by Kirk Alex
“Help me, Wilburn! Don’t sit on your ass like a spectator!”
A second body dropped down, missing Wilburn by mere inches this time. He reached for the dowel. Did as his grandfather: pulled the end of his sleeve over his hand, and grabbed at the dowel—and leaned over the tunnel entrance and whacked away at Norbert Fimple.
Biggs held on to Patience McDaniel’s feet, thus preventing her from reaching the stairs. Tyrone Himes ran in, drew his service revolver and climbed down the stoop. Aimed the revolver, only to have it knocked out of his grasp. Lloyd tossed the dowel to him, and Tyrone fought off Biggs until he let go of the woman’s feet and she was able to make it up the stoop and out of the tunnel. Biggs faltered back, staggering against Mr. Fimple, who was able to make it to his feet. Fire was moving in, smoke choking. Tyrone Himes was helped up by Lloyd and Wilburn Flinger, and some others. Circumstances prevailed: Wilburn lost his balance, and fell over, landing on top of Mr. Fimple, who managed to grab hold of his bad hand and began to suck on it, and was not about to let go. If he couldn’t get the chicken’s blood, at least he was tasting human blood—which might even be better, as far as he was concerned. Bishop always said so, didn’t he?
Wilburn stuck his spikes into Norbert’s eyes, blinding him in one eye at least, or so he hoped. Instead of letting him go completely, the behemoth Norbert got hold of Wilburn’s other hand, and proceeded to chew the pinky right off. The pig mask was a hinderance, to be sure, but Fimple was not about to let that stop him. Kept at it. Didn’t matter how often Wilburn jabbed his leather wristband with the one inch spikes into his face and eyes.
Norbert refused to let go. Made no difference to him that his sight was seriously impaired now and blood flowed from underneath the pig mask, made no difference to him that a bullet, followed by another, coming from the duffel, zapped him in the right hip and thigh, respectively.
Wilburn’s further pleas for help were not for naught. Lloyd scrambled down. Had his dowel, so did Tyrone Himes, and they clubbed away at Mr. Fimple until he was nearly senseless, and he pulled back, releasing Wilburn at last.
The trio made it up the stairs to the garage floor and outside, as flames spread throughout, the heavy black smoke billowing.
They staggered out of the garage, coughing and gasping for air. They covered ten, maybe fifteen feet, when Norbert Fimple rushed them from behind, swinging wildly with one of the dowels.
CHAPTER 639
There was no way to fight him off. Flinger and his granddad were exhausted, and Patience was of no use at all. Tyrone Himes was badly hurt and way too weak. Lloyd drew the Luger. Attempted to unjam it. Pulled the trigger, only to have it misfire.
“When was the last time you cleaned that relic, Gramps? Civil War?”
“When was the last time, Mr. Himes, your breath didn’t smell like the inside of a wine barrel?”
All Lloyd Dicker knew was that he didn’t want the rent-a-cop to be breathing on him with that tequila breath. Not only was it foul smelling, but the fumes made it way too dangerous.
Monroe turned his head. Saw what was taking place. The behemoth with the disfigured and cruddy hog face was a madman gone on a rampage: a bloody, maniacal lunatic out to cause all the death and destruction that he could before he died. He rechecked his gun. Empty. He had additional bullets in the truck, he was pretty certain of it. Was there time to run back and get them? He looked around: What else? What were his options? Grab the scissor jack? Detach the crank handle and do battle with it? Just as he managed to do this, he saw the ground that Fimple stood on give way, and down he went, swallowed up by the earth. Soon enough, the entire stretch of terra firma that was above the tunnel opened up and down went Patience McDaniel and her hen.
Monroe rushed back there to see what he could do. Tyrone Himes slipped, lost his footing, and was also swallowed up by the earth and billowing flames. Fire reached his breath, fed by the alcohol content in his system and he was immolated from the inside out: his guts, belly, lungs; internal organs caught fire first—and then the rest of him followed.
Fontana, Lloyd’s wife saw it, so did Pearleen Bell and Brenda, Wilburn’s half-sister. The latter was screaming.
