by Weston Ochse
Danny stumbled through the living room where Maxom was sleeping into the bathroom. He removed his shirt, grabbed a towel, and savagely dried his wet hair. He pounded an ear with the heel of his hand in the hopes his brain would drain. Then he dried his chest and his arms. As he struggled to get his back, he wondered for the thousandth time why Maxom slept so much. He felt a spike of anger surge through him, but fought it down. What had happened had nothing to do with Maxom. It was just that damned bird and the weather.
Danny took off his shoes. He wrung them out the best he could in the bathtub. Brown water and the stench of dirty socks filled the enclosed space. His feet had never smelled before this year. Heck, he’d never sweated half as much. His mother said it was hormones. His father said it was the first step to dating girls, which Danny found difficult to believe. All he knew was that it was a pain in the butt and if he ended up like Doug with his foo foo deodorant, he didn’t know what he’d do.
Now barefoot, he stepped into the living room, the long fronds of shag carpeting tickling his feet. He glanced over at the still unconscious Maxom and made his way back into the kitchen. Frowning, he stared at the pile of dirty, wet sheets, wondering how he was going to make them not dirty and not wet.
He shrugged. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it now. He was pretty sure he should wring them out before he put them in the washing machine. There was nothing to be done until the storm passed, anyway.
Danny stepped over the pile of sheets and to the back door. Far over the tops of the trees, he could see the back edge of the storm. The sky was a glistening metallic blue there, promising rainbows and a return of the sun. He figured about half an hour and the rain would stop. In the meantime—
Danny halted and gaped at the crow still standing in the back yard—in the same spot where it had been before the storm had arrived. Water poured from the great bird’s glistening blue-black feathers. It stared at Danny, then leapt into the air. It traveled only a few feet towards him before it landed. Then as deliberately as a two year-old with a crayon, the crow dipped its head and made several deep scratches in the mud.
The crow finished marking in the wet earth and, with a knot of mud upon the end of its beak, turned and flew away, disappearing into the trees. Danny stared at the scratches that were quickly filling with water. Reluctantly, he stepped back into the deluge. His shoulders jumped as the cold water struck the skin of his bare back. He found himself walking on his tip-toes, his feet sensitive to the coolness of the rainwater. Within seconds, his hair was once again plastered to his skull.
The rain and run-off had already almost obliterated the marks, but what he saw sent a chill through him. The marks weren’t merely marks, but letters. Letters that spelled out the word: GOTCHA!
Suddenly from behind him came the sound of laughter. Danny spun. Rainwater dripped from his face. Maxom stood in the frame of the open back door, his head rocking back laughing. Danny felt his anger rise again. He didn’t like being laughed at. Especially when he was scared.
Maxom Phinxs, balancing upon his prosthetic legs, leaned over and spoke a single word.
“Gotcha!”
Then the man laughed even louder.
* * *
Paradise Valley, Arizona
She was such a fine little girl.
Fifteen.
Sixteen at the very most.
John doubted seriously she was the twenty year-old woman she pretended to be. Not only was there still the look of virginal paranoia in those darkly shadowed eyes, but her features were too smooth.
Most runaways were hardened professionals by the time they hit twenty–-if they hit twenty. Graduates of the rape crews—truckers, hobos, other runaways, predators, police officers, border patrolmen—they became the things they’d been most afraid of becoming.
He trailed a hand through her hair and snipped.
But this one’s face was still fleshed with the good living of the suburbs. By the curve of her jaw and the subdued cheek bones, he could tell that if allowed to live, this one was going to be a looker.
Grabbing another length of hair, he snipped.
Like the others of his private group, he’d found this one wandering vaguely West. He could almost read her mind. After all, they were all the same.
