The Camaro Murders Page 5

  My coordination is better, but I’m still “off.” This is a distraction on top of not knowing where I’m going. The path isn’t marked and I don’t know how big the grounds are. The fog doesn’t help, either.

  I set a good pace in hopes we’ll find a main trail sooner rather than later—or maybe catch a ranger on his rounds. I’m still sticking to my guns that this is all some mix-up and I dreamt the last day or two.

  All the crazy talk from the man at the cottage sticks with me as much as I try to ignore it. Part of me says I’m in denial. What does it mean if I’m dead? I’m not ready to answer that question. The whole point of getting out of Graehling Station was to keep things simple, but this isn’t simple.

  Forget it. I’m not dealing with it. It’s not my problem unless I make it my problem. Death can kiss my ass. I look at Halfacre and say, “Death can kiss both our asses.”

  There’s giggling in the trees nearby when I say this. It sounds like a kid.

  “Who’s there?” I say, fed up. Halfacre and I stop, waiting for someone to come out.

  The low-hanging branches rustle as a small boy appears. His faded shirt doesn’t fit over his round belly, and stringy hair hangs over where his eyes should be. Whatever’s there is set so deep in his head he looks like he’s got two shiners. “You’re funny, mister,” he says.

  I don’t like kids that much, and I’m not sure what to say. From the looks of him, I’d say he’s been wandering out here awhile…probably homeless. “Your parents know you’re out here?”

  “Don’t got no parents,” he says.

  “You got a home?” I ask.

  The boy shrugs and looks down at the dirt. “Nah. Don’t need one.” He looks up. “You’re new around here, ain’t ya?”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” I don’t want to spend any more time dawdling. “Listen, do you know where this trail goes?”

  “Why?” He perks up. “Are you gonna go looking for your ghost? I’ll help ya.”

  “Jeez, is everyone here crazy?”

  “Naw,” he says, “just dead.”

  Denial is getting harder to hold on to. There’s a funny calm about it, though, even though I want to fight it. It’s like I’ve been dead for years and I’m used to it.

  “It’s O.K. mister, you don’t have to worry. We’ll find your ghost. I’ve helped lots of people find ’em.”

  If I’m dead, then I’m not on the preserve in Lockworth. It sinks in that I’ve got less of an idea where I’m going than I thought. This kid might be my ticket out of here, wherever “here” is. “Yeah, sure, O.K. Let’s go find my ghost,” I say, half-serious.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what my name is?” he says.

  “Uh…sure. What’s your name?”

  “Conrad. What’s yours? Is that your dog?”

  Is Halfacre my dog? I guess he is now. I nod. “I’m August. This is Halfacre.”

  “He sure is big,” Conrad says as he strokes Halfacre’s side.

  “Yeah, so how do we get out of here?” I look ahead, eager to get moving.

  Conrad points up the trail in the direction we’re already headed. “That way—past the fog.”

  “What’s past the fog?” I ask.

  “The rest of the Territory. C’mon. Follow me.” He marches a few steps ahead.

  “Let’s go, pal,” I say to Halfacre as we follow.

  We find it easy going along the path. Halfacre trots a little ahead of me.

  Conrad, now silent, walks next to Halfacre. Sometimes he stomps on a leaf blowing across the path; other times he stops to look at something in the weeds. He hasn’t looked back at me since we started. “How did you die?” he asks.

  “I got hit with a shovel.” It sounds lame when I say it. “What about you?”

  “I don’t remember.” Conrad doesn’t look back.

  We enter a thick patch of fog after he says this, and Halfacre falls behind next to me. It’s not long and I wonder if we’ve lost Conrad; I can barely see more than three feet ahead.

  Just when I’m sure we’ll have to stop, the fog starts to give way and we’re met with a stern voice.

  “Hold it right there.”

  Halfacre tenses, his ears perked.

  There’s the outline of a man at the end of the trail, with one foot up on a fallen tree. Behind him is an open field.

