The Quarry

by Mark Allan Gunnells

  “I know, it’s not smart to stay here, but I have no choice. If I stray too far from the Quarry I start to lose my hold on the vessel.”

  “The vessel? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Instead of answering, Dale tilted his head quizzically and smiled at Emilio. “We’re close, aren’t we? Good friends?”

  “I used to think so.”

  Dale stepped forward, causing Emilio to back up further. Dale paused, his lips pulling down in a frown. “But now you’re afraid of me?”

  “Shouldn’t I be?”

  “We’re best buds, Em. I took you under my wing and saved you from four more years of being plain and unnoticed. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Emilio nodded reluctantly.

  “You should know that I would never hurt a friend.”

  “Recent evidence says otherwise.”

  “I see.” Dale strolled to the right in a way that seemed casual. “I see,” he repeated, now standing between Emilio and the door to the stairwell. “So you believe those lies people have been spreading about me? About how I hurt those people?”

  “So you’re saying you didn’t?”

  “It kills me that you would even ask that question. You know me, man.”

  “I thought I did.”

  “I don’t have a vicious bone in my body. I could never do those things.”

  “Then why’d you attack Connie?”

  “Of course, she tells you I attacked her and you just take her word for it. Her word over mine.”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “Because she’s pissed!” Dale said, his voice becoming loud and strident. “I dumped her black ass and she wants to get back at me.”

  “Most jilted women just burn their ex’s pictures, they don’t accuse him of attempted murder.”

  “What can I say? I guess Connie’s a more ambitious sort of woman.”

  Emilio started edging slowly toward the door to the parking lot. It was somewhere behind him, but he didn’t want to turn his back on Dale. He figured he should keep Dale talking; it may keep him from attacking, if that was his plan. “What about Dr. Brighton?”

  “Never touched her.”

  “Really? Because Norman. I mean, uh, the guard caught you with her.”

  Dale snorted and waved a hand dismissively. “He made the whole thing up. A fucking conspiracy, that’s what it is. That faggot is probably in on it.”

  “Norman wouldn’t do that!” Emilio said with more vehemence than he’d intended.

  Dale tilted his head again, sniffed the air, then grinned. “Oh, so that’s how it is, huh?”

  That grin broke whatever spell Dale was casting, and Emilio bolted for the parking lot door.

  Dale shot across the room with frightening speed, slamming the door shut and shoving Emilio roughly against the wall. His weight pressed against Emilio, his breath hot and smelling like an open sewer pipe.

  “I can smell that guard all over you,” Dale said, putting his nose to Emilio’s neck and inhaling deeply. “Oh yeah, you’ve had him in you; you stink of him.”

  Emilio stammered and struggled. But the Dale-thing was too strong. Tears welled in his eyes.

  “Tell me, Em…is it true love?”

  Dale placed his forearm over Emilio’s throat and pressed down, cutting off Emilio’s air supply.

  “You may be all moony-eyed over this guard now, but I was your first love, wasn’t I? I used to be the one you’d dream about at night, get you all hot and hard, imagining what it would be like with me under the covers with you.”

  Emilio struggled for air, his face turning red.

  “That guard’s just a substitute for what you really want, isn’t he? But I’m right here, flesh against your flesh. You can finally have what you’ve been yearning for all these months.”

  Removing the pressure from Emilio’s windpipe, Dale grabbed Emilio’s hair and pulled his head close. His cold, oily lips wrapped around Emilio’s mouth.

  Instinctively, Emilio rammed his knee into Dale’s crotch.

  Dale’s breath woofed out in a rush and he backed up.

  Emilio flailed out blindly. His hand found a metal three-hole punch. He snatched it. Swung hard…

  …and clobbered the Dale-thing on the back of the head.

  It—no longer Dale in Emilio’s mind—went down on one knee, a hand on its nuts and the other on its skull.

  It looked up, hissed like a wild animal, then fumbled the door open and scrambled out into the parking lot.