Her mother didn’t understand her. Maybe her father was abusing her, maybe not. The teachers didn’t have a clue and were too busy putting all their hopes and dreams into the few smart ones while the rest struggled to learn on their own. Angst, angst and more angst. The girl didn’t know where she was going, but like all girls who read about movie stars and rock and rollers and the glitter of Hollywood, Los Angeles was a possibility. After all, everything was wine and roses on Beverly Hills 90210. No homeless mass murderers or priestly rapists. Just clothes, cars, silicon and enough hormone magnified angst to fuel a rocket to the nearest Quasar if a person was intelligent enough to tap into it.
So sad.
He snipped another length of hair from her head and placed it in the ever-growing pile. He had uses for the strands in his root making. He’d already collected a personal item from her bag. He’d clipped her fingernails, carefully sliding each piece into a plastic baggy with her name written prominently across the front in permanent laundry marker. Now that she was here, there was no going back. His magic would keep her here.
He placed the stainless steel scissors on the wooden table beside the pile of cut hair. The girl lay drugged across his lap. Pulling out a container, he squeezed a green gel from it and applied it to the girl’s scalp, taking extra care to rub it around the still remaining tufts of hair. As he rubbed it in, the color changed from green to white, the shaving foam growing. Finally complete, he picked up an old fashioned straight razor. When she awoke she would no longer be who she had been.
He was remaking her into one of his apostles. A smile flicked across his lips. He leaned down and whispered in her ear.
“I know who you are. I know.” He kissed a clear smooth spot on the side of her head. “And soon, you will know who you are as well.”
* * *
Ooltewah, Tennessee
The heat of the teacup kept his hands from shaking. The steam blurred his vision. The smell of the sweet sassafras reminded him of the candies he used to steal from the top of the piano when he’d been five. He concentrated on these things as he sat scrunched into a corner of the couch, his legs drawn up protectively. He blinked away another tear, letting the salty residue of his fear join the others that had flowed onto his bare chest.
In front of him, insectile and looming, Maxom Phinxs stood. Behind him was the television. On the screen, Danny could make out the shape of Beaver Cleaver amidst the tumbling vertical hold and blizzard snow. Other, smaller things were harder to discern. Like, what was hanging at the end of the strap Beaver held in his hand? Was it really a stack of school books? Or perhaps the small dog, the pet of the lady who lived across the street from the Cleavers? From watching the old reruns, Danny knew they were books, but on this television, he couldn’t be sure. On this television things could be different. After all, in this place things were different.
“Boy, you gotta stop crying and listen to me. Your mother’s gonna be here soon and there’s no telling what she’s gonna think went on here. God forbid, a half naked white boy crying on my couch.”
Through the gap in Maxom’s legs, Danny watched three boys tossing around a head on the screen—or was it a football. He closed his eyes.
“Damn it. Listen to me.” Maxom’s fists were balled as he leaned over, his face squarely in Danny’s vision. “I got this thing I want to share with you.” He grinned. “It’ll be fun.” Then, realizing the imposing figure he was presenting, he straightened, walked across the room and sat heavily in a little used chair. “This wasn’t the way I wanted this to turn out. I just thought it’d be funny. I didn’t think you’d get this way.”
The part of Danny’s mind that wasn’t concentrating on the morbid game of Catch the Head o
n the television begged to respond to the man’s frustration, but Danny wouldn’t allow his mouth to open. The last time it had, he’d screamed for the man to let him go home. He’d screamed for the man to leave him alone. He’d screamed for his mommy to come save him. No, he’d keep his mouth shut.
“Come on, Boy. Snap out of it.”
Snap out of it sure. Snap, like Beaver had done to the dog’s neck. Or snap, like the boy’s did to someone’s neck so they could borrow the head for a quick game of catch.
“Ahh, damn it all to hell. I don’t care. Do you hear me, boy? I just don’t care. You go on ahead and tell everyone you wanna tell. What are you gonna say? You saw a bird write in the dirt? Where’s your proof? How are you gonna make people believe you saw that? And even if you do, what does it prove?”
The tea was getting cold now. His legs were beginning to ache from being pulled up so tightly to his chest. Maxom was right. Who would care?
