The Death Panel: Murder, Mayhem, and Madness

by Tom Piccirilli

  The roof was struck again and struck hard, so hard in fact that Cerrone saw the dents popping just above his head like a wrecking ball was dropping. Bam, bam, bam. The car swerved and Cerrone, just full of fire and ice, wasn’t sure if it was him doing it or the impact of … whatever it was.

  Oh, you know what it is, his screaming brain told him. Don’t play fucking games here, Donny. There’s only one thing that could come out of the sky with that kind of force and it ain’t Peter fucking Pan on dragonfly wings …

  But Cerrone was not giving into it. Not now, maybe not ever. He wasn’t going out like Arroyo and Rice and Wade. He wasn’t going to be put down like a tortured mouse a cat had grown tired of.

  Bam, bam.

  He kept the Vic on the road and was already cursing himself for taking this godforsaken shortcut through the country. Jesus, nothing but fields and trees and no other cars, no nothing but desolate-looking farmhouses now and again.

  Something was on the roof, riding it like a gremlin on the wing of a plane even though Cerrone had the Crown Vic almost to ninety, barely making those turns and vaulting roughly over train tracks and bumps. He could hear it up there, making the roof creak and then something whipped down at the driver’s side window, an impossibly long hand, bleached white and ending in black claws. It slapped against the window almost playfully, Cerrone thought, flattening out there like an albino spider soaking up the heat on a fence. The claws scraped against the glass. Then it disappeared … and came back, curled into a fist and smashing into the window. A webbing of cracks appeared. It smashed into it again and the entire window exploded into Cerrone’s lap in a sheet of candy glass.

  He screamed.

  The Crown Vic jumped onto the shoulder, spitting up gravel and then Cerrone yanked the wheel and it was up on the pavement, tires squealing. That hand came in again and slashed against the side of his face, flaying it raw. Blood pooled in Cerrone’s left eye, splattered over his face and there was pain, but he didn’t have time for it. He took hold of the Marlin 12-gauge and stuck the barrel against the roof, pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash was blinding, the report almost blew out his eardrums.

  But it bought him time.

  For there was a wild, high shrieking from up there like a wounded cat and the creature was gone. Cerrone knew it. Just as he knew he was losing a lot of blood and the left side of his face was hanging low in a red flap.

  He put the Marlin over his lap, held it between his knees and racked the pump.

  Okay, you cocksucker, come and get it …

  Then the thing landed on the hood.

  Landed there on its feet, those immense bat wings spread out to either side. It just stood there, easy and confident like an acrobat on the high wire. Cerrone cried out and jerked the wheel this way and that and nearly lost control of the car, but his guest just stood there.

  And then it leaped, crashing through the windshield, spraying more spiderwebbed glass into Cerrone, that horrid face sprouting teeth and one taloned hand slashing madly, taking off Cerrone’s nose and ripping his left eye out of its socket. And Cerrone was screaming, hands not on the wheel … more out of reflex than anything, he had the Marlin up and he let go with a wild shot. It knocked the creature away.

  But by then it didn’t matter.

  The Crown Vic fired off the road, leaped a culvert, sideswiped first one tree and then another, rocketed down a hill and flipped end over end.

  And there came to rest.

  13

  Cerrone came to maybe ten or twenty minutes later, upside down in the Vic. He was broken and bleeding, a knob of bone thrust from his left leg. The seatbelt had held him, but his right arm was shattered and numb. His jaw was broken and his mouth was full of blood.

  The car rocked.

  Then rocked again.

  Something took hold of the banged-in driver’s side door and ripped it free in a screech of metal. The dome light came on. Cerrone saw the creature standing there, breathing hard. It had taken a round of buckshot that had ripped its suit open so that you could now see its body. Although its wings were black, its skin seemed to be a mottled gray, completely hairless, and drawn so tight over the cage of its ribs that each time it drew one of those low, guttural breaths, the bones beneath stood out like iron rungs.

  It had lost its hat.