  I take a few steps ahead to get the man in clear view. He’s tall and gangly, but stands like he’s got authority. His close-cropped hair has a salt and pepper look. His clothes are old—not worn out, but like they’re from a hundred years ago.

  Fingers hooked in his vest, he says, “Well, what have we got here? A couple of road-weary travelers, I presume. How long have you been on the go?”

  I keep a watchful eye on the man because I’m not sure what to expect at this point. “Since this morning.”

  “Ah-hah! You can’t be road-weary yet, then. Have you been in contact with any of our friends? How about the opposition? Any of them to contend with?”

  “I’m not sure who ‘our friends’ are,” I say.

  “You know,” he says, “anyone like you or me. We’re all in the same boat; we’re all in this together.”

  “Well, there was the fellow back at the cottage.” I recount the conversation from earlier this morning.

  “Ah, yes,” the man says, “the Driver. Self-righteous fellow. I’ve seen him around. He’s been at this game for awhile now.”

  “Then there was the boy,” I say. “I was following him when we got separated in the fog.”

  The man’s features freeze. “Did you say a boy? How old?”

  At this, Conrad appears from the brush, howling. His teeth are bared, and he lunges for the man.

  I step back without thinking, not sure what to do.

  The man tries to side-step, but can’t avoid the boy’s jaws from locking onto his leg. “You little bastard!” he yells before reaching down to grab Conrad by the hair. With one strong move, he wrenches Conrad away and flings him aside.

  Conrad rolls into the brush from where he came, and then runs off into the woods.

  “His rabid little friends are probably close behind,” the man says. “They don’t stray too far from one another. Let’s go—we should get a move-on.”

  More confused than ever, I start after the man. Halfacre follows.

  “He and his friends were probably going to eat you. I’ll bet he was going to walk you right to them,” the man says.

  “Eat me?” I say in disbelief.

  “Your dog, too,” the man says as we move out into the field. He turns to me and sees I don’t understand. “Your body isn’t the same as it was before, my friend, but you still have matter.”

  “What does that mean for me?” My mind can’t take much more. First they tell me I’m dead, and now I almost get eaten. What kind of jacked-up world is this?

  “It means you’ve got a super-physical body. New and improved.”

  “New and improved…” I mutter to myself.

  The man puts a narrow hand on my shoulder. “Just stick with me, and I’ll show you the ropes.”

  “Thanks, I guess. What do I call you?”

  The man grins like his name tastes good. “Tickseed.”

  A Haunting

  February 20th, 1999

  Inside Sheriff Hildersham’s bedroom

  Life has a way of forging ahead with or without you, but there’s something that eats at a man. To some it’s the guilt of what they’ve done, to others it’s the memory of what they used to have. For me it’s the knowledge of what I witnessed. Sheriff or not, knowing I saw something I was never meant to see is like a cancer in my conscience.

  There’s something else out there too. It pulls with the same sense of recollection. Like that car in the parking lot tonight, it taunts me. It waits for me to go out on a limb like I almost did when I was a deputy. I’m wary to give in, but I can’t hold out forever.

  Josie is curled up next to me in the cool of our bedr
oom. She sleeps easy most nights, especially when it’s cold out. Her breathing is calm underneath the down blanket.

  Lying on my back, I’ve got one arm around her shoulder and the other behind my head. Now and then, a short gust of wind makes the walls creak. I didn’t get around to winterizing this year, which means each gust is accompanied by a draft. It’s not enough for me to shiver but it makes me glad we’re on the inside.

  It’s three in the morning. I’ve been keeping time with the clock on the dresser, waiting to nod off, but my overactive mind won’t allow it.

  These are the times I wish my father was still alive. I’d like to ask him what he’d do if he were in my place. We’d sit down over a cup of coffee, and he’d impart some kind of wisdom. He never failed to recount a line-of-duty story that he could apply to the problem at hand.

