by Cold Blood
He didn’t mind working the night shift on occasion; it broke up his week. His day hours were filled with what he called “glorified housekeeping and baby-sitting.” He scrubbed the outhouses around the picnic grounds and trails—there were still a lot of hikers taking in the fall leaves. Picked up trash. Sold souvenir tee shirts. Cut the grass. Gave directions. Asked park guests to please stop leaving food out for the raccoons. Please stop dumping trash down the outhouse holes. Please don’t rinse diapers in the lake. Please leash your dogs. Please don’t let your kids run wild on the dock. He told his wife he should change his name tag to Ranger Please. He looked forward to November, when the visitors would taper off and he could catch up on some of the maintenance he never had time to do in the summer and early fall. Painting picnic tables. Repairing broken grills and fire rings. Removing dead wood. The park would get busy again after the first good snowfall, when winter visitors came in with their snowshoes and cross-country skis.
All in all, Kermitt thought he had a good job. He enjoyed being outside; it kept him fit and trim and tan. The state benefits were great, especially the pension. A few more years and he could retire. Spend time with the grand-kids. Do a little fishing. Make more trips to Vegas with the old lady. Maybe they’d even make it to Hawaii.
Kermitt pulled up to the office, got out of the pickup. He dug his keys out of his pants pocket and opened the lockbox. He shined his flashlight inside. Empty. He slammed it shut and locked it again. As cold as it was, he didn’t expect any illegal or clueless campers. Monday nights were dead even before the cutbacks. Still, there was always the odd slacker and screw-off. He looked up at the sky. A full moon, as white and as bright as a snowball. Full moons brought goofballs out of the woodwork. He decided to take a tour of the campgrounds and leave the live traps for last. The raccoons could wait a little longer.
FREE of his load, it took Trip a fraction of the time to get out of the woods. He ran most of the way—shovel in one hand and flashlight and jacket in the other. He wanted to get back to the motel for another hot shower, another beer. Unwind. Treat himself to a couple of tranks. Those baby-blue Valium tablets. He came out of the trees and got on the road. A raccoon darted across his path and startled him. “Fucking ’coon,” he said. He stopped and followed it with his flashlight as it crawled into the weeds. He leaned against the shovel to catch his breath. He inhaled; the night air smelled of dry leaves. A blast of wind chilled his body, still damp with sweat. He shivered and put his jacket back on. He picked up the shovel and started jogging again. He took a right turn off the road and started down the loop containing campsite 5. Then he saw it. A pickup with its headlights on, parked behind his. A park ranger walking around Trip’s truck, shining a flashlight into the cab windows. The ranger had his back turned and didn’t see the beam from Trip’s flashlight. Trip flicked it off, shoved it in his left pocket and crouched behind a low bush on the edge of the adjoining campsite. Trip heard the ranger yelling as he peeked inside the truck. He couldn’t make out the words at first; they were muffled by the breeze. The wind died down.
“Hello? You can’t spend the night. Campground is closed.” The ranger walked to the back of the truck.
“Fuck,” Trip said under his breath. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He’d left the gate open. If there was blood on the bed, the ranger could find it.
The ranger reached inside the truck, rifled around, pulled something out. He held it upside down by the heel while he trained the flashlight on it. Trip’s palms felt cold and wet under his gloves. He wasn’t breathing anymore. He was sure his heart had stopped beating. He thought: Is this how it feels when you’re drowning? He couldn’t believe he’d missed it; it had fallen out of the tarp. Her shoe! The ranger found her fucking peach shoe! The entire town of Moose Lake—the entire state—knew what the bridesmaid was wearing when she went missing. Peach dress. Peach purse. Peach shoes.
The ranger was still rummaging around in the back of the truck. What else was he grabbing? How long had he been snooping around? Trip studied the ranger’s figure. No one was ever as tall as Trip, but most men were thicker. Stronger. The ranger was big. He couldn’t see his face; he was probably some young guy. Trip wondered if he could take someone stronger and younger. The ranger headed back to his truck with the shoe. Trip figured he was going to radio for help. Couldn’t let him do that.
