Nightmare Page 8

  “Well, does Toby like that? You bet your ass he doesn’t. He stands up so fast the dining room chair flips over behind him, and one leg smacks into the wall and punches a hole in the sheetrock. Now, I’m a level-headed guy, most of the time, but right then, right then, everything went red.

  “I slung the belt at him side-arm, and it wrapped right around his side and slaps into the small of his back. Now, my daddy taught me that move the hard way, so I know how much it stings. I’m thinking to myself that Toby will cry, he’ll snivel, but he doesn’t. He looks at me, but I see then that what I took for calm wasn’t calm at all. No, it was fury and hate all mixed up like cake batter.

  “I shook my head at him, and I says ‘You may think you’re ready, boy, but trust me. You ain’t ready for this.’ He cocks his head at me sideways, and then whispers, real quiet, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Randy, but I’m going to tell you something. This is it. This is the last time. So enjoy it, you skinny asshole. You hit my mom or me ever again after tonight, and I’ll kill you in your sleep. I know how, so you better believe me.’

  “Can you believe it? Not even twelve, yet. Well, I’m not much to argue, so I start in with the belt again. Pretty soon, he’s crying. He can’t help it, see? Candy, well, she thinks it’s enough, so she opens her damn mouth and gets a few whacks.

  “When I turn back to continue Toby’s education, he’s not standing there anymore. He’s over by the sliding door, and he’s got it open already. Fast little fucker.

  “Anyway, he looks at me over his shoulder, and goes, ‘Was it everything you hoped for? Cause, I meant what I said. Hit us again, and I’ll cut your throat when you sleep.’ Then he turns and boogies out through the door.

  “Since that night, I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. I figured Candy was keeping him away until things calmed down a little, but if I see him again, I’ll tell ya for nothing that he ain’t gonna sit for a month or more. You betcha. I’ll tell you something else—”

  “Gonna sit there and brag about that shit, are you?” Bobby’s voice was low, almost the growl of an angry dog. His elbow arced up and smashed into Randy’s face, and blood splattered all over the back seat. “Sorry, Craig,” he grunted.

  “No, no, Sheriff. You go on. Do what’s right.”

  Randy sat still, staring down at the blood pooling in his cupped palm. “It’s broke,” he whispered.

  Then the elbow hit him in the forehead, and again on the side of his head, his head snapping this way and that.

  When he stopped, Bobby was breathing hard, and Randy was groggy but still conscious. Bobby looked across at the Police chief. “Sorry, Matt. I felt I had to, or I was gonna explode or something.”

  Matt shook his head. “I didn’t see anything. What about you, Craig? You see anything?”

  Craig turned to the front of the Jeep and turned the key. “No, siree.” He put the Jeep in gear and pulled out on the county highway.

  In the ten minutes it took to get to the center of Genosgwa, Randy came around. The blood still oozed from his nose, but it had slowed to a dribble. Still, he was a bloody mess.

  “We better stop and clean him up a bit,” grunted the sheriff.

  “Craig, take us around Tom’s,” said Matt. “He’ll let us use the back door and a cell.”

  It took about twenty minutes to get Randy sorted out and clean again. His nose had swelled to the size of a peach. He’d done whatever they told him to, but he hadn’t said a word or done anything without their prodding.

  Tom Walton drifted back into the cells as they were leaving. “That the guy?”

  Greshin nodded.

  “Is he good for murder?”

  “I don’t think so,” sighed Matt. “He’s an asshole, to be sure. He slammed his face into the back of the seat and then started crying about it.”

  “You bet he did,” said Tom. “Right out in my parking lot. Saw it all from my office window.”

  Bobby winked at him, but his expression was subdued.

  Randy looked back and forth from one to the other, face blank, eyes bleary and watering.

  They herded him back to the Jeep and drove him over to the bus station. Craig parked at the curb close to the bus depot and flipped down his visor, which had an Oneka Falls P.D. placard on the back.

  Randy got out of the car when Matt told him. He stood on the sidewalk, not looking left or right, not talking. Bobby fished his two suitcases out of the back of the Jeep and put them down at Randy’s side.

