by Aric Davis
So they drove.
Miles back and forth, hoping to see a linen truck of any type. They’d twice seen trucks that had been perfect, but their drivers weren’t even close. Mike was full of nervous energy, and he couldn’t help twisting back and forth to see around the car. He took to caressing the little clutch with the ink in it constantly as they drove around the industrial area. Buildings and trucks, trucks and buildings, in a never-ending loop of smokestacks, diesel rigs, and commercial vehicles.
The sighting of a UPS truck would alert his senses to near euphoria until the familiar logo would come into view. It was the same with any partially distinguishable carrier vehicle.
Mike had wanted to just call every linen place in town and ask for delivery schedules, and Doc had laughed at the idea. “What,” he said, “would possibly make them want to give you that information? We’ll try this way for the time being; if we fail, we’ll start watching the laundry companies.”
Mike thought it made more sense to stake out the laundry companies’ plants, but he didn’t push it with Doc; he knew he’d be refuted and it would be a waste of time. Right or wrong, Doc was set on this course.
Instead of talking, they drove and watched trucks; there was just nothing more to say between the two of them. Mike wondered if Doc would ever go back to teaching, just as he wondered if he’d ever tattoo again. Mike found himself surprised that he didn’t care either way. This had scraped him down to the core, worse even than when Deb or Sid had passed in the first place.
That day Doc not only drove past the large lots, but occasionally would pull through and circle. That’s what he was doing in the parking lot of an enormous office equipment manufacturer called Case when Mike saw the truck.
It was like swimming and seeing a great white shark, or walking through a jungle to find himself eye-to-eye with a tiger.
Mike began to speak, and Doc said, “I see it.” Mike closed his mouth hard enough to hear his teeth snap closed as Doc circled the truck and parked about fifty feet from its front bumper.
Mike had the clutch out of his pocket and the needle out of the bag before he’d had any kind of confirmation. This was it, he knew it. Mike was unpacking the special needle he’d made, a thick barb of thirteen pins bound with soldering wire into a tight circle, when he saw the man.
They knew him as soon as he left the building: six foot five at least, and matching the picture more perfectly than either could have imagined. He wore his hair in a brush cut, longer than any of the girls had suggested, but the right length with time factored in. He walked with a slight limp in his left leg—nothing debilitating, but clear nonetheless as he moved across the lot. Mike moved to open the door, the needle clutched tight in his left hand.
“Wait.”
Mike sat back in his seat and watched with Doc as the man climbed into the back of the truck and then reappeared a few minutes later with an armful of rubber-bottomed rugs. He marched in his slow, slightly uneven gait across the lot and away from them.
“It’s him. It’s fucking him.”
“I know, relax.”
“I need to go now and stick him with this. What if that was his last trip in? If we follow him, he’s going to know it.”
Mike watched Doc swallow thickly. Then Doc said, “Wait by the side of the truck, over there where I can see you and he can’t. Fall into him the second he comes into view—stick him and bounce off.
“I wish we’d brought some whiskey. Slur after you come off of him and apologize. After that, get out of his way. Leave me the pistol.”
“Leave it?! What if I need it? Look at the size of that bastard—it’s no wonder he’s been doing whatever he likes. If he wants to break me over his knee, he will. I need that gun.”
“Hand it over. The last thing we need is him throwing you and you dropping it. I’ll be right behind you if things go badly, trust me.”
Mike handed him the revolver butt first. “There’s no safety, Doc, just aim and squeeze. Have you ever fired a gun before?”
Doc shook his head.
“Just don’t shoot me, OK? You just aim and squeeze, and don’t hesitate. If it looks like I need help, it’s because I do.”
Mike dunked the needle into the ink so that its tip came away black and wet.
“Let’s hope this works.”
He opened the door and left the car.
The blacktop was an ocean to cross: fifty feet yawned before him like forever, and behind him the car seemed like some long-ago oasis. Mike crossed with the wind in his hair and his ears. He crossed the lot for Deb and for all of them.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Mike hugged the side of the truck. He could see Doc in the car, and also that Doc’s door was open, but not all the way. He figured Doc could be to them in about five seconds, an eternity in a time of need. His breathing was pitched and ragged. Mike slowed it as best he was able and stood with the needle palmed, waiting an eternity for the door the man had entered with the rugs to open.
He didn’t hear it open, but he both felt it slam shut in his feet and heard it as well. The man was crossing the pavement toward him now, Mike knew that without a doubt. A moment of frozen terror, and then a quickly repeated mantra under his breath: “C’mon you fucker c’mon you fucker c’mon you fucker c’mon you fucker…”
An endless inaudible loop. A request, a fear, a wish.
Mike flexed his knees by the truck, and when the man came into view, first a shoulder and then the towering rest of him, Mike picked a target and moved. He aimed himself at the man’s right forearm—it was exposed, and Mike could see the skin there now, pale and with a light spattering of freckles. Stippling, Mike corrected himself, and then he stumbled into the man and shoved the needle as hard as he could into the arm.
