"But what about Sean? Didn't you worry about leaving him alone?"
"Sean's independent. I'm not raising him to hide like a bug under a rock. He doesn't want to live that way and neither do I, though sometimes I get so scared that I want to start running again." She sighed. "I just can't give in to that fear, though. It's hard enough on Sean—getting around in a wheelchair, looking the way he does—without me trying to mother-hen him."
"Yeah. I see what you mean."
"Anyway, it was almost dark by the time I got home. I saw Jack from the road. I blocked the driveway with my truck. Then I got my .38 out of the glove box and headed after him. I've got a permit for the gun."
"Where was he?"
"Let's see—I heard the Honda's trunk slam as I got out of the truck... Yeah. Jack was behind the Honda. He'd parked it on the far side of the barn so Sean couldn't see him from the house. I guess he'd just finished changing the tire, because I saw the flat lying in the weeds near the driveway. The jack was there, too. There was a gas can in between, with the lid still on it. It was just dumb luck. If Jack hadn't had the flat, he would have torched the house with Sean in it and been out of here before I showed up."
"Did Jack see you coming?"
"Yes, but I shot him before he could do anything. In the shoulder." She smiled. "I'm a good shot."
"Just wounded him?"
"Right. He got in the car and started the engine. That's when I shot the front tires. I hope I got the one he'd changed." She sighed. "Then I walked up to him, keeping the gun aimed at his head the whole time."
"How did he react?"
"He laughed. Called me Sigourney Weaver. Said that I might as well go call the cops. Then he started making promises again."
"More threats?"
She nodded. "He said that he'd be back, that they probably wouldn't even lock him up this time because he hadn't done anything but violate the restraining order. Then he got back to the old stuff. How he'd burn down the house some night while we were asleep. Look, I just couldn't take it anymore."
"That's when you shot him the second time?"
"Right. I'd rather not say where."
"We don't have to go into that right now."
"Good. Anyhow, I turned away, and when I saw that gas can lying there I really lost it. I grabbed it. Jack saw me coming and tried to get out of the car, but I shot through the door. Hit him again. I don't know where, but it hurt him bad, because he started to cough up blood." She shrugged. "That's when I heard the sirens—I guess someone reported the gunshots—but they didn't stop me. I opened the can and poured gas all over him. He just sat there, grinning that crazy grin of his. Look, I don't have to describe the rest of it, do I?"
"No." The deputy stared at the Honda.
She looked at it, too, but saw only tyrannosaurus jaws. "It was self-defense. He really would have come back."
The deputy nodded.
"Can we go inside now?"
"In a minute," the deputy said.
Outside, the night was alive with the sound of machinery. She watched as a fireman opened the dinosaur's brainpan with some kind of gas-powered saw. Her ex-husband was inside, burnt and shriveled. A man took photos of the corpse, then of the gas can and the tire. A van drifted by, long and white, silent and slow.
"Your ex-husband lied to you," the deputy said. "About not doing anything tonight, I mean."
She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
The deputy sighed. "The other time, the first time. Rose took Sean somewhere before he hurt him. A motel, you said. Right?"
She didn't answer.
"Those Japanese cars have awfully small trunks. The tire you saw—it wasn't flat. And the jack and the gas can—Rose wasn't using them. He had to get everything out of the trunk. He had to make room... for the wheelchair... for..."
The deputy's voice cracked.
Sean's mother started to cry.
"Near as we can tell, Sean was gagged. He couldn't cry out." The deputy couldn't look at her. "Rose lied to you, Ms. Perkins. Remember that. You couldn't have known."
Long and white, silent and slow, the coroner's van rolled past the police car.
But the monster's skull remained.
GUIGNOIR
"DON'T WORRY, ELLIE," the kid said, sparking his cigarette lighter. "He's afraid of fire."
Blue flame singed my cheek. I reached for the kid, my manacled wrists straining against steel chains anchored in the mildewed floor. I pawed the cobwebbed air just inches short of his face, the manacles chafing my skin, my hands wild wriggling things, like hungry green tarantulas.
I growled.
The kid's girlfriend jumped away. The back of her head struck the greystone wall, making a hollow sound like a cartoon echo.
