Recurrence

by Dave Norem

  Ahead of the car, the rifleman went down as if he’d been clubbed. John held his aim just above the prone man’s crotch for over thirty seconds and waited for him to stir, but the man never moved.

  He moved to the driver’s seat, restarted the car, and backed down the road as fast as he dared. Once he was out of sight around a curve, he slowed but continued backing until he was able to find a spot wide enough to turn around.

  Driving on a main highway was out of the question with the blood-spattered broken windshield and rear window; and two dead bodies in the car. The collected haze on what was left of the windshield made it difficult enough to drive. He reversed the route to the split at the absent barn, and took the alternate route from there, driving through the hills for several miles while looking for just the right place. After slowing through a bushy area, he found a weed-choked track into the brush, but had to reverse, as he had nearly missed seeing it.

  He drove the car up the lane far enough to be well out of sight behind a rock wall, then walked back to the road and checked for traffic. Finding none, he worked his way back toward the car straightening bent and broken weeds, dragging sticks and dead limbs from the brush around him into the path. Satisfied that his entrance would be almost impossible to detect, he returned to the car to assess his options.

  He made a brief exploration and then dragged both bodies several yards into the brush, to a place where he could later roll them down into a small ravine.

  He stripped almost everything from the pockets of both men and stuffed all of the personal items into the black socks that Joe Spane had been wearing. Afterwards, He knotted the open ends together with a square knot. If pursued he would pitch them at the first opportunity, knowing they would be nearly invisible in the dark.

  He removed the rest of the clothes, including shorts and undershirts from both men. He salvaged them, along with the few items of clothing he found in their bags, to help with the cleanup. There was a small stream at the bottom of the ravine and he felt fortunate, not only to be alive, but to have the water.

  While stripping and searching the bodies for any telltale identification, he’d found that Spane was wearing a homemade crotch-holster. In it was an old, Colt Pocket Model - 25, semi-automatic pistol that was loaded in the chamber, as well as the clip. It was so old and worn that John wondered that he hadn’t shot his own balls off with it.

  He unloaded the gun and after flinging the shells into the brush, pitched it aside. In Spane’s bag, he found an Iver Johnson Cadet 38 Special in almost as poor of a condition, the shells tarnished and green around the joints. John didn’t consider either the gun or the shells safe enough to shoot and pitched them too. Later he buried the guns and the crotch-holster several yards from the site.

  In Wimpy’s bag, he found and kept a loaded Charter Arms Undercover 38 Special, with a dozen extra rounds in a sock. He replenished his colt from the stash.

  The car still ran fine, and all of the lights worked, but its appearance was an issue. There were holes on the right side of the windshield, a blown out rear window, shotgun-pellet scratches on the hood and doorpost, and a bullet crease nearly six-inches long on the hood. He decided to stay until after dark when the damage wouldn’t be as visible. Finding a fist-sized rock nearby, he used it to smash out the rest of the glass from the broken windows, and then scraped and picked up all of the pieces he could find.

  He wiped the blood that had sprayed and dripped onto the outside of the car with the previously removed underwear. Finished with that, he worked on the inside with other soiled garments from the bags, completing the job with Spane’s shirt. Blood had soaked into the front upholstery and he could only wet and wipe to diffuse the stains.

  There was a bullet hole in the seat-back, but not an exit hole, so he probed into it and heard the bullet fall down into the interior of the upholstery. He gave up on retrieving it and lit a cigarette from Spane’s pack: then used it to burn the edges of the bullet hole.

  Next, he made a paste of red-dirt gravel and dust-covered grease, scraped from the engine, and used it to dull the bullet crease and the scratches from the shotgun pellets.

  After a short break, he returned to the ravine and rolled the bodies down into it; then caved the overhanging bluff down on top of them. When he was finished with that, he rested for a few minutes and then worked on himself. One of the clean undershirts was used to wash his face and arms: the other he used as a towel.

  A money belt holding over a thousand dollars that was not part of the counted share, had been strapped around Joe Spane’s waist. Included was over four hundred dollars of the counterfeit money that should have been destroyed. It was mixed in with another hundred, that was probably also from the hijack.

  Wimpy had only been carrying his share of the loot, three hundred dollars of clean money in a sock at the bottom of his travel bag, and just over forty dollars in his wallet.

  The rest of the items he found were stuffed back into the bags. After leaving, he would pitch them into the brush along the road. The additional shares of money went into his bag, but separate from his personal money. He resolved to keep track of the amounts in his head.

  Before leaving, he scooped out a hole in the ground and burned the bogus bills thoroughly: then buried the ashes. He wanted to abandon the car there too, but had no idea where he was or how he would find other transportation. It was also too close to where the shootout had occurred.

  Night came quickly in the mountains and left no time for rest. He cleared his exit of debris at dusk. When it was fully dark, he cautiously backed the car closer to the road, stopping every few yards with the headlights on low beam to brush over and cover his tracks. When he was close to the end he stopped, walked to the road, and listened for traffic or sirens.

