Beck tried starting the car, again.
The Altima shuddered to life. There wasn't much left of it in it. Beck sighed, relieved, and quickly backed it out of the slot and eased it across the parking lot, driving around the people standing in huddles and drifting down and across the aisles to their cars. He left the Eastern European brute in the rearview mirror and drove out of the parking lot and turned onto Eight Mile Road, were he joined a few other cars, and headed east toward Dearborn.
FIFTY
When Naomi opened the motel room door and saw Joe Beck standing there on the other side with her son, safe and sound by his side, her eyes filled up.
For six years, she had wondered what that moment would feel like, the time when she met him for the first time, if it was to ever happen. And, now, it had. It was heartwarming. She looked into his little blue eyes and became overcome with emotion. Tears trickled down her cheeks like raindrops on a pane of glass.
He was a beautiful little blond-haired boy. Cute, thin and innocent. He had bright blue eyes and a tiny little nose and, maybe, the cutest dimpled cheeks she had ever seen.
She smiled, looking at him, an instant sensation of love glowing in her eyes and burning in her heart.
He looked up at her, warily, like he didn't even know her.
Beck crouched down beside him and whispered, "It's OK, Josh. This is your mom."
He looked around at him, wonder in his eyes.
Beck nodded and eased him forward. "Go on."
Josh looked back around at Naomi and his eyes filled up. He, too, felt the bond.
She smiled and crouched down and held out her arms.
He walked forward, slowly, and stepped through the open door straight into them.
She grabbed him and hugged him tight, like he was the most precious thing in her entire world. Because, he was. She cried and he cried and they just hugged each other in the way that only true family can when they're reunited together after a long period apart.
She swept her hand back through his thick blond hair and laughed and cried, genuinely ecstatic. But, also, feeling a sense of remorse. She should never have given him away. Never. And she knew it. She felt it. Her heart was elated, but heavy at the same time. A lump formed in her throat.
He stepped back and smiled up at her. He, too, felt the loving connection between mother and son.
"Are you OK, baby?" she asked him.
He nodded.
"Are you hungry?"
He nodded, again.
"Do you like potato chips?"
He nodded some more.
She smiled. "Great. I got some for you. What kind do you like?"
He shrugged.
She laughed and looked up at Beck, then hugged Josh, again. She had him look toward the bed in the motel room. There was a pile of chips sitting on top. Bags of cheese and onion, ready salted, salt and vinegar, and even a pizza flavor. Beside it were some red cups and a few bottles of diet soda. Orange and cola. "See it all there, baby?"
He nodded and smiled.
"Go pick the ones you want," she said, beaming with joy.
His smile widened. He walked in and went straight for the biggest bag of the lot. A huge sharing bag of salt and vinegar flavor chips. He lifted it and tried to pull it open, but it was too tightly sealed. He looked back at his mom, a 'help me' look in his eyes.
Smiled and laughed and cried. "I'll be right over, baby," she said, then stood and looked at Beck. It was like her apprehension, after seeing what he was capable of, was gone. There was no doubt about it, he was brutal. But what she saw in him was a strong sense of good. She beamed and said, "Thank you."
He smiled and nodded, nobly, then said, "Thank me when I'm done."
She pulled a face.
"After what happened to your salon, I made you a promise. I said I'd put this right."
Naomi pulled another face and looked in Josh, like he already had, as if, in that moment, the salon and the outstanding loan didn't matter one single bit.
"No," Beck said and shook his head. "I make a promise, I keep it. And I've not done that, just yet. There's one more place I have to go. And, if I come back, it'll more than make up for everything."
She sucked a breath. "Where are you going?"
He shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he answered. "Just that there's something I need to take care of. And I'll come right back as soon as it's done. So, don't go anywhere. I'll come right back here and give you what you deserve. And, then, I'll be done. And I'll set off on my way."
Naomi nodded. "OK. But only if you're sure?"
Beck nodded back. "I am" he said and stepped forward closer toward her, wrapped his hand around the back of her head and brought his face in close to hers and kissed her, gently.
