Canis Major

by Jay Nichols

Chapter 24

  The truth was that Hector Graham had every intention of driving straight home and going to bed. As far as he was concerned, the sooner he nestled his head into that great, big, goose down pillow of his, the better. His nocturnal wanderings had taken a lot out of him, sapped him of much of the energy and resolve needed to murder Michael O’Brien, a kid who by every right deserved the worst punishment imaginable.

  He killed Lola, he reminded himself as he turned off Highway 71, onto Johnson Avenue. He needs to pay for what he did.

  But what constitutes payment: a beating or a slaying? Hector grappled with the question, rolled it about in his oversized melon, weighing the pros and cons of each. On one hand, O’Brien had killed his dog, but on the other, Lola had been rabid at the time (Rusty said she was, and I believe him), and had been killed in self-defense.

  There was another option.

  He glanced at the grocery bag in the passenger-side footwell. Before leaving the house, he had knotted the two handles together so the contents wouldn’t spill out as he drove. At the bottom of the bag sat a fifth of Jim Beam he had pilfered from his mother’s secret stash weeks ago. On top of that was…well…something else.

  He considered slowing down and ripping the bag open but decided against it. The urge to drink, and to get drunk, was a passing thing. He didn’t have to act on it if he didn’t want to. The fact that he did act on that impulse most of the time was not lost on Hector. But tonight was different. All of those missing hours, and all of that senseless driving back and forth between Riley and Greenville, Hector took as signs that he should lay off the sauce for a while. Maybe forever.

  Because that voice in my head was too real. And that song it sang…what was it? "Little Baby, Little Baby, Little Baby?" That’s not right, but it’s close. It had sung that same song to me at the doctor’s office. I wonder if it’s from the booze? No. I haven’t had a drink in over two weeks, and I wasn’t drunk at the doctor’s. Whoever it is, don’t it know that I’ve been trying to act better, that I’ve been trying to act right?

  Hector searched his brain for the message the voice had imparted to him in the field. While unconscious, it had instructed him to do something, or to say something—like a line in a movie or a play. But what? What was he supposed to say, and when was he supposed to say it?

  He knew it would come back to him if he just thought long and hard enough about it. Sometimes, those lost memories needed to be pried from his brain like rusty nails from a board. Because, sometimes, that was the only way they came loose.

  I was acting like such an asshole in front of Michelle, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s hating me again. I deserve to be hated. The names I called her and Ma back at the house were a lot worse than bitch this time. Gentlemen aren’t supposed to treat ladies that way. I guess I’ll apologize when I get back. Michelle probably went home already (I wish I knew what time it really was. Goddamn broken clock), but I’ll tell her I’m sorry tomorrow. I don’t know why I do it. Really, I don’t. When I get mad, and I mean really mad, I just go fuckin’ berserk. Over and over again I’ve tried to change, but it never sticks. My problem is I don’t know how to relax. I don’t know how to take it easy, like Rusty. I’m so stressed out all the time, and the only relief that ever seems to find me arrives courtesy of the two J’s: Jim and Jack. But even drunk, I’m stressed. And mean. I still can’t believe I ran over a dog, but that hair wrapped around the front axle was a dead giveaway. I wonder if it’s still there. Nah—probably fell off weeks ago. But it wouldn’t hurt to check tomorrow morning. Shit, it probably already is tomorrow morning.

  Lost in thought, Hector drove past Pritchard Street and on to the next intersection. The part of his mind that takes over while the first part analyzes a third part noticed the red octagon and stomped his foot on the brake pedal. The Wrangler skidded to a lengthy halt, snapping Hector out of his self-induced dream state and back into the real world, the one where cars crumple and break when they hit things and drivers are held responsible when a person—or a dog—splatters all over a road.

  "What the—" he croaked.

  Hector jerked his hand to his throat, temporarily forgetting that he had blown out his voice as well as the reason behind his doing so.

  I was yelling because Mike—no, Rusty—was sitting in his truck in front of Mike’s house, waiting for me. No—that’s not right, because I had also screamed after leaving Peach Street. I could still talk when I was driving back from Greenville, so that means I must have lost my voice after turning onto 71 but before plowing out of that wheat field. I guess I screamed loud enough at that thing in my head to break my pipes. What did it tell me to do again? What did it want me to say?

  The Wrangler remained in the intersection for what could have been two minutes or two hours. No cars honked their horns and no concerned citizens approached the vehicle, because everybody in town was inside their houses fast asleep, like Hector should have been.

