by Bryan Smith
Jenny’s eyes widened. “Mark Angel is alive?”
“Evidently.”
Mark said, “I’m alive and well, old friend—though I understand your skepticism. I’ve been gone a long time.”
I grunted. “Huh. Yeah. A long time. Where the hell have you been, Mark?”
He sighed. “You’re angry, sure. I’ve been on a long journey. You gotta believe me when I say I never meant to be gone so long.”
A long journey?
What do you say to an understatement of such epic proportions?
Mark kept talking. “We’ve got to hook up. There’s so much I need to tell you, things I wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about over the phone.”
Things like Jarhead—but I didn’t know that at the time.
I ultimately agreed to meet with Mark just to get him off the phone. I returned the receiver to its cradle, went to Jenny, and we made love with a fervor I’d never felt with anyone else.
Later, when we sat down to a late breakfast, Jenny began her interrogation. Naturally, she wanted to know everything about my conversation with Mark. There wasn’t much to tell, but she perked up when I said I’d arranged to meet with Mark.
“Oh! You have to take me!”
I shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
I had agreed to meet Mark at a nearby state park at around three that afternoon. By the time we hit the road, I was close to eager to see my old friend. We stopped at a convenience store for a twelve-pack of Corona, a Styrofoam cooler, and a bag of ice.
We talked about Mark during the drive to the park. A familiar portrait emerged from our shared memories, that of a reckless young man who liked to put himself in harm’s way. He was self-destructive, but he sought his ruin in such colorful and interesting ways we didn’t think of it as self-destructiveness.
Ah, the beautiful stupidity of youth.
We pulled into the park entrance at 2:45. We drove more than a mile down a winding two-lane road, then, as we came around yet another bend, a sparsely populated parking lot came into view. The only other vehicle present was an old, weather-beaten VW van. I reached into the cooler for a long-necked bottle of Corona as Jenny guided my old Camaro into a parking space.
Jenny smirked. “So where’s Lazarus?”
“The lake. He said he’d be fishing off a pier.”
Beyond the parking lot was a narrow footpath that wound down a hill. I followed Jenny down the path, watching her ass move in the white shorts. She was wearing a skimpy yellow bikini top, and I knew there was a matching bottom beneath the shorts. The shorts were low-slung and hugged her hips. Her long legs were toned and brown from the sun. She was wearing sunglasses and her blonde hair was pulled back in a scrunchy. She looked like a model in a tanning lotion ad.
I’m trying to communicate a sense of lust here, okay?
I’ve never desired a woman more than I desired Jenny.
The ground leveled out as we stepped through a stand of trees and emerged again into the bright light of the sun. We saw picnic tables and plastic-lined trash cans. About twenty yards beyond the picnic area, a short pier extended over the water. I squinted and was able to make out a solitary figure at the end of the pier, a shirtless man with long, curly hair casting a line into the water.
Jenny came to a stop, and I pulled up right beside her.
I swallowed hard. “It’s him.”
Jenny’s reply was a nervous whisper. “Yes.”
“Let’s do this.”
Jenny just nodded.
I saw Mark set down his rod and reel and pick up a can of Heineken. He leaned against the railing and watched our approach behind inscrutable black sunglasses.
His voice boomed out to us. “McT! And is that the ever-lovely Jenny Hollis I see by your side?”
Jenny was unable to suppress the smile that came to her lips. Mark had always been a charmer. “Hi, Mark.”
Mark was remarkably fit for a man his age, with an abundance of toned muscles and barely a hint of flab anywhere on his body. But he wasn’t a dead-ringer for the twenty-year-old I remembered. There was a weathered quality to his face. He looked like a man who had spent the bulk of his life getting baked by the sun.
Mark extended a hand. “Good to see you again, bro.”
I shook his hand. “Yeah.”
Mark drained the rest of his Heineken. “Let’s snag us a picnic table and commence to reminiscing.”
