The Nightrunners - Joe R. Lansdale.wps

by phuc

  "Afternoon," Ted said. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?"

  "Suppose."

  "It won't take but a minute."

  "Ask. But make it pretty quick. I got to get back to the shop. Got a car waiting."

  "Shop?"

  "I'm a mechanic. Got a little shop down the road there, next to the highway."

  "Yeah, I've seen it."

  Larry went over and sat on the porch, dangled his feet in the empty flower bed.

  Ted put one foot on the step and leaned an elbow on his knee.

  "The twenty-ninth, two days back, a highway patrolman was killed not far from here. Now, I know I'm talking long shot, but he described the car as a '66 black Chevy.

  Said it had several passengers—" "I saw it."

  Larry, who had been watching the highway, turned to look at Malachi. Ted said,

  "Sure? I mean it's been a couple days—"

  "I saw it." Malachi went over to a big metal rocking chair that had once been green but was now covered with rust, and sat down. "It wasn't two days ago, though, it was one."

  "They'd have been long gone by then," Larry said.

  "No, I saw them."

  "Tell me about it," Ted said.

  "It was the night my wife died. Must have seen that old car about one or so in the morning. Couldn't sleep that night, was out here smoking my pipe. I saw the lights, heard . . . hell, felt that car coming, just like it was some kind of black cat carrying bad omens. When the lightning cracked I saw that car clear as if it was daylight, clearer than it is now. I could see people—if they was people —in it,"

  "If they were people?" Ted asked.

  Malachi, who was rocking slightly and staring off into space, stopped abruptly, looked at Ted. "You can go on and think me crazy, if you like, but them wasn't people in that car, they was evils. Some kind of evils. I could feel it as surely as I can feel anything."

  "You're absolutely positive when you saw it?"

  "Mister, I can't forget. I'm going to a funeral this afternoon, and I'm trying to do some work to get enough money so I can pay for the burying. I'm burying my wife. Night before last—early in the morning, really—I saw that car drive by and my wife died. You don't forget something like that. No. I'm going to have that night in my head for a long time."

  "I'm sorry about your wife."

  "Not half as sorry as I am."

  "Is there anything else you can tell me about it?" "It turned off toward Minnanette.

  That's all I know, except it's evil."

  "Thanks. And again, I'm sorry about your wife."

  "I've got to go to work. I've only got a couple hours before I got to clean up and go to the church."

  "Understand. Thank you."

  Ted and Larry went back to the car.

  Ted said, "We got something,"

  "What have we got?"

  "We've got an ID on the car. He saw it."

  "He says he saw it."

  "It's a possibility. I believe him. You don't?"

  Larry hesitated. "Not sure. But he's got his days mixed up."

  "Maybe not. Probably not. He knows when his wife died and he saw the car that night— that morning. We just like to think that they're so scared of us that they've been driving like hell all the way to Louisiana."

  "So they took a back road, could still be going to Louisiana."

  "No doubt, but it was the morning of the thirtieth. That means they hid out a day somewhere. And if he spotted them along here, means they didn't get too far on the twenty-ninth after they killed Trawler. They're not idiots. They're playing it casual."

  "The evils," Larry said, trying to adopt what he thought was a comic black voice.

  "Well, Larry, they may not be demons from hell, but I'd say they're pretty evil.

  They blew Trawler's brains all over the highway."

  "Trawler was a dumb fuck. He'd gotten in the habit of working with a partner.

  Things were so dull along here they had to team some of them up to keep from wasting so much gas. The partner was out, and he got careless on account of he was used to backup."

  "We're teamed, Larry."

  "Only because they think they got some bad boys out here. Bet it wasn't nothing but a bunch of drunk niggers."

  "Doesn't matter. We're dealing with some coldblooded killers, and if that old man wants to call them evils, that suits me fine. Christ, imagine, having to go to work the day you're burying your wife, just so you can pay to have her put down."

  "If the stupid fuck had burial insurance he wouldn't have that problem."

  Ted shook his head, they drove out of there, toward the cutoff for Minnanette.

  NINE

  5:20 P.M.

  Monty's casting was good, but his catching was bad. So far, nothing. Unless floating weeds counted. He'd nabbed enough of those to weave a basket.

