Powerlines

by Kurt Newton

  Kenny couldn't help but be reminded of when he was eight years old, and how he used to run out to the old oak tree down by the stonewall at the old house and bring back the targets his father used to shoot at from off of the back porch. They were days like this, weekend afternoons fading into night, just enough daylight left to sight-in the new gun, or just to keep the "old eye" in practice. His father collected guns, bought them, sold them, hung on to the ones he liked; it was a hobby, and Kenny used to always be there by his side, covering his ears and trying not to jump, the pride of being his father's son in his chest, the smell of gun powder burning his nostrils. Kenny even kept a collection of his own, odd cartridges his father gave him: .22 caliber shorts; hollow-point .38 police specials in their shiny silver cases; old civil war copper monsters; and those long flare-tipped 30-06s, like the ones that shot JFK. All kinds, all live, and all gathered as keepsakes of their trips together to the gun shops out on the country roads and to people's basements.

  Those were good times, Kenny admitted to himself, and a flash of guilt ran through him, as he gathered the cans back onto their places and set-up the two remaining bottles from the bag.

  That was when he heard the voice.

  "Kenny-boy?"

  A whisper so faint he barely recognized it as a spoken word. It was more like the rustle of a dry leaf or a newspaper turning.

  "Hey, Kenny-boy, it's me!"

  As Kenny reached to set the last bottle in place, he stopped dead. There was movement inside the car. At first Kenny thought a raccoon had crawled in and had found lodging amid the dim confines of the back seat floor, but its whole body seemed to lift, looking up. Eyes were where its stomach should have been, the slit of a mouth farther below. That's when Kenny realized it was just the head of something much larger.

  He took a quick shuffling step backward, as if he had stumbled onto a snake in the grass. He wanted to run, to bolt like a frightened deer, but the voice held him.

  "I've been watching you," it said. Huge, black, crow's-eyes tilted upwards, catching a glint of sunlight. Twin reflections of Kenny's horrified expression filled its pupils.

  "I've been watching you...and I'm getting hungry."

  No! a voice inside Kenny's head screamed. His heart suddenly beat everywhere at once, in his chest, in his throat, the soles of his feet – feet that felt heavy as lead. No, no, no...

  "Ken?"

  It was Christopher, wondering what the hold up was. Perhaps wondering why his uncle was standing so still, staring into that old car.

  The rest of the creature's body moved. It appeared to cover the entire surface of the floor. What Kenny had thought was the dry-mold remains of the carpet was its fur. It moved closer to the window now. Tiny slivers of glass fell from its pelt like beads of sweat.

  "You have to feed me, Kenny-boy." The words escaped its mouth like beetles eating through rotted wood.

  Nooooooo!

  "Ken, what is it?"

  Christopher again, only now Kenny heard his nephew's footsteps.

  "Feed me … You have to feeeed me."

  This time a real scream pushed up his throat, racing for a way out. Then he remembered the oath, the desperate plea he had sent out into that dark December night.

  But it can't be.

  "Ken?"

  "Kenny-boy..."

  "Okay!" Kenny shouted, turning around. "It's okay, it's all set."

  "What is it? What do you see?" Christopher was halfway to the old rusted heap.

  "Nothing. Whose turn is it?"

  "Mine," Christopher said. Kenny was walking toward his nephew now, distancing himself from what was behind him. Christopher stood staring at the automobile, wondering what it was Kenny saw.

  "C'mon, your turn." Kenny reached out to turn his nephew around, to turn his gaze away from whatever it was he was looking at.

  "Wait!" Christopher said and grabbed the bottle from Kenny's hand. "You forgot this one." He was away and trotting toward the old Buick before Kenny could stop him. The most he got out was a panicked-sounding, "Christopher, no!" But it was too late, his nephew was already at the car, reaching up to place the bottle on the roof.

  Christopher looked at him, then back at the car, trying to see what it was he should be so alarmed at. He looked into the Buick's rusted shell: seats without upholstery; clots of years-dead leaves; broken glass scattered everywhere. He glanced around at Kenny again. "What?" Christopher said innocently.

