Weibold was also mouthing something, the gun now in both his hands, and even though Holloway was blinded by his own blood, he made a move to get it. Weibold fired again, and Holloway slowly slumped against the driver's-side window. His chest was heaving, so he wasn't dead. I watched a trickle of blood travel down the window and all of a sudden I had to get out.
I must have said something, because Weibold, his hands shaking, managed to slide out, still holding the gun, and open the door. I found the little flipper to let myself out of the backseat. It was slippery in my hand. I had blood on my hand.
Weibold kept the stubby barrel trained on Holloway, the dome light shining down on the gory tableau. The headlights were aimed into the desert night. I ran in the opposite direction, doubled over with my arms around my middle, making for the main road to get help.
* * * *
It's a terrible thing to wish for someone else's death, but right then I hoped that Levi Holloway, who had killed at least two people besides his own son, not to mention his planning to kill three more, would die. If only the other driver hadn't sensibly called the sheriff, who called the FBI. If only the fog hadn't cleared and a Medivac helicopter been available.
And if a fine surgeon hadn't been on call at the hospital in Hemet, he'd have drowned in his own blood.
I guess I inherited some of my mother's moral outlook. Some things just aren't supposed to happen. Good and evil aren't abstractions to me anymore. They're found in people and what they do or don't do. It bothers me that reward and punishment don't necessarily relate to justice. It took me an especially long time to get my head around the fact that Levi Halliday shot his own son in cold blood, felt righteous about it, and was probably going to get away with it. All that, and he hadn't been struck dead.
The irony is that Levi may just get the death penalty for the gun-dealing couple's murder once he's well enough to stand trial. His wife, in protective custody, will make a good witness now she's turned her nasty side on him. So will Megan, of course. The aftermath of a great crime is the ongoing involvement required of people who've already been traumatized. Especially Megan, but also Jerry Weibold, still waiting to retrieve his stone axe from the evidence lockup, Marcella Perkins, and even me. No choice but to revisit pain and horror in courtrooms, waiting for their sidetracked lives to resume, lives that will always be divided into before and after.
I don't know if Megan will ever really heal. Nothing can erase those toxic doses of paranoia, superstition, abuse, and sheer malevolence administered by two disturbed parents. No number of new friends can outweigh that, though we'll try.
Time will carry Megan farther and farther from this history. When enough years have passed, her memories may fade like the names once recorded in fresh ink, now only pale shadows on the yellowed page of an old family Bible.
©2009 by Patricia McFall
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Fiction: WAKE ME UP FOR MEALS by Bev Vincent
Bev Vincent is a contributing editor at Cemetery Dance magazine and the author of over forty stories, including one contained in the Bram Stoker Award-winning anthology From the Borderlands: Stories of Terror and Madness. The Road to the Dark Tower, his first book, an analysis of Stephen King's Dark Tower epic, was nominated for a 2004 Stoker Award. But the Texas author is also a mystery writer. One of his tales appears in the MWA anthology The Blue Religion; and the following story tails a crook who may be too full of his own cleverness.
I used a stolen passport as a down payment on new identity papers. El Gordo knew I was good for the rest. No one in his right mind stiffs him. After buying a one-way plane ticket, I had just enough money left over for a few in-flight drinks and the bus into town from the airport.
Eight hours later, Milan was little more than a bad memory. Battling jet lag on the sidewalk terrace of an Irish pub called Cuffs, I perused an abandoned copy of the Boston Globe. It was probably the appropriate time for a couple of draft Guinnesses somewhere on the planet, though Cuffs was currently as empty as my wallet—which was why I was sitting on the sidewalk.
The Franklin Park Zoo sounded like a good place to blend in with tourists, and the four-mile walk—after a short sprint—helped clear my head. Motor coaches lined the street outside the main entrance. I loitered under a tree until another bus arrived and spewed out a gaggle of gaudily dressed adults who looked like they got lost on the way to Disney World.