Pearleen Bell was aghast. After all that had transpired, after all she and Patience had lived through, after everything the victims had endured—now this had to happen. Dear God. No.
“Patience! Patience! Please, save her! Please!”
Wilburn lost his footing and was gone himself, swallowed up by the sink hole. The old man pointed out to Monroe that there was a ladder inside the garage, only the flames were too much, the fire out of control. Lloyd got as far as the door. Was incapacitated by smoke soon enough that left him choking on the ground and gasping for air.
“I have to get the ladder. My grandson needs my help. There’s a ladder in there. . . .”
He rose to his knees, and was bent over once more. There was no way he was in any condition to make it any further.
“Don’t go in there, Mr. Perez. You’ll never come out alive.”
Monroe Perez paid him no mind. Rushed past him. A minute later he was reemerging with the ladder. The old man was back on his feet and helped Monroe lower the ladder down into the sink hole.
Wilburn yelled up to throw down a dowel. “Gimme the stick! I can take care of this asshole!” They were about to, only Mr. Fimple had wound his arms around Wilburn’s feet (as Wilburn was helping Patience and the hen climb up) and was attempting to pull him down.
Monroe and Lloyd both had dowels and were leaning over the sink hole on either side of the ladder and clubbed Mr. Fimple into submission. Patience made it up and got out, so did Wilburn Flinger. Smoke and flame billowed up from the sink hole as the fire in the tunnel continued to blaze.
Monroe asked Flinger about Biggs.
“Deader than Lloyd’s dick. Can’t get no deader than that.”
Lloyd turned his head. “Don’t you worry about Lloyd, little man. Lloyd does just fine. All right? “
“I misspoke.”
“You sure did.”
“Sorry, Gramps. I was out of line.”
“What’d you see down there?”
“Dude died with a hard-on.”
“What was that?”
“Died with a hard-on. His dick was hard when he died. Held it in his hand.”
“Never mind.”
“Fire give him a boner. Some of them are like that. Serial killers. Fire gives them wood.”
“Stop it.”
“He had his dick in his hand and it was stiff. Swear it, Gramps.”
Lloyd moved on. He didn’t want to hear it. The women walked back there to embrace their heroes. Pearleen wrapped her arms around her friend Patience, weeping.
“You need a doctor, sweetie. You need medical attention. It’s pneumonia. I believe what you have is pneumonia.”
She glanced at Monroe, distraught enough himself over his brother’s death. “Did you get him? Did you get Cecil? Did you kill him like I asked you to? Please tell me that you did. Tell me you shot him dead. Tell me. Was he bein’ Parfrey? He have that ugly pig mask over his face, or was he bein’ Brother Trusty? Was he playin’ the clown?”
Monroe Perez was way too shaken to speak and was not inclined to bother with it. He said nothing. She turned to the others: Lloyd and Wilburn Claude.
“Is he dead? Is Biggs dead? Please tell me he’s dead.”
“According to my grandson: he died with his wiener in his hand.”
Pearleen looked at him. Was not certain she had heard right.
“You know: his thing. His pecker was hard. Biggs had an erection when he died.”
“Are you one hundred percent sure? How do you know it was him?”
“Tats. Had tats on that funny lookin’ dick.”
“Tats? What tats? Of what? What they look like?”
“How should I know? Didn’t exactly have time to inspect it, did I?”
“But how do you know it was his dick? Was it thick? What were the tat
s? Could’ve been someone else easily. He’s tricky. Had all kinds of backup plans. Only thing you can trust about Brother Trusty.”
“Talked to bitches who knew him; sucked his Jones. Street whores and call girls.”
“That’s no guarantee it was him.”
“Guarantee? Want a guarantee? Back of his head had tats. Numbers. What looked like a barcode.”
“Still no proof it was him. No guarantee it was Cecil.”
“Guess what? I’m all out of guarantees right now, lady. So get outta my face.”