  It's not there, Kenny thought. I imagined it. But it was so real.

  A slight breeze blew just then, disturbing the standstill surroundings. Kenny looked up and saw how the trees overhead wavered, dancing shadows across the car's rusted exterior.

  Was that all it was? Shadows? A trick of the imagination? He wasn't sure now. "The glass," Kenny said, "be careful with the broken glass," and released the fingernails from the skin of his palms.

  "God! You're getting to be just like my mom." Christopher rolled his eyes. He placed the bottle on the roof and returned to Kenny's side.

  "After this let's go back to the house, okay?"

  "Sure," Christopher said, pumping life back into the bb-gun. He then blasted away as before, and each time he shot something near the back seat window, Kenny's breath caught. He kept expecting the barrage to anger whatever it was he thought he saw, to see it pop up from out of the darkness and into the frame of the window, like a puppet in a puppet show, and yell with its make believe voice, "Would you knock it off! I'm trying to get some sleep in here!"

  It would almost seem funny if it hadn't been so goddamn real, Kenny thought, listening to the bbs ricochet off their intended targets and into the woods. When it was his turn to shoot, he shot without aim, without reason but to satisfy the appearance of normality. His thoughts kept returning to the car, what the thing inside had said, and how much that twisted voice had sounded like his father's.

  When it became too dark to see, their aim relying more on sound than sight, their faces smudged with grey dusk, they finally called it quits and raced each other home. Christopher plunged on ahead, brandishing his gun before him, a soldier in the midst of a thick, hostile jungle. Kenny followed close behind, wishing for different reasons to escape the ever darkening gloom of the clearing, and the car...a car much like a car his father used to own.

  A car, perhaps, his father owned once again.

  Available in digital and trade paperback June 4th from Gallows Press!

  An Excerpt From

  THE BRAINPAN CONCERTO

  by Kurt Newton

  The Connecticut State Police Major Crime Unit was much improved since Michael Skakel took a golf club to Martha Moxley's skull and Michael Ross raped and murdered his way across the Connecticut countryside. Computers now tapped into every major crime database, and a steady stream of unsolved cases and their particulars were just a mouse-click away. Profiling had turned the investigative process into a science. But despite what television portrayed there was still no substitute for good old-fashioned footwork, eyework, and brainwork.

  Saul jotted notes onto a yellow legal pad, his eyes red from staring at his computer screen. Gwen tapped on the door and came bustling in.

  "What have you got?" Saul asked.

  "Hmm, let's see," she opened the brown bag in her hand and peered in. "There's hot pastrami on rye, and turkey and bacon on whole wheat. That one's mine." She looked up. "Oh, you mean the case."

  Saul wasn't amused. Gwen handed him his pastrami on rye and a bottle of root beer. She sat on the edge of the desk and took a bite out of her sandwich. "Okay," she said, her tongue nabbing a gob of Thousand Island dressing that tried to escape the corner of her mouth, "Amanda St. Cyr wasn't Miss Popular, but she did have several close friends. Artsy types. Creative hairstyles, tattoos, multiple piercings – you know the type. But according to her elderly, and thankfully, nosey neighbor – a Mrs. Florence Dougherty – she did have a 'gentleman caller' the night before she was found. Carrying groceries, no less."

  "Gentleman, m
eaning older?"

  "Probably. Clean-cut too because Florence referred to Amanda's other callers as demons from hell."

  "Father? Older brother?"

  "That's what I thought. But Amanda was an only child. Her father died of leukemia in 1987, when she was three. Her stepfather is currently serving time for domestic violence. Amanda's was not an ideal childhood."

  "Who's is? What about her friends?"

  "Interesting bunch. All were saddened – one actually said, 'Bummer' – but none appeared too broken up about it."

  "Amanda had enemies then?"

  "I don't think so. It's art. The circle she belonged to were serious artists. You know, life might be beautiful, but death is much more…fascinating."

  "Life is pain."

  "Exactly. Death by drugs or suicide, or both, are common denominators among this crowd. And to be murdered – particularly the way Amanda was found – is kinda cool."

  "Could we be looking at some kind of death cult here?"

