Kill Devil Falls
Page 25
Lawrence was wearing the necklace he’d just made. He twirled it around his finger as he talked.
“Around the time I turned fifteen or sixteen, I discovered that drinking helped, a bit. Eased the itch. That’s what I call it. The itch. And when drinking wasn’t doing it any more, I turned to drugs. An attempt at self-medication. This went on for years and years. But the itch didn’t go away.”
“Lawrence—”
“Helen, please. Eventually, I got busted for possession and put in a program. I lied to you about that. I didn’t go of my own free will. I fought it tooth and nail. But into rehab I went. They leeched the drugs from my system. And, of course, the itch came roaring back. Helen, you don’t know how hard it was. To ignore the grating, fucking relentless little voice in my ear. The other patients had no idea how close they came to being mutilated with a plastic butter knife.”
The .357 was heavy as hell, and Helen’s hands began to shake, but she kept it pointed directly at Lawrence’s heart.
“If there’s one thing rehab accomplished, it was to make me realize that drugs aren’t a permanent solution for … for my condition. I mean, I can’t stay high 24/7.” He smiled sheepishly. “So I decided to remove myself from society. A voluntary exile. Like a … a fox who padlocks the chicken coop. My plan was to live quietly, indulge my impulses in a minor way. Such as those projects in the cellar. Pickle myself in alcohol. Stay out of trouble.”
He nodded at the bedroom door.
“You see how that turned out.”
“There are people who can help you,” Helen said.
“You think so? Because I don’t. This is who I am. You can’t change the color of your eyes, your craving for pistachio ice cream or whatever, and I can’t change the part of me that wants to … ”
His voice trailed off. He sipped from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Helen, you can arrest me, lock me away for the rest of my life. Keep me in a cage, a padded cell. But I won’t ever be cured. The need won’t magically disappear. I’ll be like a sailor adrift on a lifeboat. Water everywhere. Not a drop to drink. Torture. I’d rather be dead. I really would.”
“You can’t be left free to run around … hurting people.”
“Of course not. I completely, totally understand that. But I have no intention of going anywhere. I’m good right where I am. This place … it’s not like anywhere else. Do you know what I mean?”
“Oh, yeah. Hell, yes.”
“There’s something in the soil. The forest. The rocks.”
“Toxic levels of mercury.”
Lawrence smiled. “More than that. Something deeper. Primordial. I can’t put words to it. But it feels like home.”
At this distance, Helen could see Lawrence’s necklace more clearly. Those pink blobs—they were Frank’s ears. And there appeared to be a bit of his nose, and some red stringy parts that may have been his lips.
“I belong here,” Lawrence said. “And if your plan is to take me away, you might as well just kill me.”
She considered shooting him. Just shooting him and getting far, far gone from here.
“Do you understand, Helen?” Lawrence asked.
Helen stared at the bare feet, baggy sweatpants, naked torso crusted with blood. The angelic features.
The revolting necklace.
She lowered the .357.
“Yes. I understand.”
Lawrence set the bottle down on the floor. “Thank you, Helen. I knew you would.”
He held out his arms. He wanted a hug. Helen hesitated. Then she surprised herself by stepping forward and giving him a brief squeeze. She quickly disengaged and backed away.
“You take care,” Lawrence said.
“Yeah. You too, Lawrence.”
She kept her eyes on him as she rounded the bannister, slipped by Lee Larimer’s body, descended the stairs.
Coonie barked as she passed through the vestibule. She ignored him, limped through the restaurant and into the market. When she reached the front door, she turned, half expecting to see Lawrence racing toward her, knife in hand, bloody foam dripping from his lips. But nothing moved in the gloom. Helen stepped out onto Main Street.
She shivered in the cold mountain air. The smell of the jail, still smoldering, reminded her of the few camping trips she’d taken as a kid. She hated sleeping bags, tents, swarming bugs, but loved sitting around the campfire, staring into its comforting warmth, smoke in her nostrils, listening to the pop and hiss of burning sap.
She climbed into the Explorer. She placed the .357 on the passenger’s seat, started the engine, puttered down Main Street, skirting the wooden safety barriers. She paused outside the remains of the jail.
Her Charger was a hot mess, its paint job cracked and blackened. The jail itself was reduced to a heap of charred logs.
Helen accelerated down the access road. Fifty yards ahead, leaning crookedly over the shoulder of the pavement, was an old wooden sign with reflective letters that read You are now departing Kill Devil Falls.
Helen parked by the sign. She lifted the plastic transmitter from the passenger seat, got out of the Explorer, hit the on switch. A green light flashed. She counted backward from ten.
Pulled the trigger.
A series of violent explosions ripped through the earth. Orange flames erupted from the storefronts on Main Street. The ground heaved, cracked, buckled. The red farmhouse tilted crazily, collapsed into a hole. A swath of forest sank from sight into a sea of smoke and fire. Hot wind ruffled Helen’s hair. She smelled a mixture of burning rubber, plastic, and pine.
She hurled the transmitter deep into the woods. She climbed back into the Explorer, closed the door, and rested her head on the steering wheel. The ground continued to tremble and shudder. Kill Devil Falls’ last agonized death throes. As Rita had put it so adroitly earlier: good riddance.
Helen shifted into reverse, backed the Explorer up, gazed malevolently at the wooden sign. She gunned the engine and rammed it, snapping the post in half, flinging the board into a tall patch of weeds.
Better. Much better.
She eased slowly onto the access road. She couldn’t wait to get home. Scrub herself thoroughly, head to toe, in a scalding hot shower. Have a drink or three. Sleep.
Knock out Chowder’s front teeth.
She took a quick glance at the dirty duffel bag in the back seat.
As the only survivor to make it out of Kill Devil Falls, it fell to her to give an account of the night’s events. She could make up any story she wanted. Three hundred thousand dollars, a hundred thousand. No one would ever know.
That wasn’t her style, but it had been one holy hell of a night. She deserved a little more than a pat on the head and a commemorative plaque.
It was a three-hour drive to Sac. She had plenty of time to think about it.
A trace of a smile on her lips, a red glare reflected in the rearview mirror, and the road ahead lit by a single headlamp, Helen started down the mountain.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brian Klingborg lives in New York City, where he works in educational publishing. He has written books on Kung Fu, and for television. Kill Devil Falls is his first novel.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Copyright Information
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About the Author
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Copyright Information
1
2
3
4
5
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7
8
9
10
11
12
13
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15
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18
19
20
About the Author