“I understand. You’re the head of the family.”
The blue eyes heated like gas flames.
“The only one there ever was. The other two were evil,
parents in name only. They abused their rights. Tried to destroy the family
from within.”
“I know, Doug. I was over at the house this evening.
Saw that greenhouse. Read some diaries that Swope kept.”
A terrible look oozed onto his face. He lifted his arm
and swung the axe in a blinding parabola, letting it smash into the counter.
The trailer shook as the plastic shattered. The movement had been effortless,
not even budging his rifle arm. There was stirring behind the curtain but no
sign of the girl.
“I was going to destroy that shithole tonight,” he
whispered, jerking the blade free. “With this. Shatter every fucking pane. Take
the house apart board by board. Then burn it to the ground. But when I got
there the lock had been tampered with so I came back. Lucky I did.”
He sucked in his breath, let it out with a hiss.
Iron-pumper’s breathing. He was sweating heavily, sizzling with agitation. I
fought back the fear, forced myself to think clearly: I had to steer his
attention to the crimes of the Swopes. And away from me.
“It’s an evil place,” I said. “Hard to believe people
could be like that.”
“Not hard for me, man. I lived it. Just like Sis did.
My old man diddled me and beat me and told me I was shit for years. And the
bitch who called herself mom just stood by and watched. Different theaters but
the same movie. When I said forged in pain I meant it.”
As he talked about the abuse he’d suffered, lots of
things fell into place: the arrested development, the exhibitionism, the hatred
and panic when he’d talked about his father.
“It’s destiny, Nona and me,” he said, with a satisfied
smile. “Neither of us could have made it alone. But some kind of miracle
brought us together. Made us a family.”
“How long have you been a family?” I asked.
“Years. I used to come up summers, worked this field,
rough-necking, sinking wells. The old bastard had big plans for this place.
Carmichael Oil was gonna rape the land, carve it up, and squeeze every greasy
drop out of it. Unfortunately, it was dry as a dead woman’s tit.” He laughed,
banged the axe head against the floor.
“I hated the work. It was dirty and demeaning and
boring but he forced me to do it. Every summer, like a jail sentence. I snuck
away any chance I got, went hiking through the back roads, breathing clean air.
Thinking of ways to get back at him.
“One day I met her while I was walking through the
forest. She was sixteen and the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, sitting on
a stump and crying. She saw me and got scared but I told her it was okay.
Instead of running, or talking, she started to—” The handsome face darkened and
distorted with anger. “Put it out of your filthy mind, man. I never touched
her. And that story I told you and the cop about the freeway blow job was
bullshit. I was just trying to throw you off.”
I nodded. Another explanation for the fantasy
suggested itself: wishful thinking. But for now his sexual impulses toward the
girl he called his sister were safely repressed and I hoped they’d stay that
way.
“It was because I treated her differently from the
other men that something special grew between us. Instead of jumping her bones
I listened to her. To her pain. Shared my own. All summer we met and talked.
And the summer after that. I started looking forward to working the wells. We
got to know each other bit by bit, discovered we’d been through the same thing,
realized we were alike— two halves of one person. Male and female components.
Brother and sister, but more. Know what I mean?”
I strained to look sympathetic, wanting him to keep on
talking. “You formed a common identity. Like some twins do.”
“Yeah. It was beautiful. But then the old bastard
closed down the wells. Locked everything up. I drove up anyway. On weekends.
During holidays for a week at a time. Crashed right here—used to be the night
watchman’s place. I cooked for her. Taught her how to cook. Helped her with her
homework. Showed her how to drive. Took long walks at night. Always talking.
About how we wanted to kill our parents, erase our roots. Start fresh, with a
new family. We had picnics in the forest. I wanted the little guy to come
along, so he could be part of the family, too. But they wouldn’t let him out of
their sight. She talked a lot about him, how she wanted to claim her rights. I
told her she should, taught her about liberation. We made plans for next
summer. The three of us were gonna run away to some island. Australia, maybe. I’d
started collecting brochures to find the best place, then he got sick.
“She called me as soon as she got to L.A. Wanted me to
help her get a job as a prize girl on one of the game shows, but I told her you
needed heavy connections for that. Besides, I’d already lined up the gig with
Adam and Eve. Got Rambo to let us work as partners. The skits went smooth as
silk. We didn’t need any rehearsal because each of us knew what the other was
thinking. It was like working with yourself. We got big tips and I gave them to
her to keep.
“Then one night she phoned me in a panic. Said she’d
confronted them and they’d snatched the little guy out. I’d never liked the
idea of him being in that hospital in the first place but I was afraid they
were gonna disappear south of the border, take him where she’d never see him
again.
“I rushed over and got there just as they were
leaving. Swope was coming out the door when I opened it. I’d never met him, but
I knew damn well what kind of shit he was. He started mouthing off and I hit
him in the face. Knocked him out. The woman came at me then, screaming, and I
hit her, too, along the side of the head.
“Both of them were lying there, grokked. The little
guy was kind of dazed, mumbling in his sleep. Nona got pissed all of a sudden
and started to tear up the room. I calmed her down, told her to wait right
there, and managed to load both of them in the ’Vette. Stuffed her in the back,
put him in the front seat. Drove ’em to the beach at Playa Del Rey and when one
of the planes passed overhead, finished ’em off. Then I hauled them to a place
I knew in Benedict and dumped them. They deserved to die.”
He twirled the axe handle like a baton, chewed on a
strawlike mustache hair.
“The police found the remains of another body up
there,” I said. “A woman.” I let the question hang in the air.
He grinned.
