Rubble and the Wreckage

by Rodd Clark

  In his lifetime, Gabe would ever only have two opportunities to discuss his deepest, darkest secrets—one with a fat kid in Beauford and much later with a closeted writer in Seattle. There might’ve been other opportunities he could have taken, but he didn’t. He had to choose his timing, and it had ever only been exactly right with Dermott McCoy, when he was just eighteen, and then later with the mysterious Christian Maxwell.

  Chapter Five

  EVEN THOUGH HIS birth name was Dermott McCoy, he’d always gone by the simple moniker of “Fatbacks.” The name originated from teasing he’d received in elementary school gym class. He had been a big child then, and he grew into an even bigger adult. Even he’d noticed his own oversized breasts hanging lazily over his paunch. It always reminded him of the hurtful taunts he’d received whenever shirts and skins had been called for dodge ball. All the pain he’d endured as a fat kid in that backwoods, rural school could never have prepared him for the cruelties he would later see as a young man. His clever mind was razor-sharp, but his mature insights, however, dissipated under the heckling of the older boys who screamed out his first, cruel nickname that first time he shed his shirt for routine play.

  “Hey, we don’t want Fatbacks on our side,” they’d call out to each other. The mocking hisses of derision were never as silent as the boy himself would eventually become just to survive his own childhood. Ostracized because of his weight, he had developed into a loner, and no one, including his teachers, would ever see the sharp way his brain worked or the images he could work up in his own mind. He could have been a writer himself, he could have been just about anything, but his life was derailed by a thing he was born to, a thing outside his control.

  Torturous insults carried him all the way to his high school graduation. He was more grateful than anyone that he’d never have to walk those halls again or hear sneering name-calling from behind his back. But fat kids from the sticks were not always granted positive futures, no matter how hard they tried. His parents lived quite modestly, even by the average within such a small, rustic community. So the prospect of college and his escape from the pain he endured wasn’t exactly forthcoming.

  His life changed considerably after he ran across another lost soul by the name of Gabe Church. He’d met him in town at a local burger dive on a Saturday afternoon, while most kids his age were out partying with friends and driving out to the old Indian graveyard to drink beer and build bonfires, a popular and respected way for the town’s young people to occupy their weekends. But no one ever invited Fatbacks to hang with them, and he never had the courage to just drive out to the graveyard with a six-pack of cheap beer and try and somehow fit in to the crowds of young people who were drinking, whooping, and hollering way out in the woods and far from prying eyes.

  The customary binge drinking usually occurred every weekend. Dropouts and recent graduates would take their dates out there to drink heavily, socialize, and have unprotected sex. Being young had its rebellious features, and it was their first taste of real freedom from parents, school, and local authorities. Cars were parked in semi-circles around makeshift fires, their doors standing open, while loud music filled the woods and disturbed the natural sounds of wildlife. Beer cans littered the ground and every historical headstone that once marked a gravesite had been pushed over then shattered into smaller stone fragments, forever obliterating the reminder of a 200-year-old cemetery and the occupants who rested there.

  It was a rite of passage to party at the Indian graveyard. Most students lost their virginities there, most traffic accidents originated from that very spot. Over the years, a parade of young people had been killed while driving drunk as they exited the cemetery and weaved into the dangerous intersection that headed back to the city and their warm beds. No matter how many of their friends were killed over the years, the custom continued unabated. Some things were just too important as a whole to lose entirely.

  Fatbacks had been there but only a couple of times. He had traveled there once, alone and without any beer. It had been in the afternoon when he was sure he wouldn’t run into anyone from school. How could he not visit? It was too widespread an invitation for adulthood? He had to see what all the hoopla was all about after all. Dermott had walked the ground by himself. It was early in the day; the smell of water from the nearby lake reached his nostrils, and the birds chattered noisily from the treetops. It was a cool afternoon in August, and he was free to enjoy the closeness to nature and the beauty that comes with isolation. He stepped over bent aluminum cans and saw the black char of burnt wood from one of the usual fires in the center of the cemetery lot. He was saddened by what vandals had done here; the broken markers with names that were no longer legible meant there was no one to mourn here. There was finality in it all—you lived and then you died, and even the ground where you were buried became something else. Here it had become a place for unruly children to drink and screw and forget about a horrid future that might await them.

  At least he could say he’d been there. That was, if anyone ever cared to ask. He could venture here again and not have that surprised look of unfamiliar surroundings on his face.

  He was solo that afternoon, but the out-of-towner was quick to engage Fatbacks in conversation. He was cordial and pleasant, something Dermott was generally unaccustomed to. There was an instant bond created, if only by an overweight boy appreciative of such a smiling face returning his. Church had asked about the lay of the land and what young kids did for fun in this rundown shithole of a city. Fatbacks laughed, over-animated at that, and a link was forged between the two. It was then, as they both gobbled up burgers and drank cokes on an outside picnic table, where the story of the Indian graveyard first fell from Dermott’s mouth. And it intrigued Church, who insisted his new friend take him there as soon as possible.