Mark picked up his rod and reel, propped it over his shoulder, and began to make his way down the pier. We were right behind him. We parked ourselves at the nearest table, and I fished more beers out of the cooler.
Mark popped open another Heineken. “So,” he said, “who wants to go first?”
We sat there in silence for a while. We were a conglomeration of nervous smiles and fidgety hands. I looked at Mark. I looked at Jenny. I drank some beer. And I said, “That’s a no-brainer, pal. You’re the one who buggered off when Ronnie Raygun was still prez.”
Mark set the Heineken can down. He sighed. “My parents did some fucked-up shit to me when I was a kid. The most perverse, ugly shit you could imagine.”
I frowned. “Jesus.”
“It stopped soon after I entered high school.” He smiled crookedly. “I was suddenly old enough and big enough to fight back, so they left me alone. Then when we got to college I started doing every drug known to man in mass quantities.” He smiled ruefully. “Kinda hard to keep up with your studies when you’re watching miniature marching bands prance across your dorm room floor.”
Jenny laughed. “I can see how that would pose a distraction.”
Mark smiled at her. “Yeah, but I was able to hang on for a while. Then the circus came to town. Well, a traveling carnival. I met some of the carnies in a bar one night. They seemed like cool guys.” He smirked. “They talked a lot about drugs. And they made life on the road seem like the most romantic adventurous way of life imaginable.” He shrugged. “So I joined up.”
I shook my head. “And bailed out of your life—not to mention the lives of your friends.”
Mark sighed. “Don’t think I didn’t feel bad about that, Craig. Hell, I was only with the carnies for a few months. They were too wild even for me. I took off on my own. I didn’t come back for the same reason I never told anybody the truth about my parents—I just couldn’t deal. I couldn’t explain myself. So I stayed away.”
I finished another Corona. “If you were only with them a few months...”
Mark went on to describe a nomadic life. He spent a significant portion of those lost years following hippie jam bands around. He enjoyed the tribal lifestyle of the traveling hippies, and he eked out a living by selling them drugs.
I felt no inclination to hide my exasperation. “Why are you back here, man? You tired of being a highway gypsy? Are you back to stay?”
Mark frowned.
I arched an eyebrow. “Well?”
He managed a weak smile. “I can see the pity in your eyes, McT. You think I’ve wasted my life.”
Bull’s eye.
“I only think you’ve squandered a great deal of potential. You’re smart, Mark, smarter than just about anybody I’ve ever known. You could’ve been anything you wanted to be.”
His smile broadened a little. “But, Craig, I am what I want to be. I never dreamed of running a corporation, or whatever it is you think I should have devoted my life to. I’ve got a freedom I never would’ve had if I’d gone that way.”
I sighed. “Okay.”
There was a dismissive tone to my voice.
Neither of them missed it. Jenny, who’d been stewing quietly while Mark and I bantered, shot me a scornful glare.
“You should listen to him, Mark, he’s the expert on squandered potential.” She abruptly got up and stalked away. “I’m going for a walk,” she called over her shoulder. “Do me a favor and don’t come after me.”
I met Mark’s gaze. I tried to read his expression, but there was nothing there—no evidence of concern or em
barrassment. A friend will usually make a token show of concern under such circumstances, but Mark looked like a man with no worries.
I grunted. “She’ll be okay. We’re just having a little tiff.”
Mark grinned. “You bet.”
I wondered how long it had been since Mark had related to other people in any real, human way. His general oddness made me uncomfortable, and I didn’t want to be around him a moment longer than necessary. I tried to send a mental message to Jenny. I throw myself on your mercy, babe—I’m a shit, you have every reason to be disappointed in me, let’s call it a day and get the hell out of here.
She was still walking along the shoreline. I considered disregarding her request to leave her alone. Hell, she probably wanted me to come after her, regardless of what she said.
I looked at Mark. “I hate to say this, man, but—”
He held up a hand to shush me. “Whoa, hold on. I know you want to hit the road, but there’s something in my van I want to show you before we say goodbye.”
