Evil Harvest

by Anthony Izzo

  The big blowup had come the summer Matt turned eighteen. Matt had finally gotten Tammy Varga to go out with him after two months of asking. It was a Saturday night, and Uncle Rex had set his curfew at eleven o’clock. Matt and Tammy had gone to the Transit Drive-In, and after about half and hour, they decided they were more interested in each other than the movie.

  After some making out, Tammy had let Matt feel her breasts and then took his hand and slid it down into her shorts. He had fumbled around until she asked him if he wanted to see what was “up there.” He happened to catch a glimpse at Tammy’s watch. It was eleven ten.

  Disappointed because he couldn’t do any more backseat exploring, but more afraid of Uncle Rex, he dropped Tammy at her door. Tammy called him chickenshit for listening to his auntie and uncle too much, then gave him the finger as he sped away. So much for that date.

  He had come home to find the door unlocked. Thank heavens for small miracles, he remembered thinking. Uncle Rex’s truck was not in the yard or the open garage. Matt began to slink into the door when headlights lit him up. It was Uncle Rex coming home from work.

  Rex Lapchek didn’t even bother to turn the car or the lights off. Like an angry grizzly, he charged at Matt and caught him in the doorway. He slammed Matt into the wall, making Matt’s teeth rattle in his mouth. Matt could smell cigarettes and stale Jim Beam on his uncle. There had been some yelling, some protesting by his Aunt Bernie for Rex not to hurt him. Uncle Rex cuffed him across the cheek, his high school ring slicing Matt’s cheek open.

  He got up, holding his face and muttering “bastard” under his breath as he went to his room. The next morning, he packed his bags and left. He scrawled an apology on a napkin to his aunt for causing so much trouble, withdrew his savings from the bank and took the first Greyhound out of town.

  Now he was back, a little older and a lot less apt to put up with any of his uncle’s bullshit. Screw him, Matt thought, and went outside.

  He walked over to the house and rang the bell. Aunt Bernie opened the door.

  “Come on in, Matthew. You look famished!”

  “Damn fool had the blunt end of a Phillips head screwdriver up his ass. No lie.” Cora Matthews let out a shriek of a laugh. Folds of fat strained against her blouse and jiggled like a renegade piece of Jell-O.

  “How did you get it out?” Jill asked her.

  “Very carefully. You shoulda heard that man squeal! We almost tore the ass out of him getting that thing out.”

  Jill Adams and the other nurse, Julie Maretto, both burst into laughter, drawing a dirty look from a shrunken old woman seated in the waiting room.

  The ER had been quiet all day. An elderly man had been in Room 4 with intestinal discomfort, but he was up having an ultrasound. The other patient was eleven-year-old Danny Lopez, who had come in with a stomach bug.

  Jill sat on the desktop among a pile of file folders and someone’s red-and-white 7-Eleven coffee mug. Cora sat in a swivel chair, her bulk making the chair look like a child’s toy. It wasn’t that she was just heavy, she was a large woman, standing at what Jill guessed to be about six-two.

  “I’ve never seen it, but I’ve heard stories about small rodents being stuffed up there,” Julie replied.

  “That’s a one-way street as far as I’m concerned,” Jill replied.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” Julie gave her a grin, showing off neat, square teeth. The woman had a terrific smile except for one yellowed incisor that always reminded Jill of a wolf’s tooth.

  “I don’t know what little Miss Jilly’s doing here anyway, Jules. She could’ve had a scholarship to Duke,” Cora said.

  “What are you doing here?” Julie asked.

  “I’ve always wanted to be a nurse.”

  “That attitude will change.” Julie snorted.

  Cora placed a hand on Jill’s leg. “Seriously, Jill. You’re bright and pretty and I’d kill to have that cute little figure. Why don’t you get a job making some real money, find yourself a nice man?”

  Cora was starting to sound like her mother. “Like I said, my dad died when I was young. Shot in a robbery. When my mother told me, it hit me like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I’ll bet.” Cora nodded somberly.