“I could’ve told the police who it was that beat up your little friend, but then how‘d they believe me?” he continued. “They’d ask me questions like, And where exactly were you when you witnessed this attack, Mr. Phinxs? And I’d answer, about seventy feet straight up, Officer. Then, after they’d laughed for a spell, I’d get an all expense paid seventy-two hour weekend in the loony bin over Moccasin Bend way. No thank you.”
Danny turned and stared at Maxom. “You know who beat up Bergen?”
“Of course I know. How do you think I knew to save him? I know he got beaten just like I know it was you and the other boys what bushwhacked the kid in the Mustang in the first place. Shit, boy. I’ve seen it all. I can even tell you where you keep your Playboys out in the woods. I know which bush that Sammy Snyder jacks off in as he’s staring in the next door neighbor’s window every Sunday morning when she’s getting ready to go to church. I know a man who beats his wife then punishes himself by burning holes in his chest with a cigar. I know a woman who buys fluffy white rabbits from the pet store, grills them on her back patio, and feeds them to her grandchildren when they come over. I know what goes on in this world, boy. I have to. It’s what I do. It’s how I live.” Maxom crossed his arms and sat back.
“I had no idea,” said Danny, his eyes tracing the length of the prosthetics.
“You weren’t expected to.”
“Who did it?” asked Danny, his voice much calmer than he would’ve believed.
“You gonna relax now?”
“I’ll try.”
“If I tell you, you have to promise to listen to me. You have to promise me that you’ll give me a chance. And after you do, I’ve got some ideas about how we can get back at him. Make him pay for it like the police could never do.”
Danny stared for several long moments. He lowered his legs and scooted forward on the sofa cushion so his feet touched the floor. The earlier fear he’d felt was like a first grade memory. He’d been terrified—having animals speak and do human-type things in books and movies was all fine and dandy, but Danny didn’t like seeing one in the flesh.
“Deal,” he said shakily.
Maxom looked relieved. “Thank God.” He leaned forward and rubbed a large scar above his left ear with the working end of his hook, eyeing Danny in such a way that he could tell that their relationship had changed. No longer was it grown-up and child. They were more than that. Now they were partners, maybe even co-conspirators.
* * *
Paradise Valley, Arizona
The maroon conversion van screamed into the roadside turn-around, twisting sideways in a cloud of red dust. Abused gears screeched and the van shot back onto the highway, reversing directions and accelerating into an early afternoon sun that caught the silver words sweeping across the top the windshield: The Ghoul. Behind the wheel, a thin man argued into a cellular telephone, his hands occasionally poking the air. A grimace split his long face as he snapped shut the phone and tossed it into the captain’s chair beside him.
Born Gil Gooly, he’d been known as The Ghoul for as long as he could remember. Atop his bald head rested a black baseball cap. His skin was white and sallow. The Ghoul couldn’t tan. Even a few moments in the sun would make his skin burn. If he was forced to go outside during the day, he wore his windbreaker and large wrap-around sunglasses beneath his cap making him look more like a barrio banger than a law enforcement officer.
The phone rang again. After the sixth ring, The Ghoul reached over, checked the LED to see who it was then flipped it open. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice was low and personal. “Sorry honey. I shouldn’t have said that. Yeah, I know. I know that too. I’ll talk to you about it when I get back. Yes, I promise. Okay. Same to you. Bye.”
The Ghoul closed the phone more slowly this time. He was still frowning, but his eyes smiled in the dying afternoon light. An old Buick chugged along in front of him, moving only slightly faster than a horse and carriage. He slowed to seventy and swung into the oncoming lane of traffic. A semi carrying a load of tires blared its horn. The Ghoul widened his eyes, pressed his own horn and screamed at the top of his lungs. He brought his hands up and in front of his face. Then, with only a dozen feet to spare, he regripped the wheel and shot into the gap between the oncoming truck and the car, acting as if nothing had happened. Behind him the Buick chugged on.