I sighed.
“Come on, McT, you might never see me again.” His eyes glimmered with sudden tears. “Just indulge me for a few minutes, okay?”
Well, what harm could it do?
I stood up, cupped my hands around my mouth, and called out to Jenny. “Hey, Jen! Mark’s got something he wants to show me in his van. We’ll just be a few minutes, okay?”
She turned toward us, smiled, and waved.
That reassuring smile warmed my heart. I felt emboldened enough to add, “I love you, Jen!”
Her reply made me happier than I’d been in, oh, forever: “I love you, too!”
Just like that, all the tension drained from my body.
I grinned at Mark. “She loves me.”
He said, “I know.”
So I followed him back up the path to the parking lot. When we reached the van, Mark gripped a rusty door handle and drew the sliding door partway open.
He ushered me in with a sweep of his hand. “After you, sir.”
I stepped up into the murky semi-darkness of the van. The grimy windows diffused the light of the sun. I took a seat on a bench toward the rear of the van and surveyed the vehicle’s seedy interior. It was evident to me that the van was Mark’s real home. There were crates of books and cassette tapes. A rolled-up sleeping bag sat atop one of them.
Mark took a seat opposite me on another bench. The bench was right behind the van’s front seats. Mark peeked through the gap between the seats, then returned his attention to me.
“Welcome to my humble abode.”
I cast a phony appraising glance around. “Yeah. Um...how old is this ride, Mark?”
“It’s a ‘71. I’ve had it since my carnie days. I liberated it from a dude I worked with, a carnie.” He flashed a disturbing, almost demented grin flashed again. “He didn’t need it anymore, anyway.”
Shit. The guy seemed different now...stranger.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah...didn’t you have something to show me?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” He glanced again through the gap between the front seats. “The dude I got the van from, I got something else from him, too.”
He turned and reached between the seats. He lifted something off the passenger seat, then gingerly brought it through the gap between the seats.
It was a container of some kind. Mark set the container down on the bench, got up, and duck walked to my end of the van. He had a flashlight in his hand, though I couldn’t recall seeing him retrieve it.
“Let’s shed some light on the situation.”
He flicked on the flashlight, directed its beam at the container, and I felt a hot lump of fear rise into my throat. My chest felt tight. I thought I might be having a heart attack. Not that it mattered, since I was obviously in the presence of a psychopath. No way would he allow me to live after seeing this.
The container was a large glass jar with a metal lid. It was filled with formaldehyde. Floating inside was a severed human head.
Mark said, “That’s Jarhead.”
The head looked like it’d belonged to a middle-aged Caucasian male. Its eyes were wide and staring, and its longish silver hair floated in the solution like strands of seaweed.
“Jarhead, say hello to my friend Craig.”
I looked at him. “Why?”
Mark frowned. “Why what?”
“Why did you kill him?”
Mark smiled. “I didn’t kill the guy, Craig. You should listen better. I got Jarhead from the guy who used to have this van.”
“And what happened to that guy?”
“Oh, him I killed.”
“Oh.”
“The guy needed killing. He ripped me off. I don’t know if he killed our encapsulated friend.” He nodded at Jarhead. “But I don’t think so. Jarhead’s been around a long time. He told me once he was a research scientist in the 50’s.”
“Who told you that?”
“Jarhead.”
I nodded. Uh-huh. You’re a psycho, Mark. “You and Jarhead talk a lot?”
“I know you think I’m crazy, Craig. Sane people don’t tend to have an ongoing dialogue with severed heads. But it’s the truth. I hear his voice inside my head.” He tapped his skull. “He’s smart. You wanted to know how I’ve supported myself all these years. Well, dealing drugs is part of it, but I generate the bulk of my income by following Jarhead’s suggestions.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You could say he’s my guiding spirit. My sensei. My Jedi master.” He wasn’t smiling anymore. “He’s the reason I’m back here, Craig.”