  “I thought it was awful that he had a chance to live and couldn’t be saved. So I decided I would get into medicine. Maybe I can stop that from happening to someone else. Save a few lives.”

  “You’re too idealistic,” Julie said.

  “Or it could be you’re too jaded,” Jill retorted.

  Julie sighed. “It’s a way to earn a living, that’s it.”

  “Don’t you think it should be more than that?”

  “It pays the bills,” said Julie.

  “Uh-oh. Here she comes,” Cora said, rolling her eyes.

  “She” was Dorothy Gaines, their supervisor. She walked down the hallway toward the nurses’ station with long, purposeful strides, a clipboard tucked under her left arm. Reaching the nurses’ station, she stood board-straight and drummed her fingers on the counter.

  Dorothy wore horn-rimmed glasses on the end of her pointy nose. She was rope-thin, knotted her hair in a tight bun, favored solid brown or gray tops and pants. Jill heard she was around forty-five, but she looked sixty, and that was on a good day.

  “How are we doing, girls?” she asked.

  “Things’re just a little slow, Dorothy,” Cora replied.

  “How is Mr. Fleisher?”

  “Still having his ultrasound.”

  She frowned and checked her clipboard. “Jill, what about the Lopez boy? Have you checked his IV? I don’t want him getting dehydrated.”

  “He’s got almost a full bag. I just sent one of the aides in to get his temp and BP,” Jill said.

  Dorothy pushed her glasses up and gave Jill a look designed to freeze. “This place is going down the tubes. They’ll hire anybody these days.” She stalked away, parting two nurses’ aides as she went.

  “Boy, she sure don’t like you,” Cora said.

  “I guess not.”

  “It’s because you’re smarter than her. Old witch,” Julie muttered.

  “There’s just one thing I’d like to know,” Jill said.

  Cora and Julie both looked at her.

  “When she’s having her operation.”

  “What operation?” Cora and Julie said in unison.

  “The one to have the two-by-four removed from her ass.”

  Cora and Julie broke into a fit of laughter.

  Matt sopped up the last of the syrup on his plate with a piece of pancake and popped it in his mouth, relishing the tangy blueberries. He had polished off seven pancakes and now his belly felt like it would burst.

  Aunt Bernie leaned across the table, studied him. “Are you sure you don’t want more?”

  “If you want me to explode, I’ll eat more.”

  Aunt Bernie smiled at him, satisfied that he had eaten enough, then sat back. She had eaten four pancakes, five strips of bacon and half a cheese omelet. The remains of their breakfast sat on the table: sticky plates, an empty coffee cup and a juice glass. He leaned back in his chair and patted his swollen belly, thinking he would have to step up his exercise program to work off this meal.

  Aunt Bernie had asked him where he’d been over the past ten years and he rattled off a list of cities: San Francisco, Seattle, Las Vegas.

  They talked about Matt’s mother, what a kind woman she was and how they both missed her. Was he going to stay long in Lincoln? For a while at least. Did he have a job lined up? Not yet, but he was working on it. He was going job hunting this morning, but before that he had a few errands to run.

  Thanking Aunt Bernie for the breakfast, he kissed her on the cheek, promising that they would talk more when he got back, and headed for the side door.

  Aunt Bernie followed him, asking, “What kind of errands are you running, Matthew?”

  “Going to do some clothes shopping and pick up a few groceries.”


  She scowled. “You’re a guest here, remember.”

  He’d forgotten rule number one: no guest pays for food in Bernadette Lapchek’s house. “I know, I know, but at least let me pick up a few things.”

  “Why don’t you take the truck out on your errands? You can fit more in it and it needs a good running anyway.”

  “Uncle Rex won’t mind?”

  “He barely uses it. One of his buddies drives him to work.” She took the key ring off a wooden holder and handed it to him.

  He walked outside, the sun glaring in his eyes even at this early hour. He appreciated the truck, but if anything happened, his uncle would flip out. Matt wasn’t afraid of Rex Lapchek, not anymore, but he was afraid of what he might do to Rex Lapchek if things turned violent.