  “Now, son,” said Matt. “You are going on a one-way trip, ya understand?”

  Randy nodded.

  “I don’t want you coming back.”

  “Not to Kanowa County, neither,” snapped Sheriff Jefferson.

  Randy nodded again, not looking at any of them.

  “But,” said Matt, “if I find out you did something to that boy other than what you told us, I will come for you.”

  “And I’ll be with him,” snapped Bobby.

  Randy nodded for the third time.

  Craig came out of the bus depot and brought over a ticket to Binghamton. “Enjoy your trip, asshole.”

  Randy’s gaze drifted over to Craig, and then he winked.

  “I should’ve got in back,” Craig muttered.

  The three cops got in Craig’s Jeep, and Randy shuffled over to a bench to wait for the bus. Randy muttered and mumbled to himself, glancing over at them, now and again. When the bus pulled up, he stood and came over to the Jeep.

  “I’m getting on that bus,” he said. “But I want you to know something. I’m leaving because I want to, not because you told me to. I was sick of Candy anyhow.”

  “Whatever you have to tell yourself, asshole, as long as you tell it to yourself on the way out of my county,” said Jefferson in a low, menacing tone.

  “Yeah, yeah,” snapped Randy, eyes blazing. “You three think you are big men, coming at me with guns and all—and the sheriff, here, in uniform. Why not come as men? Why not come one at a time and see how things would be different?”

  “You done?” asked Craig in a bored-sounding voice.

  “No, I ain’t done. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but I promise each one of you this: I will get you for this. I will figure out a way to ruin you. And that goes for that cock of a town manager, too.”

  “Smart,” said Craig. “Threaten three cops. You got a fine mind on you, Randy.”

  “I’ll tell you something else. This one’s free of charge.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?” asked Greshin.

  “I’m going to get that bratty little boy, too.”

  “Toby?”

  “Nah, I’m done with the motherfucking Burtons. The boy that squealed on us. The town manager’s kid. I plan on getting him, too. Just for fun.”

  “Well,” said Bobby in a conversational tone, “I guess that’s it.” He popped his door open and was out of the Jeep in a flash. He walked right up on Randy and stood nose to nose, maybe a quarter of an inch separating them. “Gonna get me, huh?” he growled. “Gonna get all of us. Gonna get the town manager. Gonna get another eleven-year-old, are ya?”

  “That’s right, you—”

  “Then do it!” Bobby roared. “Step up. Start with me, boy. Right here, right fucking now.”

  The people boarding the bus turned to look, but to a one, they turned away tout suite when they saw the guy yelling was Sheriff Bobby Jefferson.

  “See?” snapped Bobby. “No one will interfere.”

  Randy shrank away from him, turned, and picked up his suitcases. Without another glance, he boarded the bus and Bobby got back into the Wagoneer, hands shaking with rage.

  “Yep,” said Craig in a wistful voice. “I should’ve taken my turn in the back seat.”

  4

  Randy got off the bus two stops later in Victorsville, still in Kanowa County. It was a place where he knew no one and no one knew him. It was a small town, smaller than Oneka Falls. One traffic light, a police station, fire station,
hardware store, and a greasy spoon called Eats defined the downtown area. All by itself about half a block up the road, like it was the kid that stank during lunch, stood a pawnshop and gas station combination named Bud’s Bodacious Bargains. No hotel, so Randy bedded down behind Bud’s and tried to sleep away the last few hours before dawn, despite his aching nose.

  The sound of a V8 muscle car woke him before he was ready. He opened his eyes and jerked away from the front bumper of a 1968 Cutlass.

  “Caught you napping, did I?” asked the driver. He was a portly son of a gun with stringy brown hair. “This look like a hotel to you?”

  “Well, point me to the town hotel,” said Randy with a laugh in his voice. “Why do they let bus routes stop in the middle of the night in towns with no accommodations?”

  “Fair point,” said the fat man. He hawked and spat out his window. The V8 died, and the man got out of the car. “Name’s Bud. This is my place.”

  “Good enough, Bud. I’m Greg, and I’d like to do business this morning, only I got mugged last night, and they took my wallet.” Randy gestured to his swollen face.