  Stuck in limbo between the land of the living and the realm of Morpheus, Hector stared at the electric green numbers of the digital clock. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until his eyes drooped and his chin fell to his clavicle.

  I’m falling asleep, his reeling, detached mind whispered. I’m falling asleep in the middle of the road.

  [CRAZY RABIES, CRAZY RABIES, CRAZY RABIES, CRAZY RABIES!!!]

  Hector’s hands shot to his ears; his eyes squinched shut.

  Russell’s voice in his left ear: [Rabies is always fatal, big boy. Those shots you’re getting ain’t gonna cure it. They’re only putting the virus to sleep. One day it’ll wake up and drive you raving-fucking-mad. Then you’ll die a frightful, painful death. I believe I already told you this at the doctor’s office. You shouldn’t have passed out in that field. It may look pretty during the day, but believe me, that’s where bad things grow.]

  Pete’s voice in his right: [Why did you punch me, fat-ass? Seriously, why did you do it? I hope you realize that by punching me you set a wheel into motion that can’t be stopped. You’re old enough to know that physical violence causes more problems than it ever solves. What I don’t understand is how you keep getting away with it time after time after time. No one ever stops you. I’m glad you have rabies. Finally, some justice in this world.]

  "Shut up! You’re dead!!"

  His hands moved to his neck.

  Owwwww!!! My throat!! You shouldn’t be talking, Pete!

  Pete again: [You idiot! This is you talking. Are you so stupid you don’t even recognize the sound of your own thoughts? What kind of person are you?]

  Hector sobbed.

  Pete, I’m sorry. But you had it coming. You know you did. You were pushing me, trying to make me mad, and you know how I get when I’m mad. You should have known better. I’ve changed, though. I’m trying to change, anyway. I swear to God, I am!

  Russell’s voice in stereo: [You haven’t changed a bit, Hector. At one point, I’d thought you had, but I was wrong. You were obviously faking it that day I saw you crying at the corner of Michelle’s street. I know that now, because you don’t know how to cry.]

  Oh, yeah? Then what’s this stuff coming out of my eyes?

  Russell: [One of the symptoms of full-blown rabies is copious tear production. Another is excessive salivation. Wipe your mouth, Hector, and tell me what you see.]

  The instant his fingers touched his lips, Hector shrieked. Not only were his lips slimy, but so were his chin and neck.

  What’s happening to me?

  Pete: [You’re dying, Hector. Rabies is fatal. I think we’ve been very clear on that point. You think your internal monologue is me and Rusty talking to you, but these are auditory hallucinations. I’m dead and Rusty’s not in the car with you. Right now your brain is swelling up and pressing against your skull like a boiled cauliflower trying to escape its pot. You’re going to see and hear things that aren’t real. You’re on your way to insanity. Then again, you’re also on your way to death.]

  You’re
both liars!! I don’t have rabies! The doctor said so!

  Russell: [Agitation. That’s also a symptom. Once the hydrophobia set in, you’ll be a complete mess to look at and be around. I feel sorry for your mother.]

  What’s hydrophobia?

  Russell answered. [It means you won’t be able to swallow.]

  I hate you both so much. I’m glad you’re dead, Pete.

  Pete: [That’s just like you, Hector. Hitting a person when he’s down. You’ll never change. Once an asshole, always an asshole—that’s what I say. Don’t you know that the harder you deny what you are—what you really are, deep down inside—the more pain it ends up causing you?]

  Then tell me, Pete: What am I?

  [I already told you that, bonehead! In the field, less than thirty minutes ago. You listened, but then you forgot. Can’t you keep anything in that small mind of yours straight? Don’t worry, what I said will come back to you. I’m sure of it.]

  You gave me some sort of line to say—like a movie line. What was it?

  Russell: [How many times do we have to say this: We’re not here! This is your own voice, moron! Now, as far as your "line" is concerned, you’ll remember it when the time comes. You’ll just have to feel it out and be ready, because your moment to shine is coming up shortly.]

  Why are you guys torturing me? I hate you both! Especially you, Rusty!! You should know better. Pete: you can kiss my fat ass. I’m glad I punched you!! I HOPE YOU’RE ROTTING IN HELL!!!

  The engine was still idling when Hector snapped awake and squinted down the dark, barren street. Outside, crickets chirped their singsong chants, reminding him so much of the Crazy Rabies choir that he revved the engine for no other reason than to drown them out.