  He felt a little sluggish after the huge breakfast and went back to his room for a morning nap. When he awoke, the digital clock read 9:36 and he decided it was time to get the day moving along.

  After a quick shower and shave inside the house (still no Uncle Rex), he borrowed the phone book from Aunt Bernie and looked up Lincoln Firearms, the local gunshop. It had been in Lincoln for years, but he could never remember whether it was on Elmwood or Delevan. The address was 4231 Delevan Street.

  He picked up the receiver, dialed the number for Lincoln Firearms. A gruff-sounding male voice on the other end told him that their hours were from ten A.M. until five P.M.

  He toyed with the idea of calling Jill Adams but decided it was too early, even though he was dying to talk to her. Besides, she was most likely tending to patients.

  Patients at a hospital he wanted to avoid. You couldn’t get him inside Lincoln Mercy if he had blood coming out of every major orifice in his body. As a kid, he and his friends had passed around stories, mostly overheard from grown-ups. Patients mysteriously dying. Botched surgeries. A nurse named Helen Devereaux vanished from the parking deck back in the eighties. Police from three surrounding towns searched for her for a week before finding her dismembered corpse in a wooded area two towns away.

  The papers said that the body looked like it had been mangled and there were rumors that the body had claw and bite marks on it, but they were never confirmed or denied by the police department or the county coroner.

  God only knew what would happen to anyone who checked into Lincoln Mercy. I want no part of that place, thank you very much.

  He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, double-checking to make sure his ATM card was in place. The green-and-white M&T logo poked out at him.

  Once in the garage, he climbed into the big Chevy and started up the motor. It rumbled, gave a few coughs and then smoothed out. He took the garage door opener from the sun visor and clicked it. The door opened and he heard the buzz of cicadas raise and kids riding past on bikes, whooping as they cruised along.

  As Matt walked up a wheelchair ramp to the glass-enclosed automatic teller machine, a bead of sweat dribbled down his nose. He wiped it away, lamenting the fact that it was going to be another scorcher. It was only ten o’clock and already it felt like ninety degrees outside.

  A guy with frizzy hair and a bald spot the size of Australia was using the ATM. His gut hung over his shorts, stretching the faded yellow T-shirt that said MAUI on the front in bright red letters. To complete his look, he had on a pair of sandals with black nylon socks and a fanny pack around his waist. That outfit should be banned in all fifty states, Matt thought.

  Head down, the man stepped out of the booth, letting the door slam as Matt reached for it.

  His ponderous belly knocked Matt back a step and he looked up, a snarl on his face. “Watch where you’re going.”

  Matt looked him up and down. “You actually own a mirror?”

  The guy gave Matt a puzzled look, then shoved past, muttering, “Jerk-off.”

  Matt inserted his card, entered the ATM booth and withdrew a thousand in cash.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ten minutes later, he arrived at Lincoln Firearms and walked in the door. The bell over the door jingled as he did. As expected, there were racks of guns, knives and bows. In one section stood two mannequins outfitted in fluorescent orange hunting gear. They were set up in front of a pitched tent. Sleeping bags and a mock campfire on green outdoor carpet completed the scene.

  It was rumored that Lincoln Firearms stocked more than just your garden-variety rifles, shotguns and pistols. When Matt was thirteen, he heard his father and one of his golfing buddies, Robert Brennan, discussing the store. Robert was also an avid hunter and had told Matt’s dad that Harry, the owner, had a small arsenal hidden away. If you were willing to pay the right price, he could hook you up with automatic weapons or even explosives. Matt hoped the rumor was true, for he would need special weaponry to suit his purposes.

  The counter was a clear glass case with some of the largest knives Matt had ever seen. You could gut Moby-Dick with one of those.

  There was a bell on the counter. Matt rang it.

  A man stepped out from a doorway behind the counter and asked in a hard voice, “What can I do ya for?” Head-on, he reminded Matt of a bulldog: he was short and squat, with heavy jowls and a thick jaw.

  The clerk stepped up to the glass counter and leaned on it, his knuckles pressed on the top of the case. His flannel shirt rode up and Matt saw a faded Marine Corps tattoo on his forearm.