The tour guide was about thirty. She had shoulder-length black hair. Her short skirt revealed long, lean legs and her white blouse was open at the neck. Mother Nature had been generous to her both above and below the waist.
She carried a striped umbrella that she waved to command her group's attention. The men's eyes, I noticed, never got as high as the umbrella. When the group passed me, I dusted my clothes off and followed them through the turnstile reserved for tours. The purple happy face affixed to my shirt came from one of the older travelers, who might eventually wonder where he lost it.
By the time everyone assembled at the meeting point three hours later to board the bus, I knew the names of half the people and got nods or smiles of recognition from the rest. I have the sort of face that seems familiar, they tell me. Philip Uxley from Baltimore had even sprung for an overpriced soda for me at the concession stand.
I found an empty seat and relaxed in air-conditioned comfort while the guide explained in an Australian accent that we would be traveling out of the city to explore the New England wine district. Yes, there would be free samples, she assured a couple near the front. Then we'd have a picnic at Revere Beach, the oldest public beach in America, before returning to the hotel for the night.
Sounded fine to me. The bus pulled out of the parking lot and wended its way through the streets of Boston. I adjusted the angle of my window seat and was about to take a stab at resetting my internal chronometer when someone dropped into the seat beside me. A woman, I decided, based on the luxurious waft of perfume that accompanied her.
"You know,” she said, “sometimes I come up a person or two short after I do my head count, but it's a rare day when I end up with one more warm body than I started with.” Her voice was nasal, her vowels flattened, but the net result was sexy and sultry.
My senses went on full alert. I opened one eye in cool consideration. The other one popped open on its own. She looked even better up close than she had from the careful distance I'd maintained at the zoo.
"What was your name again?” she asked. “I don't believe we've been formally introduced."
I'd used Gerald—"Gerry to my friends"—with the others, so I extended my hand and repeated that name, which sounded as real to me as any of the others I'd adopted in recent years.
The corporate nametag nestled precariously above a bounteous curve identified her as Jane. “And where did you come from?"
"Milwaukee,” I said, which was the truth. I try to keep the number of lies associated with any given alias to a minimum.
"I saw you join us at the zoo.” Her pale green eyes grew hard, like a lawyer dropping a bombshell during cross-examination. A look with which I had more than passing familiarity.
"What do you mean?” Might as well play my hand until I ran out of cards.
She smirked. On any other face it would have been irritating, but it worked for her. She reached out a well-toned arm and fingered the purple happy-face sticker an inch north of my left nipple. “Mr. Reeves."
I said nothing, trying not to be distracted by the manicured fingernail resting on my chest.
"That's who you stole this from. Very slick."
I shrugged and offered my most disarming grin. If I'd been burdened with guilt or plagued by a conscience, I might have blushed. I waited for her to deliver the punch line. Why hadn't she blown the whistle on me back at the zoo? Did she intend to dump me among the road kill in remote northeastern Connecticut to teach me a lesson? I've been taught worse.
She leaned in to make sure she wasn't overheard. When she did, two things happen
ed to make it difficult to concentrate: Her blouse fell open at the neck and another cloud of intoxicating oriental woody fragrance enveloped me.
Women have always been my downfall. That's not to say I haven't scammed a lady or two in my time. As a teenager, when I worked at my father's store, I identified his most vulnerable clients—wives whose husbands paid them too little attention. After I delivered their new mattresses, I helped the lonely ladies break them in. Then, while they lolled in post-coital bliss, I relieved their homes of one or two valuable trinkets. They never called my father or the cops. I like to think they were so appreciative of my services that they considered it a worthy payment, but in reality they were probably embarrassed at being taken in so easily and didn't want to admit their weakness.
What little money I've amassed during my unremarkable life I've spent on women. Or lost at cards, but even that was usually done to impress women. So my radar dish went into full rotation when Jane's blouse parted to expose more of her sumptuous bounty.
"You're after the Reeveses, right?” she asked. “All that cash he's been flashing around. He must have a couple of grand in his wallet alone and I'll bet there's more in his suitcase or a money belt."