  He cast once more, but didn't reel it in. He decided to sit down on the dock and reel. He felt certain he was still good enough to make a good cast sitting down.

  When he sat, he threw his left hand behind him and pain jumped into it. Jerking it to him, he felt worse pain. He held the hand in front of him. An old hook, half-shiny, half-rusty, had been lodged in the dock, and now it was lodged in his hand. It hurt like hell.

  And Becky's dream came to him—the last one. The one with the bloody hand and the bright, sharp object sticking out of it. For the hook, though rusted, had areas of brightness, and as he held the hand before him, it flashed in the sun.

  "Now wait a minute here, now wait just a minute here," he said aloud. Then to himself: My God, this isn't an episode of The Twilight Zone, for goodness' sake, get a grip. You'll be talking crazy as Becky.

  ("I could see this hand, Monty, and it was bloody, and something bright and sharp was sticking out of it, and the dream hurt me so bad, and it felt so close to home.") We're talking coincidence. That's it. That's all. He looked at his hand, at the bright object, at the blood.

  He dropped the rod and reel, didn't notice that it had slipped off into the water.

  Standing, looking at his hand as though mesmerized, he began to walk back to the cabin.

  He went inside, and though he tried to remain calm, his voice squeaked when he called, "Becky?"

  No answer. Only the sound of the TV; a car on TV.

  "Becky?" He could see her sitting in the kitchen, the top of her head showing just above the bar.

  "Becky?"

  No answer.

  He went over there.

  And Becky looked frozen. She sat stiffly in the chair and there were huge plops of sweat on her face and her eyes were wide and there was a moaning noise coming from her throat.

  "Becky, Beck, Beck—?" The TV caught his eye. He turned, looked at it. A fuzzy black and white picture was showing, but ... it didn't look right. The dark car on the tube looked hazy, unreal. Its motor sounded distorted, like an animal growling, and its headlights looked like bright, round eyes.

  The damn car gave him the creeps', had the feel of a horror movie. Yes, that was it, they were showing an old black and white horror movie.

  He turned away from the tube, said "Becky?" He reached out and shook her.

  "Baby?"

  Her eyes jerked open.

  "Beck . , ." he started, but behind him he heard Lucille Ball yell, "Waaahhh, Ricky."

  He jerked to look at the set. The car was gone. It was the old I Love Lucy show and it was in midscene, and in better focus . . . But how?

  "Monty," Becky said, "your hand!"

  TEN

  5:49 P.M., and counting . . .

  Minnanette was a nice little town; didn't have trouble; didn't know pain. Oh, it had wild kids now and then and maybe they'd get in a fight or drink a little too much beer, but nothing that could really run the rest of the world a good race—far as violence went.

  In all its years of existence, the spiciest thing known to happen was that Hiram Ryan, ten years back, had put a pistol to his head and tried to blow his brain
s out over his wife who'd run off with Tully Grishom, an insurance salesman from Tulsa, Oklahoma.

  But Hiram's aim had been a little off and it hadn't killed him. Hadn't helped him, though.

  Lived in the Rusk State Hospital. Pop used to say, "It's a shame. Old Hiram, he ain't nothing but a turnip green now."

  But after this night, Minnanette would have tales to tell. None of them particularly pleasant.

  ........

  Pop was sitting in Pop's, at the counter, looking out the window at the fast-falling dusk, thinking: Hope the wife brings me something good for supper tonight. That goddamned Mexican TV dinner from last night is still burning my asshole.

  He'd been burping and farting around the store all day. And once he'd gotten embarrassed when Mrs. Banks had asked, "Do you smell that, Pop? Smells like something has gone sour somewhere."

  Something had, all right. His guts. But he blamed it on the peanut pattie.

  He looked at the clock. His dinner should arrive any minute. After that, just a couple hours until closing time.

  ........

  Five minutes later Pop got his dinner and a kiss from his wife. Then she left and he pulled back the napkin and found a fabulous meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, green onions and iced tea. And for dessert, the clincher. Chocolate pudding with whipped cream. Everything a favorite of his, and he enjoyed every mouthful.

