by Garrett Cook
High Noon Approaches
Cass is acting funny. Even for Cass. I’ve asked her about how the Mr. Right conflict went and all she says is “he’s dead, that’s all you need to know.” She’s held guns before at the firing range and everything, so I have to wonder why Mr. Right’s magnum repulses her so much. It’s just like the guns she’s used, but it’s bigger. Maybe she’ll tell me about it, maybe she won’t, but at least she got rid of the guy. As we drive to Connecticut, she looks like she’ll cry from time to time. Whether this is on account of her skirmish with Mr. Right or something else entirely, I can’t really say. She just looks much worse for the wear about it.
People are after us. I’m not sure if they’re on the road or anything, but my cover is blown and people are after us. No matter where I go, his people are going to be after us. I keep looking for out-of-state plates and I keep on trying to swerve away from them. This might be making Cass more uncomfortable, but it could be them, it could always be them. I wonder if the Dark Ones tell him things. Do they send him messages in his dreams or relay things through scouts? Do they tell his minions everywhere we’re going so that they can catch up to us, rape Cass to death and end everything? Maybe Mr. Right told her something. She said he knew who I was. It must have been through the Contessa, who must have sent my name and face to others. No more mask I guess. It’s worthless. Good. Those damn lenses might impair my shooting. My shooting is going to be very important because the minions of Godless Jack are on my tail.
The realization that I’m not in fact a paranoid freak comes with the flare. I just skid out of its way, though it’s amazing that I do, because this guy throws the things really well and a lot of the time they end up being more than a distraction. His fat, ignorant face smiles through his windshield as he rolls down his window and begins to shoot. I know this guy as a crack shot and an incredible marksman. Nobody shoots out a pair of tires like the I-80 Roadflare. There’s only one way I can get around getting my tires shot out.
“Cass, roll down the window and start shooting,” I tell her.
The Roadflare is surprised by two things. One that he is being shot at and two, that I have put the car in reverse and am starting to spin in place. This doesn’t help Cass’ shooting any, but he’s too confused to get at my tires. A state trooper yells to both of us to step out of our vehicles. It goes without saying that this is not going to happen. The Roadflare does me a favor and shoots the state trooper in the head while he’s calling for backup. During this grave miscalculation of his priorities, Cass manages to shatter HIS windshield with a bullet. First goes the windshield and then hopefully his skull. But, I don’t have time to check.
I intentionally take the wrong exit, which is likely to add about fifteen minutes to my travel time, but I figure it will definitely throw whoever’s after me off.
“Wow,” says Cass, “I’ve killed Mr. Right and the I-80 Roadflare. That’s two Bundy nominees. And two people.”
“I killed my foster mother,” I tell her, and I’m not exactly certain where it comes from, “I was fifteen when I first heard the voice and began to see the Dark Ones. I was fifteen when I killed my foster mother. I saw them floating her and I saw the breeder there and I mixed the wrong pills. It felt awful in ways that living with her never had, which is odd, because I’ve killed a few people because nobody should be able to live with them.”
Cass turns whiter. She looks bloodless and distant, like a comatose relative that needs unplugging. She sits and she thinks for a good four miles before she says or does anything again. What she does surprises me, in the way that things she does tend to do so often. She kisses me on the cheek. Then, she puts her pale, bloodless head on my lap. She still clutches the gun, now holding it to her chest like a teddy bear, which is appropriate because it is at the moment one of her two sources of security. It’s kind of sad, since I’m the other one. At least she’s the same for me. Maybe Jack knew Mr. Right was weak and let her get him, so that we’d be separated and his men could get me. It was a pathetic ambush. Seven hired thugs that plodded down the hallway like elephants and one at a time let me bring them down. The apartment was just big enough to make those idiots separate and get them killed all over. Mister 390 right now. Ten more and my t-shirt’s right. Now I know how people who are in fact with stupid feel like.