Another gust came up, whistling around the bushes and pines. Trip dashed out from his hiding place. The ranger’s fingers were wrapped around the door handle of his pickup when Trip came up behind him and bashed the back of his head with the shovel. The clang of the spade rose above the sound of the wind in the trees. The ranger’s head bounced once against the driver’s-side window of the pickup. He dropped the shoe and the flashlight and fell against the door. He slid to the ground. Facedown in the dirt and moaning, the ranger blindly raised his right hand and brushed it against the side of the pickup. He was trying to pull himself up. Trip raised the shovel up over his right shoulder and brought it down hard with a thud. The ranger wasn’t moving, but Trip struck his head a third time to be sure. Gray hair was matted with the blood. He wasn’t a young guy. He was old, same as Trip’s pa. That made him angry. An old man shouldn’t be out here, he thought. He raised the spade and brought it down again. A sickening sound. Crunching and soft at the same time. Trip dropped the shovel and stood over the still figure.
Trip had never killed someone this way before. Had never gotten so close to one of his victims while they were still breathing. Still moaning and groaning. Fighting for life. This wasn’t like running someone over with a truck, so high off the ground and impersonal and efficient. This was messy and personal. Hard work. Scary. Trip was perspiring under his hat. His armpits were clammy. He was panting. Couldn’t get air into his lungs quick enough. That drowning feeling again. He wanted to get the hell out of the park. Get away from the mess. He hopped over the body and ran to his truck and pulled the door open. The shovel and the shoe. He forgot the shovel and the shoe. He ran back and picked them up. Rubbed the back of the spade against the dirt to get the worst of the blood off. Wondered if there were brains on it. The ranger’s pickup lights were on. Should he shut them off? No. Leave it alone, he thought. The ranger’s flashlight was next to his body and it was still shining; the beam illuminated the man’s bloody head. Trip was spooked by it; the flashlight was accusing him. He kicked it and it rolled away; the beam flickered and died. He remembered his own flashlight. Where was it? Did he drop it? He reached into his jacket pockets. His right one. Empty. His left. There it was. On the way back to his truck, he stumbled over the ranger’s leg and fell in the dirt, right next to the body. It freaked him out; he made a startled noise that sounded like a pig’s squeal. He scrambled off the ground, picked up the shovel and the shoe. He checked his pockets. Flashlight still there. Checked his head. Hat still there. Did he drop anything else? He scanned the ground with the beam and saw only the ranger’s body and the ranger’s flashlight. Good. He flicked off the light and shoved it back in his jacket. He ran to his truck and threw the shovel and shoe in back and shut the gate.
When he pulled out of the campsite he managed to back up without hitting the ranger’s pickup, but he did run over the ranger himself.
FIFTEEN
HE WAS SHAKING as he sped out of the park. Vibrating like a car going faster than it could handle. He wanted to escape the sound the shovel had made with that last hit. It reminded him of something. A kitchen sound. An egg cracking? A mallet hitting a tough steak? No. His pa used to buy fryers whole because they were cheaper that way. He’d chop them himself into serving pieces with a meat cleaver. Sloppy and messy. That was the sound. Meat and bone being broken. Crunching and squishing. It’d be a long time before he could handle a raw chicken again. He needed to downshift. Needed his pills, and they were in the motel room. He’d calm himself with the next best thing: his music. His discs were in a case on the front passenger’s seat. He grabbed one without looking at it, popped it in, cranked th
e volume. When he realized the CD he’d picked, he had to laugh. The Grave Digger. Dark and evil German power metal. The guitars and drums pushed the broken bones and meat out of his mind. His first instinct was to keep driving. Keep the pedal to the floor and tear out of town. What about his stuff? He couldn’t leave his stuff in the motel room. The purse was in his suitcase. Should have buried the bag with her, he thought. The risk hadn’t been worth it to get a peek at a handful of her cosmetics and the lyrics from an Elvis song.
He headed for the motel; he’d pack his stuff and leave. Then he remembered he hadn’t paid the bill. Skipping town without paying would attract attention. The motel owner, an old woman, lived in back of the office. Trip checked his watch. Midnight. Too late to wake her; that would arouse suspicions. He could slip the money under the door. No. That would seem odd. He could check out at dawn; the owner kept early hours. He pulled into the motel parking lot and sat behind the wheel with the lights off and the music on and his brain working.
