Christine (54 page)

Leigh uttered a high, piercing scream. She had turned around to look, so I knew that it wasn't just my imagination. She had seen it too.

Christine roared forward, her rear tires spinning snow back. She didn't come for the Duster, but for me. I think his intention was to grind me to jelly between his car and mine. It was only my bad left leg that saved me; it buckled and I fell back inside my Duster, bumping my right hip on the wheel and honking the horn.

A cold wave of wind buffeted my face. Christine's bright red flank passed within three feet of me. She roared down the take-out joint's
IN
drive and shot onto JFK Drive without slowing, rear end fish tailing. Then she was gone, still accelerating.

I looked at the snow and could see the fresh
zig-zag
treads of her tires. She had missed my open door by no more than three inches.

Leigh was crying. I pulled my left leg into the car with my hands, slammed the door, and held her. Her arms groped for me blindly and then grasped with panicky tightness, “It . . . it wasn't . . .”

“Shhh, Leigh. Never mind. Don't think about it.”

“That wasn't Arnie driving that car!
It was a dead person! It was a dead person!”

“It was LeBay,” I said, and now that it had happened, I felt a kind of eerie calm instead of the trembly, close-call reaction I should have had—that and the guilt of finally being discovered with my best friend's girl. “It was him, Leigh. You just met Roland D. LeBay.”

She wept, crying out her fear and shock and horror, holding onto me. I was glad to have her. My left leg throbbed dully. I looked up into the rearview mirror at the empty slot where Christine had been. Now that it had happened, it seemed to me that any other conclusion would have been impossible. The peace of the last two weeks, the simple joy of having Leigh on my side, all of that now seemed to be the unnatural thing, the false thing—as false as the phony war between Hitler's conquest of Poland and the Wehrmacht's rolling assault on France.

And I began to see the end of things, how it would be.

She looked up at me, her cheeks wet. “What now, Dennis? What do we do now?”

“Now we end it.”

“How? What do you mean?”

Speaking more to myself than to her, I said, “He needs an alibi. We have to be ready when he goes away. The garage. Darnell's. I'm going to trap it in there. Try to kill it.”

“Dennis, what are you talking about?”

“He'll leave town,” I said. “Don't you see? All of the people Christine has killed—they make a ring around Arnie.
He'll
know that.
He'll
get Arnie out of town again.”

“LeBay, you mean.”

I nodded, and Leigh shuddered.

“We have to kill it. You know that.”

“But how? Please, Dennis . . . how are we going to do it?”

And at last I had an idea.

48

Preparations

I dropped Leigh off at her house and told her to call me if she saw Christine cruising around.

“What are you going to do? Come over here with a flamethrower?”

“A bazooka,” I said, and we both started to laugh hysterically.

“Nuke the '58! Nuke the '58!” Leigh yelled, and we got laughing again—but all the time we were laughing we were scared half out of our minds .. . maybe more than half. And all the time we were laughing I was sick over Arnie, both over what he had seen and what I had done. And I think Leigh felt the same. It's just that sometimes you have to laugh. Sometimes you just do. And when it comes, nothing can keep that laugh away. It just walks in and does its stuff.

“So what do I tell my folks?” she asked me when we finally started to come down a little. “I've got to tell them
something,
Dennis! I can't just let them risk being run down in the street!”

“Nothing,” I said. “Tell them nothing at all.”

“But—”

“For one thing, they wouldn't believe you. For another, nothing's going to happen as long as Arnie's in Libertyville. I'd stake my life on that.”

“You are, dummy,” she whispered.

“I know. My life, my mother's, my father's, my sister's.”

“How will we know if he leaves?”

“I'll take care of that. You're going to be sick tomorrow. You're not going to school.”

“I'm sick right now,” she said in a low voice. “Dennis, what's going to happen? What are you planning?”

“I'll call you later tonight,” I said, and kissed her. Her lips were cold.

When I got home, Elaine was struggling into her parka and muttering black imprecations at people who sent other people down to Tom's for milk and bread just when
Dance Fever
was coming on TV. She was prepared to be grumpy at me as well, but she cheered up when I offered to give her a lift down to the market and back. She also gave me a suspicious look, as if this unexpected kindness to the little sister might be the onset of some disease. Herpes, maybe. She asked me if I felt all right. I only smiled blandly and told her to hop in before I changed my mind, although by now my right leg was aching and my left was throbbing fiercely. I could talk on and on to Leigh about how Christine wouldn't roll as long as Arnie was in Libertyville, and intellectually I knew that was right . . . but it didn't change the instinctive rolling in my guts when I thought of Ellie walking the two blocks to Tom's and crossing the dark suburban sidestreets in her bright yellow parka. I kept seeing Christine parked down one of those streets, crouched in the dark like an old bitch hunting dog.