  His hands, which clutched the steering wheel in a death grip, slowly slipped down the wet rubber. "Wha—" he sighed rather than said. He ran his thick palms over the slick wheel and touched his forearm to his mouth. When he pulled his arm away, thin saliva threads drooped between his wrist and lips. A shudder climbed his spine.

  "I’m dying," he whispered so silently that he almost didn’t hear it. "I’ve got rabies."

  And it’s all Mike’s fault.

  That’s when the pieces began locking into place. By turning them upside down and around and looking at them head-on, he discovered the connections that had always been there but had failed to see before (because I had refused to see). But once he observed how the jagged edges lined up, how every detail inextricably pointed to Mike O’Brien as the culprit for everything that had gone wrong over the past three weeks, he couldn’t unsee it. It was as if a huge spotlight had been aimed at Mike all along, but he had been too preoccupied with his own problems to recognize the snake in the grass in front of him.

  Yeah, O’Brien, I’ve got you all figured out. You thought you could sneak under the radar and get away with your lame plan, but you were wrong. It’s so obvious now. We had all assumed you were too innocent and stupid to set us up like you did, but you got sloppy at the end. Didn’t you?

  Hector shifted the Wrangler into drive and shot it off, leaving a trail of blue exhaust eddying in his wake.

  You should have been the one I punched, not Pete. Pete wasn’t all that bad. At least he wasn’t a goddamn snake. You betrayed me, you bastard. You killed Lola!!

  He raced up Maple Street, aiming for the T-intersection. When he reached it, he turned right. Less than a hundred yards away, Peach Street waited.

  And now you killed me. I’m still alive, but I’m going to die soon, because you gave me rabies!! I know you did. I’ve been focusing so much on what I did to Pete—on how I punched him—I almost forgot what you said to us that day in the piano room. I remember now, though, because I remember everything. It just takes a while for the memories to come back. We were all in the room and Rusty was playing the piano. Then you said: "Is it weird to see a raccoon in the daytime?" And then Pete said: "Yeah, they’re nocturnal." Then you said: "I saw one this morning walking down Cuthbert Road like it didn’t have a care in the world." Didn’t you, Mike? Didn’t you say that?

  No answer.

  Then you said you threw a rock and it hissed at you. Pete asked if it was foaming at the mouth, and you said: "I…don’t…think so," like you weren’t sure what you saw, or like you were telling a lie. I know that it was foaming at the mouth, Mike, because I saw the same raccoon the next morning. It was on top of my Jeep. You put it there, didn’t you? After I passed out, you snuck through that tall grass, like the snake that you are, and somehow—I don’t know how you did it, but you did—you carried that raccoon with you. You might have had it in a cage or something (your dad has traps and I know it), or you might have stunned it somehow. It doesn’t matter how you did it. All that matters is that you did. You tracked me down; then you put that dirty raccoon on top of my bare back and watched it scratch and bite me. Or maybe you took its little paws in your hand and did the scratching yourself. I bet you even opened its diseased, little mouth and pressed its teeth into my skin. You infected me, you son of a bitch!! Why did you do it? What have I ever done to you?

  Hector turned onto Peach Street. Closing the gap between him and Mike, he surmised the last pieces of the puzzle.

  As if killing me wasn’t enough, you had to kill Lola, too. Isn’t it convenient that the night I get wasted and pass out in a field is the same night Lola goes missing? You took her, didn’t you? I know you’re a runner, and I know that you know shortcuts through the woods. You were counting on nobody figuring this out, because it would seem impossible, given the length of time and the distance covered, for one person to do all that you did in one night. It also helped that you had a Bloodhound—my Bloodhound—to track my scent. I’ll bet anything that you went to sleep as soon as you got home that day. It was probably still light out, but you needed your rest, because you had a busy night ahead of you. That’s why you ate all of that food at supper: you needed the energy to find and kill me and my dog. What did you do, kill Lola when you were through using her? Give her rabies so you’d have an excuse to kill her? What goes around comes around. You’re dead meat, Mike.

  The Jeep skidded to a halt in front of Mike’s shanty. Hector jumped out, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled, "O’BRIEN!" at the top of his lungs. All that came out, though, was a husky whisper. He swallowed, but his throat rejected the wad. Spit dribbled down his chin in frothy bubbles.