  Fatbacks rode in the passenger seat of the stranger’s Chevelle and directed Church on which roads to take to reach the cemetery. With the windows down and the wind hitting Dermott in the face, he recognized just how truly happy he was in that moment. He had made a new friend. He was also able to impart his own brand of wisdom on a place that was, in reality, only a newfound legend to him. He didn’t know why the new boy wanted to see the Indian graveyard; it wasn’t dark enough to see anyone partying there. Yet Dermott secretly hoped that they would run across other cars, see others he knew by name or reputation. Someone might see him with Church, and the tale would be shared and then shared again in such a small city like Beauford. The new boy was young and good looking. He seemed strong and worthy of taking care of his own should someone risk a fight with him. He was someone who Dermott wasn’t used to having in his company, and he hoped by being seen with such a cool kid that his fortunes might be turned around a bit.

  THERE WAS more to it than both might have realized on that sunny afternoon, because it had its lasting impressions for Fatbacks, but equally, it had some meaning to Gabe. If someone were to ask him years later, possibly while he sat in a downtown, luxury Seattle hotel if he’d ever had someone that he considered a close friend . . . then Dermott may have been the first image that came to mind.

  The Indian graveyard was everything Gabriel initially pictured. It was desolate and miles from the nearest highway. As he drove the farm-to-market roads, he passed white farm homes surrounded by faded whitewashed picket fences and grass-laden pastures for only the smallest of herds. Acres of unused land for only the few head of cows or horses the family boasted of owning. They called themselves farmers, but it had only a tiny leaning to the truth. Most families had single incomes, usually by men who worked in granaries and factories over an hour’s drive away. The wives mostly worked at home, or sold Avon door-to-door. Some were homes with two incomes, the affluence of a wife who worked at a school, library, or downtown insurance office.

  The drive was fun; it had been far too long since Gabe had been in someone’s company. He was joyous, and his exuberance spilled out and laced with Dermott’s own delight. They laughed about the t
hings young people did, they were free, and Church had nearly a full tank of gas. Both had full bellies and no place that they needed to be. It was far more important to the young to know the journey intimately, more than the destination.

  Following Fatbacks’s guiding, Gabe found a spot off the well-worn path to park, where a thousand cars traversed over many late nights of crazy, drunken driving. They jumped out to explore the scenic outdoors, laughing openly on the bliss of it all. The chubby kid’s company had been an unexpected treat for a young man who seemed driven by an unfathomable need to find something, even when he didn’t exactly know what that something was. He led the way, pushing back limbs and maneuvering through dense growth and overhanging branches, allowing Dermott to follow like a considerate boy scout who better understood the forest. When Gabe found out why the kids partied there, and heard stories of the sexual conquests those woods had witnessed, he asked Dermott if he’d ever brought a girl there to fuck. He knew the answer of course; he asked more out of kindness than anything. He wasn’t surprised when the obvious virgin stammered out his explanations as to why he had yet to achieve that ritual.

  They sat on a flat rock talking, one that hung out over the lake’s edge. They skimmed stones and shared stories of how rotten it was growing up in tiny no-name towns. Gabe asked about Dermott’s parents and waited patiently for the kid to tell him about his childhood. Covertly, he was trying to figure out just how different he was from the other kids Gabe had known. Finding out how comparable their childhoods had been pleased him to no end and made his friendship with Fatbacks almost a given.

  THE ODDITY began a couple of hours into their time together. Church began to offer his viewpoints on life, and as he spoke there was a noticeable edge to his words. Dermott hadn’t noticed it before, but Church sounded angrier and more distant than he had when they first met. He had nodded approvingly as Dermott told about his life, leaning in as if he understood how awful it was and held some camaraderie to his pain. But as he offered up what made him leave home and travel the country without an adult, he began to grow dark and morose.

  Even the fat boy understood it was wiser to change the subject and tried in vain to lighten Church’s mood. He tossed a stone far into the lake and dared his new friend to throw his rock even farther, but Church was already gone, his mind trailing off without any guide.

  He started to confess how there were times when he wanted to completely kill the world. How society was so fucked up, he didn’t think anyone would even care if he detonated a bomb some place where a lot of folks normally gathered, or held vigil at some rooftop with a rifle in his arms, taking skillful aim at each and every passerby. The good-looking young man was changing before Dermott’s eyes. His expression had faded from that infectious smile, his eyes drained from their once pretty pale, to something black and abysmal.

  Church had professed to thinking about murder more those days, even more than he had when he was younger and had a specific target in mind. As Fatbacks listened to him ramble, a chill crept into his back and made ripples of dissention on his skin. Even with his tragic suffering at the hands of others, he hadn’t ever considered killing a person, not even the cruelest of individuals had ever warranted that much of a reckoning. He couldn’t escape Church, he was his ride back into town, and part of him didn’t want to. He was unnerved for sure, but he reasoned he understood pain better than most. Maybe Church had just experienced more than his fair share. He genuinely liked his new friend. He didn’t want to spoil all that by delving too deep into his makeup, so he did all he could and stood up to break the moment into shards by throwing the biggest rock he could grab into the water below. The sound pulled Church from wherever his head had fallen, and he looked up and saw the fat kid breathing heavy from the effort of lifting such a big rock and burst into laughter at the sight of it. Then he finally stood up, and the two casually strolled back in the direction of the Chevelle.