“I know what you’re thinking, but no. I would have
liked to put mom there but she had the bad manners to have a stroke and die in
bed a couple of years ago. It pissed me off, because I’d been planning it for
years—there’s a plot reserved for the old man that I’ll fill one day. But she
escaped. Then I got lucky. I was doing a late gig at Lancelot’s and this old
broad in the front row was really coming on to me. Stuffing ten dollar bills
down my jock, licking my ankles. Turns out she was a doctor. Radiologist.
Divorced a couple of months and out for a wild night. She came to my dressing room,
sloshed to the gills, started pawing me, sending out real strong signals. It
turned me off and I was gonna kick her out. But when I turned on the lights I
saw it: she could have been the old bitch’s twin sister. Same dried-up face,
upturned nose, rich bitch manner.
“I smiled, said
Come on in, honey.
Let her do
me, right there in the dressing room. The door was unlocked, anyone could have
come in. She didn’t care, just hiked up her skirt and got on top. Later we went
to her place, condo penthouse in the Marina. Made it again and then I strangled
her in her sleep.” His eyes widened innocently. “The burial plot had been
chosen. Someone had to fill it.”
He leaned the axe against the oven, reached into one
of the shopping bags with his free hand and brought out a large peach.
“Want one?”
“No thanks.”
“They’re good. Good for you, too. Calcium, potassium.
Lots of A and C. Make a great last meal.”
I shook my head.
“Suit yourself.” He took a large bite out of the
fruit, licked the juice from the ends of his mustache.
“I’m no threat to you,” I said, choosing my words
carefully, “I just want to help your little brother.”
“How? By pumping him full of poisons? I read all about
the stuff they wanted to use on him. That shit
causes
cancer.”
“I’m not going to lie and tell you the drugs they use
are harmless. They’re strong—poisons just like you said. But that’s what it
takes to kill the tumors.”
“Sounds like a load of shit to me.” His jaw tightened
and the beard bristled. “She told me all about the doctors there. Who’s to say
you’re any different?”
He finished the peach and threw the pit in the sink.
Took out a plum and dispatched it, too.
“Come on,” he said, picking up the axe. “Stand up. Let’s
get it over with. I wish for your sake that I’d gotten you the first time, with
the shotgun. You wouldn’t even have known what hit you. Now you’re gonna have
to suffer a bit, waiting for it to happen.”
I WALKED to the door, the tip of the rifle nudging the
small of my back.
“Open it slowly and carefully,” instructed Carmichael.
“Keep your hands on your head and look straight ahead.”
I obeyed him shakily and heard the rustling of the
shower curtain, the sound of Nona’s voice.
“You don’t need to hurt him, Doug.”
“Go back in. Let me handle this.”
“But what if he’s right? Woody’s burning up—”
“I said I’ll handle it!” the blond man snapped, with
sudden loss of patience.
Her unseen response caused him to soften his voice.
“I’m sorry, Sis. It’s been heavy and we’re all
stressed out. When I finish with him we’ll settle down, drop some B-twelve. I’ll
show you how to cool the little guy down. Couple weeks he’ll be fine and we’ll
split. This time next month I’ll be teaching him how to shoot the waves.”
“Doug, I—” she began. I hoped she’d continue to plead
my case, providing diversion for a sudden run. But she stopped midsentence.
Padded footsteps were followed by the whisper of the curtain closing.
“Move,” said Carmichael, angered by the hint of
rebellion and expressing it by jamming cold steel into my kidney.
I pushed the door open and stepped into darkness. The
chemical stench in the air seemed stronger, the bleakness of the mesa more
pronounced. The husks of the unused machines were giant, rusting carcasses,
sprawled passive and silent across the ravaged terrain. It was far too ugly a
place in which to die.
Carmichael prodded me through the corridor created by
the stacked oil drums. My eyes darted from side to side, searching for escape,
but the black cylinders formed high metal barricades, mercilessly seamless.
Several yards before the end of the passageway he
started talking, offering me options.
“I can do it while you’re standing, kneeling, or lying
on the ground the way I did the Swopes. Or, if being still freaks you out, you
can make a run for it, get a little exercise to take your mind off what’s
coming. I won’t tell you how many steps I’ll give you, so you can pretend it’s
like a regular run. Make believe you’re in some kind of marathon. When I run I
get high. Maybe you will, too. I’m using a heavy load so you won’t feel a
thing. Kinda like one big rush.”
My knees buckled.
“Come on, man,” he said, “don’t fall part. Go out with
style.”
“Killing me won’t do you any good. The police know I’m
here. If I don’t return they’ll be swarming over this place.”
“No sweat. As soon as you’re out of the way, we’re
splitting.”
“The boy can’t travel in his condition. You’ll kill
him.” The rifle jabbed painfully.
“I don’t need your advice. I can take care of my own.”
We walked in silence until we reached the mouth of the
metal hallway.
“So how do you want it,” he demanded, “standing still
or running?”
A hundred yards of flat, empty land lay before me. The
darkness would provide some cover for a run but I’d still be easy to pick off.
Just beyond the void were hills of scrap metal—strips of sheet-iron, coils of
wire, the derrick behind which I’d hidden the Seville. Meager sanctuary, but
finding cover among the detritus would gain me time to plan…
“Take your time,” Carmichael said magnanimously,
savoring the starring role.
He’d played this scene before, was working hard at
coming across cool and in control. But I knew he was as unstable as nitro and
just might start blowing his lines if provoked. The trick was to get him
sufficiently distracted to lower his guard, then flee. Or attack. It was a
deadly gamble—a sudden burst of rage could just as easily yank his trigger
finger. But there wasn’t much to lose at this point and the idea of submitting
passively to slaughter was damned distasteful.
“Make up your mind?”
“It’s a bullshit choice, Doug, and you know it.”
“What?”
“I said you’re full of shit.”