“Was he trying to get to the small door to the left of the stoop? There’s a small metal door there. What if he had a male corpse lined up, stashed and waiting? And the stupid tats? It wouldn’t be far-fetched for a paranoid like him to have planned ahead. Look at the house: booby-traps in the tunnel, rigged windows . . . He could’ve easily taken a geek, while alive, to a tattoo parlor and said: put tats on this fool’s groin like I got on mine. He had money. Could pay for it. What’s to it? Nothing to it, is my point.”
“Man, what I just been through, you want to talk about that and tattoos? I ain’t got time for it.”
“Let him be, miss. Please. This is no time to be giving my grandson the third degree. Furthermore, he’s right: you are being pushy. You can’t see the condition he’s in? Just saved your friend’s life, didn’t he?” Lloyd pointed at Patience right then. “Risked his own to do it, too. Ain’t that enough?”
CHAPTER 640
Patience was preoccupied as usual. Had things on her mind—and it had nothing to do with a clown named Brother Trusty or a pig called Parfrey. A cop had arrived on the scene and Patience McDaniel turned to him.
“Please don’t make me eat dog biscuits. Please don’t make us drink blood. . . . Please, sir. Please kind officer. . . .”
Her tears flowed. Pearleen Bell wiped them away for her. Patience continued to shed silent drops. Hugged her hen, while Pearleen hugged the woman.
“We’re safe, honey. We made it, Patience honey.” Pearleen wiped her own eyes. Was looking at the cop. “Olivia and them, the others: Lana and Stella . . . They never . . . they never stood a chance. . . . He killed and tortured people. . . . I asked them, I told them; I pleaded with Monroe and the people who came down in the basement with Monroe Perez, to shoot him in the head. . . . I don’t think Cecil is dead. . . . Could’ve easily slipped one of them nasty pig masks over someone else’s head, or painted one of the dumb geeks to look like Brother Trusty, and snuck out that steel door. Besides, how do we know for certain that door don’t lead to a secret passageway under the alley, to another garage? We don’t know, do we? I keep telling you he’s clever; he’s psycho, but he’s clever. He outsmarted all of you. Bet you anything that’s what he did.”
“Now, Miss—”
“Anything to what she’s sayin’, son?”
“He was always fooling with them keys, but that ain’t nothin’ new, Lloyd.”
“Was there anything like a small steel door, like she says?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was there? Think, Wilburn; think boy.”
“Why fuck with me? You think. You saw what all I saw.”
“I told them he would get away. . . . I told them . . . He’s evil. . . . The bastard is evil. . . . The bastard is sick, sick, sick, and should be dead, dead, dead. . . .”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
Lloyd Dicker wanted to assure her that the answer he had given her a moment ago was most definite. She searched out his eyes. Needed to know.
“He is? Are you sure?”
“Deader than my . . .” Lloyd caught himself in time. “Deader than a doornail. Can’t get no deader than that.”
“That is not good enough, sir. Someone tell me for sure! I don’t want that psycho coming after me after all this noise dies down; after the media stop talking about him and move on to the next asshole who goes out and does the same fucking thing!”
“No one can say for certain, ma’am,” said the officer. “Until after the coroner’s people do their tests.”
“But that’s bullshit! That’s no answer. It’s bullshit!”
“All I can tell you, ma’am.’
“Please don’t make me eat dog biscuits.” As was her habit, Patience McDaniel spoke to no one in particular.
Mrs. Lloyd Dicker held out a cup of pink lemonade to her.
“We wouldn’t do that to you, darling.”
“Please don’t make me drink blood.”
“Blood?” Lloyd’s wife came close to gasping. “No, this is not blood, Patience darling. It’s lemonade, sweetheart. Lemonade. Pink lemonade.”
“Lemonade?”
“Yes. Of course. Lemonade.”
She accepted the offering. Made it possible for the hen to wet her beak, should she have wanted to. And did so. Patience drank the rest of it down.
“Some days all we had to eat was Pop-Tarts and dog biscuits.”
Wilburn hadn’t been able to resist.
“Dog biscuits?”
“Oh, leave the girl alone, Wilburn. She’s been through enough.”
“What I like is eggs and Popsicles. Blueberry is my favorite.”