The kid laughed. "Get a grip, Ellie. He really is afrai — "
I caught a handful of leather jacket. The kid leaped backward, but I held on until the chains whipped taut and the manacles pinched me to the bone.
Green scars peeled off my wrists. A line of blood welled up underneath.
The kid smirked at me, just out of reach.
"You little bastard," I whispered.
He backhanded me and my forehead caved in. "You ain't doin' it right," he said, his voice suddenly flat. "Frankenstein can't talk."
"That's right," his girlfriend agreed.
Again the kid backhanded me, and the monster mask slipped across my face. I couldn't see through the eye holes, but I could smell the sharp odor of melting rubber mixed with the animal scent of the kid’s leather jacket.
The girl laughed, then shouted, "Perry, watch out!"
Another cartoon echo. I tore off the melted remains of my mask. Perry slumped against the plywood wall, his eyes bulging; the Wolfman's fingers were clamped around his thick neck.
The girl jumped at the Wolfman, scratching for all she was worth. His furry mask came away in her hand and she squealed when she saw his face. Unbelieving, she looked at him, then looked at me. "Perry, they've got the same face!"
"Yeah," Perry said, glaring at my twin brother Larry. "Both of 'em are uglier than Frankenstein, but they don't scare me none."
That wasn't true. Neither part of it.
Larry's fingers dug in, thumbs squeezing hard, but the kid didn't squirm. "Tough boy," Larry said. "You ain't afraid of nothin', huh?" He eyed the girl. "Your boyfriend is awfully brave. How about you? Maybe the four of us can get together tonight and do something really scary. We'll go for a ride in the Death Car, just like old Hank Caul used to. How about that?"
Tears welled in the girl's eyes. Larry had struck a nerve. I unlocked the manacles and moved toward her, remembering her laughter.
"You pricks," Perry croaked. "Hank Caul got her sister, almost got her — "
Larry's werewolf fingers squeezed, cutting off Perry's words. My brother grinned at me then, and I grinned back.
I stroked the girl's blond hair and she turned away, sobbing. "Larry, I'd like you to meet Ellie," I said, and Larry nodded. I took Ellie by the shoulders and wiped away her tears, knowing that I'd terrified her simply by remembering her name.
Warm tears; I rubbed them between thumb and forefinger. I couldn't help asking. I had to know. "Ellie, did Hank Caul get your sister's skin? Is that why you're all shook up?"
She stared at me, speechless. Then she ran, her long hair spilling over her shoulders, blond hair flecked with blood from my wounded wrists.
I let her go.
Perry tried to break free. Larry wrenched something shiny out of the kid's hand, then marched him down the hall, past Count Dracula and the Phantom of the Opera. I followed, my heavy boots thudding over plywood floor that had been painted to look like mildewed stone. Though I was perfectly willing to share grins with Larry, I knew that Pa would hold both of us responsible for whatever happened to the kid. I hoped my twin wasn't going to go too far.
Larry slammed Perry against the Mummy's coffin. The midway lights angled through the doorway, slashing across the kid's face.
Pasty, terrified. His lower lip quivered when Larry whispered in his ear, and then Larry shoved him down the stairs, into the crowd.
The kid hit the ground hard. Dust puffed up around him. His greasy D.A. was a mess. The gawkers gathered round as if a new attraction had been announced. Come one, come all. See the amazing crow-eating boy....
Larry's arm shot out, his fingers flexing stiff, and a bone-handled hunting knife jabbed the dirt between the kid's legs.
"That wasn't very smart," Larry said.
I saw Ellie elbowing into the crowd. Trying to hide. Larry saw her too.
"Girl, you come here."
God knows why, but she did.
Larry slipped two tickets into her hand. He grinned. "You and your boyfriend come see the Death Car. On me."
"I don't want to hear any excuses." Pa locked the battered suitcase and slapped the lid for emphasis. "Like I've told you boys a million times: what one does, both do. It's up to you two to watch out for each other."
I wanted to tell Pa that was exactly what we'd been doing, but his good eye cut me down before I could get my mouth working.