“Jarhead said you should come home?”
Mark nodded. “He said I needed to see you.”
“Yeah?”
Mark sighed. “Don’t think this isn’t hard for me, Craig. But I have to do what I have to do.” He clamped a strong hand around my throat. “Jarhead says I need to exorcise the demons of my past. He says I’ll only be happy if I can stop thinking about what I left behind.”
His grip around my throat tightened.
I gurgled.
Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. “I’ll go see my parents tonight. They’re more deserving of this than you, man, but I’ve got no choice. You’ve got to see that, buddy.”
I tried to pry his hand away, but he was too strong. I couldn’t breathe. I began to feel lightheaded. His eyes bulged from the strain of strangling me. The moment I stopped struggling was when I heard her voice.
“Craig? Mark?” It was Jenny; she was standing just outside the van. “What are you guys doing in there?”
Mark’s head whipped toward the door. “Fuck!”
“Craig?”
Mark’s hands came away from my throat. I sucked in a ragged gasp of air and tried to find my voice, but it was no use. I desperately wanted to warn her, but all I could manage was a helpless wheeze.
Then Mark was moving toward the door. I tumbled to the floor and extended a weak hand toward him—it brushed limply against his ankle before thumping on the floor. I saw him haul the door open, reach outside, and drag Jenny inside.
Mark killed her.
I don’t wish to describe her death in any detail. He didn’t do anything especially cruel. It was over in a heartbeat. But a part of me died in that moment, too. The most important part, I suspect.
It was while Mark was staring at her broken body that I recovered a measure of strength. Adrenaline likely played a role in what happened next. I picked up my discarded Corona bottle, surged to my feet, and broke the bottle over Mark’s head. He toppled backward, crashing through the gap between the front seats.
I loomed over him with a broken shard of bottle in my hand. He tried to push himself up. But I planted a knee on his chest, drove him back down, and sliced open his throat with the jagged wedge of glass. There was a lot of blood. But not enough. There could never be enough to avenge Jenny.
I dropped the shard of glass and got out of the van. I couldn’t look at Jenny’s corpse. I might
’ve killed myself if I’d looked at her then. I collapsed against the van, slid down until I was sitting on the ground, where I stayed for a long time.
I stayed there until a park ranger came around.
The ranger had a look inside the van. A long look. Then he told me, “Stay there. I’m getting the cops.”
I nodded.
But I didn’t stay right there. I did something while the ranger was in his car. I removed something from the van. I was sure I was losing my mind—there could be no sane reason for what I was doing—but I felt compelled to do it.
The cops showed up. Lots of them. Turns out Mark had left a trail of bodies all over the country, as well as a substantial trail of circumstantial and physical evidence. The FBI would have taken him down eventually.
Which wasn’t exactly a comfort.
Several weeks have passed.
My world is in a shambles.
My hope for the future is gone. Too late, I’ve realized how completely that hope centered on Jenny. My guilt is beyond quantifying.
The guilt isn’t the worst thing, though.
Jarhead is the worst thing. Lately I’ve begun to hear his voice in my head.
I bought a gun with the last of my money. A Desert Eagle. The handgun equivalent of a cannon. I’m hoping I somehow become brave enough to put its barrel in my mouth.
Because, God help me, I think Jarhead has something else in mind.
This recording is for the benefit of anyone I might hurt at his behest.
Please know this.
Whatever I’ve done, Jarhead made me do it.
I love you, Jenny.
Forgive me.
Kent Hogan eased his Toyota Camry to a stop as the light turned red. The bright crimson orb glared at him like the eye of a demon, a luminescent puncture wound in the black flesh of night. He averted his gaze, but he could feel the heat of the eye upon him, probing his brains like a surgical laser.
Brian surgery, now there was an idea worth exploring.
Some extensive frontal lobe work, perhaps, to excise the malignant knot of melancholy that had taken root there and grown beyond his ability to combat.