I then realize that maybe ten thugs are in a VW bus on my tail. This gets me back into reality, makes me stop speculating and proves that the math is in the end not all that relevant. I think for a second that a big, black limo is following me, until it takes a left, when I take a right. You can fit ten people into a big, black limo, that’s for damn sure and if each of those ten people had a gun, we’d be positively fucked. Will this be the way everywhere? Maybe Jones could get us a place in town for awhile. Cass could transfer to working for a law firm in Connecticut and…he’s made me scared enough to run away from my old life. This is what they do. They force you into a little corner, make you beg for your life, for your livelihood. They make you into a coward. No more thinking like that. I suspect a quiet drive out of Cass, but Cass is full of surprises.
“I’m sorry about your foster mother. That you had to kill her, I mean.”
“I’m not sure I had to kill her.” She never thought that the Dark Ones were anything. She’d always thought it was just my head. It’s strange to hear her use language like that.
“I think maybe Ian’s column was right the time he wrote, “Nobody ever kills anybody that they don’t have to.” It takes a lot to kill. There’re a lot of things we’ll do before we kill.”
I nod. “We’ll lie to ourselves, we’ll run and hide, we’ll drug ourselves and fuck tons of strangers. We’ll tell ourselves that the voices in our head never say anything that’s true.”
“If it wasn’t true, then why would it have been in your head?”
There are too many answers to that question. I don’t know how many of them she deserves or could endure to hear. Maybe it was an excuse to kill her. Maybe I reinterpreted things I knew to be true into simple little hieroglyphics. Maybe those things would still be a kind of truth. Those things would still be a kind of need. I can see what Ian and Cass mean. It’s getting easier to do it, but I still hope the need doesn’t come up too often. I hope that the need isn’t sneaking up behind me in a black sedan full of members of Jack’s serial killer horde, the mercenaries he’s hired, ninjas, robots, whatever the fuck he’ll send after me next, I hope it isn’t driving up to me. More paranoia, this time not out of the fear of death, but the realization I might have to rain more of it down on my way to a more peaceful world. May there be a more peaceful world at the end of all of this. A more peaceful world when I use the nuclear weapon I’m going to get from Jones. Maybe not a nuclear weapon. Those are bad for peace, but I will get help from Jones. I won’t ask him to hide us, although that still feels like a possibility and a damn good idea. Especially because of the ten thugs in the VW bus. The VW bus that I guess just disappeared. Goddammit, get back to reality.
I return to reality when I see the warehouse. We park a little ways away, and constantly look over our shoulders. Of course, neither of us is armed. We ring the doorbell and the familiar strains of “Brick House” echo through the air. The sun is setting and we can only hope that the night brings us safety. We can only hope that Jones will bring us safety. Nobody answers the door when I first ring the bell, but I’m counting on it. I ring it again and then one more time. Reiko answers the door. She is not dressed in her familiar kimono, but a Ramones t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. Her katana hangs at her side and a humorless expression is on her face as if we’re selling something that she’d never have any need for.
“What the fuck do you want?” she asks, the mock geisha attitude gone, “it had better be good.”
I wince. I can’t imagine what I would do without help from Jones. I hope this can be resolved, because if it can’t, I’m most likely as good as dead. Reiko sees this, and she softens. I remember Cass telling
me that she’s actually very nice and the geisha/martial arts killing machine thing is an act.
“Look,” she says, “I like you. I’ve been rooting for you, whatever it is you actually hope to accomplish. And Cass is really sweet. We hung out together, I had an ice cream cone with her, and we talked. I’m not the one with the problem. Jones is angry, I’m gonna warn you about that outright.”
“Thanks.”
Jones is shooting pool and drinking a beer. Today’s a day without pretense I guess. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt like she was and a pair of Oxfords. It seemed unlikely that I would see him like this, like a real person and not a blatant criminal. He doesn’t make any move toward me or even look at me. He watches the pool table, continuing to line up his shots.
“Well, if it isn’t the person I was hoping to see less than anyone else on the planet. Aren’t I lucky? What kind of trouble you brought this way, Jeremy? You bring Jack to take my head too? God, what the fuck makes you think you can come here when you’re in as much trouble as you are?”
When he’s done yelling, he finally looks at me. I would have left already if I could hope to find someplace better to go. There’s as much pity as there is rage in his eyes, as there is the fear that I might bring something downright evil with me. I can see that there is more in his heart than I thought. He wants me to go, but he wishes he didn’t.
