Pitch

by William Ollie

  Jimmy saw the old guy, the white hair and the snow-white beard, and remembered what his friends had told him: ‘Bunch of kids missing… Some old man… When you see him…run… Beard like Abraham Lincoln… Casket… When you see him… RUN!’

  He pulled on the handle but the door wouldn’t open, and now he really was scared. He crawled across the seat to the driver’s side, opened the door and took off running, and didn’t stop running until he reached High Street.

  * * *

  “Jesus Christ!” Billy yelled as the screaming child skidded along the sidewalk.

  “Jimmy!” Jackie shouted as his brother was hauled back to the truck, and he started his bike to moving, feet pumping furiously as he raced toward his brother.

  That was when Jimmy leapt from the truck and took off running down the street.

  “Jimmy! You come back here! Right now! Jimmyyyyy!”

  Jackie, Billy, and Junior rode up to the old guy, who was now standing beside his truck, frowning and holding Jimmy’s bike in his hands.

  “Hey Mister,” Jackie said. “That’s my little brother you just runned over.”

  The old guy, grinning, leaned against the truck. “He come outa nowhere… flying. I just didn’t see him. I was gonna take him over to the hospital and make sure he’s all right, but he took off runnin’ like a scalded dog.”

  “Well, I guess he must be all right,” Junior said. “He sure runs like he is.”

  “I’ll say,” said Billy.

  “Yeah, we’ve been teasin’ him about some old guy going around snatchin’ up little kids and putting them in a casket,” Junior said. “That’s why he took off like that.”

  The man laid down the bike and reached into his front pocket, pulled a hundred dollar bill from a roll of money as round as a baseball and handed it to Jackie. “I don’t think he was hurt too awful bad,” he said. “But here’s a hundred dollars in case he needs to see Doc Fletcher, or his bike needs fixin’.”

  Billy gasped, and Junior’s eyes grew wide.

  Jackie grinned, thinking, mine, all mine. “Yeah, I guess that’d be all right,” he said, and then stuffed the bill into his front pocket. “He looked okay, and I guess his bike ain’t hurt too much.”

  Billy stood Jimmy’s bike up, then, following Jackie’s lead, he proclaimed it to be fixable.

  The old guy, offering up a friendly smile, said, “Well, boys, I sure am sorry this happened. Y’all tell that little fella I’m real sorry, will you?”

  “Yes sir, we sure will,” Jackie said, as the High Street Boys walked off holding their handlebars, leaving Pitch standing by his truck, watching the three friends move off toward High Street, unable to ride home now that they had an extra bike to contend with.

  When he’d spotted Jimmy moving through town, he could hardly contain himself. Because there, not fifty yards away, was one of the children Vonda had selected. Driving up Main Street, he cut back toward the hill, keeping the child in sight at all times.

  He timed it perfectly.

  The child darted across the intersection and Pitch hit the bicycle’s rear tire, sending the child sprawling onto the concrete sidewalk, where he lay until Pitch scooped him up and placed him in the truck. Safe in the knowledge that the passenger door could only be opened from the outside, he walked over and picked up the bike, thinking he would put it in the bed of the pickup and drive off with his prize. He could hardly believe it when the child jumped out and hauled ass down the street. But when he saw the other children pedaling toward him, he was relieved. If he had driven away, he would’ve been seen. He felt like the cat that had spotted the mouse sitting on the doorstep of the doghouse, knowing he should walk away and leave the mouse for another day, but unable to do so. Standing beside the pickup, he made a mental note not to do anything on the spur of the moment, no matter how excited he became.

  Plan things out. Don’t be hasty. Or better yet, send Hastie.

  Pitch, laughing at his pun, got behind the wheel and drove to the opposite end of town, thinking of what he had planned for tonight.