  Except dessert. He ended up missing that.

  ........

  About the time Pop was sitting in Pop's contemplating his dinner, Moses Franklin was busy cussing his dogs and loading them in his pickup. After he loaded them, he tossed his gun, a bologna sandwich and a couple of beers into the cab, then he looked at the sky and saw that the moon was starting to poke out. He thought: Look out, possums, here I come.

  ........

  And while Pop was contemplating his dinner and Moses was threatening possums, Minnanette's crew of hell-raisers—least that's how they liked to think of themselves—

  were getting ready for a few Halloween pranks and lots of beer. There were four of them, all fifteen, and all pretty smashed. They'd been over in Old Man Reed's pasture knocking them back, and now they were ready to soap a few windows, shit on a few doorsteps and throw a few eggs, by God.

  They tossed off one more beer apiece, in that manful manner they'd been practicing, climbed into the little white Dodge Dart, said a few healthy "Whoopies" and a couple of good "Goddamns," and were off.

  ........

  Larry and Ted had made three trips to Minnanette already, each time by different back-road routes, and each time they had turned around in Pop's drive, and each time the old man had waved at them, and they had returned the wave. It looked as if all roads led to Pop's.

  It was getting to be a pretty unexciting habit.

  Finally, they decided to start back to the highway, go on up the road a bit, stop at a truckstop they knew and grab a bite to eat. After that, maybe they'd cruise another back-road route to Minnanette. Maybe. Ted was pretty anxious to just call it a day. He was tired of riding and Larry was starting in on the niggers, the Catholics and the goddamned commies again. Another hour of that and Ted feared he was going to start alongside Larry's head with the barrel of his service revolver. So, it was with more than a little bit of relief that Ted pulled into the truckstop thinking of chicken fried steak and catsup-covered french fries.

  ........

  And Brian and his cohorts, at the first hint of dusk, started out of the pasture, down the back roads, flying high and fast, blowing up country toward Minnanette.

  Things were about to get ugly.

  ELEVEN

  The lights at Pop's came on just ahead of their arrival. They cruised into the drive and Brian and Loony got out.

  Pop left his dinner, went outside, looked at them, didn't like what he saw, but said,

  "Help you boys?"

  "Boys?" Loony said. "Boys? Hey, old man, you call an alligator a lizard?"

  Pop grimaced. "I call a fart a fart, and what I see is a little fart, that's what I see.

  Now you little farts turn that piece of shit around and get the hell out of my drive. Right now."

  With that, Pop started back to the store and his dessert.

  Brian stepped quickly to Pop's side. "Say, old man, that isn't polite."

  "Get your goddamned hand off me, sonny, unless you want to take to wearing it in a sling."

  "You're tough for an old dried-up turd," Brian said.

  The old dried-up turd turned and hit him with an uppercut in the gut. Brian went to one knee wheezing.

  Loony came out of nowhere, hit Pop in the head with his fist, knocked him down.

  Brian stood up, one hand on his stomach. "You're going to wish you hadn't done that, old man."

  "Am I?" Pop said, trying to get up. Loony kicked Pop in the head, made him bleed over the right eye.

  "Oh yeah," Brian said, "you're going to regret that."

  Pop shook blood out of his eye. "Pull him to the pumps," Brian said. Loony grabbed Pop by the collar and began dragging him toward the gas pumps. Pop kicked and wiggled, but couldn't shake free.

  Stone, Jimmy and Angela were out of the car now.

  Stone went to help Loony, and the two of them slammed the old man's back against one of the pumps. Pop sat there, puffing, dizzy. "Fill up the car," Brian said to Loony. Loony unhitched a nozzle, went over to the '66 and started filling up.

  Brian walked around to Pop's right side and kicked him. Pop tried to roll over on his hands and knees and get up, but Brian kicked him again, knocking him flat.

  Then Brian began walking around him, kicking him from time to time, A couple of kicks made the old man fart.

  "How about that?" Brian said. "Kick it and it farts."

  Loony put the nozzle back into the pump, said, "Filled up."

  "Give me the gas thing," Brian said.

  "What?" Loony said.

  "The nozzle, shithole."

