Alien Blues

by Lynn Hightower

  Sunlight poured in the bedroom window. Mrs. Darnell paused in the doorway, shoulders rigid.

  “Oh my.”

  She turned a white face to David. He leaned forward and caught her before she hit the floor.

  THREE

  David surveyed the bedroom. He shouldn’t have brought Mrs. Darnell here. But at least he knew why the uniforms hadn’t treated this like a typical B and E.

  A drawer full of panties and old cotton bras had been dumped on the bed, then hacked to pieces. The blade of the machete had bitten deep into the mattress. The semen-stained bedspread had been removed by the lab tech.

  CATCH YOU LATER was scribbled on the wall in bright pink lipstick. Who was the guy talking to—cops or Darnell?

  The closet door had been yanked so hard it wobbled off the hinges. Mrs. Darnell’s floral dresses lay in shreds over her shoes. David squatted down and looked at them. Shoes not touched—no foot fetish. Men’s clothes hung undisturbed at the back of the closet. Earl’s? Probably. Machete Man hadn’t been interested.

  David wondered why the clothes were still hanging there three years after Earl’s death. He thought of his mother’s apartment—still locked up and unattended to. He hadn’t been particularly close to his mother. It would be hard for Millicent Darnell to dispose of a husband she had loved for so many years.

  He checked his watch—seven P.M. The kids needed to eat, poor babies, he hoped they’d had a late lunch. They’d been sitting out front in a priority car when he went out to see Rescue off. Mrs. Darnell had been conscious and complaining, but the EMT hadn’t liked her vitals, and had taken her to a clinic for observation. She had cried a little. David felt bad about sicking the meds on her, but she definitely looked shocky.

  Della Martinas and Pete Ridel would start tomorrow morning, going through Mrs. Darnell’s things, getting the make on the victim. Somewhere must be a connection. David thought about the window. Small—hard to get through. Guy was slender, or agile anyway. He’d hit his head. He was professional enough to get around the sensor alert, but he’d missed his victim. Must have made him mad. He was cool or crazy, taking the time to chop up the bedroom and jack off with the police on the way. The uniforms must have come close to getting him.

  David thought of the last victim, lying spread-eagled on the bed. His hands and feet had been cleanly severed and placed on his abdomen, then Machete Man had hacked the stomach to putrid gore, and masturbated over the whole mess.

  David remembered when he was a uniform, and dicky wavers used to upset him.

  Five victims. Darnell was number six, and she had gotten away. Thank God. Thank Earl. David rubbed the back of his neck. He was tired, and his girls were waiting. It was too hot to wait.

  It was carnival time out on the lawn. Ron Pressman had the Elaki backed up next to his car.

  “Okay,” Pressman was saying. “If they’re not Japanese beetles, what kind are they? Do a hulluva lot of damage whatever they are.”

  David smiled. Dyer had spread his sport coat on the hood of David’s car, and all three girls were perched on the coat, swinging their legs and eating candy bars. They were deep in conversation with Dyer, Mel, and a uniformed patrolman, and they barely noticed when he walked up.

  Kendra carefully wiped the chocolate from her hands onto Dyer’s coat.

  “Kendra!” David knew he was blushing. “Sorry, Dyer. Let me have it cleaned.”

  Dyer grinned. He looked young when he smiled. “Don’t sweat it, pal. It’ll wash. Serves me right for giving them sweets before supper.”

  “Juice boxes too!” Lisa smiled and waved a box of apple juice. “Mommy said wait for you. And not to go in the street. We seen the ambulance. Somebody dead?”

  “No, honey. An older lady didn’t feel well. She should be all right by tomorrow.”

  Kendra gave him a worried look. “Uncle Mel said we could take the candy. Mr. Dyer gave it to him, and he gave it to us, so it wouldn’t come from … you know. Stranger.”

  “And absolutely right, too,” Dyer said.

  The patrolman folded his arms and grinned. “How old are these girls, anyway?”

  David patted their heads as he reeled off their ages. “Seven, five, and three.”

  “Boy, the stuff they been telling me. You don’t really have a three-legged dog and eight crippled rabbits?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What about the chimp?”

