Dig
Page 30
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mayhem happens
Travis Langford pulled the tow truck with AAA TOWING on the door into Sue’s front yard a full hour before she was due home from her hair appointment. Her shift at the restaurant started at 6:00 pm, so he wouldn’t have much time to make things perfect. He wrote a note with his favorite Cross pen—the one he was given for being an usher at his brother’s first wedding. Travis wasn’t invited to the second wedding.
The note was on the back of one of the receipts that had been clipped to his clipboard. It consisted of one word: BITCH.
“You should’ve loved me. I was good to you.”
He wiped a tear from his eye and took another drink from the fifth-sized bottle of Wild Turkey he’d bought. It was part of his seventy-five dollar winnings from picking up the guy who wore the Rush t-shirt. “La Villa Strangiato” finished on his truck’s stereo and thanks to the magic of random play the eerie bells of “Witch Hunt” began to toll. Travis had listened to nothing but Rush for three days.
He underlined the word BITCH for clarity and clipped it to the front of his shirt, just under the third button so his name, embroidered in white thread, would still be visible. He turned the volume on the stereo to its maximum setting, rolled the windows down, left the motor running and walked to the back of the truck.
“Bitch. I loved you. Bitch. Stupid bitch. You never knew what was good for you. You never will. I hope you’re happy,” he said through his tears. His voice quaked and his cheeks were flushed.
Travis pushed the button that released the winch line and let it down until he had enough. With practiced dexterity, he looped the cable around his neck and back through the hook at the end. He pulled it tight with one hand and held it there while he grabbed the handheld remote from its clip with the other hand, pushed the button that pulled the cable taught until he was suspended and starting to choke. His feet dangled, and the skin on his neck grew shiny under his body’s weight, tearing in places. Blood trickled down and stained his shirt and the BITCH note. As his hands and fingers began to tingle, he let the remote slip away. It hit the ground with a dull THUMP. The tiny capillaries in his eyes began to burst, filling them with red. His face was purple. His tongue protruded and he made a gagging sound. After a minute, he passed out. After three minutes he was brain dead. After six minutes he had expired. Despair—watching from the house—was satisfied and moved on.