  Matt scanned the case and pointed to a knife with a polished walnut handle and a shiny blade that looked sharp enough to split a piece of paper in half. “One of those, for starters.”

  The clerk unlocked the case and took out the knife. He set in on the counter.

  Matt picked up the knife and held it at eye level, tilting the blade back and forth slowly. When the moment of truth came, could he really stick this lethal object into a beating heart, or cut a throat, spilling his enemy’s blood? As he tilted the blade again, he caught a glimpse of his eyes in the polished surface. He stared at it for a long second, his gaze flat. Would this tear through one of Their hides?

  “You all right there, Chief?” the clerk asked.

  “Just thinking,” Matt said. “I’ll take this.”

  “Let me get the sheath for you.” He bent down to retrieve it.

  Matt pretended to be admiring the rest of the knives in the case and leaned as close to the clerk as he could without it seeming like he wanted a kiss from the guy.

  He inhaled and smelled Dial soap mixed with cheap cologne, maybe English Leather or Brut. There was no sulfur smell; a good sign.

  Looking around, Matt saw the store was empty. Perfect time to ask about doing a little extra business, he thought.

  “I might be looking for something a little heavier. Some automatics, maybe some explosives.”

  The clerk eyed him with suspicion. If the guy were a bulldog, he might have bitten Matt. “Buddy, just who the hell are you anyway?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what kind of question is that? Do I look like I deal arms to third world countries? Do you see any heavy armaments on the walls here?” He waved his arms around, indicating the store.

  “I don’t know—do you? Deal heavy arms?” Matt retorted.

  “Just what does someone like you want with automatics and explosives?” The clerk stepped forward so his belly rested on the glass case. “Come here.”

  Matt stood still.

  “Will ya come here? I don’t bite.”

  Matt stepped closer to the counter, his right hand curled into a fist, ready to pop the guy.

  To his surprise, the clerk grabbed him by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward until they were nose to nose. Matt raised his hand to punch him. The guy whipped out a revolver from behind his back and jabbed it into Matt’s belly. The cold steel dug into him hard, seeming to press against his backbone.

  “Let’s see about you,” the clerk said.

  Panic struck Matt, and his mouth felt as if it were full of paste. His bladder felt like an overinflated water balloon. Two ways to lose yo
ur dignity in one day: get gut shot and piss all over the floor in the process. At least it would make for a gripping obituary.

  The clerk sniffed, his eyes narrowed, and his hold on Matt’s shirt tightened. He looked into Matt’s eyes.

  “Hmmm,” the clerk said. He released his hold and Matt breathed a sigh of relief. The clerk tucked the revolver away and into his belt as casually as a man tucking in his shirt. Matt backed away from the counter.

  “Are you sure you’re not a cop?”

  “I left my badge at home,” Matt said sarcastically.

  “Then why in blue blazes did you ask me about heavy weapons? Rafferty send you in?”

  “Hell no,” Matt said. “I’m doing some hunting.”

  Now the clerk leaned on the rear counter, below the racks of rifles on the wall. “Hunting what?”

  “Some things here in town.”

  He rubbed his chin, then stared at Matt for a good minute. “Come around here.”

  “You’re not going to pull another Jesse James on me, are you?”

  “Just come on.” The clerk ran a hand through his spiky flattop and disappeared through the door behind the counter.

  Matt followed him into a small room that held a kitchen table, chairs and a portable television. There was also another door, this one padlocked. There was also a mini fridge; the clerk hunkered down (Matt heard his knees groan like a sinking ship) and took out a Pabst Blue Ribbon.

  He held up the beer. “You care for one?”

  “You always invite someone in for beer after you nearly scare them to death?”

  “Shit, I’m sorry about that. That’s why I brought you back here, to explain.”

  Matt took the beer from the clerk. Little beads of moisture dotted the side of the can. It seemed surreal to be standing here with a beer in his hand right after almost getting killed by a nutty gun store clerk, but nothing had ever been normal in Lincoln.