The sphinx's face revealed more than mine did, or so I'd like to think.
"Mrs. Carmody's diamonds? Don't bother—they're fakes. But her emeralds look like the real thing.” She arched her eyebrows awaiting my response.
I let her wait. I was finding it difficult to breathe. I shifted my weight and reached up to the overhead console to increase the airflow.
"I want half of whatever you get,” she said.
An ambitious, beautiful woman with confidence, an eye for gems, and filled with larcenous intent. I was in love.
"What makes you think I'm a thief? I was just looking for a comfortable place to get out of the sun for a while.” I lowered my eyes. “See the sights."
"Right,” she said, resting her hand on my thigh. “Look, mate, I've been schlepping these loudmouthed Yanks—no offense—up and down the East Coast for six days. I deserve a finder's fee at least."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
She nodded, then glanced out the window. “Hold that thought,” she said and returned to her station at the front of the bus.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're coming up on the Sharpe Hill Vineyard, where we'll stop for a tour followed by lunch. Charles Flynn will guide you through the grounds and show you the entire process from grape to glass.” A man of about fifty stepped onto the bus when we came to a stop, presumably the erudite Mr. Flynn. “I'll meet up with you in the tasting room."
I disembarked with the other tourists—Mrs. Carmody's diamonds did indeed look like paste—but Jane grabbed me by the arm and pulled me aside.
"You and I can go straight inside. We have things to discuss. Gerry."
"And I was so looking forward to Mr. Flynn's tour."
She gave me a withering look, looped her arm around mine, and led me down the garden path—so to speak—to a side door that opened into a bright meeting hall furnished with rows of tables. Another tour group was just leaving. I held the door until the last of them—Germans, by the Sturm und Drang of their conversation—staggered toward their bus. Jane didn't relinquish her grip on me for a moment and I didn't mind much, since my arm was in the enviable position of being clutched against her pliant bosom.
The tables were strewn with tiny plastic tasting glasses left behind by the German tourists. Jane was on a first-name basis with the wine steward, who delivered a bottle of chilled Chardonnay to our table along with a pair of goblets. She relieved him of the bottle and poured us each a full glass. He left, casting dark glances back over his shoulder. For a moment I thought he was going to challenge me to a duel.
"Partners?” She raised her glass.
I left her hanging and downed half my wine in three swallows. I prefer beer, but free wine's okay, too.
She leaned across the table. “C'mon, Gerry.” She said my name as if she didn't believe it. “Fifty percent of what you get from my sheep is better than nothing, right? Better than a ride to jail in the back of a police car, right?"
"I got on the wrong bus, that's all. An easy mistake. Happens all the time, I bet.” I stripped the purple smiley face from my shirt and applied it to her blouse at the exact point where it began its outward curve. “Have a nice day,” I said, and stood up.
She muttered something I didn't hear and peeled the sticker off, sticking it to the table with a pout. I regarded her with the same arched-eyebrows look she'd used on me earlier.
Her shoulders slumped. “Twenty-five percent?"
I felt a little sorry for her—she caved so easily. I sat down again, refilled our wineglasses, and raised mine. She hesitated long enough to make me wonder, and then clinked her glass against mine.
"So, do you always rip off your ... what'd you call them ... sheep?” I asked.
It was her turn to play the sphinx.
"Probably not. The owners would catch on before long. But you've been thinking about it. Dreaming that someday you'll hit the jackpot and retire to Fiji. Until the money runs out. It always does, you know?"
She furrowed her brow. She could have entire conversations with those eyebrows of hers.
"Money always runs out. There's never enough."
"So what do you do?"
"Take my retirement on the installment plan. Learned that from a character in a book. When I run low, I go back to work."
