The Camaro Murders Page 8

  “Because he’s been watching Culver. Where do you think he goes at night? He’s trying to find a way into Culver’s soul when he’s dreaming.”

  “Tickseed can’t cross over on his own?” I’m confused.

  “No. Only the Fold can. Or those who the Fold appoints.” The Driver gives me a knowing look.

  “You’re talking about me, then.” This isn’t what I envisioned as a way out.

  “Yes, if you’ll help.”

  “Wait, back up,” I say. “What do you mean about needing someone who knows the area?”

  “To a certain extent, the Territory mirrors the physical world. The layers between here and there can be confusing if you’re not familiar with their alignment. I can’t have someone stumbling about, making people think they’ve seen a ghost.”

  He’s gone all scientific on me again. “Never mind, I don’t need to know.” I look up and notice Tickseed standing in the doorway—he’s early. Damn. This could get ugly fast. I haven’t exactly advertised my conversations with the Driver. There’s no telling how Tickseed will react.

  The Driver catches me staring and turns to see Tickseed making his way over to the table. “Just meet me at the edge of town tomorrow night—after Tickseed leaves.” He stands. “You don’t look like you’re sold on all of this.”

  “How can you tell?” I say while keeping an eye on Tickseed. “Why would I want to get mixed up in your problems?”

  “We’re not angels,” the Driver says like he’s apologizing. “We’re something much less storied.” Then he walks away.

  I reach down and scratch Halfacre behind the ears, never taking my eyes off the Driver. If things go south, we might have to make a break for it. “Sit tight, boy.”

  In a few steps the Driver is within striking distance, but neither he nor Tickseed reacts. They ignore one another as they pass. It’s like they don’t know each other.

  Tickseed sits down where the Driver was, thumbs in his vest. “You know he’s full of it.”

  I don’t reply. I just return his glare.

  Tickseed raises his voice, annoyed. “You’re not actually listening to what he says, are you? I told you he’s an idealist.” He leans across the table and points at me with one of his skinny fingers. “And don’t forget, I’ve been looking out for you. I’m going out of my way to find opportunities for you.”

  “I don’t follow,” I say.

  “Everyone wants a chance at a level playing field. How many times were you denied that when you were alive? I’m just talking about what’s fair and just. Love those who deserve to be loved; hate those who deserve to be hated. Your misfortune has afforded you prospects most never see.”

  “Prospects for what?”

  Tickseed’s grin pulls tight around his eyes. “It’s simple, really. You have a chance to get even. Revenge is a powerful motivator. It’s one of the few desires we have left here. Might as well exploit it.”

  The Driver wants me to do this; Tickseed wants me to do that. I’m tired of being pulled in two directions, and them wanting to use me because I don’t know what’s going on. “It does a lot of good when I’m stuck here,” I say.

  “I have an idea or two on how we might get you over to the other side.” Tickseed is thoughtful. “Or maybe if you hang around the Driver long enough, he might even teach you how the Fold does it.”

  “But what’s really in it for me?” I want to vent. “I hear you both talk, talk, talk. Why should I listen? You can’t offer me anything better than the next guy.”

  “Now that’s where you’re wrong,” Tickseed says. “I’m the only one who can set you free. Why cling to an empty promise? The Fold will never make you happy. You and I—we’ve got to forge ahead and make our own road.”

  My own road… He’s right, I hate to say. I’m the last guy who wants to get sucked in to someone else’s cause. I’ve always been my own man—never a follower. Not to mention the revenge talk kind of hits a chord.

  Tickseed continues. “Do you know what I would love to see? The look on the face of that shovel-wielding inbreed when he sees you’ve come back for him—when he sees you’re not content with death. Once he realizes what he’s brought upon himself, it will have been worth it.”

  I’d like to believe Tickseed. I really would. Maybe it’s as easy as it sounds.

  “Well, what do you say?” he asks. “Are you going to settle for what you’ve been given?”

  Visitors

  February 19th, 1999

  Culver Crisp at the Manor Restaurant

  The man and his dog—intruders in last night’s dreams. I didn’t want them there, but they appeared in every sequence, keeping pace with me. The man had the nervous look of someone who didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. What did he want?

  The patrons in the Manor Restaurant can’t answer that. The clink of silverware and coffee cups is the sound of their ignorance. They are oblivious to my presence.

  I might reach out and strike with no provocation, or toss my meal to the floor in disgust. It would be a stupid way to get noticed, but it would relieve my anonymity.

  The restaurant is just like it’s always been—a small counter in front with a perimeter of tables, serving three meals a day to truckers and the elderly. I guess I’m the oddball today, though no one seems to object.

  What if I put one of them to the floor and just screamed at them? I’d stand over their shocked and frightened form and let loose about what my life has amounted to. It would be easier than making friends who don’t want to hear about it—easier than twisting someone’s arm to get them to care.

  Maybe I don’t need someone to listen after all. I’m not conversational. My walk here was unnoticed, as will my walk back to my old house. Just a little sustenance and the use of the facilities, then I’ll be on my way, slipping through the cracks of someone’s faulty memory.

  The waitress refills my coffee cup and I thank her. What I don’t tell her is that the man with the dog spoke. This is another first—no one in my dreams has ever addressed me.

  All morning I’ve thought it over. I set the expectation that the dreams mean something, and I take it for granted that they don’t change. Now I want to know why they finally did.

  More importantly is what, if any, significance lays in what the man said. “Hey, you’ve got to come with us,” were his words.

  Go with them where? It’s not a very convincing plea for my obedience. There’s nothing to see in that wasteland—just bodies and other horrors to which I’m very much desensitized. Blood and bowels don’t bother me anymore, but it doesn’t mean I want to see them.