  There was nothing to see or hear so he backed straight onto the road and left the engine running while he finished camouflaging his exit. Satisfied, he drove alternately north and east until he was well clear of the area.

  Driving at night with no windshield or glasses turned out to be a trying experience that forced him to travel much slower than normal. After the first twenty miles, he started dumping the unnecessary items at intervals along the way.

  Several miles passed before he reached another highway. Not much later, he was able to determine his location, less than fifty miles from where they had started the search for moonshine. He swiped a license plate from a similar Oldsmobile on the outskirts of the next town, at a livestock auction.

  Fifty miles further on, he wedged the Oldsmobile behind a loading ramp at an abandoned freight yard. He switched plates and put the original in his suitcase; then hid it and his travel bag in different locations nearby. He didn’t like being on foot in a strange town, but he needed another car.

  In less than fifteen minutes he’d found one and drove it back to the freight yard, where he retrieved his possessions. He wiped down the first car with a pair of Wimpy’s pants and drove away from the area; still not feeling safe until he was another hundred miles northeast and in the small city of Williamson, West Virginia. He pitched the license plate from his Oldsmobile into a junkyard along the way.

  He left the second car parked in a rough looking area near a tavern with the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition. It was almost certain to be taken by morning. A six-block walk got him to a Greyhound station, where he bought a ticket to Charleston.

  John was exhausted and had to force himself to stay awake so that he wouldn’t miss the bus. He fell asleep before it was barely out of the station and slept soundly for several hours. Part of a nightmare from years past returned. It was the image of the drunken man in the overturned car.

  He was transfixed by the image of the man staring impending death in the face. There was an impact and he was flying through the air toward the man, face-to-face!

  “No!” John awoke with a jolt, his forehead against the seat-back in front of
him. The air-brakes on the bus released and he slumped back into his own seat. A heavy-set woman in her forties with moles on her face was in the seat beside him. She patted him on the knee.

  “Some moron pulled out in front of the bus, but we missed him.” She patted him a couple more times then slid her hand up his leg a few inches and back down. She left it there and said, “That must have been some kind of dream you was having Sweetie.” She leaned over close to his face and lowered her voice. “You hollered ‘son-of-a bitch’, and then ‘no!’ just when the driver hit the brakes.”

  John pushed her hand away from his leg and rubbed his face. “What time is it?”

  “Just past noon Honey; we’re coming into Charleston. I only live a couple blocks from the station, if you want some good coffee. You look like you could use it.” She smiled at him with no front teeth.

  John shook his head. “No thanks, I’m meeting somebody.”

  She seemed familiar with disappointment and was gone when he came out of the men’s room.

  Later he remembered the dream and his mind flashed to the face of the man standing at the front of the car in the hills of Kentucky. He also remembered an incident from his childhood that was almost identical to the dream he’d just experienced. His dad had been able to slow down enough that he just bumped the other car; knocking the drunken man backwards past the seats.

  John remembered climbing up onto the side of the car and holding the door open while his father hoisted the man up through the doorway. He was nearly frozen by the time they got the drunkard out. The only injury the man had was a bloody nose from having it plastered against the glass.

  Charleston, West Virginia was one of the cities where John had a safe deposit box containing other identification and a stash of money. He switched identification and added two hundred dollars to the stash, thankful that he wasn’t drawing from it instead. Afterwards he bought a cheap car for cash and hooked up with a local friend who could get him in touch with Cramer and provide a place to crash for the night. It was always assumed that contacts would not bring any heat with them. John was sure that he was well clear.

  When Cramer called the safe-house, John explained what had happened in Kentucky, and what he had found on Joe Spane. “Less than forty-eight hours ago I was patting myself on the back that you and I had never killed anyone. Now I’ve killed three men and buried two others.”

  “If you hadn’t, you’d be dead now. Those guys have probably been doing that for years. I’ve heard horror stories about that area and other places like it in the Appalachians since I was a kid. They’ll part-out the cars and sell the parts through junkyards all over the country. Clothes, jewelry, luggage, produce and manufactured goods are all cash crops to them. They especially love guns and cash. Nothing goes to waste though. I’ve heard they’ll even chop up fresh bodies and feed them to their hogs.”

  “Yeah, well it’s still something that’s going to haunt me. How’s your head—and ribs?”

  “I’m healing well and working on something safer for us in the future. No more shoot-em-up stuff OK?”

  “Right,” John said. “Now what about Spane and Ivins, I’ve got their share of the money and don’t know who to send it to? I went through their stuff and ditched everything personal, but there were no names or addresses on them.”

  “Don’t worry about Spane he cheated everyone, including his own family. He brought this on himself; got Ivins killed and nearly got you killed too. Here’s a name and address for Wimpy. Remember that we just say, “He had to leave for California.” They’ll understand.”

  John wrote down the information. “Got it,” he said; then hung up.

