The bag was very heavy.
«« — »»
“Why…is it—Ann?” asked the astonished face at the door.
“Hello, Mrs. Gargan,” Ann greeted.
“Come in, come in,” the woman hurried. “I almost didn’t recognize you at first. It’s been so long.”
“Yes, it has.”
Ann, Martin, and Melanie entered the dark half paneled foyer. At once, familiarity struck home, and memory. This was the house she grew up in. It never changed. The same old paintings were on the walls, the same carpets on the floor. The same grandfather clock she remembered tolling in the wee hours as a child. The moment seemed surreal. She was not merely stepping into her parents’ house, she was stepping back into her past. Ann felt instantly morose.
“Melanie! How are you, child?” Mrs. Gargan leaned over and gave Melanie a big kiss. “Look how big you’ve gotten, and how beautiful!”
“Melanie, you remember Mrs. Gargan.”
“Hi,” Melanie said, a bit stunned by the sudden gush of affection.
“And this is Martin White,” Ann introduced.
Mrs. Gargan had been a close friend of the family’s for as long as Ann could remember. She was in her fifties but didn’t look it; she beamed good health and didn’t have a single gray hair. Her husband, Sam, ran the farm supply store on Pickman, which served the entire town. They were nice people, if not a bit weird—Sam, like a lot of the men in town, seemed withdrawn against his wife’s popularity and outgoing demeanor.
Just like my father Ann thought.
Though Mrs. Gargan tried not to show it, her enthusiasm hitched down a bit upon introduction to Martin. “Oh, yes, you must be the poet,” she said. “We’ve heard lots about you.”
“Very nice to meet you,” Martin said.
Ann lowered her voice. “How’s Dad?” she asked.
But Mrs. Gargan turned. Had she ignored the question deliberately? “Everybody, Ann Slavik and her daughter are here.”
Dim lights glowed in the large colonial dining room. Cold cuts, cheese, and the like had been spread out on the table, around which at least a dozen people stood quietly conversing. The room went dead silent when she entered. Suddenly, she saw them all as they looked when she was younger. Mrs. Heyd, the town doctor’s wife. The Crolls and the Trotters. Mrs. Virasak, whose husband had been Lockwood’s police chief until he’d died several years back. In fact, there were many widows here, whose now dead husbands Ann ghostily remembered. These were staunch, robust women, conservative, and polite with an edge, and who looked good for their ages. Several younger women—Ann’s age, she guessed—stood in the background, with what seemed attendant daughters. Ann had indeed lost touch; the more she looked around, the more she took note of people she didn’t know at all. No, she didn’t know many of them. So why did she have the gut feeling that they knew her?
They went through the round of grueling introductions. The elders constantly fussed over her and Melanie, yet all but ignored Martin. All the while Ann felt like wilting. These people. This place. Her father sick upstairs. Perhaps he had already died—that would explain this bizarre scene, but certainly someone would’ve told her by now.
“Your mother’s upstairs, dear, with Josh,” Mrs. Croll said.
“She’ll be down presently,” added Mrs. Virasak.
This was frustrating, cryptic. Ann still didn’t quite know what was going on. She took Mrs. Gargan aside. “How’s my father? How bad is it?”
The woman stalled but maintained her cordial smile. “He’s resting,” she said. “He’s—”
“Is he even conscious?”
“Well, sometimes. We’ll go up when you’re ready.”
But that was it: Ann didn’t know if she was ready. She felt threatened by images. The image of her father as she’d always known him, and the image of what he must look like now: bedridden, sallow.
Abruptly, then, Mrs. Gargan hugged her. “Oh, Ann, it’s so good to see you. I’m just so sorry it has to be under these circumstances.”
Ann stiffened in the embrace. For her whole life she’d felt distanced by the townspeople, and now it seemed like a homecoming. More images crashed.
Again, the room fell silent. Ann turned.
A figure stood in the entry—a solid figure, unflinching as a chess piece. She was sixty but looked forty five, well bosomed, shining dark hair pinned in a bun. Fine lines embellished rather than depreciated her face. That face, like this house, the town, like everything here—hadn’t seemed to have changed at all. Stoic touched with kindness. Hard and compassionate at the same time.
The figure stepped into the dining room.
“Hello, Mother,” Ann said.
—
Chapter 10
“Women sure are noisy sons of guns, ain’t they?” Duke chuckled.
Erik remained numb in the driver’s seat. They’d parked on an old abandoned logging road, figuring they’d wait out the heat; the police probably didn’t even know this road existed. This, however, left them with time on their hands, and Duke Belluxi was never one to waste time.
The girl screamed and screamed.
She’d fainted after Duke had blown her boyfriend’s head off, but she’d come to real fast when Duke had pried off one of her long, shiny painted fingernails with a pair of Craftsman pliers he found in the toolbox. She’d lurched awake, screaming. “Sleep tight?” Duke asked, and began tearing off her scant clothes. Little as she was, though, she put up a formidable objection to Duke’s plans, clawing, slapping, trying to bite, so Duke clunked her in the head a couple of times with an empty Corona bottle to take some of the zing out of her. By now Erik knew the futility of trying to intervene—the guns were all in back with Duke. Now all the girl could do was moan and churn a little. Duke spraddled her out right on top of her dead boyfriend and began raping her at once. “Some bed, huh, honey?” he said, chuckling. Erik had no desire to watch this, yet every so often something—guilt perhaps—forced him to take a glance. “Oh yeah, oh yeah,” Duke was going. When the missionary position lost its thrill, he flipped her over and began to sodomize her. She jerked into full consciousness again and vomited. “Aw, shit, girl!” Duke objected, thrusting. “Look what you done! Puked all over our nice van!” Soon the girl started screaming again, in gusts, so Duke gave her another clunk with the Corona. “Simmer down, sweetheart,” he advised, then laughed.
He pushed her face down into her dead boyfriend’s crotch. “Give your honey a nice big kiss from Duke!” Then he yanked her head back by her hair, stepping up his thrusts. Erik stared blankly out the windshield.
This cannot go on, the thought hammered in his mind. Once Duke got going, he was beyond reason, beyond control. He was on a killing spree, and it was Erik’s fault. He had to do…something.
He glanced in back again. The Remington and the Webley lay beside the rear wheel hump. No way I can get to them, Erik realized. The box of stuff they’d taken out of the Luntville car was reachable but useless. All it contained were a few boxes of shotgun shells, some road flares, and the bulletproof vest—nothing he could use to fight Duke. I’m going to have to kill him, he reasoned. But I’ve got to get to those guns.
“Aw, come on, Duke!” he yelled when he saw what his associate was doing.
Duke chortled like a farm hog, grunting. His orgasm was obvious, spurting into the air and onto the girl’s back as he slowly strangled her with a battery cable. Duke wiped himself off with her panties, laughing. “Thanks, baby. Hope it was as good for you as it was for me.”
Erik just stared—at this monster he’d helped escape.