  It’s the hydrophobia. It’s one of the symptoms. I’m dying.

  He ran up the path and hammered his fist against the door, waited a few seconds, then pounded again.

  "O’Brien!" he attempted to shout, once again forgetting that he had been robbed of sound. Frustrated, he kicked the door. Amazingly, the rotting plank withstood the assault.

  When I get in there, I’m wringing your dog’s goddamn neck. Then I’m going to tear its huge, ugly jaw off its hideous, flat face. As worthless as Huey is, I’m sure he helped you carry out your plan to ruin me. Tit for fucking tat. You killed my dog; now I’m going to kill yours.

  He pummeled his fist against the door and bit his lip. The door continued to hold.

  Shit!!

  He kicked at it some more. The door held firm.

  Then it dawned on him:

  The bag!

  He jogged back to the Jeep, opened the door, reached across the seat, and retrieved the plastic grocery bag from the footwell. He ripped it open and pulled out a rope of Black Cats, which he draped over his shoulder like a bandolier. He sauntered back to the house.

  Let’s see if this wakes you up.

  Kneeling under the front window—Mike’s room—Hector snatched the Bic from his back pocket and flicked the igniter. While trying to get the spark to catch, a sulfurous tendril crept up his nose and made him dry heave against the cracked wall.

  You dumbass, Mike. Your sewer line’s busted. That’s what happens when you let your foundation collapse. How many times have I told you to shove some cinder blocks under there?

  Fina
lly, Hector got a flame. He lit the fuse and tossed the hissing string under Mike’s bedroom. Running back to the Jeep, he thought, I knew this would come in handy. Watch—he’s gonna come running out in a minute here, crying.

  Ten seconds later, the rapid fire pops began cutting the still night. Somewhere beyond the backyard, deep in the woods, a chorus of dogs barked. Hector watched the whitish-purple cluster of sparks from behind the Jeep’s hood. He didn’t want Mike to see him when he ran out the front door. Not at first. The plan was to watch Mike and Huey panic. Once they calmed down a little, then he would pounce.

  That was the plan anyway.

  The firecrackers were winding down, and smoke was rising from under the house, when the Whoooooooshhhhh occurred.

  Hector saw the Whoooooooshhhhh before he heard it. First, the space between Mike’s house and the ground lit up like the sun. Then, white arms of fire shot out into the yard, igniting the dry weeds like tinder. Lastly, the sound struck him, along with a blast of eyebrow-singing heat. Instinctively, he ducked behind the Jeep.

  While waiting for the flame thrower to die down, Hector checked the street for looky-loos. If the firecrackers hadn’t woken them, then the Whoooooooshhhhh certainly had. At any second, he expected to see their slack-jawed faces spilling into the night.

  Peering back over the hood, he noticed that the flames still blasted out from under the house. Their reach had diminished somewhat, but now the lower limbs of the oak tree were alight and the weedfire was spreading. The house was on fire, too. Flames lapped the planks outside Mike’s room like a dog laps his master’s foot.

  This is bad. This is so fucking bad…

  Hector ran around to the driver’s side. The whole panel was seared black. He wrapped his shirt tail around his hand and opened the blistering door. Once in, he cranked the engine, brought the vehicle around, and fled for the intersection. In his vision’s periphery, he glimpsed doors opening, but he paid them no mind. He also heard screaming, but that, too, was of no consequence to him. His focus lay on getting away from Peach Street and finding a safe place to hide. The rest was the Fire Department’s problem.

  Shortly after turning onto Maple, an explosion rang out three blocks to his left. Above the rooftops, an orange and black fireball billowed upward like a miniature nuclear bomb.

  Well, he’s dead now, he thought absently. You can’t survive that.

  Now front doors along Maple Street were opening, pouring out the sleepy-eyed and the curious. He noticed them noticing him. He saw their pointing, accusatory fingers out of the corners of his bloodshot, brown eyes. He loathed every single one of them and mentally likened them to termites escaping their wrecked mounds.

  That was a gas line. Must have been spilling gas from a leak, because…

  "The house was collapsing," he whispered, grimacing in pain.

  Come on! How was I supposed to know about that? I’ve got the worst luck in the world. I swear to God, I do.

  Hector sped down Maple Street, not sure where he was going or what he was going to do. For now, all he cared about was fleeing. And that was enough to keep his addled, troubled mind occupied.

  Besides, it was all Mike’s fault.