  * * *

  His head had hurt all morning, pounding angrily, punishing him for last night’s transgressions. He stopped to pick up a sandwich on the drive in to work, and bought a bottle of aspirin and a Coke to go with it. Billy took four of those precious pain relievers, washing them down with the Coke. Then, praying for God to have mercy on his aching head, he lit a cigarette, pulled onto the road and drove to the Mine. Somewhere in the three and a half hours of operating his roof-bolting machine, his head finally stopped bothering him. The rest of his day was spent shoring up the Mine’s ceiling while trying to figure out how he could make last night up to Eunice.

  Billy loved his wife, and knew she didn’t deserve to be treated in such a way. He would like to have thought that maybe, just maybe, things could change, that he could change. But he couldn’t. Billy needed a beer or two, or four if that was what it took to ease the stress built up from all the years spent down in that deep dark pit. But he could never stop at a beer or two, or four or five. Since he hardly ever drank hard liquor, he had fooled himself into believing he wasn’t an alcoholic, but deep down he realized that was exactly what he had become… After his shift was over, he showered in the washhouse and put on his clean clothes, left work and stopped off at Becky Rendale’s flower shop, where he bought a dozen red roses, signing the card:

  I’m so sorry.

  I love you,

  Billy.

  * * *

  Last night, Eunice had been annoyed at Billy for going to Donnie’s on a weeknight. When one o’clock rolled around and he still wasn’t home, she took her sleeping pill and went to bed. After stewing about it all day, her anger had blossomed into a full-blown hatred of what he had done, what he had become. As she sat on the couch, scowling and disgusted, Billy stepped through the doorway, holding the flowers and card behind his back. A few steps later he brought out the flowers and the card and got down on his knees. “Please forgive me, Eunice,” he said, a sad and forlorn look etched upon his face. “I’m so sorry.”

  Eunice put her hands to her lips, gasping, unable to remember when, or if Billy had ever made such a gesture before. Tears welled in her eyes as the anger melted away, replaced by a tender and understanding expression of love and forgiveness. She took the flowers and set them on the coffee table, accepted the envelope and removed the card. Reading the outside, and then scanning the message he’d written inside, she thought, Where in the world has this Billy been all my life? But so choked up was she at this stunning turn of events, all she could do was look thoughtfully at him, and say, “Billy, where have you been?”

  Blood Feast

  Friday afternoon:

  E.L. leaned over, kissed his mother on the cheek and got out of the car. “Thanks, Pop,” he said, as he turned to his dad.

  “You’re welcome, little buddy,” Walt Davis said, grinning, anxious to begin the weekend long orgy he’d been fantasizing about ever since realizing E.L. would be out of the house for a couple of days.

  E.L. grabbed a duffel bag, slammed the car door and scrambled up the stairs to the Pritchard house, where he found Jackie and Jimmy standing at the rear of the house, talking to Junior and Billy Belcher.

  E.L., setting his stuff by the front porch, walked around back just in time to hear Junior say, “You sure you’re all right, Jimbo?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. What about my bike?”

  “I told you,” Jackie said. “We already took care of it,”

  After running all the way back to High Street, Jimmy had walked the remaining distance to his house, only to find his father taking a nap and his mother gone to the grocery store. Fifteen minutes later, Billy, Jackie and Junior arrived to ask if he was all right, and why he had run away.

  Jimmy told them about the passenger door that wouldn’t open, and reminded them that they were the ones who said to haul ass if some old guy tried to snatch him up. But nothing he said convinced them he had done the right thin
g.

  “Jimmy,” Jackie said. “He was just trying to make sure you were okay.”

  That was when E.L. rounded the corner.

  After telling him about the afternoon’s events, carefully leaving out the part about the hundred-dollar bill, E.L. had only one thing to say, “Wow!”

  “Where’s your stuff?” Jackie asked him, changing the subject before Junior or Billy could slip up and mention their windfall.

  “By the front porch.”

  “Well, we’re gonna go home and get ready,” Billy said. “Come on, Junior.”

  “Get ready for what?” E. L. asked him.

  “We decided to go ahead and see Blood Feast tonight.”