The purse and her shoe. The only objects tying him to her. The shoe was in the back of the truck. The purse was in the suitcase. He’d left no witnesses. No one saw the truck run her over and no one saw him in the park except for the ranger, and he was dead. What had changed since he buried her? Had he dropped any clues that could steer the cops in his direction? He’d gotten rid of the biggest piece of evidence—her body—and it was well hidden. He’d left another body behind in plain view. He should have buried the old guy. Still, they would have found his car and probably a mess of blood and brains on the ground. Once the ranger’s body was discovered, the cops might set up roadblocks. Stop cars and trucks. Couldn’t let them see the shoe or the blood on the shovel. The shoe would be easy to lose. He’d clean up the shovel. Washing the entire truck bed wouldn’t be a bad idea. Check everything out. Make sure the bridesmaid’s body hadn’t leaked anything while it was bouncing around back there. Something to do while waiting for sunrise; he sure as hell wasn’t going to get any sleep. He turned his lights back on, pulled out of the motel parking lot and headed to town. He knew there was a self-service car wash in Moose Lake adjacent to a gas station.
THREE bays, all of them empty. He steered the truck into the middle one, punched off his lights, turned off the engine. He opened the driver’s door but before he hopped out, he took off his baseball cap and set it on the passenger’s seat. He didn’t mind if he got his clothes wet, but he didn’t want to mess up his hat. Didn’t want to ruin his leather gloves, either. He pulled them off and threw them on the seat. He got out of the truck, slammed the door behind him. Walked behind the truck and pulled down the bay door. The streets were empty and the gas station was closed for the night, but he didn’t want to chance anyone seeing what he was doing. He opened the truck gate. The shovel and shoe—partners in crime—fell out together. Lying on its side against the gray concrete floor, the peach pump resembled a dead tropical bird. How to get rid of it? He looked around the bay and saw a trash can. Too obvious. The drain might work. A narrow trench that ran nearly the entire width of the floor and was covered by sections of grate. He bent over, wrapped his fingers around one of the sections and tugged hard. It didn’t budge; screwed in. He tried the next grate. It lifted out easily. He set it aside. Using two fingers, he picked up the shoe by the tip of the heel and carried it over to the drain. He dropped it in, watched it settle in the muck, replaced the grate.
The shovel. He lifted it up by the handle. Wet spots all over the spade. Blood. A few clots of something red and raw and glistening, like bits of uncooked liver. He dropped the shovel on the floor directly over the drain and walked to the power hose mounted on the wall. He scanned the sign over the hose. It listed spray settings: Tire Cleaner. Engine Cleaner. High-pressure Soap. Suds ’n’ Brush. High-pressure Rinse. High-pressure Wax. At the end of the list: Warning. Grip wand tightly due to 1000 lbs. pressure. We are not responsible for damage. He turned the knob to High-pressure Soap and plugged the machine with a dollar’s worth of quarters. He pulled the wand over to the shovel. Sprayed the blade with soapy water. Pink dripped down the drain. He kept shooting the blade until the water ran clear. He flipped the shovel with his foot and sprayed the other side. Ran the wand up and down the handle. His time ran out. He walked back to the knob. Turned it to High-pressure Rinse. Four more quarters. He sprayed the blade and handle until the water shut off. He picked up the shovel and inspected it. Clean as a spoon out of the dishwasher. He set it upright against the wall. Plugged the hose with more quarters and took the wand over to the gate and sprayed it down to give him a clean working surface.
Now the hard part. He started reaching in and pulling his merchandise out of the truck. The unopened boxes filled with individually wrapped shirts were easiest. He slid them out of the truck, held them up, examined the cardboard cubes on all six sides for bloodstains. Each of the five sealed boxes was clean. He threw them inside the cab. He leaned in and grabbed the two opened boxes out of the truck. The cardboard was clean on the outside. He carefully lifted out the polybagged shirts inside and held them to the ceiling light. Clean. He put the shirts back inside, folded the box tops shut, set the cubes inside the cab. Now all the loose stuff. One by one, he pulled out two dozen packaged shirts. The shovel must have rested on top of them because six of them were smeared with dirt and traces of blood. It looked like red food coloring against the clear plastic. He set the clean ones on the floor, propping them upright against the wall, and stacked the dirty ones on the gate. Then one by one, he picked up each bloodied package with his left hand, holding it by a corner. With his right, he worked the wand. He used the gentle Tire Cleaner setting. The high-pressure sprays could rip the polybags and he didn’t want to ruin his samples; he’d already paid for them. As he finished each package, he propped it against the wall to dry next to the clean ones. By the time he was done, he had a row of shirts sitting upright on the floor as if on display. Instead of a garage sale, he thought, it would be a grave digger’s sale.