"No excuses," he repeated. "We've got to be careful in this town. Hank Caul did his dirty work right here, and lots of these folks don't see the entertainment value of our little tent show. Some of 'em had friends or relations who went for their last ride in the Death Car, and they sure don't like the idea of us makin' six bits from every gawker who wants to see it."
Again, Pa slapped the suitcase. Larry and I called it "Fort Knox," and I wondered for the millionth time how much money was squirreled inside. Maybe a lot, maybe nothing. The Death Car wasn't the attraction it had been five years ago when Caul's stab 'n' skin murder spree was still big news, and I felt sure that Pa had come back to the little town of Fiddler to stir up the pot, maybe get some national press about local outrage. It was worth a try. Lately Pa had tightened the purse strings, and I was getting pretty tired of working in the Castle of Horrors just to keep some change in my pocket.
"Pa, the kid pushed us," Larry began.
"Yeah, and you gave him free tickets," I chided.
"Not another word," Pa said. "You two let me do the thinking." He stared us down and made sure we had that straight. "I've arranged for the Ezell boys to take the rest of your shift at the Castle. In the meantime, you two can make yourself useful around here. I'm expectin' company, and I want the Death Car lookin' pretty as a hunert-dollar whore."
As usual, Larry couldn't keep his mouth shut. "It must be damned important company for you to close the show early," he said. "Is Ed Sullivan comin' to visit? He finally gonna put us on TV?"
"It ain't for you to worry about," Pa said humorlessly. "I got some phone calls to make. I'll be back in an hour. No funny stuff. Remember: what one does, both do."
Pa opened the trunk of the Death Car and placed the battered suitcase inside. "Safer than Fort Knox," he said.
Larry smiled. "Yep, no one wants to mess with the bogeyman's wheels."
"Yeah," I whispered, "isn't superstition a wonderful thing?"
The Death Car was a 1950 Nash Ambassador—hardly the stuff of legend. On the highway it didn't warrant a second glance. But inside the carnival tent, surrounded by poster-sized morgue photos and ringed above and below with a network of blood-red baby spots that had cost Pa a small fortune, the Nash became Hank Caul's Death Car, an abattoir on wheels, ladies and gentlemen, serviced by the devil himself.
The gawkers believed all that, of course. Some of them even believed that the Death Car ate flesh and drank blood, but I knew the truth: the Nash was indeed a monster, but a monster of a different kind—a giant leech that sucked Windex, paste wax and free time. My free time.
Larry misted the rear window and set to work with a squeegee. "I told the old bastard we should have skipped this town," he said. "Jesus, Hank Caul's stompin' grounds. It'll be a miracle if we get outta here alive."
I nodded. "Pa is up to something. That's why he came back to California. He wants to get the gawkers interested in Caul's car again." I worked a chamois over the trunk, admiring the dark cherry gleam. "Maybe we should hang around tonight, just to make sure that the old man isn't in over his head. That kid we rousted might show up with some friends. If Pa has a deal going, the kid could sour it real easy if he did something to the car."
"Frank, you know Pa won't go for it. Christ, he won't even let us count the daily receipts, let alone elbow in on one of his deals." Larry's voice dropped a gravelly octave in perfect imitation of the old man. "I'm the brain and you boys are the muscle, and muscle don't talk business."
We both laughed.
"Besides, we're busy tonight." Larry grinned lecherously. "On the way over here I met a young filly who thinks that twins are real interesting, especially twins who can kick ass."
I grinned, matching Larry's. Even though we were twins, I certainly couldn't call the grin mine. Larry was adventurous and outgoing; but he was also content with the seamy pleasures of the carny circuit. I was not. I longed for something better, bigger, something that went beyond rubber masks and stone walls made of plywood. The other stuff, the grinny stuff, made me feel like I wasn't much better than a gawker.
Still, I grinned. Larry's grin, but the old man's voice. "What one does...," I began in a gravelly rasp.
"... both do," Larry finished.
Her hair was stringy and thin. My fingers passed through it and away, into the soft, perfumed fur that rimmed her neck.
Larry brushed her mink coat away from her leg, his left hand playing itsy-bitsy-spider as it traveled the length of her thigh.