  For what it was worth, the chance meeting of Fatbacks and a soon-to-be killer would have their own consequences.

  Chapter Six

  “I’VE BEEN CAREFUL not to ask before now, but how many would you say you’ve killed?” It had already whispered in his brain. There were ramifications to the answer that he didn’t really want to explore. But how could Christian complete his manuscript without knowing the answer?

  “An actual accounting? I suppose I can understand why that number might be important to you, but people who become victims are not necessarily just numbers in my eyes. Think of it as a journey, and they’re not people . . . but mile markers.”

  With that cold, analytical retort, Church had once again slipped into another persona. His grin faded with every flash of memory he was forced to relive. His posture seemed guarded and closed at first, but as he reclined back into the salon chair with his naked chest exposed and the writer’s eyes darting uncomfortably back and forth, another unseen personality found its way to the surface. This one wanted nothing more than to unbalance Christian and gain some sadistic enjoyment in watching him squirm under all that unspoken pressure.

  Church rested his head inside the crux of his massive intertwined palms and set out to witness Christian dance under his manipulations. Church reminded him of an old tomcat he once had that loved to catch mice but when he caught one, spent almost an hour batting the poor thing from paw to paw while the rodent breathed its heavily labored final breaths from its many failed attempts to escape death. Eventually that old barn cat would tire of his own game and pull the mouse’s head off with a single bite before dragging it off to the shadows, presumably to eat. It was just like the game Church enjoyed playing with him. And as it went . . . was proving effective. Christian didn’t like being in Church’s company when both were relaxed, when both could shed the professionalism of their relationship and become friendly. He also did not like the distraction of such a tantalizing figure sitting so close to him. He expected by now he would’ve been more composed and calm, and given it all, it was rather amazing just how collected he appeared, given that Church was still just a few feet away.

  It had only been a couple of hours. The tea pitcher was draining and the sandwiches were growing stale. He’d hoped by then he would have gotten used to being in the killer’s company, and that he’d be accustomed to the sensual way Church would bite his bottom lip when he remembered something painful, or that he didn’t get a tad panic-stricken when the man would brush past him or reach over him to grab another quarter-cut club sandwich from the tray. But time refused to alter his nervous state.

  “I think the readers would like to know if there had ever been time for romance during all the killings?” Christian carried the pretense of writing and never raised his head.

  “Yes. I’m sure the readers want to know that . . . but I would have to tell them I never had much interest in what you call romance. I got laid. I found occasion to blow my jizz wherever I wanted, yes. But ‘romance’ is for fourteen-year-old schoolgirls, don’t you think?”

  “So, during the height of the murders, or before, there was never any person who you were involved with? No one who might have altered your . . . err . . . homicidal course at any time?”

  Church stared over the rim of his glass of tea at Christian. There was an unfamiliar look in his eyes. He seemed to be both exploring the man’s question and considering for the first time the possibility that someone he might have loved could have changed his destiny, for the better. But the black cloud reassembled somewhere on his face.

  “I was never in love, so the point is moot I suppose. Since I have never loved another person, then I guess my destiny was, as they say, pre-ordained. I didn’t become a better man because no one ever mattered enough to me. Then again, that works on the assumption that I’m not a good man, even currently . . . doesn’t it?”

  “Do you consider yourself a good man?” Christian decided, rather resolutely, that he wouldn’t get answers to all of his questions, but he traveled the path forward and trained his eyes on the kil
ler to await a reply.

  “Good is a relative term. I’m good at what I do, I don’t hurt the ones I kill unnecessarily . . . so I suppose it’s up for debate.”

  “I beg to consider that the families of your victims may not agree with you.”

  “Unbiased are we? You speak of morality now, but your question wasn’t whether I consider myself moral or not; you asked if I was good.”

  “Semantics . . .” Christian folded his hands on the notepad he placed in his lap and leaned back to allow the discussion to reach its apex.

  “Morality is reserved for stupid men of the cloth. It doesn’t suit the rest of us, those who crawled out of the mud, then learned to climb trees, all until we could stand upright, to fashion tools or weapons.”

  “You said in the beginning you believed in God.”

  “Incorrect. I asked you if you believed in God. I said it may prove somewhat providential as our talks continued.

  “Then we are back to square one. Do you, Gabriel Church, believe in an almighty God?”

  “If there was a God . . . you wouldn’t need to be having this conversation with me now. I would simply not exist.” Church curled his lip in a barely noticeable sneer. It was his rebuke against the whole point of it. He believed he had indeed become the singularity that disproved a greater god. For Christian, he was truly mad. Being a man with a rapidly failing faith, the writer could only stare blankly at the killer across the room. He was dumbstruck how maniacal the man was becoming while right in front of him.