“Right. And when I need to get laid, I get laid.”
The promptitude of this comment almost stunned her.
“I mean, why mince words, you know?” Milly stood up and traipsed into the dark yard. “It’s like fruit on a tree; it’s out there when you want it. Doesn’t mean you have to marry the tree every time you want an apple.”
Ann laughed again. “That’s some metaphor.”
But Millicent Godwin drifted into a sudden, sentient silence, facing the woods. Suddenly, she seemed reflective.
What was it?
Crickets and peepers echoed back their chorus.
“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” Milly whispered.
“Yes, it is,” Ann replied. She looked up into the dark. The moon seemed sidled over the horizon, tiny in its ascent, and pinkish.
Milly turned slowly, surreally. In the moonlight her face looked wanton, her eyes large and clear. “Beautiful things are born on nights like these,” she whispered.
Ann stared at her.
“Yes, the most lovely things.”
—
Chapter 12
“I ain’t burying ’em. You’re the expert on that, ain’t you?” Duke chuckled. “How many babies did you bury anyway?”
I’ve got to get rid of this guy, Erik thought. His throat hurt, and he was hungry. Duke lay back in the van’s seat, chugging the last beer. “Dead man’s beer sure tastes better than regular,” he commented. “Something neat about it, you know?”
Erik winced at the two bodies. They’d start stinking soon. There was nothing he could use for a shovel, so he dragged each of them out of the back and into the woods. Their flesh felt clammy, cool. He covered them best he could with leaves. Rest in peace, he thought.
“Say, buddy, I’m like really hungry, you know, like I could eat a horse,” Duke despaired. “How much longer are we gonna sit here anyway? Let’s go get some food, huh?”
Erik went to close the van doors. Duke had the Webley on him, and the shotgun was too far up to reach.
They’d been here all day; they’d have to move sometime. The van would only remain inconspicuous for so long; eventually, the guy and his girlfriend would be reported missing, and the police would put two and two together.
“We’re moving now,” Erik said, his ragged throat throbbing with each word. “I want you to ride in back so you can’t be seen through the windshield.”
Duke looked offended. “What’s the matter? How come I can’t ride up front with you?”
“Because one guy with ridiculous white hair is less conspicuous than two guys with ridiculous white hair. The cops are looking for two guys. Come on, we’ll stop along the way and pick up some food.”
Duke perked up. “Yeah, man! Food! Twinkies!”
Erik shook his head and started the van up. Duke climbed in back. They drove several miles without seeing a single car. Getting into Lockwood would be tough; Pickman Avenue was the only access, and it would take them straight past the police station. Either Bard or Byron—one of them—would probably be on the road. Erik would have to bypass the town and take one of the dirt roads through the woods. Then he could go in on foot.
“Here we go,” Duke said. “Open twenty four hours. Ain’t that somethin’?”
The big sign glowed eerily in the night. Great, Erik thought. Another Qwik Stop. But they were in luck; the parking lot was empty.
Erik pulled in. He wondered if Duke would take his bait. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
“Bullshit, partner. I’m going too.”
“Only one of us can go, Duke. Someone’s got to wait in the van in case we have to get out fast.”
“You wait in the fuckin’ van. I’ll go. What if the guy at the counter asks you something? You can’t talk with that fucked up voice of yours.”
“You’re right, Duke,” Erik went along. “You go. Make it quick, this isn’t a shopping spree. Pick up some food and some batteries for the flashlight, D size. Get the stuff, pay for it, and leave. Don’t talk to anyone, and don’t start any trouble, okay?”
“Gotcha, buddy.”
“I’m serious, Duke. No trouble. We can’t risk it.”
“Don’t worry, man.”
“And don’t kill anybody, right?”
“Right.”
“Come on, Duke. Say it. Say ‘I won’t kill anybody.’”
Duke’s big teeth showed through his grin. “I won’t kill anybody, man.”
“Good. Now make it quick.”
Duke got out and loped into the store. That was easy, Erik considered. He’d gotten Duke out of the van without so much as a hint. There was only one option. Simply driving off and abandoning Duke wouldn’t be any good. For one thing, Duke would call the police immediately and notify them of Erik’s destination. For another, he’d rape and kill at least a dozen more people before the police caught him. No more innocents, Erik promised himself. He’d never killed anyone in his life, but killing Duke would be the same as killing a rabid dog. You have to kill it, before it gets into the playground.
As predicted, Duke had left the shotgun in back. Erik picked it up and racked a round.
Aw, no, he suddenly thought. Headlights plowed across the lot. A big old Chevy pickup pulled in. Rebel flag in the back window. ZZ Top pumping out. Two guys in jeans and T shirts got out, whooping it up and chewing tobacco. And they were big guys, really big. One’s shirt emblazoned a Confederate flag and read “Try burning this flag, fucker.” The other’s shirt showed a Smurf giving the world the finger. Next, a skinny, pock faced blonde slid out—cutoff jeans, flip flops, tattoos. The three of them were rucking it up real loud, heading for the store. Drunk rednecks, Erik fretted. The only thing worse than rednecks are loud, rowdy, drunk rednecks. Like them.
And Duke didn’t like rednecks.
Duke loped out just as they were about to enter the store.
“Nice hair,” Smurf shirt snickered, though he’d pronounced the word nice as nass.
Buddy, you just made the biggest mistake of your life, Erik thought.
“What was that, pal?” Duke demanded.
The three rednecks laughed. Duke stared. Erik had to admit, though, Duke did look ludicrous: an overweight chronic sociopath with cropped white hair and mismatched bargain rack clothes standing in a Qwik Stop parking lot with one arm around a grocery bag full of Twinkies and Hostess Ho Ho’s.
“Whatchoo starin’ at, fat boy?” inquired Flag shirt.
“Two redneck faggots and a titless chick with a face that looks like it got run over by an aerator. That’s what I’m staring at,” Duke answered.
The three rednecks could not believe this response. It was purely social common sense: talking back to big, drunk, uncultured rednecks was bad enough, but implying that they were of an alternative sexual orientation was exponentially worse.
Finally the stasis broke. Flag shirt spat a stream of tobacco juice onto Duke’s shoe.
“Doesn’t bother me,” Duke replied to the gesture. “It’s not even my shoe. It’s your daddy’s. I took it out of his closet last night when I was fucking your ma. And what’s that you got in your mouth? Dogshit?” Then, to the blonde: “Grow some tits, craterface.”
“You cain’t talk to me like that!” the blonde wailed.
“Shit, honey, I’ve seen sheets of plywood with more chest than you,” Duke then ingratiated her. “And that face—ooo eee! Got more nooks and crannies than a Thomas’ English muffin.”
“Fuck you, you fat pud! Eat shit and die!”