  Its chest was smeared with something brown and sticky that looked like tobacco juice or the blood of a spider. It reached in and yanked Cerrone free. The pain was so intense that Cerrone blacked out. Didn’t come to until the wind was blasting him, cold and dark and forever. By moonlight, he could see the tops of trees flying by below, the frosted roofs of farmhouses as the creature flew with him, dipping and soaring and careening like it didn’t have much control.

  It went on for some time.

  Cerrone kept swimming in and out of consciousness, knowing his guts were all busted up and he was bleeding internally. It felt like there was something hot and wet leaking out of his asshole.

  And then they swooped down through the streets, cutting down alleys and then they disappeared into blackness and Cerrone could smell the sewers. Dankness. Musty channels of night.

  When he opened his eyes, there was flickering candlelight.

  He could hear water dripping, see with his good eye weird, phantasmal shadows jumping on the sweating brick walls. He didn’t know where this place was, could remember something about a tunnel, an awful stink, then, then …

  Then this place. A vault maybe.

  The creature was there, as was its mate … if its pendulous breasts could be any indication. They were gnashing their long yellow teeth and glaring at him with those bulbous red eyes. They were making a squeaking, chittering sound that made him want to scream.

  But they were just watching him, a noisome stench billowing off them that was rancid and dirty like they’d been chewing on dead things and sleeping in moldering graves.

  Cerrone kept going in and out of consciousness.

  He realized they had him in a box … a coffin … his fingers could feel the dirt beneath him, the things crawling in it.

  “We have prepared a place for you, Mr. Cerrone,” the male said, the female squealing in reply.

  Then the lid came down and Cerrone could hear nails being driven into wood and the blackness was eternal, cloisterous, and smothering. He could hear their claws on the lid of his box and then, before long, something fleshy and moist squirming there in the dirt with him.

  Something like a tongue, lapping at his wounds.

  Then a mouth.

  Biting.

  Detail

  Fred Venturini

  * * *

  The vehicle whispers about her, almost blushing, spilling all her secrets. May as well be her eyes, this interior. Truth splattered everywhere. Messy with truth. Truth needing the deft cleaning touch only I can provide.

  The vanity plate on the vehicle says Taylor, so that’s probably her interim last name. Yellow haze on the interior of the windshield on the passenger side, but not hers. So she’s a non-smoker, but the passenger smokes frequently, who is either her husband or the guy she’s banging on the side.

  Autoglym glass polish does the job, dissolving the film and leaving streak-free, crystal clear glass. Windex? My ass. The ammonia in Windex is corrosive, damaging paint and rubber or plastic trim.

  The driver’s side door has some scuff marks, which isn’t a shock. When exiting and entering a vehicle, a daily driver will often scuff the bottom section of the door panel. Sonus All-in-One Automotive cleanser, poof, they disappear.

  She may be a non-smoker, but her eating habits are lax. The carpet has salt hiding in the shag, and there’s French fries nestled between the console and the driver seat. The fries are like little pieces of petrified wood, so she’s sloppy.

  A Norah Jones CD is stuffed under the mechanics of the passenger seat. CD isn’t scratched but the case is bashed to shit. Never looked for, never missed, never cared about. Probably a gift.

  She
drives a Hummer H3, which is supposed to mean money, but the high mileage tells me she’s a commuter. She’s probably still working a crap job and this baby isn’t the more expensive H2, so they probably combine for a little over a hundred grand a year with two jobs. She likes the finer things, but can’t have them. So she resents him a little bit.

  On to the backseat.

  Here is where you can see the footprint of infidelity, plain as day. This is why I can charge anything I want. Why there’s no advertising, no invoices, cash only.

  She brought it in because semen is a lot like bubble gum once it dries overnight, especially on synthetic leather.

  Ms. Temporarily Taylor doesn’t take care of her interior. The sun breaks down the factory’s protective layer, making the surface porous. So when mystery man pulls out at the last second, his party streamers dry right into the material. You can’t get them off unless you chisel the pieces away with a detailing spade.

  Ms. Temporarily Taylor had her shoes on. Her legs were hiked up high and spread wide. It was a quickie. And I know it wasn’t Mr. Taylor because rough sex in the backseat isn’t the marital technique of choice.