When we got to Tom's, I gave her a buck. “Get us each a Yodel and a Coke,” I said.

“Dennis,
are
you feeling all right?”

“Yes. And if you put my change in that Asteroids game, I'll break your arm.”

That seemed to set her mind at rest. She went in, and I sat slumped behind the wheel of my Duster, thinking about what a terrible box we were in. We couldn't talk to anyone—that was the nightmare. That was where Christine was so strong. Was I going to grab my dad down in his toy-shop and tell him that what Ellie called “Arnie Cunningham's pukey old red car” was now driving itself? Was I going to call the cops and tell them that a dead guy wanted to kill my girlfriend and myself? No. The only thing on our side, other than the fact that the car couldn't move until Arnie had an alibi, was the fact that it would want no witnesses—Moochie Welch, Don Vandenberg, and Will Darnell had been killed alone, late at night; Buddy Repperton and his two friends had been killed out in the boonies.

Elaine came back with a bag clutched to her budding bosom, got in, gave me my Coke and my Yodel.

“Change,” I said.

“You're a boogersnot,” she said, but put some twenty-odd cents in my outstretched hand.

“I know, but I love you anyway,” I said. I pushed her hood back, ruffled her hair, and then kissed her ear. She looked surprised and suspicious—and then she smiled. She wasn't such a bad sort, my sister Ellie. The thought of her being run down in the street simply because I fell in love with Leigh Cabot after Arnie went mad and left her . . . I simply wasn't going to let that happen.

• • •

At home, I worked my way upstairs after saying hi to my mom. She wanted to know how the leg was doing, and I told her it was in good shape. But when I got upstairs, I made the bathroom medicine cabinet my first stop. I swallowed a couple of aspirin for the sake of my legs, which were now singing
Ave Maria.
Then I went down to my folks' bedroom, where the upstairs phone is, and sat down in Mom's rocking chair with a sigh.

I picked up the phone and made the first of my calls.

“Dennis Guilder, scourge of the turnpike extension project!” Brad Jeffries said heartily. “Good to hear from you, kiddo. When you gonna come over and watch the Penguins with me again?”

“I dunno,” I said. “I get tired of watching handicapped people play hockey after a while. Now if you got interested in a
good
team, like the Flyers—”

“Christ, have I got to listen to this from a kid that isn't even mine?” Brad asked. “The world really is going to hell, I guess.”

We chatted for a while longer, just kicking things back and forth, and then I told him why I had called.

He laughed. “What the
fuck,
Denny? You goin into business for yourself?”

“You might say so.” I thought of Christine. “For a limited time only.”

“Don't want to talk about it?”

“Well, not just yet. Do you know someone who might have an item like that for rent?”

“I'll tell you, Dennis. There's only one guy I know who might do business with you on anything like that. Johnny Pomberton. Lives out on the Ridge Road. He's got more rolling stock than Carter's got liver pills.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks, Brad.”

“How's Arnie?”

“All right, I guess. I don't see as much of him as I used to.”

“Funny guy, Dennis. I never in my wildest dreams thought he'd last out the summer the first time I set eyes on him. But he had one hell of a lot of determination.”

“Yeah,” I said. “All of that and then some.”

“Say hi to him when you see him.”

“I'll do it, Brad. Stay loose.”

“Can't live if you do anything else, Denny. Come on over some night and peel a few cans with me.”

“I will. Good night.”

“ 'Night.”

I hung up and then hesitated over the phone for a minute or two, not really wanting to make this next call. But it had to be done; it was central to the whole sorry, stupid business. I picked the telephone up and dialled the Cunninghams' number from memory. If Arnie answered, I would simply hang up without speaking. But my luck was in; it was Michael who answered.

“Hello?” His voice sounded tired and a bit slurred.

“Michael, this is Dennis.”

“Hey, hi!” He sounded genuinely pleased.

“Is Arnie there?”

“Upstairs. He came home from somewhere and went right to his room. He looked pretty thundery, but that's far from unusual these days. Want me to call him?”

“No,” I said. “That's okay. It was really you I wanted to talk to, anyhow. I need a favor.”

“Well, sure. Name it.” I realized what that slur in his voice was—Michael Cunningham was at least halfway snookered. “You did
us
a helluva favor, talking some sense to him about college.”

“Michael, I don't think he listened to a thing I said.”

“Well,
something
sure happened. He's applied to three schools just this month. Regina thinks you walk on water, Dennis. And just between me and thee, she's pretty ashamed of the way she treated you when Arnie first told us about his car. But you know Regina. She's never been able to say ‘I'm sorry.' ”

I knew that, all right. And what would Regina think, I wondered, if she knew that Arnie—or whatever controlled Arnie—didn't have any more interest in college than a hog has in mutual funds? That he was simply following Leigh's tracks, hounding her, fixated on her? It was perversion on perversion—LeBay, Leigh, and Christine in some hideous
ménage à trois.