  David glanced at Mattie and saw her lip quiver. “I’m afraid he died.”

  “Your wife a vet?”

  “No, we just … have a farm. These things seem to come our way sometimes.”

  Mattie’s eyes filled with tears. “Po’ Benny.”

  “Well, hey,” Dyer said loudly. “You ladies going to give me back my jacket?”

  Kendra jumped down.

  Lisa pointed at his earring. “What’s that?”

  “Got a unicorn on it.” Dyer bent close. “See?”

  The girls crowded next to him.

  “It has a blue eye!” Kendra said.

  “That’s turquoise. My girlfriend brought it back from Mexico last year. Said my gold hoop was a bore. It’s my good-luck charm.”

  “Mama won’t let me get my ears pierced.” Kendra gave David a stern look.

  David noticed the BMW drive off. Pressman was gone. Dyer had a packet of wipes and was cleaning chocolate off the girls. David stepped forward to help, but Mel and the patrolman beat him to it, one man to a girl.

  Rose had left him a car seat, and he strapped Mattie in while Kendra belted herself. He remembered a time when they’d had three car seats to do. The back seat of the car was littered with broken crayons, scraps of paper, and a stuffed bear. Mattie held her blanket and sucked her thumb.

  Lisa was still in the yard, handing out pictures. David strapped Mattie’s seat and bumped his head on the door frame.

  “Too hot!” Mattie squirmed and kicked her feet.

  “Come on, Lisa,” David said. He made a mental calculation. Just enough cash on him to pick up supper from the Burger Bazaar, if the girls shared a big drink and he waited to eat.

  The patrolman waved a piece of yellow paper with pink crayon on it. “Bye bye, Lisa.”

  “Bye, Fred.”

  David picked Lisa up. He saw chocolate behind her ear and wiped it away with his handkerchief.

  “Need one of these?” Dyer held up a wet wipe.

  “I got it. How many kids you got, Dyer?”

  “Me? None.”

  David cocked his head. “Come on. You got candy, juice, wipes …”

  Dyer shrugged. “I work vice. Run across a lot of kids in vice. Nice, sometimes, to be able to give them a little something.” He waved at Lisa, and at Mattie and Kendra. “Bye, girls.” Dyer slung his jacket over his shoulder and headed for his car. “Thanks for the look see, Silver.”

  “Anytime.”

  Mel put a hand on David’s shoulder. “Your daughter’s quite an artist. But she oughtn’t give this stuff to a guy works vice.”

  David took Mel’s picture.

  “What’s it look like to you, David?”

  The drawing looked very like a penis. David frowned and handed it back to Mel.

  “Mushroom, of course.”

  FOUR

  The cry brought David up from a deep sleep. He stumbled out of bed and into the hallway. The cry came again, and he went into the girls’ room, impaling his big toe on a plastic horse. Too many toys and too many girls in one room.

  Kendra and Lisa were sound asleep in their bunk beds. He checked Mattie’s bed and found his daughter buried beneath a pile of stuffed animals, her security blanket wound tightly around her tiny fist.

  David swept the animals to the end of the bed, and shifted Mattie so her head was on the pillow. Her eyes opened to slits, then closed. He unwound the blanket and tucked it next to her head, then covered her up.

  He was awake now, and aware that Rose hadn’t been in bed beside him. He went out in the hall and tripped over De
ad Meat. The dog yelped and hung her head.

  David scratched her ears. She was a mutt, some kind of collie mix, no more than a couple years old—one of Rose’s new acquisitions, along with a large black rabbit. The rabbit was blind, bare of fur on one side, the tender exposed skin red and scabby. Rose had come home late yesterday, both animals in tow.

  The dog had been rescued whole and healthy. Rose had been unable to leave it in a cage with the ominous notation Dead Meat on the tag. David felt a moist nose in his crotch, and he crouched down and patted the dog’s back. She licked his unshaven cheeks.

  She was a sweet dog, eager to please, timid. So far, very gentle with the kids. He closed the door to the girl’s room.

  “Sorry, dog.” He refused to call her Dead Meat, though it was the only name she’d answer to. “Can’t sleep in there till I know you better.”