"That's good," she whispered. "When I heard what you boys did to Perry Martin, I just knew you'd be good. Not too many folks around here will stand up to that little rooster, him being the sheriff's son and all."
Larry's hand froze mid-thigh. We exchanged looks of dread. If Pa found out that we'd fucked with the local law, there would be hell to pay.
She giggled and encouraged the itsy-bitsy spider to continue on its way.
We were fifty-five feet above the midway, atop the Ezell boys' pride and joy: a revved-up Ferris wheel that the carny folks had named the Hammer in honor of Bud Ezell's wild method of operation. When Bud wasn't spinning the gawkers silly, he contented himself by trying to bounce them out of their seats. For this reason, the open cabs installed by the manufacturer in Jacksonville had been replaced by enclosed cabs that, coincidentally, provided a great deal of privacy. Bud took full advantage of this—he wasn't above taking bribes from gawkers eager to be "trapped" above the midway with their ladyfriends while the Hammer experienced sudden mechanical difficulties, and he was always willing to raise Larry and me into the heavens in the company of a young lady as long as we promised to share all the details over coffee the next morning.
The cab rocked. She clutched at the hem of her coat, her fists crossing. Black fur closed over her thighs and Larry's hand disappeared underneath. Her wet lips covered mine and I tasted cherry lipstick. My fingers slipped under the fur collar—soft silk lining, small breasts.
Already, I'd forgotten her name.
She moaned; her body stiffened. Then she pushed our hands away and opened her coat. Moonlight washed over her sweaty breasts. Nipples the color of olive meat, dappled with safety-cage shadow.
"Sweet Sunday," she said. "I've never done it on a Ferris Wheel before."
"Yeah?" Larry chuckled. "Well, I've never done it with a lady in mink."
She smiled dreamily. "Nice, isn't it? I got it in New York City. Daddy and I flew out last year for a mortician's convention." She paused a beat to gauge our reaction, and after deciding that we'd been suitably impressed, she added, "I'm the only girl in Fiddler who has one."
Far below, lights blinked out along the midway. Threading her fingers through the safety cage, she leaned forward. The cab tilted, giving us a better view of the carnival grounds.
"Guess traveling doesn't impress you boys. You've probably been most everywhere. It must be exciti
ng, seeing so many different places."
"Not really," Larry said. "The midway looks the same everywhere."
I agreed. "We get tired of the carnival just like you get tired of Fiddler. To us, the Castle of Horrors is that church you're sick of going to every Sunday, and the Death Car is that old clunker you're tired of driving."
"You boys drive the Death Car?" She gasped, missing my point entirely.
Larry clapped his hands. "Do we drive the D.C.? Honey, we've turned that baby's odometer. When our daddy dies we'll be the sole owners of that miserable Nash."
Suddenly she was as interested as the most persistent gawker. "But isn't it haunted? Aren't the seat covers made of human skin, and isn't it painted with blood, and — "
The cab rocked with Larry's laughter.
She straightened indignantly. "Well, that's what people say," she whispered, her voice small and wounded.
I explained that the wild stories about Hank Caul's car increased our business. I told her what a boring bucket of bolts the Nash had been when Pa bought it at public auction, how we'd added the sand-colored upholstery and painted the body red, and how we'd started the stories about the car being haunted, and somehow alive. "Really, Hank Caul was just a sick little guy who had a thing about hunting knives," I said. "His car was just as boring as he was. Nobody's going to pay six bits to hear that, though, so we had to help things along. Luckily, Pa and I are both born storytellers."
"Well, I'm sorry," she began, "but you just don't know what you're talking about. It's a pure fact that Hank Caul skinned his daddy's corpse. And it's a fact that his mama was a witch, and slept with her own son, and made Hank wear his daddy's skin when they did it. That's why he killed all those people. Even my daddy says that's true."
Larry smirked. "The undertaker believes in witches?"
"And a lot more than that," she said. "Daddy says that people still see Hank Caul's ghost out on the back roads looking for his skin."
"His what?"
"His skin!" She sighed. "Don't you two know anything! Hank Caul skinned himself alive before cuttin' his own throat! It's a well-known fact! Why, just the other day I heard my daddy talking about it!"
Bad Intentions Page 23