She liked it. She kissed him back and they locked lips for a few more seconds, before, eventually, he let go of her hair and smiled.
"Go get to know your son," he said to her and looked in at him sitting on the bed. He was still wrestling with the massive bag of potato chips.
Naomi looked around and laughed, again, then nodded and thanked him once more and closed the door.
Beck turned and walked back to the car. He put the key back into the Altima's ignition and rolled down the window and left it sitting open parked up in the spot in the parking lot, waiting to be scooped up. Somebody would come along and see it. It would be gone by the time he was back on the interstate.
He walked over and climbed into his Camaro, fired up its powerful V-8 engine and slipped it into gear. He put on Springsteen's Darkness on the Edge of Town album and sat there, listening, for a few seconds, then set off toward Vladimir Polanski's salvage yard down in Rockwood.
FIFTY-ONE
Beck turned off Ready Road, south of Rockwood on the other side of the frozen-over Huron River, and pulled up outside Vladimir Polanski's salvage yard. It was covered by darkness and a blanket of thick white fog and ringed by an eight-foot-tall palisade steel perimeter fence. The fence looked thick and solid, as far as Beck could tell from the part he could see. It had sharpened W-shaped prongs at the top of each palisade pale and was surrounded by a dense line of bushy green, snowswept conifers. Obviously designed for maximum security, to keep whatever was outside, outside; or whatever was inside, inside.
He stepped out of the car and walked toward the gate. The fog was dense. The trees seemed to tremble in the cold. He could feel it, frozen against his skin, and he could taste it, thick and cold, like a natural flavored milkshake. Some snow fell from the conifers' branches. He walked forward along the snowy, frozen dirt path, drinking in breath after breath of the white, frosty air.
The gate was as ominous-looking as the fence. Big, metallic and heavy. And it was fitted with the locking mechanism of a padlock and steel chain. Alarmingly, although the gate was closed, the padlock was open, the chain dangling from the middle supporting beam. A sign that somebody else was, perhaps, already there.
Beck pushed the gate open and stepped into the yard. The chain chinked on the steel and the gate sucked shut behind him.
The yard was huge, stretching into the fog for as far as the eye could see, and full. It was filled with rows of old, wrecked cars. Red, white, black, blue, yellow, and green sedans, SUVs, trucks, and jeeps. They were all dumped close together, sitting side by side, nose to tail, one atop the other. They were mostly covered with a thick white layer of snow. Some looked ancient and rusted, others looked relatively shiny and new. The less snowswept license plates said the cars were from Michigan, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Wisconsin and Illinois. A few were from even further afield, from as far as California and Arizona. Most of them looked like they had been sitting there for years, condemned to a pile of weather-beaten ruins.
Beck looked straight ahead and walked forward into the yard. He could feel an eerie chill in the air around him.
On his right was a pile of stripped car parts. Hoods, bumpers, doors, quarter panels, radiators, engines, batteries, propeller shafts, exhausts, mufflers, alloys, fuel tanks, gasket
s, windshields and wing mirrors. And just about everything else anyone would ever need to fix broken car or, even, build one from scratch. It was all heaped up and covered with frosty white layer of snow that twinkled under the moonlight.
On his left were stacks of black rubber tires. Big and small. From bands like Goodyear to Michelin, some looking threadbare or part worn, others looking fairly new. Unlike the car parts, they were assembled in a neat order, tire atop tire, maybe, twenty or thirty high. Lots of them. All hardened and white with frost and snow.
Up ahead was a wall of freezing fog and the piles of cars. Thousands of them. Row after row of mechanical skeletons. It was a vehicular graveyard, except the bodies were all out on show.
He walked forward past the first row of old cars, then the next and, then, the next, unable to see even as much as ten feet in front of his face. The fog was too think. Dense and cold, he feel it on his skin and smell it in his nostrils. He could even taste it to the extent of being able to chew through the air, as if it was a gob of Arctic gum.