  Dead Meat walked three circles in front of the door and lay down, head on paws.

  Rose was asleep on the couch, a fine film of sweat over her forehead. A pile of newspapers rested on her stomach, and the T-shirt she wore rode up on her hips, giving David a view of her white bikini panties. She was a small woman—fine-boned, blue-eyed, with long, very black hair. An empty wineglass was turned over on the floor, and a few drops of red wine had soaked into the carpet.

  Should he wake her? She did not sleep well, but those cries he heard meant nightmares. She’d had bad dreams all the time when they first got married, a holdover, she’d said, from her years with the Drug Enforcement Agency. Whenever he asked her what she dreamed, she said she didn’t remember.

  It had been a long time since she’d cried in her sleep. She hadn’t said anything—she never did—but he could tell this last job had been a bad one.

  He touched her shoulder and her eyes opened. She blinked and sat up.

  “Hi, David.”

  “What you doing in here?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.” She rubbed a hand over her face and hung her head. “God, what a dream. And that rabbit.”

  “You were dreaming about rabbits?”

  “No. The one I brought back. I hope they’re okay.”

  “They? You just brought one.”

  “I meant the girls.”

  David sat down beside her and let his mind drift. He was too tired to talk to Rose. It took too much concentration to follow her grasshopper mind.

  He put his arm around her and yawned. “Can we go to bed?”

  “Sure.”

  They stumbled arm in arm down the hall. Dead Meat whimpered when they closed their door, leaving her alone in the hallway. Rose curled up against David’s back.

  “We need a new name for the dog,” David said, drifting to sleep.

  The phone rang.

  “God damn it.” He heard Rose fumbling.

  “What.” She paused. “Of course I’m home. Listen, Mel, would you like a cuddly black rabbit to curl up … don’t call me in the middle of the night and cuss. All right, he’s here. David. It’s Mel.”

  David took the phone and listened. His heartbeat picked up.

  “Dyer did? Okay, I’m on my way. Hell yes, get him up. Sounds like Dyer’s in trouble.”

  Rose turned the lamp on and watched David pull on a pair of jeans.

  “Who’s Dyer?”

  “A cop in trouble.” David loaded his gun and put it in the holster. “Bye, sweet.”

  “Be careful. And call when you can!”

  David ran to the barn. It was dark out, and a haze of humidity hung in the air. The car started immediately, the headlights illuminating the black rabbit, cowering at the back of its cage. He didn’t want the chill of the air conditioner, so he slid the windows down, then backed the car into the drive.

  Gravel and dirt crunched under the tires, and he gave the car his full attention. His farm was off the beaten path, and the roads were plain roads until about twenty miles out of town.

  The clock on the dash said two A.M. There was still traffic—the world never slept now, even in the remote rural parts. As soon as he guided the car onto the track, traffic picked up. He pushed the priority switch, took his foot off the gas, and eased his grip on the wheel.

  Mel had been working late when the message came through. John Q. Citizen had been driving Highway 18 and run across a wrecked car in the middle of the road. He got out to help, and some crazy guy, blood streaming down his forehead, had commandeered his car in the name of the law.

  Man was obviously crazy—rumpled, dirty, flashing a phony badge. The man had told him to call the cops, and ask for Detective Silver in Homicide Task Force. Tell him officer needs assistance. Name of Dyer.

  Mel had gone to talk to John Q. David, being so far out of town, was on his way to Highway 18.

  The car was ditched by the side of the road—same little orange Datsun Dyer had been driving the other day. David parked and left his lights on. Mosquitoes danced in the glare, and a fat green beetle whizzed by his head. The breeze was cool, but the humidity made him sweat.

  The front end of the Datsun was smashed. David looked up and down the roadside, wondering what the car had hit. No big trees or guardrails. Nothing likely.

  He squatted down in front of the car, shining his penlight. The front bumper was a mess. David saw traces of dark paint. He scratched a piece off with a fingernail, and looked at it closely. Dark green.

  He shined the light on the tires. The rubber was cut up, so Dyer had been bumping on and off the track. David stood up. The windshield was starred—gunshot. Three or four. What was Dyer into, and why had he wanted David?

