by Ian Lewis
The Camaro Murders
By Ian Lewis
Copyright 2011 by Ian Lewis
Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
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The Camaro Murders
By Ian Lewis
Contents
The Burden of Eustace Hildersham
The Charge
Roughshod
Red Wake
What Prying Hands May Find
Rickets and Hollow Trees
You’re Just a Shadow, Now
Our Walk Through the Woods
Travelers
A Haunting
The Driver’s Bequest
The Wolf
The Choke
In Defense
Something Less Storied
Visitors
Homecoming
The Sore Road
Last Night on Earth
The Wicked and Despair
The Burden of Eustace Hildersham
February 19th, 1999
Sheriff Eustace Hildersham sitting in his office
I was watching snowflakes disintegrate on my cruiser’s windshield, listening to the din of radio chatter when I heard Ezra Mendelssohn was dead.
A fellow parishioner came to call on him and grew alarmed when his knocks went unanswered. The man took off for home to call the Sheriff’s office; a deputy returned to find Mendelssohn’s body lying at the bottom of his cellar stairs.
The cause of death was determined to be a stroke, and folks mourned the passing of a tired old man who’d been an upstanding member of the community. The coroner’s examination was straightforward as could be. I believed otherwise.
I was a deputy for the Deckland County Sheriff’s department then, and I knew there was already a unit at the old Mendelssohn farm house. It was cold and bleak all night like any rural winter in the rust belt. I was heading home to coffee and Josie’s open arms when I decided to turn around.
Thirteen winters later and now I’m the Sheriff. It’s just as cold tonight, and I haven’t been out to the farm since the night Mendelssohn died. I have my reasons for avoiding it—reasons I’ve never been too keen on talking about.
Josie doesn’t even know my reasons. It’s seven o’clock and she’ll no doubt have supper on the table. When I get home I’ll tell her my battered wristwatch doesn’t keep good time anymore, and she’ll say my moustache is too bushy again.
Then she’ll deliver a peck on my cheek and hurry back to the kitchen. We’ve got the husband and wife routine down pat—I’ve been hers and she’s been mine since I met her at the five and dime. We were just kids then.
I should be on my way home, but I’m still planted at my desk. Della, the young gal who works Dispatch, is the only other one in the building. She’ll hold down the fort through the longest hours of the night. There’s an occasional disturbance now and then, most times local nonsense.
The station sits at the bottom of a slight grade in Deckland Township, near the Graehling Station border. There’s not much out this way, just lonely fields and the interstate cutting through by way of an overpass. My office is in the rear of the brick, one-story building, behind a maze of bulky steel desks and water coolers.
Two dingy file cabinets sulk in one corner; black and white tile confess where they’ve been moved over the years. The oak desk is beat to piss, and the warped bottom drawer puts up a fight when I need to get into it. A drafty window on my left looks out to the parking lot. Outside, drunken flecks of snow make a blanket out of the asphalt.
It’ll be a slick drive home, but the snow’s not what I’m concerned about. Tonight feels a lot like the night Mendelssohn died. The worn vinyl of my desk chair creaks like the seat in my old cruiser used to when it was cold and the heater was cranked all the way.
My rookie days come rushing back. When I got the call that Mendelssohn passed, it jolted me, but the stitch it put things in didn’t have to do with the fact I was on my way home. It was in light of what were current events that winter. You could say professional curiosity prompted me to head out to the farm.
The roadways were clear except for the light dusting of snow. That assured me I wouldn’t be caught in a head-on with a speeding teenager, fueled by lifted alcohol and the boredom of derelict barns.
In small towns, you have to worry about stretches of back roads where the speed limit is “as fast as you think you’re capable of going.” Reckless kids wrap their cars around telephone poles, or bend them up accordion-style in a ditch on any given Friday night.
Small towns usually have their share of petty larceny or domestic disturbances too—Graehling Station is no different. The repeat offenders make their rounds like the parking-lot carnivals which pass through in the stinking heat of summer.
But that’s just life in a small town. Folks expect to see the same guys down at the gas station, swapping fishing stories, or hear the same families having the usual spat on the front porch. I had the same expectations then. It’s the stuff of normal, happy living.
Normal and happy isn’t always how things turn out, though. Sometimes bad things happen to good people, and sometimes good things happen to folks who aren’t worth the paper their court docket is printed on. It’s hard to miss either around here, and it makes me afraid of what might have happened out at the Mendelssohn farm—but that’s the rub. Fear doesn’t come cheap in this county.
My father, Buell Hildersham, was the warden of the Beacon Road prison for 40 years. He oversaw some of the most desperate criminals this county ever put away—and the stories he told weren’t ones you’d soon forget.
From my own account, I’ve had to look over my shoulder more than once; I was old enough to remember the drifter who escaped the prison yard one summer, and the mid-afternoon panic which seized all the housewives.