  Oh, and I found four hair colors. Long blonde, short gray, short black, short brown.

  She doesn’t have kids. Kids destroy interiors, like one big screaming orgasm.

  After about three hours of meticulous interior work, my garage has microfiber detailing towels and applicators strewn about. The smell of cleaners mix in the air, and my hands are squeaky with the dried film of Stoner SPF 45 Cockpit Detailer Protectant and UV Defender. I can’t find a dry spot on my shirt to soak up the perspiration on my face, and my right shoulder has the familiar ache of elbow greasing a detail job. But oh, that loving sense of done-ness.

  I’m about to call her when the red light in my garage starts spinning and flashing—I fashioned it from a cop’s dashboard berry. My old one. One of the few things they let me keep.

  A quick look at the security monitor—fuckin’ Vasper. I throw a cover over the Hummer and open the side door.

  Frank Vasper was a rookie when I was a veteran, but ended up as my boss before I had my fall from grace. He went up, I went out—we’re both no better for the move. He’s younger than me but looks older. Tired.

  “How you been?” he asks, because that’s how all his conversations start. I act like I’m tidying up the products in my garage so I don’t have to look him in the eyes—I was the one who taught him about eyes. When you ask a perp a question and his eyes flicker up and to the right, he’s accessing the creative cortex of his brain. If they shoot down, he’s recollecting something. So he’s telling the truth.

  “We could use a break in the Barnaby case,” he says. “He hasn’t been through, has he?”

  I shake my head while I’m putting my Eagle One Stainless Wadding Polish neatly on the shelf.

  “He’s a clever one, and it’s all conjecture. We got a warrant and his car looked clean. I’m not talking Johnny down the street, twenty dollar wash and wax clean either. I’m talking Jasper Franklin clean. So you sure you don’t have a break?”

  I look him down hard this time, shaking my head, noticing how heavy it feels on my neck.

  “You know I’m not going to press you.”

  Fuck no he won’t.

  “I’ve got two-hundred here. Throw me a bone.”

  Now he’s talking my language. Money’s the only thing that has anything to say, nowadays. If honor had traction, if justice had teeth, I’d have a plastic badge with FBI on it by now.

  “The money and the usual,” he says. “You do your thing, keep it quiet, and you’re good as gold with me and the boys. But I’m telling you—if Barnaby comes in, if I find out he came through this garage—”

  He stops short, knowing that in my safe, I’ve got an envelope with his name on it.

  “Look, I can probably give you a referral or two on top of it.”

  I grab the envelope of money.

  “Wait outside,” I tell him.

  My safe is the size of a big screen TV, stuffed with envelopes, filed by date.

  I pull one out marked “Danson.” He called me after he saw my ad in the yellow pages—Prestige Automotive Restoration and Total Care. Discreet service available. He came in last month to have his front end repaired. Body work is extra, but the dent wasn’t that large—the kid was only six, anyway. I used Klasse All-in-One to remove imperfections and seal with one step. Just to be sure, I cleaned the entire surface with Isopropyl Alcohol first.

  Then, word gets around. Then, you have local cops knocking at your door like Frank, who remember your background. They remember your cool analysis of crime scenes, no matter how much gristle was around. But Frank doesn’t want to question you or shut you down or bring you downtown. He wants me to clean his cruiser. Turns out he’s got a nasty case coming up. Guess he went a little overboard with the nightstick on some poor hooker’s face.

  So I file it all together, but while I’m at it, I find plenty of evidence that he’s banging Tisdale, the only female on the force who works his shift. There was plenty of blood in his cruiser, but there were a few tiny spots in the front seat. The grease spot underneath the glove box was KY jelly, so I deduce that it’s menstrual blood, document everything carefully, and make an envelope with his name on it. Sure, he denied it, but the eyes don’t lie. We both knew I knew the truth.

  “Here.” I throw the envelope to Vasper. “The hit and run from last month.”

  He nods, then leaves.

  With Frank gone, I make the call. Ms. Temporarily Taylor arrives, dropped off by a girlfriend who drives a Trailblazer, and not a new one. God, how she must hate Ms. Temporarily Taylor behind her back.