“Listen, Michael,” I said. “I'd like you to call me if Arnie decides to go out of town for some reason. Especially in the next day or two, or over the weekend. Day or night. I have to know if Arnie's going to leave Libertyville. And I have to know before he leaves. It's very important.”

“Why?”

“I'd just as soon not go into that. It's complicated, and it would . . . well, it would sound crazy.”

There was a long, long silence, and when Arnie's dad spoke again, his voice was a near-whisper. “It's that goddam car of his, isn't it?”

How much did he suspect? How much did he know? If he was like most people I knew, he probably suspected a little more drunk than sober. How much? Even now I don't know for sure. But what I believe is that he
suspected
more than anyone—except maybe Will Darnell.

“Yeah,” I said. “It's the car.”

“I knew it,” he said dully. “I knew. What's happening, Dennis? How is he doing it? Do you know?”

“Michael, I can't say any more. Will you tell me if he plans a trip tomorrow or the next day?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, all right.”

“Thanks.”

“Dennis,” he said. “Do you think I'll ever have my son back?”

He deserved the truth. That poor, devilled man deserved the truth. “I don't know,” I said, and bit at my lower lip until it hurt. “I think .. . that it may have gone too far for that.”

“Dennis,” he almost wailed, “what is it? Drugs? Some kind of drugs?”

“I'll tell you when I can,” I said. “That's all I can promise you. I'm sorry. I'll tell you when I can.”

• • •

Johnny Pomberton was easier to talk to.

He was a lively, garrulous man, and any fears I'd had that he wouldn't do business with a kid soon went by the board. I got the feeling that Johnny Pomberton would have done business with Satan freshly risen from hell with the smell of brimstone still on him, if he had good old legal tender.

“Sure,” he kept saying. “Sure, sure.” You'd no more than started some proposition before Johnny Pomberton was agreeing with you. It was a little unnerving. I had a cover story, but I don't think he even listened to it. He simply quoted me a price—a very reasonable one, as it turned out.

“That sounds fine,” I said.

“Sure,” he agreed. “What time you coming by?”

“Well, how would nine-thirty tomorrow m—”

“Sure,” he said. “See you then.”

“One other question, Mr. Pomberton.”

“Sure. And make it Johnny.”

“Okay, Johnny, then. What about automatic transmission?”

Johnny Pomberton laughed heartily—so heartily that I held the phone away from my ear a bit, feeling glum. That laugh was answer enough.

“On one of these babies? You got to be kidding. Why? Can't you run a standard shift?”

“Yes, that's what I learned on,” I said.

“Sure! So you got no problems, right?”

“I guess not,” I said, thinking of my left leg, which would be running the clutch—or trying to. Simply shifting it around a little tonight had made it ache like hell. I hoped that Arnie would wait a few days before taking his trip out of town, but somehow I didn't think that was in the cards. It would be tomorrow, over the weekend at the latest, and my left leg would simply have to bear up as best it could. “Well, good night, Mr. Pomberton. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Sure. Thanks for calling, kid. I got one all picked out in my mind for you. You'll like her, see if you don't. And if you don't start calling me Johnny, I'm gonna double the price.”

“Sure,” I said, and hung up on his laughter.

You'
ll like her. See if you don't.

Her
again—I was becoming morbidly aware of that casual form of referral. . . and getting damned sick of it.

• • •

Then I made my last preparatory call. There were four Sykeses in the phone book. I got the one I wanted on my second try; Jimmy himself answered the phone. I introduced myself as Arnie Cunningham's friend, and Jimmy's voice brightened. He liked Arnie, who hardly ever teased him and never “punched on him” as Buddy Repperton had done when Buddy worked for Will. He wanted to know how Arnie was, and, lying again, I told him Arnie was fine.

“Jeez, that's good,” he said. “He really had his butt in a sling there for a while. I knew them fireworks and cigarettes was no good for him.”

“It's Arnie I'm calling for,” I said. “You remember when Will got arrested and they shut down the garage, Jimmy?”

“Sure do.” Jimmy sighed. “Now poor old Will's dead and I'm out of a job. My ma keeps sayin I got to go to the vocational-technical school, but I wouldn't be no good at that. I guess I'll go for bein a janitor, or somethin like that. My Uncle Fred's a janitor up to the college, and he says there's an op'nin, because this other janitor, he disappeared, just took off or somethin, and—”

“Arnie says when they closed down the garage, he lost his whole socket-wrench kit,” I broke in. “It was up behind some of those old tires, you know, on the overhead racks. He put them up there so no one would rip him off.”

“Still there?”Jimmy asked.

“I guess so.”

“What a bummer!”

“You know it. That set of boltfuckers was worth a hundred dollars.”

“Holy crow! I bet they ain't there anymore anyway, though. I bet one of them cops got it.”