  Emilio stood in the doorway for a minute, watching Dale scamper across Griffith Street then make a dash for College Drive.

  Emilio took a deep breath, wiped the tears from his face, and hurried to the stairs.

  Chapter Eighteen

  NORMAN DROVE THE car, shooting frequent glances at Emilio. Visibly tense, Emilio balled his hands into tight fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Norman asked.

  “You don’t have to take me if you don’t want to. I can find another way.”

  “Whoa, truce,” Norman said, putting a hand on Emilio’s shoulder and rubbing. “I’m more than happy to take you, I’m just not sure what you hope to accomplish.”

  “Maybe some answers.”

  “To what questions?”

  Emilio shrugged off Norman’s hand and wiped at his eyes as more tears started to trickle down his cheeks. “Look, you didn’t see Dale, the way he looked, the things he said.”

  “I know how upsetting it must have been—”

  “No, you really don’t. This was one of my best friends in the world, someone who had been nothing but kind to me in the past, and he was acting like a monster.”

  “And you think going to see this ex-sheriff is going to help you make peace with that?”

  Emilio tossed up his hands and let them flop back down onto his lap like two pale starfish. “I don’t know, but something is weird here. I was looking at Dale but I didn’t see him anywhere in those eyes. He wasn’t even talking like himself. As if he were a completely different person.”

  “You mean like a split personality or something.”

  “Maybe, I don’t know. You’re the Psych major, not me.”

  Norman was quiet for a moment, wondering if he should have gone with his first instinct and not gotten involved with Emilio. It was clear he was still in love with his former friend. And the whole thing was messing with Emilio’s head.

  But as he glanced over at Emilio again, he knew exactly why he had skipped class despite a big test tonight. Intellect had nothing to do with emotions, and Norman was definitely falling for Emilio…

  …His almost naïve sweetness, his awkward shyness, his willingness to trust and believe the best of people…

  Even his devotion to friends who had proven they weren’t worthy of it.

  “Okay, so let’s say that Dale had some kind of psychotic break, that some other persona has taken over and is committing these crimes, leaving Dale—the real Dale, the one you knew—unaware of his own actions. If that is true, what do you think Curt Felder can tell you that will make any more sense out of all this?”

  “If Dale cracked, his obsession with the Quarry was the breaking point, and his psychosis, or whatever it is, centered around that damn lake. He said himself that he couldn’t wander too far from it. Chances are that shortly before all this started, Dale may have spoken to this man. Maybe he can tell me about Dale’s state of mind, maybe he said something to the ex-sheriff that will give me a new perspective on the whole situation. It’s a long shot, I know, but it’s all I’ve got.”

  Norman nodded and picked up the crumpled directions Emilio had printed off from MapQuest. He didn’t really need them; he’d spent his childhood exploring this town on his bike and there weren’t many areas he was unfamiliar with. Curt Felder lived outside the city limits not too far from the Fredrick Memorial Cemetery. Easy enough.

  “You know, Em, you said you haven’t been
able to get this guy on the phone. It’s possible Dale never got in touch with him either.”

  “Well, I have to find out one way or the other.”

  “And if there’s nothing to find out? If this guy didn’t talk to Dale or he did but has no insights to offer you, what then? Will you let all this drop?”

  Emilio sighed deeply and looked over at Norman. “You must think I’m pretty stupid, huh?”

  Norman smiled and placed a hand against Emilio’s wet cheek, leaning over for a quick kiss. “No, I don’t think you’re stupid, but I also don’t want to see you get hurt. I know Dale was your friend, but he has proven time and again that he’s dangerous.”

  “Trust me, I know that. If I didn’t before, I certainly know it now. He scared me, and I could see there was nothing left of the guy I’d known. But I’ve got to try to figure out why. If I don’t, it’s just going to eat at me.”

  “Well, I hope this Curt Felder can give you some answers. I really do.”