The man winced back from Mike before the needle could bite into him, probably already dismissing Mike as some drunken mess that had lost his way, but when he felt the needle claw at his arm and then slide into his skin, he was bellowing. Mike pulled the needle out and staggered on. Victory! No matter what happened next, he’d hurt the man who’d killed Deb.
Mike’s next thought was that he was flying, the needle popping free, soaring from his hands into the air. Next was pain, as he smashed shoulder-first into the blacktop.
The man screamed at him, “What the fuck are you doing? You fucking cut me with something!”
Mike rolled over to see the man clutching the injured arm, and then the man leaped toward him and kicked him hard in the side. Mike let the kick roll him as far away as possible, to help soften the blow and gain some space, and then he rose. The man stood before him, more a monster, some imagined thing, than a real man. Mike knew then that he was seeing him as Deb had seen him in those cold moments before he killed her. He was seeing him as they’d all seen him, and that was what made him walk back towards the man and not away from him.
Mike had been in fistfights before, but it had been a long time. He was already half whipped by the much, much bigger man; he was ragged from lack of sleep and food, and from the strain of the last few weeks. Mike pushed all of those things aside, rolled up his sleeves as the man stood watching him, and waded in. The ink might hurt the man and it might not, but Mike wanted to be sure he took a souvenir home for himself. It was selfish and stupid, but he was pretty sure Deb would’ve approved.
The man was powerful but lazy. He threw a hook from his hip that Mike ducked effortlessly away from, letting it pass in a looping arc above and behind his head. Mike fired a shot of his own now that he was close enough, peppering a neat cross into the man’s open and exposed face. Something crunched under his fist, and Mike smiled as he bounced away to safety, all fatigue and injury forgotten. The man lumbered towards him, and Mike readied himself.
The man was a lug, but he was adapting. He feinted a second looping left, and as Mike pulled in as he had the first time, the man threw a short right that nearly dropped him. He popped away again, but the man stayed with him. Mike had counted on the man
’s limp giving him space, but the limp was gone, and then Mike was dodging a looping right and left. The man was smiling as he came after him.
Mike circled to keep from being cornered against the wall of the truck, surely the worst place for him to be, when he tripped. He was moving to his right when his shoe caught something, he stumbled and recovered, but it was enough time for the man to be on him. The first punch the man threw caught him on the back of the head and did little damage, but the second caught him full in the face.
Mike dropped. He could taste iron in his mouth and could see the man’s work boots approaching.
Mike understood then why Doc had wanted to keep the gun. It was not so Doc could protect Mike, but rather to protect Mike from himself. If he’d had it, he never would have concerned himself with the needle. He’d have just shot this man and been done with it. Damn Doc anyways, Mike thought. At least I’d be alive. The gunshot broke his train of thought.
Mike sat up, and the man was walking away from him. Doc stood no more than fifteen feet from them. “Stand up,” he said.
Mike did, his head cobwebs and pain.
“You,” Doc said to the man. “You back away from him, just get in the truck. You’re lucky I don’t want to get involved, or I’d have the authorities on you.”
“He fucking stabbed me! If you saw me beatin’ on him, you had to have seen that too.”
Mike watched Doc level the gun at Phil’s chest. His hands were steady.
“I saw a man fall into you, and then I saw you pummel him. That wound of yours isn’t a stab wound. That’s just a scratch—probably just something on his clothing that poked into you.”
Doc turned to Mike. “C’mon, friend, let’s get you some coffee.”
Mike walked to Doc. The man was to his left, and Mike could see him examining the small smudge on his forearm. It was bleeding and so was the man’s nose. Small victories, but Mike was pretty sure, even without a mirror or feeling his face, that the man had done pretty well for himself as well.
When Mike reached Doc, his friend put the hand without the gun over his shoulders, and they walked slowly to the car. The man called after them, “I better not see you again! Either one of you!”
Doc said, “Same for you, friend. Next time I won’t be shooting at birds.”
Doc opened Mike’s door and slid him in as fast as he was able, the gun still out and pointed in the man’s direction. Mike heard the door shut next to him, and then Doc was in the car too and had it started and rolling out of the parking lot.
Mike saw the man watching them as they left, and he had one thought as he passed out: Your turn now, Deb. I don’t know what you mean to do, but you need to do it. After that, there was nothing.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
When Mike woke, his head was lying in Deb’s lap. They were in the middle of the first floor of the old museum, the one they’d never made it to, just one of so many regrets. The lights were on, and everything was as it had been—not as it would have been if they’d broken in, but before.
She said, “That was brave. Stupid, but brave.”
“You don’t have to tell me. Christ, he got off a couple good ones. My head’s gonna be ringing.”
She smiled at him, and it was sweet—he knew she was happy.
“What now?”
“We’ll see to him,” she said. “First tonight, and more often if we have to.”
“Where are the rest of them?”
“They’re gone right now; this is just me and you.”
“That’s just fine with me. Ugh, if my face is sore here, it’s going to feel awful there.”
“You’re probably right. Do you want to walk with me?”
“I do.”
“Then show me your museum.”
He stood, and she did as well. She was wearing a white shirt and matching skirt. Her lobes hung naked without jewelry, and the only piercing he could see adorned her lip. She took his hand. “Show me the animals.”