He had to crawl inside to reach the truck’s winter gear: jumper cables, a set of chains, a towrope, one bag of rock salt, six sacks of sand. As he pulled out each item, he held it up, examined it from all angles. Set the clean stuff against the wall next to the shirts. The edges of two bags of sand had dirt on them; he couldn’t tell if it was plain dirt or dirt mixed with brains and blood. He washed the edges with the Tire Cleaner setting and propped the bags against the wall.
The truck bed itself. Should probably spray the sides and ceiling of the topper, too, he thought. He plugged the hose with coins and turned it to High-pressure Soap. He shot foamy water inside the truck and watched as it poured out of the bed and ran down the floor drain. He didn’t see pink. Only dirt. When his time ran out, he plugged the hose again for the rinse. When it stopped, he hung up the wand and scanned the bay, hoping for a towel dispenser. Nope. He wished he had some rags to wipe the bed dry. He studied the row of shirts, picked out the ugliest one. He ripped the package open and took out a yellow oxford with navy blue and white vertical stripes. He pulled out the stickpins, removed the plastic from around the neck and the cardboard from the back. He ducked under the topper and leaned in to wipe the bed. When he was finished, he balled up the wet shirt and its packaging and threw them into a corner of the truck bed. He wanted to get a good look. Where was his flashlight? He checked his jacket. Still in his left pocket. He took it out and turned it on and ran the beam around the inside of the bed and ceiling of the topper. Clean.
The winter gear went back into the truck first; he shoved it all against the rear of the bed, including the shovel. He stacked the merchandise on the bed. Did it in rows so it appeared neat and professional. Sealed boxes in back. Then the unsealed. Then the loose shirts. He ran the flashlight around one more time. Satisfied with his job, he flicked it off and shoved it in his left pocket. He slammed the gate shut. Might as well wash the outside of the truck, he thought. He reached into his pants pockets. Bills. No more quarters. He peeled three one-dollar bills off
and fed them to the change machine mounted against the wall. Twelve quarters. Enough for a wash, rinse and wax.
When he was finished, he stepped back and admired his truck. It always looked so good after a wash and wax. Shiny and new and invincible. He wiped his hands on his pants legs. Went behind the truck. Opened the bay door. Scanned the street. Still quiet and empty. Went to the driver’s door, opened it, got behind the wheel, slammed the door shut. He turned the ignition and started to back out of the bay. As he pulled out he saw a sign on the outside of the car wash: Thank You for Your Dirty Business.
He checked the clock on the dashboard. Still too early to wake the motel owner. He felt safe and calm after washing the truck and sorting through his merchandise. He thought he could snooze a little and still get out of town at dawn. He pulled into the motel parking lot exhausted. He pushed open the door to his room, dropped his jacket on the floor and collapsed on top of the bed, his shoes still on.
AT first light, he rolled out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. He unzipped his pants and peed for what seemed like half an hour. As he was zipping up, it occurred to him that he could have gotten blood on his clothes. He looked down at his pants legs. Didn’t see anything. They were dark so if there was any blood, it wouldn’t be visible. He checked the bottom of each shoe. Clean. If they had had any mud or blood, it had probably come off while he was washing the truck. Satisfied he was clean, he decided against changing. Better shave, though. He looked like a bum. He turned on the television and watched the early morning news while he lathered. Nothing on the ranger. Either his body hadn’t been discovered or it had been found, but the media hadn’t yet learned about it. He shaved in front of the bathroom mirror with an ear still keyed to the news. He toweled off his face. Packed up his stuff. Switched channels a few times. Still nothing on the ranger. He turned off the set and walked out of the room with his suitcase. He set it on the floor of the cab on the passenger’s side; he didn’t want to mess up his neat merchandise arrangement in back. He peered through the office window. There she was behind the counter, wearing the same polka-dot dress as when she checked him in Saturday. Hair still knotted in a bun in back of her head. He rapped twice on the door with his knuckles.