  “Thanks for coming with me, Norm. You didn’t have to, and I appreciate the support.”

  Norman reached over, took Emilio’s hand and squeezed it. “Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

  The headlights found the turn Norman was looking for. He steered the car onto a rutted gravel road that led into a small trailer park. Most of the homes seemed abandoned, and one had been gutted by fire.

  “Jesus,” Norman muttered. “What a dump.”

  He and Emilio checked the numbers on the mailboxes, looking for the one that belonged to Curt Felder.

  It turned out to be the last trailer on the road, a gray cracker box that looked in slightly better shape than the others. An old Chevy pickup sat out front, and a few windows glowed with yellow light.

  Norman pulled into the driveway behind the truck and cut the engine then turned to Emilio, who remained still and silent.

  “Ready?”

  Emilio didn’t move. “It’s getting late, almost eight. Maybe we’ll be interrupting his dinner.”

  “If you’d rather do this another time—”

  “No,” Emilio said, opening his door and stepping out of the car. “I need to do this.”

  Together they walked across the dirt yard and up the wooden steps to the front door. Norman knocked and they both waited, listening to the sounds of a television playing from within. A western, by the sounds of it. The volume on the TV decreased and then footsteps slowly approached. Then nothing, as if whoever was inside was waiting just on the other side of the door.

  Norman raised his hand to knock again, but then the door opened and a tall man with a bald, splotchy head and an emaciated body stood before them, backlit from a lamp inside. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles and folds, and his skin was covered with liver spots. His eyes were bleary and he clutched a can of Budweiser in his hand. Taking a swig, he looked at his two visitors with detachment.

  Clearing his throat, feeling unaccountably nervous in the old man’s presence, Norman said, “Uh, Mr. Felder?”

  The old man nodded.

  “Sir, we’re from the college. We were wondering if we could ask you some questions about a young man who may have contacted you a couple of months ago wanting information about the Limestone Quarry.”

  “The bastard that’s killing folks,” the man said, his voice soft and slurred but not weak. “That the one you mean?”

  Norman and Emilio exchanged a glance. “So you did talk to him?” Emilio asked.

  “Yeah, warned him to stay the hell away from the Quarry lest he get it all riled up again. Guess he didn’t listen to me none. Soon as I read about it in the paper, I knew it done got its hooks into the boy.”

  “What got its hooks into him?” Norman asked, frowning. “What did you two talk about?”

  Curt Felder finished his beer and crushed the can in his fist. With a belch, he stood aside. “Come on in, fellas. I might as well tell you the story. Someone needs to try to stop it, and I’m too damn old to do it myself.”

  * * *

  Emilio hesitated before entering the old man’s trailer; he got a spooky vibe from the ex-sheriff. Still, there was a chance he’d finally found some answers. And despite the haunted look in Felder’s eyes, he didn’t seem like much of a threat.

  Emilio took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold, Norman close behind him.

  Felder’s home reeked of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke, but it was neat and tidy. The furniture was old and worn, the carpet threadbare, the wallpaper so faded that Emilio couldn’t make out what the pattern had once been, but everything was in its place and free of dust. The walls were adorned with generic prints but no family photographs. There was a sofa against the far wall but it looked as if it may never have been sat upon, in contrast to the green recliner that had Felder’s indenture permanently pressed into it. Next to the recliner was a tray with foldable legs on which sat a lone TV dinner, the portions looking pitifully small. The cleanliness of the room seemed clinical, sterile, and Emilio had an odd thought.

  Cleanliness is next to loneliness.

  “Have a seat,” Felder said, waving a hand toward the sofa. “Can I get you gents a beer?”

  Emilio and Norman shook their heads.

  “Well, I’m gonna have one. Make yourselves at home.”

  Felder went into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a waist-high wooden banister that ran half the length of the space.

  Emilio watched the old man toss the crushed beer can in a large trashcan by the stove, open a dented refrigerator that rattled loud enough to suggest it was on its last legs, and reach out a fresh Bud. He popped the top, took a deep swallow, and sighed like a lover just after orgasm.