Lloyd Dicker agreed with his wife this time and suggested his grandson gave it a rest.
CHAPTER 641
Pearleen Bell had her arms around Patience McDaniel as they stood on the sidewalk, leaning against the front yard fence.
“Patience, honey, we’ll be fine now. . . . You’ll see.” She brushed soot and blood from her friend’s forehead. She shook a second to brush a feather, or something like it, from her own person, and could not help but notice the ring that dangled on that gold chain that hung from her neck. It was the ring Cecil had given her, the very same engagement ring Rudy Perez had purchased and presented Olivia with.
Pearl lifted her head. Looked around for Rudy’s brother Roe. Saw him leaning against the fence halfway between Biggs’s place and the late Roscoe’s, staring at the flames.
She could not tell if he was crying, or just plain in shock. There were two Hispanic men standing there with him. One of the men was middle-aged, the other younger. The younger man kept asking the middle-aged man how he was doing. “Are you holding up, Pablo?”
The one called Pablo nodded his head, even though he was in fairly bad shape: hair singed, forehead and cheeks, hands, pants and sleeves covered in soot. Welts and red streaks across his brow and neck.
“I will find some peroxide and Band-Aids.” The younger man left to fetch the items.
Although she could not exactly make out what the one called Pablo was saying to Monroe Perez, she knew it could not have been anything good, because the look on Monroe’s exhausted face suddenly turned to one of absolute anguish.
Monroe had turned his head away, pressing his thumbs into his eyes to stifle tears. She thought she heard the other man ask to be forgiven.
“My friend, I have failed you, for I have not been able to carry out the favor you requested of me. We could not get everyone out.”
Monroe Perez looked up. “Thank you, Pablo. . . . Thank you for trying. . . .”
“I am sorry. . . .”
“I understand.”
Roe’s body was quaking. The younger man had returned with Band-Aids and such. Inquired of Monroe if he had cuts he wished to have taken care of. Roe had shaken his head: no. Lowered himself on the curb, as he had a great need to sit down. The two men left to tend to their wounds and to help out Rafael and Sarah Duarte.
Monroe had folded his arms and had them resting against his bent knees, head bowed. One moment he was able to stifle the sobs, another moment he was not. They came, they went.
Thunder roiled in the distance somewhere, vowing to punish the Valley with a drencher far greater than all the previous ones combined. We haven’t been penalized enough, he thought. That’s what it is. Did it matter? Idle threats never carried much weight. There wasn’t a storm fierce enough to make this kind of misery go away.
It wasn
’t long before the occasional raindrop made its existence known, lightly tapping the top of his head here and there.
His brother was gone. His brother . . .
CHAPTER 642
Pearleen felt a strong need to go over and talk to him. Was not certain she should invade his privacy. Man was going through hell.
She took a deep breath. Braved the short distance. Sat beside him. She lifted the necklace with the ring on it over her head, taking it off. Monroe raised his dense with pain, red-rimmed eyes as a way of acknowledging this person’s presence and to face, if he must, what else this world of woe was intent on dumping on him. He did not say anything.
“This is . . .” She held the ring out to him. “This belongs to . . .” Her lips trembled, and she had trouble getting the words out. Choked with every effort. She wanted to, was about to place the ring in his hand. Monroe looked at it, but would not take it.
“. . . It wouldn’t be right for me to accept something that is not rightfully mine to take. It should be given to Olivia’s family. I realize my brother gave it to her, but it was Olivia’s. . . . Thank you. . . . I can’t. . . . I don’t have the right. . . .”
He lowered his head back between his knees to conceal and stifle sobs. She embraced the man. Wiped away some of her own tears.
“No, thank you. Your brother was genuinely sweet. Good-hearted. That’s what he was. Rudy and Olivia both. . . .”
Roe felt numb all over, unable to cry for the moment, or else he would not allow himself to.
“You risked your life to save us. You and everyone else, risked your lives. . . . Thank you. . . . I am so sorry about your brother . . . and all those innocent people. . . .”
“I’m no good. . . . Loser and a fuck-up. . . . I’m the asshole who let his only brother die. . . .”