“Nobody’s following me,” I tell him, “I made sure of that.”
“Bullshit, you made sure!” he yells “I know you, Jeremy. You’re just not careful. Jack is after you now. Ain’t nobody so stupid that they’d mess with Godless Jack like you’ve messed with Godless Jack. You antagonize the people that kill and they do what they do best. They kill. You fucked with the wrong fuckers and you got yourself fucked. Now you come here cause you’re fucked and you’re gonna get me fucked, Jeremy. People come to me when they WANT to get fucked Jeremy, not when they’re completely fucked and they wanna get unfucked. I don’t see what the hell I should help you for.”
“This is about Lud isn’t it,” Cass asks him, “you’re not scared. You’re upset.”
“Damn right, I’m upset! Lud is dead because of you. He was having bad dreams, he said, he was dreaming about snakes and about a snake coming for him, a snake and a jackal. But you didn’t come here when his dreams got worse, when I warned you that something was obviously wrong with him and that he knew something was coming and he had to be careful. You stayed behind and you killed some fat little shithead from the TV station and then had the nerve to tell Lud’s business to Tommy Simmons. You don’t even stop and think about how that could get him killed, you don’t stop and think about anything. Of course, I’m upset. You killed my friend and colleague. It wasn’t just Jack, it was you.”
Cass’ head hangs low. She told me something about Lud’ s dreams getting worse, said she’d spoken to Jones before, but neither of us made anything of it. I followed the dreams before and then I stopped, then I let Lud give his life to Godless Jack. Jones is right about all of that. Right enough that I have no clue what to say. No matter how sorry I am, it won’t bring him back and it won’t make me any less responsible for the fact that he’s gone.
“The General would have wanted me to help you, though. That’s the part that really bothers me. I tried to get close to the guy. I liked him in spite of how strange he was. But, I guess a shared delusion makes the two of you practically father and son. Which is too bad, cause I never had a father either and in a weird way, this crazy man that I laughed at, that brought me car parts and bits of broken machinery to sell still supported my business and me. I’m mad at you because I liked him, and he didn’t take to me like he took to you. I don’t like many people, Jeremy. In my line of work, you can’t. Let me tell you a story,” he’s rambling, he’s angry, but I have to listen, “I’m gonna tell you a story about when I started out in this town. I was picking pockets and breaking into cars in the parking lot at the mall. And one night as I’m trying to hotwire this Toyota, I see these three guys putting fliers on the windows of all the cars in the parking lot. Movin’ real fast. And they were taking little things out of the cars, opening the hood and stealing parts so the cars wouldn’t run anymore. And as I’m trying to steal this car, one of the guys putting out fliers puts one on the window and begins to try and take the car apart. So I go and I say to the guy, “hey, I’m tryin’ to steal this car.” And you know what he says?”
Jones begins to laugh and cry at the same time. “He says the machine is evil, the machine makes us a machine, so he takes them apart. So I ask what they do with these parts. Why not ask? All these car parts are worth real good money and real good money shouldn’t be wasted. They say they just throw the parts out. And I get an idea. I ask if there’s anything I can trade for the car parts, and they tell me they need newspapers. So I tell them I’ll give ‘em newspapers and I’ll give ‘em food in exchange for the car parts. Sweet deal like that turned me a real nice profit. Within five years, I’m a much richer man and I’m involved with all kinds of things. And with all the things he said about corruption and sin and people turning into the machine, he didn’t criticize me, he didn’t hate me for what I chose to do. That’s why I miss the crazy old son of a bitch.”
The two of us understand each other now. Two criminals, two men whose lives were changed by one insane prophet in a mall parking lot. In a way, we were brothers. In a way, he owes me and he knows it. We stand transfixed by the notion, hoping that nobody’s going to come crashing through the warehouse door and perforate us all with a machine gun. Cass is watching the door with that very thought in mind and so is Reiko. The two look at the door, and then at each other and shrug.
“I’m not going to hide you,” Jones says, “I want you to know that. You’re going to go home, like Lud would have told you to, and you’re gonna find a way out of this yourself. Far as I can see, there’s only one way out of this and it sure as hell ain’t the coward’s way out, no matter how appealing that looks.”