  Emilio sat down heavily on the sofa and grimaced when he found the cushions harder than he’d expected, like they were carved out of stone. Norman settled next to him, and they both waited in silence until Felder returned, weaving slightly as he made his way to his recliner.

  Relaxing in his chair, Felder took another swig, set the can down next to his cooling dinner, and turned his blood-shot gaze on his guests. “So tell me, ya’ll know that kid been killing folks?”

  Emilio glanced at Norman then back at Felder. “Yes, sir, he was a friend of mine.”

  “Was? Using past tense, that’s good. ’Cause your friend is long gone. Best to accept that now and say your goodbyes. It’ll save ya pain down the road.”

  Emilio wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he remained silent.

  Norman leaned forward and said, “What all did you and Dale speak about?”

  “Not much. Fella called me up on the phone out of the blue, didn’t know him from Adam, and started firing all these questions at me about back when I was a foreman at the Quarry. Told him I was lucky to remember last time I took a shit and that the subject of the Quarry was one best left alone. Didn’t listen to me though, just kept calling, so I finally told him to come on over.”

  “You met with him face-to-face?” Emilio said, eyes scanning the room as if able to pick up psychic residue left by his friend.

  “Yup, thought maybe if I could talk to him man to man I could convince him to drop the matter. But I could tell the second he waltzed through my door that he was gonna stir up trouble. Just had the air of a boy who don’t take no for an answer, can’t let sleeping dogs lie. I tried my damnedest to get through to him, to steer him off this path, but his mind was made up and wasn’t no unmaking it. I sent him off with no real answers, just vague warnings, and now I think maybe that was a mistake. Maybe just got his fire up and made him more curious than he was when he got here. Even if I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth—he’d never have believed me anyway—I should have made up something, something to satisfy him and keep him from doing whatever fool thing he done to cause all this.”

  “Sir,” Emilio said, “did Dale say anything to you that would have given you any clue he was on the verge of…well, of doing the things he’s done?”

  “No, he was ju
st a typical cocky kid who thought he knew everything. He had no plans to do what he’s since done ’cause it ain’t him doing it. I told you your friend is long gone.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I just knew there was gonna be trouble, but I tried to tell myself it’d be a’ight. Fooling myself is what I was doing, and I’m a bit old for that. When I read the stories and recognized the kid’s picture in the paper, I knew it’d done happened; he’d woke it up and it was in control.”

  Norman cleared his throat and shifted on the hard sofa. “I’m sorry, Mr. Felder, but what exactly is this it you keep referring to?”

  Felder fixed Norman with an intense stare. He took another drink of beer, never breaking eye contact, licked his lips, then said, “Are you a Christian, boy?”

  Norman seemed taken aback by the question, and he floundered a moment before saying, “Well, I mean, I believe in God, organized religion isn’t really my thing.”

  “But would you call yourself a man of faith?”

  “Um, I guess not.”

  “And you, son?” Felder asked, turning his gaze to Emilio.

  “Not really, sir.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you fellas this, there are more things in this world than were talked about in the Bible, and there was some pretty crazy shit went on in the Good Book. But I tell you, even folks who believe in some all-powerful being that created the world in seven days, demons and angels, burning bushes and men back from the dead, they wouldn’t be able to swallow the stuff I know exists. Powers ancient and corrupt, manipulating men and feeding off souls, creatures older than any man-made religion.”

  Emilio and Norman exchanged a nervous glance, and Emilio thought he should have listened to that little voice in his head that had warned him against coming inside. The man from the Historical Society had said Felder’s mind was still sharp, but that seemed far from true. The man was apparently delusional with all this talk of ancient powers. Was this what had happened to Dale? Had Felder somehow infected him with his psychosis? Was craziness catching?

  Taking the lead, Norman said, “Mr. Felder, fascinating as a discussion on mythology would be—”