The Sheriff’s department tracked the fellow only to find him hiding in a ravine, filthy and cradling a wad of cash stolen from some old codger. Backed into a corner, the drifter panicked and caught a slug in the forehead for his troubles.
Some folks still talk about the strangulations near the end of ’87. Six bodies turned up, but we never found the sick individual responsible for them. Most believe the killer died or was locked up for another reason. On lazy summer nights when the windows are open, I hope that’s true.
The point is I’ve seen lots of people do awful things, but you can explain away their behavior most times if you understand how they tick. The desperado who breaks out of jail gives in to his emotions and the instinct to survive. His is a crime of desperation.
A serial killer is something else. His fantasies are loony and his head has some faulty wiring, but he’s not a bad person in the classic sense. He’ll be the first to admit that what he does is wrong…
The hangnail in my mind is the killer who reasons. His conscience doesn’t speak to him. He’s rational, usually motivated by self-righteousness, and less likely to make mistak
es because he only kills once or twice. Most times you never know he exists…but I can’t shake the feeling we had someone like this roaming around, even before the strangler business.
Now that’s a suspicion I’ve kept to myself. There wasn’t anything officially “on the books” about Mendelssohn’s death being anything other than what was stated on public record. He suffered a loss of blood flow to his brain and died; a stroke is not uncommon for a seventy-year-old man.
I didn’t have the pull to conduct a real investigation then, but I’ve kept an unofficial case nonetheless. I still have it in a file folder at the bottom of that stubborn desk drawer. It’s full of notes and the rest of my half-cocked theories from the winter of ’86–87, along with two other items.
The first is a photograph of a little girl who went missing about two months before Mendelssohn died. She’s standing with her momma in front of their trailer, holding her hand and squinting in the sun.
We searched but never found that girl, despite the efforts of the department and a few civilian volunteers. The information we had was flimsy at best, since it hinged on the testimony of a vagrant who was passing through.
The vagrant’s credibility was questionable because he was three sheets to the wind when a member of the hasty search party passed him on the road. When asked if he had seen anything suspicious in the area, he replied, “All’s I saw was a Camaro—black and screamin’ like the wind.”
This didn’t hold a lot of weight with me until I came into possession of the second item. About a month or so after the girl disappeared, I was speaking with some folks about their boy, the same age as the girl. He was having behavioral issues and not getting along well in school.
It’s not my job to get involved with family discipline, except the boy drew pictures of cars—very specific cars. He plastered the walls in his room with them. Each was black and looked like a Camaro, even from a seven-year-old’s hand. There’s no one at the wheel in the picture I have…but there is what looks to be a little girl in the passenger seat.
Therein lays my suspicion. The vagrant may have been credible after all, but I could never get the boy to talk about the pictures. He’d only mumble if you asked about them. Turns out it didn’t matter; I got my confirmation when I chased a black Camaro down Old Brinson Road the night Mendelssohn died.
So after all these years, I’m uneasy after watching a black Camaro pull into the lot tonight. It’s been there for ten minutes…just waiting. I know it’s the same car; there’s a bullet hole in the windshield near the driver’s side—just like I remember it.
I’d say it’s awful foolish of this fella to park outside the Sheriff’s office—if he’s the same guy. ’Course it might be just as foolish for me to try and apprehend him—but there’s no point in splitting hairs about it. I’m going out.
As I stand, the vehicle comes to life, its headlights dousing the office. For a second I have the unpleasant notion there’s some kind of recognition in this, almost as if the driver knew I was going to barrel out of my chair and make for the door.
I don’t waste any more time thinking about it. I’m out of my office and rounding the corner as fast as my two-hundred ten pounds can shuffle. I’m not as nimble as I used to be, and I bang my knee into the edge of a desk. There’s a shot of pain which contracts into a knot quicker than you can say “dammit.”
Della Mae peaks her head out of her booth, alerted to my excitement. “Everything O.K., Sheriff?”
I ignore her and shove a chair out of my path, its casters squealing as it careens into another. The door is a few strides, a few panting lunges away. I volley into it and nearly take a dive as I stumble into the parking lot.
The car is gone and my knee hurts like hell. I’m too damn old to be playing at this. The stark winter sky gets a dirty look while I try to cowboy up, but I’ve already made up my mind. I have to reopen the Camaro Murders…
The Charge
January 5th, 1999
The Driver standing a few feet from his Camaro
The Upper Territory—it’s not Heaven, and time spent won’t keep you out of Hell. It’s somewhere in between, and it’s clear that none of us negotiate the terms of our existence. I accepted this long ago because the Father creates everything with a purpose, and because I and the rest of Abel’s Fold were once murdered.
My body is corporeal, but it’s not my own. It’s a crude reflection of who I was; the old self is long since in the ground. I’m conscious of this as I wander back roads looking for work. By work I mean souls to guide.