  He sold the car in Indianapolis for more than what he’d paid for it and switched back to his own identity. Indianapolis was a good hub for exchanging identification and money. He had several contacts and more than one stash there. One of his contacts, a man named John Rush, owned a large used car lot and wanted him to get a dealer’s license and buy-in.

  His part would consist of becoming an inter-state partner-broker and auto buyer. He would purchase cars in the South, to be sold in the North.

  It would be a cover for other things as well, including both smuggling and juggling. The juggling included title numbers, engines and smaller parts. The license could also create a black hole for hot vehicles. He could enhance the smuggling by tying it in with his friend William Decker in Columbia, South Carolina. Smuggling already included booze, guns, tobacco and stolen or hijacked merchandise. John would give it a lot of thought in the coming months.

  After Indianapolis, it was home to Julie for some much-needed home life and tender loving care. He dreaded telling her about the deaths and narrow escapes, though. He knew that she would pressure him to give up his life of crime.

  CHAPTER 18

  During the next several months, John and Julie went through many hours of discussion regarding the catastrophes in Kentucky and Cincinnati. His stories shocked her so much that she fell back on the basic religious philosophies she had learned while her father was still alive.

  To her, the taking of human lives by John would place him in a near purgatory state that he would have to redeem himself from in the not-to-distant future, in order to obtain his ultimate salvation.

  The fact that he had survived unscathed from the attempts on his own life indicated that he still had potential to be pure of heart and a good Christian. She also believed that the failure of financial gain from the endeavor was an omen from God: He could not continue to profit from the wages of sin and survive.

  John agreed to a respite from crime of at least six months, during which he would look for other sources of income and ways to fulfill his burning lust for thrill and adventure. Despite his thirst for challenge and excitement, he did not want to lose her love.

  He became his own home repairman and remodeler. On Julie’s days off they worked together on projects. Their rift diminished over time and their bonds grew stronger. The complex of team accomplishment enhanced their lives, giving them a sense of mutual pride in their achievements.

  In addition to repairs, they added a bathroom, storage closets and a separate laundry room to their large classic older home, increasing its value considerably.

  “You’re really good at this,” she said while swiping at this nose with a paintbrush still wet with paint.

  He grabbed her hand and flicked it back at her. “Ha, you’re the artist in this family.”

  He laughed, looking at the pale blue spots that appeared on her face among the light freckles. The play and good times continued to grow, and their love-making grew as close and intense as before.

  The time spent was not without dreams and nightmares though.

  He had been shot, stabbed, or clubbed, in the throat. He knew not which. Awake and aware of his presence, supine on a canvas cot over a larger canvas stretched on the ground, he inhaled restricted streams of air, grateful for his ability to do so.

  Voiceless, he stared up at an overcast sky while acknowledging upright walls of grey-colored canvas in his peripheral vision. The clamor that arose around him was of voices in a mixture of murmurs, shrieks, muttered-curses and pleas to Mother—or to God. He mused that for some reason men never appealed to their own fathers.

  The voices blended with sounds of men on foot, squeaks of leather, and the light clatter of manipulated instruments. Once heard, this cacophony could only come from a battlefield dispensary.

  A shadow loomed from slightly above and to his left, and a hand was placed on his forearm. He attempted to turn his head, but it was bound and immobilized and he could not make out the features of the person kneeling beside him.

  A man’s voice spoke gently. “Son, you’ve been wounded, and you’ll have to rest.”

  While the voice distracted him, an unseen hand from the right clamped a cloth down over his nose and mouth. Knowing that it was undou
btedly Sulfuric Ether, he resolved not to resist its application. Within moments though, he felt that death was imminent and struggled to free himself from its grasp. This was anticipated, and a number of unseen hands clamped down on him. He succumbed to the ringing darkness of oblivion.

  Now he was again aware, but from a very different perspective.

  “He’s coming too, give him more.” The gentle voice changed, and spoke with authority.

  “For God’s sake he’s choking to death!” Another spoke with anxiety. Then the formerly gentle voice stated, “You fool, you’ve dropped it down his throat.”

  His awareness was now as a mildly curious observer from above. He could see the men struggling to save the body below him: his own body... He continued watching. One kneeling man probed the throat of the man on the canvas cot, while another attempted simultaneous application of a dark wet cloth to the nostrils. The mouth was propped open at an unrealistic angle, with blocks of wood at either side.

  Men changed positions on the tan-canvas floor, stained with the blood of both old, and more recent, surgeries. The surgeon, the man of two voices, took over. Probing with the forceps, he had to turn his face away to avoid being overcome by the ether himself. Others held the quivering body in place, facing away also.

  From his vantage point, he could see the entire scene and the features of those involved. He could see others beyond the canvas partitions performing similar tasks or engaging in other activities. He observed all of this for an interminable amount of time, his curiosity only slightly more than indifference. Time was meaningless.

  Interest waning, he turned to observe what was behind and above him, his destination... He saw nothing but the cloudy overcast sky and a slight break in the clouds. Was there a presence beyond the break? He could see no kind of being. Was this break in the clouds to be his goal?