  The door on the driver’s side was smashed and stuck shut. More dark paint streaked the sides. David went to the passenger side and slid in. He hated little cars. Dyer must have been miserable in this tiny bucket—guy must be six-foot-two and David was only five-eleven. Jewish six feet, he called it.

  There was blood on the dash and the driver’s seat. Dyer was hurt, and it was worse than a little cut on the head. A pack of wet wipes had been ripped open. He found a wad of them on the floor, soaked with blood and smelling soapy. The blood was dry.

  David slid behind the wheel and pushed a switch on the steering column.

  “Datsun here,” a voice said. “V.I.N. number 007298864YBX2. My fuel tank is low. I am in need of repair. I am not operable. May I suggest a garage?”

  “Datsun, please give me a rundown on what happened tonight—the, um, the time and the details of your damage.”

  “At eight fifty-eight P.M. I sustained tire damage, right front, left front, right rear, left rear. My rods have been abused with excessive speed and would benefit from lubrication. At nine-fourteen my left front fender was smashed by another vehicle.”

  “Would you recognize the vehicle, if I showed it to you?”

  “Yes. Do you wish me to continue the report?”

  “Please.”

  “My windshield has been punctured and cracked in three places. This was done at nine-eighteen P.M. And my oil pan and axle rod were scraped and bent at nine-nineteen P.M. My radiator hose burst at nine twenty-one P.M., at which time I ceased to operate.” The voice paused. “That is a full account of my recent damages. However, there are some long-standing problems I would be happy to—”

  “No thanks.”

  “Preventative car maintenance is—”

  “No.”

  “May I suggest a garage?”

  David flipped the switch.

  He opened the glove compartment, finding a battered pair of sunglasses, car registration, spare computer disks, condoms. He punched the personal memo button on the terminal. It didn’t work. Neither did the radio.

  He searched the back seat, and found a dirty pair of socks, a pair of old tennis shoes, and a cool box full of candy bars and juice boxes. He got a crowbar from his own car and forced the trunk of the Datsun.

  David shined his light, illuminating a pair of water skis, an oily toolbox, three canisters of instant tire, a piece of rug, and a woman’s bikini top rolled in a mildewed
towel.

  David shook his head. The last thing he’d rolled up in a towel in his trunk was a dirty diaper he couldn’t find a place to dump.

  He got back in the front of Dyer’s car. Come on, Mel, he thought. Dyer’s bleeding somewhere.

  David ran his hands in the cracks between the seat, pulling out old napkins and getting gunk under his fingernails. Dyer ate a lot of fast food in the car. Stakeouts.

  David leaned across the seat and ran his hands between the driver’s seat and the smashed car door. His fingers closed over a plastic handle. He fished it up. It was new and clean and looked like a toothbrush with the bristles in the middle. It would have fallen out if the driver’s door had been opened, so Dyer had probably dropped it tonight.

  David put it in his pocket and listened to the cicadas.

  FIVE

  The rearview mirror caught the glint of the emergency lights on the patrol car. David heard the groan of brakes as a large wrecker stopped by the Datsun. The flashing yellow light blended with the red one. He stuck his head out the window. Mel was pointing and talking to the uniform.

  “Mel! I’m going!”

  Mel ran to the car, a white bag clutched in his hand. He got in, and David had the car moving before the door was shut.

  “Coffee?” Mel asked.

  “Thanks.” It was hot—cream, no sugar, double size. “Hey, it’s good.”

  “Came from that café down on West. Sent the uniform for it, while I squeezed this Arnold Yeager.”

  Night air blew in the windows. David smelled cut tobacco. A shiny green June bug splattered on the windshield.

  “Yeager uncooperative?”

  “Boy howdy. Worried about his car. Dyer got himself a brand-new Yamaha All-Terrain. I’d be worried too, it was my car, but I didn’t tell Yeager that. I threatened to hit him with obstruction—he bitched about the car. Told him I’d sic my kid sister on him—he bitched about the car.”

  “He doesn’t know Rose.”

  “Yeah, the dumb butt. Told him we had a cop in trouble needing immediate backup. He says the badge looked like a fake. Man, I wanted to kick his balls so bad, my feet were twitching.”