  “No ID, huh?” Bud scratched his head. “Well, I don’t mind if you don’t. Less paperwork for me, less hassle for you.”

  “My man,” said Randy with a broad smile.

  They went inside, and Randy sold a handful of Candy Burton’s jewelry. Bud had a selection of pistols on display in an old jeweler’s case, but pistols weren’t Randy’s style. No, he was a man who liked a little distance between him and the thing he was shooting. “No rifles, Bud?” he asked.

  Bud looked him over. “Going hunting, are you?”

  “You bet,” said Randy, putting on his “honest” face. “Brother-in-law has this cabin—”

  “Yeah, I got no rifles. Better get on up to the hardware.”

  Randy smiled, suppressing his desire to smack Bud across the face for interrupting. “Hardware, you say? They have rifles?”

  “Yup.” Bud pointed to the east. “Hardware.”

  Randy waved and left the stinky little shop behind, along with one of his suitcases—the one filled with Candy’s clothes. He had three crisp one hundred-dollar bills, two fifties, and three twenties in his pocket. Who knew Candy had such valuable stuff? But it was better he hadn’t known, or he’d have no money now and would’ve had to do day labor to get enough for a rifle.

  Victorsville Hardware was a pleasant place. It was one of the older style hardware stores. All the inventory sat out on shelves made of pine, and it smelled like grease, hay, and horse feed. It had a bit of everything, from livestock feed and tack to nails and hammers. And hunting supplies, of course.

  Randy parted with his three one hundred-dollar bills and walked out with a brand-new Remington 700 BDL in .270 caliber. He’d have rather had it in .308 caliber, or hell, if he was wishing, 7.62x51mm like the M40A1 Uncle Sam taught him to shoot on, but beggars and choosers, and all that rot. He had a box of rounds for it and a scope. The Hardware hadn’t had lawn mower mufflers, but they gave Randy the address of a small engine repair shop where he bought a muffler and talked the owner out of a bit of steel wool.

  He knew what he was doing. Those three pigs in Oneka Falls thought he was just some wanker, but that was because he didn’t go by his real name anymore. Not since the last time he’d had a rifle, anyway. If they knew his real name, they’d have shown him more respect.

  Once he had his supplies, he traipsed out of town and into the woods. He walked a few miles into the forest and then sat down and made a silencer for the rifle using the steel wool and the muffler. He mounted it to the end of the rifle and sighted through the scope. The body of the muffler was a little too big, so there was a big gray smear across the bottom of the scope’s field of view, but it was serviceable.

  He jacked a round into the chamber and squeezed the trigger. It made noise still, but a lot less than a rifle shot should. Satisfied, he removed the homemade silencer and put everything into the rifle case.

  He knew a place where he could crash in Cottonwood Vale, but that was forty miles away. He’d need a car because that fat pig of a sheriff didn’t live in Oneka Falls. No, and Randy needed to pay that pig a visit.

  He walked back out to the road and then trudged away from the little berg’s downtown. At the edge of town, a dirt track peeked out of the woods. Randy turned down the track, stepping around the puddles and the mud. He followed the dirt track deep into the woods before he came across what he wanted.

  The place was old and more of a shack than a house. It had once been white, but now was more of a dirty gray with green streaks of mold along the edges of the siding boards. Two of the windows had no screens, and another was boarded over with a scrap of plywood. There was no mailbox and no house number.

  In the driveway was a 1967 Buick Skylark. The car was black with a white top and rotting white-wall tires.

  With a broad grin on his face, Randy high-stepped through the tall grass and weeds of the front lawn. He laughed a little when the driver’s side door was unlocked and then slid behind the wheel. A minute and a half later, the Skylark’s engine wheezed to life, and Randy broke the lockout on the gear selector. He backed the car out of the drive and looked at the house with a feral grin.

  Nothing moved inside the house.

  Laughing, Randy drove toward Cottonwood Vale.