  “Hot dog!” E.L., like his newfound friends, was anticipating having the pants scared off him. He followed Jackie and Jimmy to their bedroom, laid his duffle bag on the floor, and said, “Where’s Jimmy gonna sleep?”

  “On the couch. Right, Jimbo?”

  Jimmy nodded, and headed off to take a bath.

  Jackie, winking at E.L., said, “If this movie’s as scary as it’s supposed to be, he’ll probably end up sleeping with Mom and Dad… Or you.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure as hell ain’t sleeping with me.”

  * * *

  Larry Dale King sat at his desk reading an article about the Charleston Butcher, who had somehow gotten the drop on three police officers in an apartment over in the capital city. They had been staking the place out, hoping he would show up, and he did. And now all three of them were dead. Finished with the article, he laid the paper on his desk. He was thinking about what their families were going through, the embarrassment their fellow officers must be feeling, when Nathan’s voice came over the radio.

  “Yeah, go ahead, Nathan.”

  “How’s it going over there?”

  “Ghost City, Boss. Not one call all day long.” Larry Dale separated the funny papers from the newspaper, allowing his eyes to drift down to Snuffy Smith.

  “Yeah, nothing much here, either. Larry Dale, Sharon wants me to take her over to Johnny and Thelma’s. Since it’s pretty quiet around here, I’m gonna go get her. Just call me if you need to.”

  “Sure, Nathan. Like I said, I ain’t had a single call all day. Hey, give that little feller a kiss from his Uncle Larry Dale. And tell Johnny to get his lazy ass on back to work.”

  “Shit, he’d probably get more rest at the station house than he’s getting at home. That little booger’s awake every time I go over there.”

  “See you, Boss.”

  “Later, Gator.”

  Larry Dale turned his attention back to the funny papers, and the adventures of one Beetle Bailey, who once again was feeling the wrath of his fat sergeant.

  After finishing the comics, he reread the sports section, put the newspaper back together and leaned back in his chair, daydreaming about tracking down, and then killing the Charleston Butcher in hand to hand combat. He was just applying his good old reliable chokehold when the telephone rang.

  “Uh, Whitley Police,” he answered, half asleep.

  “Hey Larry Dale, this is Howard Masters. You need to get on out to Billy’s place. They’re goin’ at it pretty hard over there.”

  “Hell, he ain’t even had time to get drunk yet. You don’t think they’ll calm down none?”

  “I don’t think so. They started over an—”

  Glass shattered in the background, and Billy Dillon screamed, “You goddamn crazy bitch!”

  “You hear that shit?”

  “Shit yeah. Where you callin’ from, their daggum kitchen?”

  “Nah, I’m in there, I’m kicking both their asses.” Howard laughed. “That’s how loud it is. I’m standing in my living room.”

  Another round of screaming and cussing followed another crash.

  “Son of a bitch. Don’t they know it’s still daylight? All right, Howard. I’ll be right over,” Larry Dale said, and then hung up the telephone and started for the door, thinking, this shit’s getting ridiculous.

  He drove down Highway 10, not bothering to hurry, or to use his lights and siren.

  Why bother? he thought, smiling. They’re not going anywhere. Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll kill his dumb ass before I get there.

  On his way up Seeker’s Mountain, he waved to Art Wilkins Sr., who was coming down the road toward him. “All right, Machine!” he called out the window, laughing when Art Sr. smiled and flipped him the bird.

  Down the mountain into Weaver’s Creek, he crossed the old wooden bridge into Sharp’s Holler. Minutes later, he pulled the cruiser into Billy Dillon’s dirt driveway. Twenty yards from the house, he heard what sounded like a barroom brawl, and Eunice yelling, “You son of a bitch, I’ll kill your ass!”

  Larry Dale stopped the car, opened the door and stepped out to the all too familiar sound of a plate shattering against a wall, and Billy Dillon shouting, “Try it, you ignorant bitch!”

  Something that looked like a statue crashed through the living room window, and Larry Dale stood for a moment, taking it all in, wondering how anyone could live like that.