  Gwen thought about it for a second. "It's a possibility. But these people usually only hurt themselves. They're typically estranged from their families and have limited social interaction. This makes them easy prey –"

  "For a serial killer."

  Gwen tipped her root beer up to her lips. She swallowed and pointed the neck of the bottle at Saul. "So you better get a life."

  "And the groceries? Were any bags left at the scene?"

  "Now that's the funny thing. No bags, no food. The refrigerator was virtually empty."

  Saul took a bite of his sandwich and nodded, his mind already tracking new mental leads. "It's good."

  "Best pastrami in town."

  "No, I meant –" Saul looked up and Gwen was smiling again. "Forget it."

  * * *

  As he made final preparations, the man in the crewneck sweater who had sat in the shadows of Café Earth the night before and watched Libby Sabka sing the sorrows of her sad, sad soul, thought of a new name to call himself. Neville. Neville Best. Neville because is sounded like snivel, like a sniveling weakling incapable of doing harm. And Best because that's what he was. The best. Neville Best.

  He practiced relaxing his body, moving his hips in a more sensual way. After all, Neville was as gay as they came. And who best to strike up a friendly conversation with a male-suspicious lesbian than a gay man?

  He packed his equipment into a repairman's toolbox, running his fingers over the electronics as if they were a woman's skin. He laughed out loud – a girlish, giggling Neville laugh – and snapped the toolbox shut.

  It was time to go.

  * * *

  Libby Sabka sat on her bed jotting down lyrics to her latest song, "When the Rain Won't Stop Falling." Her next gig was in a couple days and she wanted to try out some new material. Her girlfriend, Jen, worked the evening shift at the hospital, so when the doorbell sounded at 4:30 in the afternoon, she didn't know whom it could possibly be.

  Before heading to the door, Libby checked the mirror first. She didn't like what she saw and panic flooded her chest. She pushed her hair first this way then that before giving up in frustration. The doorbell rang again and she shouted, "Just a minute."

  She entered the living room and looked through the front curtain. A white van was parked out by the curb with the words Cox Cable Television printed on the side. A man stood on her steps, a clipboard in one hand, a large toolbox in the other.

  "Who is it?"

  "Cox Cable. I'm here to install your cable and turn you into a couch potato."

  The man's effeminate voice made Libby smile. "I'm sorry, but I didn't order cable."

  "You didn't!" The man put his toolbox down and consulted his clipboard. "Glenda Brooks? 14 Dog Hill Lane?"

  "The address is right but the name is wrong."

  "Oh, snap. Are you sure?"

  Libby giggled. "Sorry."

  "Do you know if Glenda the Good Witch of the North lives anywhere nearby?"

  "I don't know my neighbors very well. Sorry, I can't help."

  "It's not your fault, honey. It's my damned dispatcher. He's got it in for me, I know it. And not in a good way, if you know what I mean."

  Libby didn't know what to say.

  "Well, I didn't mean to bother you. You have a wonderful evening now."

  "Good luck."

  "Thanks honey, you're a doll."

  Libby watched the cable man walk back to the curb. He slid his equipment into the van and pulled out his cell phone and speed dialed. He waited with one hand on his hip, canceled the call, speed dialed again, then looked up to the sky as if to ask, "Why are you doing this to me?" He finally gave up, snapping the cell phone shut. Libby continued to watch as he headed back to her doorstep. The doorbell rang again.

  "Yes?"

  "Sorry to bother you again, honey, but do you think I could possibly use your phone? My cell just shit the bed and I need to call the office."

  Libby went to the door and opened it, leaving the safety chain in place. "I usually don't let strangers into my house."

  "And if I see any I'll let you know. Look, I don't blame you, sweet heart, for being cautious. There are more freaks out here than children locked in Michael Jackson's Neverland dungeon! But you know me, I was just here."

  Libby giggled again.

  "See. Completely harmless. By the way, my name's Neville – Neville Best, 'cause no matter what I do, I'm the best at it. Pleased to meet you."

  The cable man stuck his hand through the door for a shake. Libby shook it. She had received stronger handshakes from dogs.