  “Always be prepared,” was his favorite thing to say. For some reason, that’s what I keep coming back to. I just don’t see how it applies this time.

  A man wants simple fruits from his labors, to see his children grow up, to know he’s lived an honest life before his maker. That’s all I ever prepared for. Everything sort of fell in line after that.

  I always knew there’d be the rough stuff when I took a job with the Sheriff’s department. The Jenkins girl for instance—most assume she didn’t meet a good end. That doesn’t sit well with me, but learning how to stomach it is part of the job. So is accepting that I may never know what really happened.

  I normally reason that there will be things outside of my control. But this Camaro business—I feel connected to it. It’s like I’m the only one who knows how closely it’s tied to the whole situation, and it’s my responsibility to make it known.

  This is why I can’t sleep. The onus is on me, no matter how far-fetched my suspicions are. I’m not sure how I’ll explain it to anybody without sounding like a fool, but that’s got to be better than a body count, assuming the driver is still in the killing business.

  I think my father would agree. Accountability is another thing he taught me. It was ingrained into me at a young age. At six years old, I had to own up to Mr. and Mrs. Albright after I stole one of their chickens.

  It sounds simple, but that’s when I first noticed my father’s character. He was accountable as a parent—even if it was embarrassing for him to stand on the Albright’s front porch that summer evening and apologize for his son’s actions.

  That’s a terrible example, though. This goes beyond livestock or personal property. I took an oath, which means I’m bound to my duty. It doesn’t matter if it’s Mrs. Olsen who calls once a month to get her cat out of the tree, or a member of the local posse who thinks the Sheriff’s office is the highest in the land; they both expect the same thing. I’m supposed to enforce accountability.

  Owning up to my responsibility means I have to consider there might be a murderer out there. No one is going to do anything about it; no one else knows what I know. It’s up to me to see this through. Otherwise, there’s nothing else to stop him from killing again.

  So what do I have? For one, suspicion that the driver of the Camaro kidnapped and/or killed Starla Jenkins. There’s a strong possibility that the Crisp boy saw the car…and the chance that the same driver is somehow involved in Ezra Mendelssohn’s death.

  I hate to venture that far, because it puts me into uncertain territory. I don’t have an explanation for the vehicle’s appearance and disappearance, or for what I saw inside Mendelssohn’s house.

  I often forget the last part. It’s been so long I almost don’t believe what I saw in the front room. And I never understood how it related to anything, so I always set it aside. The car was and still remains the most important piece of the puzzle. There’s just too much coincidence for my liking.

  Where would I pick things up after all this time? There’s nothing the girl can offer, because an empty field offers no evidence. And the boy…I have no idea where he is anymore. I would have to ask around—friends of the family and whatnot.

  No, the best place to start is the Mendelssohn farm. I don’t know what I’ll find, but it’s nearby and hopefully accessible. The last I heard, the estate was stuck in probate. That was maybe eight to ten years ago…but I have to start somewhere.

  I roll over and throw my other arm over Josie. Sometimes I think she’s the only thing that keeps me sane. Still, I’m hesitant to bring her in on this one. She’s too grounded to go for phantom cars and the like.

  Normally I confide in her just about anything, and she’s always willing to support me. But I can’t have her questioning my good sense on top of everything else. I don’t want to shake her confidence in me. It just won’t do.

  I close my eyes because I feel like I made up my mind, but there’s another gust of wind—and something else. I almost don’t hear it and so I listen for it again. There—it sounds like a motor. Somebody’s revving their motor outside.

  It keeps up and gets louder, almost like it wants to be noticed, and I know I’ve heard that sound before. I slip out of bed, not believing what I hear. It can’t be. Through parted blinds, I confirm the worst.

  The Camaro is out on the road, rocking with each thrust of the engine. The exhaust is drifting across the yard. God bless it! I’ve got to get my gun.

  No—there’s no time. The tires smoke and the car drifts forward, the rubber waiting to catch. Then, howling like the motor is going to blow, the car is gone.