Maybe it was the wine. More likely it was the way her leg brushed against mine now and then. I regaled her with tales of my funnier capers, the made-to-order party stories I never got to tell because no one throws that kind of party. A hair-replacement scheme that plucked thousands of dollars from vain, desperate men. My stint as a personal-injury lawyer courtesy of a diploma granted by the University of Some Caribbean Nation. A brief but lucrative job appraising household belongings that went south when the settings on some rather valuable pieces of jewelry started leaving mysterious green stains on the necks and fingers of their owners.
"You never get caught?” She was on her third glass of wine by then. I wondered how she was going to talk to her charges later without slurring into the microphone.
I shrugged and pressed my leg back against hers when she brushed me for the sixth or seventh time. “A few times."
"Go to jail?” Her leg didn't move. She toyed with a strand of black hair that curled around to touch her cheek.
"A little."
"How did you stand it, cooped up in a cell for months? Years?"
"It's free room and board. I can read a little, catch up on a month or two of missed sleep. You know what I always tell my cellmates?"
Her eyes were unfocused but they still seemed to penetrate my soul. She shook her head and sucked on the tip of the strand of hair.
” ‘Wake me up for meals.’ They get a kick out of that one. It's from a Warren Zevon song. I tell them that's what I'm going to say when I get to heaven."
She raised one eyebrow.
"Okay, wherever I end up."
I was about to ask her how a beautiful sheila like her ended up so far from the Antipodes when a set of doors opened at the far end of the room. Jane's tour group filtered in, presumably vastly wiser about the process of winemaking. Jane slipped our dead soldiers under the table and sprang to her feet to greet them with nary a stagger or a slur. I was impressed.
The room filled with loud conversation as jugs of wine were distributed along with more of those tiny plastic glasses that reminded me of the ones I prepared for communion during my brief stint as an altar boy back in Milwaukee. Lunch consisted of ham sandwiches wrapped in cellophane. I smiled at the waitress and took two, against orders.
Jane put on her game face and wandered among her flock. She looked genuinely interested in whatever anyone said to her and smiled easily as she meandered, spending a few moments at each table. Her tips at the end of a tour were probably quite generous. The
cleavage helped, no doubt; I noticed the men gaping into her blouse. I didn't blame them—I did the same thing every chance I got.
The noise level in the room grew to a crescendo as the jugs emptied. At two o'clock, Jane herded the group onto the bus for the drive back to Boston. After a few announcements about what we'd be seeing along the way, she strapped herself into her jump seat and left me alone for the return trip.
I did the math. Forty-four people not counting Jane, the driver, and me. Suppose the average tourist had five hundred dollars in cash or traveler's checks. That meant over twenty grand, not counting watches, credit cards, cell phones, iPods, rings, and jewels. I didn't have any connections in Boston to fence stuff, but I knew people who could point me in the right direction.
I invited Jane to walk down the beach with me while a catering crew set up a picnic buffet at a shorefront pavilion at Revere Beach. I tied my laces together, slung my shoes over my shoulder, and rolled up my pants so I didn't have to worry about getting my feet wet. Jane looped her arm in mine again as we strolled. Wet sand seeped between my toes. A guy could get used to this, I thought, banishing the warning bells clanging in the back of my mind.
"So, what's your plan?” she asked when we reached a huge stone on the shoreline. I clambered onto it and pulled her up after me. She snuggled between my legs facing away from me and wrapped my arm around her. In the distance we could just make out her sheep, who were, ironically, dining on roast lamb. My stomach rumbled, but I didn't let one human need get in the way of another. I hugged her close and nuzzled her hair. She melted into me. Her breasts weighed heavily on my arm. Her breathing seemed faster and deeper than before, but it was hard to separate hers from mine.
"How does five hundred a person sound, from each of your ... baaaaa?"
She giggled. “At least. We still have five days left to go. They usually save money for big purchases at the end so they don't have to drag things around for the whole trip."
I nodded against her and upgraded my estimate to a thousand per person in cash. My stint as an insurance adjuster had sharpened my forgery skills, so I didn't mind traveler's checks, either. Along with the jewelry and other valuables, even at ten cents on the dollar I was looking at maybe fifty grand.
EQMM, May 2009 Page 4