  5

  It was Saturday morning, and Benny had just spent two and a half hours watching Saturday morning cartoons with his brothers. They started on ABC with The All-New Super Friends Hour at eight a.m. over bowls of Golden Grahams, even though it meant missing Hong Kong Phooey. At nine, they switched channels to CBS to catch The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner show, and at ten-thirty, their mother swept in and snapped off the television.

  “Outside time, boys. It’s Saturday, you shouldn’t waste it cooped up inside watching the boob-tube.”

  “Okay, Mom,” said Benny. “Would it be okay if I have Mike and Paul over today? We’ll play in the woods or something.”

  His mom looked at him, and at first, her face was hard and tight, but as she stared at him, something softened in her eyes. She tousled his hair, and said, “Sure, Benny. I’ll make you guys a picnic lunch.”

  He beamed at her. “Thanks, Mommy.”

  She winked at him. “You still get vegetables for dinner, kiddo.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I’m… Mom, I wanted to—”

  She put her finger to her lips. “Not yet, Benny. Not yet.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

  “Okay, Mommy,” he said.

  “Go call your friends,” she said, pressing her index fingers against her lower lids.

  Benny went into the kitchen, looking back over his shoulders to see if his mother was still crying. Her tears confused him, and he felt like he would never understand her. He picked up the phone receiver, a clunky, mustard-yellow thing on a long, twisted cord, and dialed Mike’s phone number. He felt a vague sense of embarrassment when he thought of the rotary dial phone. Most of his friends had fancy push-button phones now, but his dad said rotary dial was fine.

  “Hello?”

  “Mike? It’s Benny.”

  “Hiya, Benny. Did you watch Hong Kong Phooey this morning?”

  Benny shook his head. “Super Friends. Want to come over my house and play? My mom said she’d make us lunch.”

  “Let me ask,” said Mike, and before Benny could reply, set down the phone with a clatter.

  Benny waited, listening to the line hum and sing. He smiled as Mike yelled for his mother, sounding exasperated. The phone made a strange noise, but there was always something making noise in the town’s old phone system. Unconcerned, Benny fiddled with the yellow cord, unwinding a knot.

  “Benny,” whispered something in the static.

  Benny held the phone away from his face and stared at it like it was a viper.

  “Come play with us, Benny. It’s nice here.”

  It didn’t sound like a voice — not a human voice, anyway. Benny broug
ht the phone back to his ear. “Funny, Mike,” he said. “Really funny.”

  “Mike’s not here, but Toby is. Come on down and let’s play.”

  The sound of the voice was like a rusty file drawn across a cheese grater. “Who’s there?” asked Benny.

  “What? Benny, you called me. You must be losing it, my man,” said Mike.

  “Did you hear the other voice? The one in the static?”

  “No one here but us chickens, Benny. My mom says it’s okay, so should I come now?”

  “Yeah,” said Benny as he covered his eyes with his free hand.

  “See you in three minutes, then.”

  “Yeah.” On the other end of the line, the phone clattered, and then the line went dead. Benny set the receiver in its cradle like it was hot. First the dream, now hearing things in the static? I gotta get a grip, he thought. It was just crossed wires. Had to be. He picked up the phone and dialed Paul’s phone number.

  “If you come of your own free will,” said the static voice, “we can have more fun than if we have to come get you. Bring your two friends, there’s plenty of room.”

  “Not funny,” whispered Benny as he listened to the last few clicks of the phone number. “You’re not funny at all, whoever you are.”

  “Hello? Is that Benny Cartwright?”

  “Um, yes, Mrs. Gerber. Can Paul come over to play? My mom says—”

  “To whom were you talking? Just then?”

  “Oh. No one, Mrs. Gerber, it was just my little brother.”

  “Well, Benny, your little brother is not ‘no one’ and one day, you’ll enjoy being around him. Trust me on that. Here’s Paul.”

  “Um, okay. Thanks, Mrs. Gerber.”

  “Hi, Benny.”

  “Hey, Paul. Want to come over and play with Mike and me? My mom’s making us lunch.”

  “Okay. My mom already said I can come over. When?”

  “Now.”

  “I’ll be there in two shakes of the devil’s tail.”

  “You’re so weird, Paul.”

  “I know you are, but what am I?”