  I feel my sanity drop like dead weight. “It can’t be,” I say to myself. “It just can’t.”

  “Eustace?” Josie sits up in bed; I’ve woken her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep.” I can’t tell her. I won’t.

  The Driver’s Bequest

  October 30th, 1986

  The Driver keeping watch

  The little girl on the cot is silent, curled up in the fetal position. The last of the daylight is waning through the cottage’s only window and falls near her feet.

  I have a lot to explain to her, but I don’t know where to start. A year ago I found myself on one of the cots like her, and Jasper was sitting in the folding chair like I am now. The role reversal doesn’t make it easier.

  It doesn’t matter that they tell you not to watch the first time, because you know what’s coming. You know what’s going to take place in a bedroom, an alley, or some desolate field.

  A life will be taken by force, and however it comes to be, you will watch with the fascination of a child seeing something hideous, twisted, or gross for the first time. By then it’s too late to look away.

  They warn you for good reason. What unfolds is often brutal. The first time, most usually double over and retch, and then wait for the bile and stomach juices which never come. Protests go unheard; screams are in vain. The most dangerous thing is to pity or empathize with the victim. This is the mistake I made with the girl.

  “I saw you running through the woods, and then out into the field,” I say to let her know I was there. She needs to understand it wasn’t a dream. “The biting air and rapid breathing stung your throat, and your vision blurred as your eyes began to water. But you didn’t cry, even though you were scared.

  “He was following you; you could hear his gasps as he pursued you. The sky was like the pale water colors you painted in class. Could he hear your heart beating? It must have been so loud. It was echoing in your head.

  “You wondered why your legs wouldn’t move faster. They were short, moving as fast as they could. And your little black shoes, they weren’t made for running—weren’t made for escaping.

  “The ribbon in your hair came undone. It looked so cute that morning, but you thought it was probably lost in the brown and gold of the field. You thought he would trample it as he got closer, smashing it into the mud with his desperate stride.

  “Then the tree line disappeared as you squinted, running with all your might. The creek was beyond the trees. If you could make it across the creek…just across the creek!r />
  “That’s when he got close. You leaned forward, because you feared he was grasping for you. But you lost your balance. You fell, and he was on top of you. You could smell him: his acrid breath, the perspiration in his musty clothes. Then you found you had not lost your ribbon after all; it was only tangled in your hair.

  “Jasper and I drove you away from there, not wanting you to look back at the field. You didn’t need to see what was left behind.” I pause and wonder if the girl would cry if she could. She only slept for a day here in the cottage.

  Jasper said this was a good place to hide souls while I piece together new bodies for them. It’s where he hid me. Now this place is the closest thing to feeling like home in the Territory, probably because it’s what I knew first.

  When I woke up, I spent a few days listening to Jasper, who came and went at odd hours. The measurement of time became less and less frequent when I found I didn’t need to sleep. It’s only necessary at first to recover from death.

  Jasper explained what he could, at least what I could initially digest. He’d stroke his beard and place his other arm across his substantial belly, recounting his own murder. He also told me about mine, but he never talked about it again unless I asked.

  That’s why I won’t speak of this girl’s demise anymore. Her murder is now hers and hers alone. What she’ll do with that isn’t clear. She has yet to speak let alone react to what I’ve told her. Her mind is still very immature.

  If at first she doesn’t find her ghost, she might choose to join the Fold and help others find theirs. This is the best I can hope for her if she never finds that fleeting image of herself.

  Tonight, it’s just the girl and me, and I’m restless. Before he left, Jasper said this is just the business we’re in, trying to justify it. That doesn’t sit well with me. There’s no consolation in what the Fold has asked me to do. Nothing can replace what’s taken.

  Maybe the mental nausea will subside. This girl is my first, and there may be others before I find my ghost, but for now I’m filled with utter disgust at what I witnessed in the field.