  Taylor has an envelope with a “First State Bank” imprint clutched in her hand. Smiles. Fake-white teeth, bleach blonde hair, slender frame, a chest stretching her halter top to the limit. Legs are smooth and tan, leading up to aptly-named short shorts. No shit—she looks like a Barbie doll. And she got that figure eating McDonald’s?

  “Hi,” she says.

  My clothing looks like I just got out of pottery class, with polish and products spattered everywhere. Sandals don’t cover my crooked toenails and I feel barren, a few rungs down her looks ladder.

  I open the door to the Hummer and she peers inside. Smiles even bigger, because she’s relieved.

  “God, it looks like I just drove it off the lot!” She runs her hand over the backseat. Hands me the envelope.

  “Thank you,” she says. “This is just perfect. Perfect! Never had a spill dry up like that before.”

  She’s looking at the only other man who knows her dirty secret, so she lies. Deflects the conversation to deflect her thoughts, which I don’t blame her for. It’s reflex, like when you’re naked just out of the shower, you’ll always walk on your toes.

  She looks down, away from my eyes. I hand her the keys. I know the truth, and she does, so what’s the point of arguing?

  She fidgets, waiting.

  Now, I feel like the naked guy. Her eyes flicker to the envelope. I follow hers, now peeling the envelope open, expecting to see five one-hundred dollar bills. A decent number for infidelity.

  Instead, fifty bucks in crinkled ones and fives. I slide it out and gauge her face, her eyes. Her cheeks are red, eyes cast down. Nervous. Embarrassed. She waits.

  “He’ll know if I spend so much,” she says. “He’ll ask. There’s no good reason to spend so much on cleaning a car.”

  “Fuck, I knew I should’ve gotten it upfront, like usual. I made an exception and this is what you pull?”

  And now her life focuses in my mind, like a crime scene used to talk to me, breathing, spilling the secrets of the past. She doesn’t work, but she drives daily. She eats. Shops. Fucks. She’s a consumer. He makes six figures by himself. Probably works long hours, drives a coupe that gets solid fuel economy. Comes home and she models her sale items. But he’s a suspicious guy and she doesn’t want to choke the golden goose. He do
esn’t mind that she shops, but he checks her statements. Manages the money. Pays off Ms. Temporarily Taylor to look hot at a company party and fuck him once a week. But five-hundred for a car cleaning would look pretty suspect. He cleans the cars himself on weekends, shirtless, with a garden hose and Dawn detergent, judging by the dull finish on the exterior. Detergent soaps strip off wax and leave a dull finish. I personally use Sonus Gloss Shampoo. He pores through the interior with the same meticulous nature he pores through her credit card statements, her receipts.

  “You know it’s not a milkshake. Let’s be serious.”

  She comes a little closer. Come hither, those eyes say. Let me pay for your services with my only commodity, they say.

  To be honest, I’d rather have the five-hundred bucks. But when she gets closer, that old current runs through me. I’ve been so busy for so long, and I’m just a human. And the warmth runs through my crotch and up to my head. My hand reaches for the garage door button, and it closes, a long shadow swallowing her from the top of her head where the dark roots on down her legs, those long legs.

  And it’s sweet and passionate, gentle, like she really cares.

  She tells me her boyfriend ran off with a younger girl, that she’s not a bad person, it was the first time she’d ever cheated.

  I ask her what she’s doing for dinner this Thursday. She smiles at me, touches the side of my face and asks, “You cook?”

  She leaves while I’m wondering about her name. I’m wondering just what the fuck I’m thinking, mixing up with Mrs. Temporarily Taylor.

  * * * *

  He’s a bald guy with a sleeveless denim shirt, frayed at the edges with a huge eagle on the back. Bald. A rough face, but a thin man.

  Hands me the keys to a Subaru crossover SUV, but to me, these things are just cleverly marketed station wagons. Hands me an envelope.

  “Here’s your fee. I’m going to pay you twice. Double your usual amount. Just make sure that it’s clean, top to bottom, inside out.”