He led her as much as she led him, and together they crossed the clean wood floor onto the marble of the animal dioramas. There was no need for flashlights today; the museum was open for business, even if only for them.
Mike could see that all of the exhibits had been dusted and cleaned; the animals were all in their places, and pristine.
“Did it feel good to punch him?”
“You have no idea.”
“I’ll know soon enough. What was better, the ink or hitting him?”
“They were both pretty good. I’m not sure—probably the ink. It really caught him off guard.”
“The foxes are beautiful.”
“Yup. Isn’t it so great here?”
“I like it, too. I might not see you after today.”
“What? Why? You said it was up to me to end it, not you!”
“If I’d told you the truth, you wouldn’t have done what needed doing.”
“You can’t be serious. Deb, why can’t you see me again?”
“It might not be possible. There are limits, and we’ve pushed them near to breaking already. I’m going to push them more tonight—we all are. I’ll come back if I can, but even if I do, this won’t be forever. You’ll find someone eventually, Mike, you need to accept that. When it happens, you’ll set me in the rearview. It’s the right thing to do.”
“That’s not what I want. I’m happy seeing you at night, happy doing what we are right now.”
“Do you think you can live without sleep, Mike? I know you’re not sleeping.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to sleep, I need to see you.”
“When you wake up, Doc, Becky, and Lamar are going to be with you. Just know that I still might need you. If I can’t do what I need to—”
“Then I’ll have to go see to the man.”
“Nice way of putting it, but yes, it will be on you to do right by him. It’s such a shame these animals aren’t alive. Why didn’t you like the zoo more?”
“Ask my dad, he’s the one who brought me here.”
“You know better than that.”
“Sorry, afterlife joke.”
“In any case, you’ll know tomorrow, one way or the other. If you don’t see anything on the news, you’re going to need to handle him yourself. And I don’t mean a fistfight. It was a valiant effort, and being a lady I do appreciate you fighting for my honor, but I really don’t like your chances. You’ll need to get the gun back from Doc.”
“A lady, huh?”
“Hey, I look nice in a skirt!”
“I never said you didn’t, but I never heard the bit about the lady before either. I’m not sure ladies work in your profession, or hope the child molester wins in Happiness.”
She laughed, and it made him so sad he wanted to scream.
“I’m not sure ladies see Happiness at all, Mike.”
“Yeah, I suppose. I can’t believe I might never see you again.”
“But you did get to see me again—think of it that way. At least we got to be together. It’s not quite the same, but it’s still better than what most people get. We get to say goodbye and hope it’s not for the last time. Do you want to look at the bones now?”
“As long as you’re coming with me. Do you think there’s a chance you’ll get to come back?”
“Anything’s possible. None of this should have been, but you made it all work out.”
“You never should have died.”
“It was my time. You’ll find yours someday too.”
He held her hand as they crossed the wooden dais of the museum. It occurred to him then that she’d never lied to him when she’d been with him in the waking world. What other secrets was this Deb holding onto?
They walked together into the bones, and just like with the animal dioramas, everything was as it always should have been.
“I’m going to be the one to come to him,” Deb said. “They’ll be there with me, but I’m going to do the nasty bits.”
“Tonight?”
“When he sleeps, and when I’m done here.”
“Is that it, then? Are you done here?”
“I will always be with you.”
Mike saw the walls radiating light and knew in his heart that this would be the last time, that he would never see her again, that the memories of all of this might soon fade, and he’d be left with the memory of her dead and half naked to fill his mind on cold nights. He pulled her close and kissed her hard on the lips. She closed her eyes, and so did he.
Snow was months away, and they were indoors, but this world was his too, and they were underneath a streetlight together in real magic, the magic they’d made together in the wind and swirling snow. The light was a lie and so was the snow, but her lips were as full and real as they’d ever been. They parted.
“I love you,” he said. “I’d have done anything for you.”
“I know. I love you too. And you’ve already done everything. I’ll see you soon.”
Mike smiled at her and let her have the lie.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
That stupid motherfucker. How the fuck was some little faggot covered in shitty-ass tattoos going to come and fuck with him while he was working? Kicked that fucker’s ass. That’s what ya get. The other guy, though, with the gun, that had been weird. Like why in the fuck did that guy give a shit about some piece of white trash that had fucked up? He’d been serving that idiot until the pussy with the gun had come along. He’d take them both on at once without that gun; see how bad that old man and his drunk, tattooed buddy were without the gun.
The truck bounced under him as he drove, and Phil wasn’t sure what pissed him off worse, that the goddamn struts were going or that the little bastard had actually put one on him. His nose was tender from where he’d gotten popped, but Phil was pretty sure it wasn’t broken. The thing already had the consistency of oatmeal, and he wasn’t even sure it could break again. Christ, his knee hurt too. Tomorrow he’d feel better, and that would push all of this bullshit away, because tomorrow was power. Tomorrow was tearing off labia with his teeth if he wanted. Tomorrow that slut would die because he wanted her to. That was his world, and he was god.