Discretion is a priority and so I try to keep a low profile. I regret I once made a name for myself among certain circles. The things I did have been embellished by wayward members of the Fold.
“You did a good thing. You’ve done us proud,” they say.
I don’t answer them. There’s nothing legendary in the mistakes I made. My hasty actions were really cowardice in disguise—selfishness and immaturity at best. The sobering drone of the highway leaves me with no capacity for pride. There’s blood on my hands.
The shame is I’ll never convince those in awe. There’s always a respectful nodding of heads for those that clear a path; there are even cheap imitators clamoring for validation. Their devotion is short-sighted and misplaced.
I try to keep to the road so I don’t have to interact with people like that. Late last night, I arrived at an abandoned waypoint, secreted deep within a forest. There aren’t many who know this old cottage exists, and I’d like it to remain so for the safety of those inside.
I’m standing a few steps from the swollen door, watching the woods from across a grassy expanse. A resolute tree line provides ample obstruction to my vision. The vaulting maples aren’t alive, nor are the rest of the trees which blend into the forest and border the winding dirt path. They never were.
The landscape here is a patchwork of fragmented memories belonging to those of us who breathe out of habit rather than necessity. Like familiar haunts from a dream, they are the places we used to live or once visited. The sense of familiarity is both comforting and disturbing.
I continue to scan the foliage because the Territory is occupied by more than just the Fold. There are others out there—murdered just the same—who are caught between the worst of love and the best of hate. They drag their emotional carnage with them as they blaze trails of grief and apathy. That makes them a liability, because I never know whose side they’re on.
We’re all in the same boat, though—we’re all residents of this mongrel world. Each of us is trapped until we find what we’ve lost, but it’s not as trying as our curse, which is that we can’t escape nostalgia. It never leaves. It’s a longing for people and places we want to forget, but there’s no forgetting here, just like there’s no sleep. Instead there’s a token sunrise and a lazy wind rustling leaves. And there’s the Fold.
Abel was the first. I’m the nth. Murder is unlike other manners of death. The trauma splits soul from spirit. This unnatural separation is why the Father gave Abel a temporary body, and charged him with guiding other murdered souls to their ghosts. No one can enter eternity without having done so.
Those who take up our cause finish what Abel started with his own blood, but not all are willing. The super-physical body takes no food and expels no waste; it craves no warmth and offers no distraction from the lengthy intervals spent searching for one’s ghost. Some reject the very notion of the Fold because of this.
I didn’t understand this at first, but it’s unrealistic to think every murdered soul is a victim. There are some who deserve their circumstance and are none too happy about it. They seek entrance to the physical world where they no longer belong when their desire for revenge can’t be sated.
I won’t lie; I’ve often wanted to choke my killer to justice, but I have to maintain self-discipline. The Fold is selfless; my anger is selfish. Knowing that I’m nothing apart from the Fold helps me to focus when I’m weary of my tasks.
The grove of maples
still shows no sign of movement, so I steal nearer to listen. I halt when I hear a rustle and the snapping of twigs; the sound of voices is close behind. I creep further until I’m at the edge of the clearing, and it’s not long before I spot two children traipsing through the undergrowth.
They are wanderlings, and they sing a dirge as they go, as is the habit of aborted fetuses. They take notice of my presence and stop—it’s clear I’ve startled them. Their hesitation is momentary and they make their way over.
“Hey mister,” the first boy says. He is gangly, misshapen, and a little pale, but he grins nonetheless. “Whatcha doin’ out here?”
“Watching over souls—three of them.” I nod towards the cottage. Wanderlings are not part of the Fold, but I still consider them “the good guys.”
“Can we see ’em?” the second asks. He is shorter than the first boy, and his features are very shallow and poorly-defined. The fetal development process continues after death, despite the original body having long been disposed. Like amputees who scratch at legs they don’t have, the psyche continues to play tricks…
“Yeah mister, can we see ’em?” the first one pipes in again. He’s wearing a dingy pair of jeans and a ratty blue hooded sweatshirt.
I allow half a smile and nod. “Yes, but you’ve got to keep quiet. They’re still asleep.” I lead them through the clearing and up to the cottage. That’s when they see the car.
The first boy stops, eyes wide. “Is that your car, mister?”
I stop and turn before replying. “Yes, why?” I look from one to the other.
“The Driver’s got a black car, don’t he?” The first boy glances at his friend, and then back at me before saying, “Are you the Driver, mister?”
Taking a step towards them, I kneel down so we’re at the same level. “Can you boys keep a secret?”
They both nod, solemn and wide-eyed.
“Good.” I give them a reassuring nod. “I’m him. I’m the Driver.”
“There’s somebody looking for you,” the smaller boy blurts out. His flannel is missing a button, and hangs over him like a nightshirt. He continues. “It’s the burly one—we call him Papa Bear.”