Five more minutes passed before he pulled into Paradise Valley. Traffic was backed up all the way to the river. He swerved onto the shoulder, slowing to a more manageable forty-five miles an hour. Each time someone honked a horn in outrage, he honked his in return. He answered curse with curse, his much more original and definitely more detailed in its descriptions of mothers and farm animals.
Soon, he was at the head of the line of cars where a police cruiser had been pulled across the eastbound traffic lane. Another cruiser had been pulled across the westbound lane about fifty feet down. In the pocket of road created by the blockage were several hundred people screaming insults. The Ghoul counted twenty deputies lined up across the entrance to The Church of the Resurrection, each holding the baton of the deputy next to him. Like Fort Apache, this was a last stand. The Ghoul searched the crowd, recognizing most of the protestors and knowing them to be good folks, just a little zealous in the promotion of certain old Baptist principles and not willing to share their God with the likes of John the New Baptist.
He shrugged on his black windbreaker, the words Agent Gooly in white letters over his left breast. Eyeing the sun like a dog eyed the spokes of a bicycle wheel, he pulled his cap low and adjusted the sunglasses over his eyes. When he opened the door of the van, he couldn’t help but smile at the chaos.
Standing on the top deck of a red double-decker bus with JESUS SAVES printed inexpertly across the side in two-foot tall white letters was the Reverend Phillips gripping a Bible in one hand and a bullhorn in the other. At the rear of the bus stood two police officials arguing with a man in an expensive suit. One was Johnny Montcrief from the County Sheriff’s Office, the other was Saul Weinstein of the State Police.
JESUS IS GOD was the call of the moment and Reverend Phillips led the mob, his amplified voice a practiced tenor as he repeated the words over and over.
The Ghoul strode straight for the bus, pushing and shoving his way through the protestors. He felt a crunch beneath his heel and wondered absently if it was a beer can or a hand.
“I said, get the fuck out of my way before I—”
“Hi Johnny,” said The Ghoul, placing his hand on the Deputy’s, holding it in place atop the grip of the pistol. “I got a call from the head office. Said you girls need some help.”
Johnny tried to move his hand. The man in the expensive suit frowned as he took in the visage of The Ghoul.
Saul turned and grinned, “just in time.”
“I see that. So what’s going on here and why wasn’t I invited earlier?”
The suit recovered quickly. “As I was telling the officers, the Reverend Phillips is exercising his First Amendment rights and any attempt to halt hi
m in his constitutionally approved business will, and let me repeat will, result in enough legal action to ensure that your departments will probably reassign you to a foot patrol somewhere near the seventh circle of Hell.”
“Old boy’s pretty good, isn’t he?” The Ghoul inclined his chin at the lawyer.
“He’s the one got the Martinez Brothers off last year in Phoenix,” growled Johnny.
The Ghoul remembered the case well. Televised on all the networks, even Court TV had it running hour-by-hour interviewing anyone and everyone who’d know the twin brothers, including some matronly woman with Alzheimers who’d changed their diapers in the maternity ward. I always knew they were up to no good, she’d cackled into the camera. That was the exception, however. The media had been more than a little slanted in favor of the brothers, neatly forgetting the bodies of the five young girls that had been found in the Martinez’s garage. Like in the OJ Trial, it was problems with DNA interpretation that had gotten the boys off. Unlike OJ, however, the Martinez boys were found shot in their basement exactly one month after their release, each with one precisely placed wound in the center of each head.
“Good for him. Saved the state a lot of money by making those boys available for a public execution. We should all be thanking him.”
Johnny Montcrief laughed aloud.
“So what’s the problem?” asked The Ghoul.
“Trying to speak to the Reverend. I want to end this in a non-violent way, but Johnny Cochran here won’t let me pass. Keeps waving the constitution and the permit for this gathering in our faces.”
“That’s right and without a warrant, you can’t even step foot on this bus. It’s private property owned by the Reverend Phillips in his capacity as leader of the Huachuca Mountain First Baptist Church. And because we understand your propensity for violence, this entire event is being filmed by our associates.”