  "I guess it's all right. Just excuse the mess." Libby unlocked the chain and let the man in.

  "Girl, you're the best. But wait, I'm the best, so that makes you second best, which is still pretty good in my book."

  Libby giggled again and closed the door as the man continued to ramble on.

  "I think I need a new vocation. I thought Cox would be a great place to work considering the name, but they just send me on these wild goose chases and expect me to figure it all out all by myself. Now where's this phone of yours?"

  When Libby turned to point to the wall phone in the kitchen, a vise-like arm wrapped around her chest and she felt a sharp pinch in her neck. Before she could react, her body suddenly drained of all its strength.

  "Sorry honey, but you've got the music in you."

  Libby was able to turn in time to see the needle in the cable man's hand before a warm cloud of sleep descended.

  * * *

  Outside, the darkness settled in.

  Saul placed the arm of the record player on the old, worn LP, and the voice of Dean Martin filled the apartment. He had a CD player but he had kept his parents' phonograph and the LPs they used to listen to. The music was scratchy but the sound of it somehow made the music all the more real, recalling Saul to a more innocent time in his life.

  He needed this. Especially after the week he'd had. There were no further leads in the murder of Amanda St. Cyr. The trail had grown as cold as her sadistically mutilated body. And it was getting under his skin. He could feel himself slipping, backsliding to a time in his life when nothing seemed to matter, when every attempt at making a difference landed him two steps farther back from where he started.

  Saul lit a cigar, the brand his father used to smoke. He puffed on it twice and set it aside. He didn't smoke, but the aroma lent a warmth his baseboard heating couldn't supply. He poured a glass of Chivas Regal and sat on the couch. He closed his eyes and listened.

  Across the dropscreen of his memory, he could see his parents suddenly breaking into an impromptu dance, his father, cigar in hand, singing his best "Volare," his mother scolding him for interrupting her house cleaning but giggling just the same as the two of them danced till the end of the song, where they finished with a flourish and a kiss. Saul could see himself, sitting on the living room carpet playing with his Matchbox cars, looking at his parents through the eyes of a child, a happy child, and he was smiling.

&nbs
p; Saul emptied the glass tumbler in his grip. He reached for the Chivas and poured another. He kept the bottle close. It was going to be long night.

  The upcoming anniversary of his parents' death always brought out the worst in him.

  * * *

  Libby Sabka's kitchen had been converted into a makeshift operating theater.

  The kitchen's one window shade had been drawn and the lights in the rest of the apartment had been turned off. A trouble light with a high wattage bulb and an aluminum reflector hung from the ceiling light's pullstring overhead.

  Libby sat strapped to a kitchen chair. Her head had been shaved, the top of her skull removed. The intricate geography of her brain reflected in the makeshift lighting. Libby stared, wide-eyed, motionless, her eyes tearing.

  On the kitchen table, a sixteen-track digital home studio recorder sat. A series of cables snaked from the recorder to another, smaller, electronic unit. From this unit, over a dozen thin optical strands ran up the back of Libby's head and connected to electrodes implanted in her brain.

  The man, who today went by the name of Neville Best, leaned over Libby's opened skull and, using a plastic pipette, administered a small amount of sterile saline solution, gently replenishing the moisture that was slowly evaporating into the air.

  Studiously, he rechecked his equipment, his hands sheathed in blue neoprene gloves, acting more the experimental chemist now than his flamingly gay cable guy persona of an hour ago.

  "Almost ready, Libby." He paused for a moment to look into her eyes. "Yes, I know you can hear me. You may not be able to move, but your pupils still dilate. I suspect that last response was due to fear?" He nodded to her as one would to a child who is just understanding a lesson that is being taught. "If you are wondering why you can't move, the injection I gave you earlier was a paralytic. It impairs your motor function, but leaves everything else unmolested. You are in what is called a state of anesthetic awareness. It sounds contradictory, I know, but allow me explain. If I were to cut into your skin," he ran a gloved finger along her arm, "you would feel every excruciating detail but be unable to physically react. But I'm not here to do that. If I was I wouldn't have given you a local before removing the top of your skull."