He sucked a brisk, difficult breath and looked down at the ground and saw something that sent a chill shivering down his spine. It was a frosted, hardened pile of dog shit. And it was huge. It looked like it had come from a dinosaur. He gulped and stepped around it, hoping the dog it came from was somewhere inside, locked away in a kennel and bound with chains. A picture of it entered his mind. He visualized a ferocious black hulking beast pulling at its shackles, blood on its teeth, death lurking in its eyes and his scent swirling in its nose.
That was when he heard one of his worst fears. A loud, vicious bark. It was followed by an angry, aggressive growl. And, then, another. And another. And another. Each one, different to the last.
Shit, he thought and shivered and quickly glanced around, looking in all directions. Guard dogs. Lots of them. Somewhere in this yard, on the other side of this freezing fog.
He pictured them in his mind sucking seething, angry breaths. A ridge of rock running the length of their spines. Their coats standing upright like a lethal row of deadly spikes. They had ghostly white, haunting eyes. Heads as big as a tiger's, and teeth to match, too. He pictured their jaws, massive and terrifying, sharp icicles of snot hanging down from their gums, with their mouths open and primed, ready to snap down on his arms and legs. Worst of all, he knew they could see him, but he couldn't see them. Not yet, anyway. He swallowed, hard. His heart thumped in his chest and chills crept down his spine.
Still, he walked forward. He heard their footsteps on the ground. The crunching pitter patter of paws padding across the compacted snow. They were around him, in all directions. In front. Behind. And on either side. He could hear it. He could sense it. He could feel it. His heart began to beat faster and faster. His palms became warm and clammy in his gloves. He felt his scarf constricting around his neck, like a deadly woolen snake crushing the air from his windpipe.
The dogs' footsteps drew nearer. The crunching became louder, maybe only twenty or thirty feet away, maybe only three or four car's lengths from his body.
He began to pant, sucking quick, light breaths of the icy cold air and drew his Smith & Wesson. He would need it. And he knew it. He glanced left and right, but saw nothing. But he could hear them snarling and growling, like they were closing in for the kill. He looked straight ahead. Clear. And, then, turned and looked behind himself. That's when he saw the first one.
It appeared from behind the trunk of what remained of a red Pontiac Sunbird on his left. It was a Rotterman. A cross between a Rottweiler and a Doberman, and every bit as bad as he imagined.
It was big and black. Absolutely hulking. It had shoulders that looked like they were chiselled from stone. Its paws were huge, not far off the size of baseball catcher's mitts. And its eyes were demonic. Dark and penetrating. There was a steel chain around its neck for a collar and no tail for it to wag. Not that it would be wagging it, anyway. Its mouth was open. Thick green snot dripped from its bottom jaw. Its jaws were long and wide. In Beck's mind, they were not far off from being the length of a crocodile's. But its teeth were worse. They looked as sharp as razor blades, like they could easily sever a man's leg just by being beside it. And the dog had a mouth full of them.
The Rotterman looked up at him and snarled. It was a low-pitched, angry growl.
Beck's throat tightened. He swallowed, hard. A sudden weakness shot down his legs and arms. His head felt light. He began to feel nauseous.
The Rotterman growled, again. This time, louder than before. And, even, more aggressive. Its ghoulish, evil eyes were locked on him, following his every move. Even the beating movement of chest as his heart thumped underneath his rib cage with every second that flashed past.
Beck sucked a deep, sobering breath of air and realized he had to act. Quickly. He raised the muzzle of his Smith & Wesson up through the air, his right forefinger looped through the trigger guard, squeezing the trigger, hard, with what strength was left in his hand.
The Rotterman watched the stainless steel firearm arc up through the air, then barked and charged toward him, its jaws open, snarling and ready to bite.
Beck's eyes widened. Chills shot down his neck and back, all the way down his legs to his heels. He sucked what he thought could have been his last breath and quickly pulled the trigger.
Bang.