  Loony jerked it free of the pump, handed it to Him.

  "Stone. Jimmy. Hold him."

  Stone went over and grabbed the old man, rolled him on his back. Then, sitting on the ground, he was able to pull Pop's head and shoulders into his lap by applying a full nelson.

  "Jimmy?" Brian said. "Don't just stand there."

  "No," Jimmy said. And for a moment, he couldn't believe his own voice.

  "What?" Brian said.

  "You do what you want," Jimmy said. "I'm not going to try and stop you—"

  "Course you ain't," Loony said.

  "—but you do it. Me . . . Me and Angela, we don't want any part. Just do your thing, but I'm not hurting anyone. Not me."

  "Hey, you're fucked," Loony said.

  "No," Brian said calmly. "It's all right. I understand."

  "We're not going to tell nothing," Jimmy said. "Promise."

  "Nothing," Angela said. "We just want out."

  "Okay," Brian said.

  "Hey," Loony said, "you're fucking me, ain't you? Come on, Brian—"

  "Shut up, Loony. I'm still running the show here. They say they won't talk, they won't talk.

  They promised." He looked at Jimmy and-Angela. "Am I right? You promised?"

  They both nodded.

  "See, Loony. Now, you get over there and help Stone hold the old man."

  "You going to let them get away with that?" Loony said. "You said—"

  "Loony, do as I say, while you're still able to do anything."

  Loony's mouth opened, but the look on Brian's face held him silent. A nervous tic had begun on Brian's lower left cheek and it was rippling wider and wider, beginning to look as if something were moving beneath the flesh.

  Loony scuttled over to the old man, and after getting kicked in the shin a couple of times, managed to get hold of Pop's feet. Loony sat down on the ground and held one sticklike leg under each arm.

  The tic in Brian's face had ceased. He said to Jimmy and Angela, "No problems."

  Brian turned to Pop
.

  Pop yelled for them to let him go.

  Brian walked over and squirted gas from the nozzle, sent it splattering onto Pop's chest.

  He bent, took hold of Pop's jaws and pinched them. Pop's false teeth came loose, and with a cautious thumb and forefinger, Brian plucked them from his mouth and tossed them.

  "Bastard," Pop managed.

  Brian jammed the nozzle in Pop's mouth.

  "Afraid you're going to have to put this on our bill, old man. Fill her up!" Brian squeezed the nozzle, sent a stream of gas down the old man's throat.

  Pop's head jerked from side to side, but he couldn't shake the nozzle free. Brian gave him another squirt. Gas boiled out of the corner's of Pop's mouth and ran down his cheeks, chin and neck.

  Brian jerked the nozzle out, splattering gas all over Stone and Pop.

  Pop turned his head to the right and began vomiting. Stone released his grip so that the puke wouldn't get on him. Pop rolled on his stomach and continued to throw up and cough.

  Brian knelt down by Pop. "Old man, I'm going to ask you a question. I'm looking for this teacher. A real good-looking bitch. Probably has her hubby with her. I had this fellow draw me a map of how to get here, where this place is, and he gave me the area of this cabin I'm looking for, but can you get this: he forgot to pinpoint it for me. I mean, I could be looking through cabin after cabin before I found my teacher, you know. Now this fellow was in a bit of a bind when he was putting this map together for me—Loony, weren't we carving on his wife's tits about then?"

  "Ears," Loony said.

  "My mistake." Back to Pop. "Anyway, you see our problem here. This couple, they're staying in one of the cabins on Lake Minnanette, and this cabin belongs to the Beaumonts, and I just bet you know them, and know the cabin. Am I right, old man?"

  "Fuck you," Pop said.

  "Have it your own fucking way."

  Brian pushed Pop flat, face-first into the drive.

  He stuck the nozzle down the back of Pop's pants, began pumping. In seconds Pop's trousers were sodden.

  Standing, Brian tossed the nozzle aside. He reached into his pockets, fumbled around.

  "Loony, Stone, you got a match?"

  Pop tried to push up and run, but Brian skipped to him and kicked him with all his might in the stomach. Pop dropped to the ground and Brian kicked him again. A rib cracked loudly.

  "Lie still," Brian said.