didn’t want to shoot him.
He shook the handgun at Dale. “Look, this gun is loaded,” he said.
“I don’t give a damn,” Dale said.
And the second boy said, “He’s gonna cut you up, man!”
Dale lunged at him with the knife, and Robert jumped back out of the way. He glanced out at the street, hoping to see a car pass by, but none did.
Robert held the gun up with a shaky hand, and he took a few steps backward toward the showroom. Dale held the knife up and watched him; he took two steps closer to Robert, and the second boy continued to shout.
Robert glanced over his right shoulder; he was fixing to run. He saw the Cuda parked at the side of the showroom just a few feet away. He looked back at Dale.
Dale swiped at him again with the knife, and the blade cut through the air. Robert jumped back just missing it.
“Listen, man,” Robert said. “I’ll let you go, now. Just get out of here.”
The second boy laughed, but Dale looked from Robert’s handgun to Robert’s eyes, and he didn’t laugh.
“I tell you what,” Dale said. “You get on your knees and beg me for forgiveness, and I’ll let you live, Mr. Used-Car Salesman.”
Robert moistened his lips. It was humiliating, but he couldn’t shoot the boy. It just went against every principle he had, and he knew that if he ran, the two boys would chase him. It would heat them up, and Dale might sink that knife into his back without even thinking about it.
He looked into Dale’s eyes. He started to raise his hands up in surrender. He said, “Okay, if that’s the way--”
The Cuda’s engine rumbled to life.
“What is that?” the second boy said.
Dale glanced over Robert’s shoulder at the Cuda thirty meters behind him. The headlights came on. Robert saw that no one was behind the Cuda’s wheel. All three stood there and watched the front tires pivot like someone was turning the steering wheel to the left. And all three clearly saw that there was no one in the driver’s seat.
“What in the world?” Robert gasped.
“Don’t screw with me, man,” Dale said.
He held up his knife.
“He’s got a remote or something,” the second boy said.
The Cuda rolled forward slowly, turning to face Robert and the two teenagers. Its headlights were bright and blinding, and the two boys shielded their eyes. The car rolled slowly toward them. Dale looked from the headlights to Robert.
“You guys better go,” Robert said.
Their faces were brightly lighted, and Robert could see fear in their eyes. Dale held his knife and slashed back and forth at the air as the Cuda continued rolling forward slowly, its powerful engine rumbling. Robert walked in front of it, holding his handgun up.
The engine revved powerfully and loudly.
“You guys better run,” Robert said.
“Screw you, man,” the second boy said.
He turned and ran, leaving Dale standing there alone. The panic in Dale’s chest rose; he screamed at Robert to “back down” and to “turn that car off, man.” But Robert wasn’t controlling the car.
And then, all at once, Dale rushed him. He held the knife up and yelled. Robert’s hands came up defensively. The Cuda’s wheels squealed, and the car lurched forward. It struck Robert in the back of the legs.
The gun went off with a loud bang!
Dale dropped his knife and staggered backward away from Robert and the Cuda. He looked down at his chest. His hand came up and felt the dampness. He took two more spectacular steps backward, his hand clutching at his chest, and he coughed up a mouthful of blood. He fell forward onto his knees, his face brightly lighted in the headlights’ shine.
Robert’s .357 fell from his hand onto the blacktop. The kid was on his knees, and blood was now all over his chin and shirt.
“Oh, my God,” Robert said.
He came toward the kid, knelt down, and looked into his eyes. Dale’s face blanched over pale, and he fell forward into Robert’s arms. Robert caught him, and Dale coughed up one final mouthful of blood onto Robert’s shoulder. Robert grabbed his shoulders and held him, but he realized that Dale was dead.
Behind him, the Cuda idled smoothly, its engine purring like a well-fed cat.
Robert dragged Dale’s body toward the back of the Cuda. He could smell exhaust fumes, and his adrenaline was high. He kept looking up toward the street in front of the dealership. The streetlights glowed, and Robert was so nervous he could taste fear at the back of his teeth.
He ripped the blue bungee co
rd away, and the trunk creaked open slowly. The kid’s body was still warm, and Robert saw a trail of blood from where he’d just dragged him. He lifted Dale up and got the upper half of his body up over the trunk. He picked up his feet and hefted his legs up over the side.
One leg stuck out from the trunk.
Robert glanced nervously out at the street and saw no one. He grabbed Dale’s lifeless hands and pulled him up toward the right side, and Dale’s leg dropped down inside with a clunk. Again, Robert glanced nervously out at the street.
He retrieved the bungee cord, closed the trunk, and fastened it shut. He stepped around the side of the Cuda and inspected the blood on the blacktop pavement. Robert knew there was a hose in the mechanics’ garage, but he was so scared he was going to get caught that he was tempted to just get in the car and drive. The Cuda rumbled.
He opened the door and slid in behind the wheel. He looked at the dashboard lights, the old AM radio in the center console, the gearshift. And he found himself putting the car in gear, gassing the accelerator lightly. He drove toward the garage.
Robert hit the door handle, but the door didn’t open. He jiggled it and pushed at the door, but it wouldn’t open.
He said, “I gotta clean up that blood.”
And the door popped open.
Robert stepped out from behind the wheel. He stared at the Cuda a moment, then headed into the garage.
A moment later, he returned with a hose, and he carried it over to the side of the showroom. He attached it to a spigot and hosed the pavement, spraying the blood toward a sewer grate.
It took him ten minutes to clean up the mess.
He retrieved the handgun and the kid’s knife. He pulled the hose over to the LeBaron and sprayed the hood. He inspected the side of the Ford Explorer and saw the holes from the throwing stars. He looked around the lot, out toward the street, and saw no one.
He carried the gun and knife to the Cuda, popped open the door, and threw them onto the floor behind the driver’s seat.
He coiled up the hose and replaced it inside the garage. He returned to the Cuda, climbed in behind the wheel, and glanced nervously around the lot. He saw no one, and so he proceeded cautiously out toward the street, a dead body in his trunk.
The Kiribati Test Page 6