“Can you sell me a nuclear weapon?” I ask. I’m pretty sure he can’t, but I just want the option to be there if the shit really goes down.
“I can sell a nuclear weapon, but I’m not gonna sell it to you. Shit, I got a helicopter in my basement, but I’m not gonna sell it to you. It’s one of them Vietnam things with the fifty caliber machine guns, real sweet, but I’m not gonna sell it to you.”
I’m getting frustrated with what he can’t do for me. “Well, then what can you sell me? What can you do to help me?”
“Well, I can’t really sell you anything that will help YOU per se, but I can sell you something for the lady. It will be more than worth it.”
“What can you sell us, and for how much?”
“Half-price. Three thousand. Package deal includes one indiscreet blue minivan and one AR-15 sniper rifle. And a bottle of Doctor Jones’ one of a kind muscle relaxant. Kills tremors.”
Showdown
Coming home last night was strange. I could feel Jeremy’s tension as he drove. I could feel how he knew for a fact that somewhere out there, somebody was pursuing us. And yet nobody was. It was a disappointment in a way, because we both knew damn well that Godless Jack wasn’t going to give up on somebody who offended him. We had both hoped we could have resolved everything on the dark, lonely highway with no chance of being seen and no chance for him to get reinforcements. If it had been like that, things would have been much easier on us and we could have gone home and slept soundly. But they weren’t so we didn’t get to go home and sleep at all soundly. Instead, we walked in, guns drawn, waiting for an ambush. I would have also preferred an ambush since we were expecting an ambush. But we didn’t get an ambush and we didn’t get anything we expected. We got a message. An answering machine message.
“Good evening, Mr.400, Miss Flynn. It has come to my attention that the two of you managed to dispatch Mr. Right and the wannabe hero thugs I hired. These were just a test. I wanted to see if you could handle more than two girls, Mr.40
0. And you passed. I also wanted to see if you were capable of defending yourself, Miss Flynn. I’m not too impressed about Mr. Right, he was a rudimentary threat.”
My bones chill because I know he’s right on that count. Bundy nominee he might have been, but there was nothing special about Mr. Right but his pain threshold. He was easily tricked, easily knocked down, easily tortured. Easily tortured for far too long. Makes me feel good about getting rid of the Roadflare outright. Mr. Right was nothing. A rudimentary threat indeed and he had me tasered, injured and almost ready to give up on life. What about the really dangerous people? He goes on, his words making the both of us tremble. He holds me close and I can feel him shake too.
“But, I was impressed by your handling of the I-80 Roadflare. Good stunt driving, good shooting, way to exploit a distraction. Good work all around, but you mustn’t forget that he too had his shortcomings. Too tied to that one stretch of highway, that one long, endless stretch of highway. And the fool was too eager. Went after you before nightfall. If he’d waited until nightfall, he would’ve been in his element and might very well have had a chance to deal with the two of you. I’ve called to tell you that you’ve been lucky so far. I’ve called to tell you that I’m tired of playing and your luck has at last run out. Meet me outside that warehouse where the tanner left his victims…we sure do love warehouses don’t we? I wonder why that is. Is it the storage space or the sense of oblivion you feel there, the knowledge that you’re nowhere? Anyhow, meet me out there tomorrow at high noon. Cliché, yes, but I love all those old Western things. I know it’s outside the Safe Zone, but I promise there will be no cops. You come alone and I’ll come alone, there will be no tricks. You have my word. You think you can beat the devil, you go ahead and try!”
We go straight to bed after that. Jeremy stares up the ceiling with sad, childlike eyes. He’s been waiting for this for so long, but now he’s afraid that it’s coming, he knows now that things have changed forever and that there’s no walking away from this. I wonder if he wishes for that voice that used to take over for him to come and let him drift away. Even if he does, it won’t happen. He has been stapled violently into the now. His struggle to get out of it would only cause him pain, make him feel like an animal in a trap that seeks to gnaw its leg off. He can’t gnaw his leg off and run away from reality. I wish I could too. I wish I could take some drug and leave this world full of monstrosities behind for good. But we can’t, and here in reality, there is only the two of us and the bed and the warmth of our bodies. There can be no comfort but that.