  “Well?”

  Larry Dale turned to see Howard Masters standing on his front porch, palms held up in a questioning pose as the deputy leaned back into the car, goosing the siren to let the combatants know he had arrived. He had walked around to the front of the car, and was leaning on the hood when Eunice Dillon cried out in a painfully shrill voice, “Damn you, Billy!” Then, in a voice laced with terror, “What’re you doing? No! Billy, no! What’re doing?”

  Billy kicked the front door off its hinges and stepped onto the porch, his face pale, his eyes dull and vacant. Right hand tucked behind him, he sneered at the surprised policeman, “The fuck do you want?”

  The look on Billy’s face reminded Larry Dale of a zombie straight out of an old Boris Karloff movie… like he didn’t know what he was doing… like he was doing something he couldn’t stop… like… a zombie.

  Larry Dale stood up. “Billy!” he called out. “Calm your ass down ‘fore I have to cart you off to jail!”

  Billy walked down the steps, into the front yard, pulling a silver-plated revolver from behind his back as Larry Dale reached for his holster and Billy pulled the trigger, sending the stunned policeman to the ground, blood seeping through the fingers he’d clamped over his chest as Eunice ran screaming through the front door to find her husband staring down at the fallen deputy, a blank expression etched upon his face, until he turned and saw Eunice gaping down from the porch.

  “You’re next,” Billy said, smiling now, as Eunice ran back into the house, and Billy walked slowly up the stairs, following the pistol he had leveled at the door as gunfire erupted behind him and blood exploded from his chest, splattering against the house while he staggered backward and fell sliding down the stairs, and Larry Dale, dropping his pistol, crawled forward on hands and knees, barely able to maintain consciousness as he pulled himself forward. “Wh… why, Billy?” he croaked, as Billy bucked and heaved and coughed up blood. “Why, goddamn it?”

  But Billy didn’t answer, nor would he ever answer anyone again. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out except the last breath he would ever take, closing his eyes as Larry Dale fell onto his back, knowing he would never live to see the hospital, as his eyes fluttered, and then fluttered shut; his body sprawled awkwardly upon the ground as Masters scampered off his porch and the sun disappeared behind Seeker’s Mountain, and Larry Dale King slipped into total darkness.

  * * *

  On their way to the movies, E.L. Davis and The High Street Boys wondered just how scary Blood Feast might be. Damn scary, they hoped. Halfway down the hill, Billy asked Jimmy if he was scared when the old man scooped him up and put him in the pickup.

  “What do you think, Igmo? Didn’t I look scared?”

  “Well, yeah, you looked scared, but that old guy wasn’t gonna do nothing ‘cept take you to the doctor.”

  “Take me to the doctor, huh? He didn
’t say nothin’ about taking me to no doctor.” Jimmy still didn’t think the incident had been as innocent as the others kept insisting it was. “And what about that door handle not workin’? Huh?”

  “Aw, Jimmy,” Billy said. “You were just scared ‘cause of what we told you about old Abe-Lincoln-beard.”

  Jimmy looked hard at him. “You mean to tell me you guys were lying about him, that I jumped out of that truck and ran all the way home for nothin’?”

  “Hell no, Jimbo,” Jackie told him. “You did the right thing. What if he really was gonna snatch you up? It ever happens again, you do the same damn thing. Don’t pay any attention to Belcher over there.”

  “Yeah,” E.L. said, grinning at the disgusted look on Billy’s face. Then, “Hey, you guys hear about that John Smith guy?”

  “Yeah, on the news while I was getting ready,” Junior said. “Killed three policemen last night in Charleston. Cut ‘em up with a butcher knife.”

  “Two policemen and one policewoman,” E.L. corrected him. “They were staking out an apartment, hoping he’d show up, and he did. And somehow he killed all three of them.”

  “Killed four women in the last week, too,” Junior said, paying him back with a little correction of his own. “Two in Charleston and two more in Huntington.”