The gunshot was loud. It sounded like a giant hammer striking a hollow piece of wood. The noise cannoned around the eerie setting, rumbling between the cars, its sound waves ricocheting off of their rusted, beaten and frosted bodies, and sweeping over their snow-covered, broken windshields. The 9mm round howled down the handgun's barrel and tore from its muzzle like a roller coaster rip-roaring from the station, screaming through the air, destined for the Rotterman's forehead.
The Rotterman caught the round right between its eyes. It let out a dull whine and slumped, lifeless, to the ground. It landed side-on, its legs fully extended and twitching, and its head hanging from its neck, its mouth wide open with its tongue hanging out across the snow.
Beck exhaled a sigh of relief. Then, he saw and heard another one.
It appeared on his left, from around the side of an old bottle green station wagon that had cracked wooden panelling. The dog looked bigger than the last one. And a whole lot angrier. It growled with the ferocity of a roaring coal fire turning black rocks to nothing but thin white eddying embers.
Beck took a step to his right, trying to put some distance between himself and the dog, but stopped.
Another Rotterman appeared on that side. It was big and black and every bit as bad-looking as the one on his left.
He gulped and glanced back at it. It had moved in closer, now maybe only fifteen feet away. It was edging toward him, showing no fear at all. Its head was bowed with its nose almost touching the snow and its eyes were locked on him like the sensors of a cruise missile.
He stepped backward.
The Rotterman on his right growled, then barked.
The one on his left did the same. Its bark was louder and more abrupt. And its growl was terrifying.
Beck stepped backward, again. Then, paused. He heard another growl and bark behind him. He quickly turned around.
It was another Rotterman. Right there, only six feet away. It had crept up on him with the stealth of an African lion stalking its prey on the vast, overgrown plain. It was bigger and stronger-looking than the others. And, maybe, even more dangerous. Its teeth were yellow, maybe stained with blood. And huge. Its canines looked like they were one, maybe two inches long. And sharp. Like they would puncture flesh on the touch. It growled and took a step toward him, a seething anger burning in its only eye, the other one covered over with dark, scarred flesh. It had a look on its face that said, 'This is my yard and it's either gonna be you or it's me.'
Beck made the decision for it. He quickly raised his Smith & Wesson and pulled the trigger. Shot it dead where it stood. The bullet went straight through its only remaining eye, ploughing deep into its brain. The
dog whimpered and flopped forward to the snow.
The other two whined, then went for Beck. They snapped their jaws and lunged toward him.
He dived over the frozen, snowy hood of an old black sedan and hit the ground on the other side, hard.
The Rottermans swept around the back of the vehicle, the smell of fresh meat swirling around their nostrils.
He saw and heard them dart around the trunk of the car and charge his way. Unable to get up or dive out of their way, he rolled underneath the next car in the row. A fairly new-looking navy blue Chevrolet Caprice. The dirt underneath it was hard and cold.
The Rottermans lunged toward him, snapping their jaws and snarling like a pair of possessed monsters. They seethed and snarled and even tried to scratch at him with their front paws. One of them even bit the Chevy's front left tire, popping it on impact.
A stream of air hissed from the rubber and the body of the car sank downward.
Beck heard and saw it and quickly realized he was in trouble. But he had nowhere to go.
The two Rottermans jumped back, bewildered looks on their faces, as they felt the tire's air swoosh across their snouts. They growled at the puncture, then paused and looked at each other, malevolence burning in their eyes, and barked.
The Rotterman on the left rushed over to the Chevy's back left tire and sank its teeth into the rubber with everything it had. The tire held firm at first, but eventually popped under the crushing pressure of the dog's savage jaws. The bang was loud. It sounded like somebody had burst a giant balloon. The car dipped over onto to its left.
Beck rolled to its right, trying to avoid the crushing one-ton weight coming down on top of him, trapping him underneath it on the frozen ground.
The Rotterman that was on the right, the one that had unintentionally burst the front left tire, dashed around the Chevy's hood. It snarled and dived at the front right tire and ripped a chunk of rubber from its side wall with a ferocious snap. The air exploded through the gap. The car creaked and slumped forward.
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