  I’m not so naive as to think there aren’t things in this world beyond my comprehension—I’m finite. I just don’t know where to draw the line between the supernatural and a psychotic episode.

  No doubt, there are things wrong with me. I’m probably clinically depressed. My dreams might as well be hallucinations. And I harbor guilt and regret for past events which were largely outside my control. Self-diagnosis makes me wonder if the crazy person knows he’s crazy.

  The waitress asks me if I need anything else. As she waits for my reply, I notice the grease spots on her apron have formed little continents. The pad of paper where she writes her orders is stuffed into the front pocket. Hands on her hips like she’s supporting her back, her pose reminds me of Starla’s mom.

  I tell her that I’m fine and watch her scurry off to a patron two seats down the counter. She’s not expecting a big tip, so she doesn’t dote on me. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t expect much from me either.

  She has her life cut out for her, predictable and simple in this diner. I’m sure she has hopes and dreams, some of which she’s probably given up on. I wonder if she asks herself if this is all we get.

  I’d answer, “Afraid so, sister. You look worn down. I thought you would’ve figured that out by now. Or are you the type of person who holds on to hope? I can’t tell—maybe you’re content to be content. Maybe you don�
�t feel like crawling back into the womb when you wake up like some of us do.”

  Anyway, that’s the way I’d like to answer. In reality, I’d stumble over a few non-committal comments which would amount to “I don’t know.” If she even bothered to ask…

  Of course there’s no reason for her to confide in me. I might even look like a trusting person, but she’s got little to gain by taking a chance on a stranger. She can’t be much older than thirty, and I consider what I might say to her if we met within the context of a movie script.

  I continue to study her. A little rough around the edges…not quite svelte…but certainly not unattractive. She’s what I’d expect to see running around a dive like this.

  There’s no ring on her finger, and I imagine she goes home to an apartment with a cat. She probably eats most of her dinners alone in front of the T.V. Or maybe she hangs out at the bar in the bowling alley and knows all the regulars.

  There could be a boyfriend, but I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m just another creep who wonders what she’s doing later. I’m not sure why I’m thinking about her. She’s not into me. She probably can’t wait for me to leave.

  Mind games provide relief for only a moment before I’m dwelling on my condition again. My condition. I like to call it that. It helps me cope with guilt and the dreams. If I can make myself believe it’s not really my fault, that I’m not partially to blame, then I can feel sorry for myself.

  Of course self-pity never lasts. Starla went into those woods with me, and I left her alone. What kind of friend does that? The kind of friend who’s more concerned about looking tough and saving face. Kids are stupid.

  Coming back to the house was a poor idea; I’ll admit that now. I’m just digging up the past, but there’s that bittersweet nostalgia for which I haven’t lost the taste. I just wanted a reminder of how things were, even if it hurts. Sometimes I think the memory is worth the loss; other times I’m not so sure.

  Maybe I’m not seeing things in perspective. Whatever happened to Starla is a tragedy; I won’t ever marginalize that. I just don’t know if it should have such a lasting impact on me. I’ve let it shape so much of who I am…

  I button up my coat and take a glance around the restaurant. I feel sluggish, like the deep fried aroma of this place has saturated me. The speckled countertop, the tattered menus, everything is so simplistic…I feel like I don’t belong here anymore.

  A few bills find their way from my pocket to the counter. I turn towards the door. My legs are sapped and reluctant to comply, but manage to stagger their way outside. I’m really not feeling well…head is light and airy…a little warm. A ripple of nausea in my middle…then I’m falling.

  Homecoming

  February 23rd, 1999

  Sheriff Hildersham returns to the Mendelssohn farm

  Staring at a brass door knob, I’m on the front step of the Mendelssohn farm. My right hand rests on my service revolver while my head is full of indecision. Am I was wasting my time? Am I looking for trouble where there isn’t any?

  This is ground zero for me. I keep asking myself what I expect to find inside, but I can’t say. All’s I know is I never did my due diligence the first time around.

  The porch is like I left it—leaning and rickety. More of the paint wore off since ’87, but that’s to be expected. None of Mendelssohn’s family, if he had any, kept after the place.

  I thumb the key in my pocket. The gal who works at the real estate office—it turns out I went to high school with her daddy. That on top of being Sheriff guaranteed I didn’t have to answer questions. She took my word this was official business and gave me the key without any trouble.

  The lock sticks, but with a bit of jiggling it gives. My heart ramps up as I step over the threshold. I half expect to see that phantom boy again and chuckle to myself for being so jumpy. There’s nothing inside but my imagination.

  My first whiff of the place makes me cough; the dust is thicker than I thought it would be. On the wall, the holes are still there, filled with cobwebs. And there’s the far corner…

  The surprise I felt comes rushing back, the shock of seeing the boy. Any second I expect him to materialize, but he never does. The corner remains empty. It wasn’t real, was it? It was so long ago, I don’t think I can trust my memory.

  I move past the front room and into the hallway. Daylight is a faint glow at the end. It leads me to the rear of the house where there’s the dining room, and beyond that, the kitchen. Off to the right is a back room.

  The dining room is straightforward with its simple wooden table and chairs. There’s a ratty woven rug underneath. No wall hangings. A quick look and I’m sure there’s nothing to dig for here.

  In the kitchen there’re drawers and cabinets to inspect—old white ones with metal handles. I don’t find much other than the norm. Chipped plates and bowls aren’t telling.

  The back room is musty. The ceiling shows signs of leakage; the water stains creep in above the window. Aside from a beat-up couch and a wooden chair, it’s another bare room. Mendelssohn led the simple life.

  The second floor is next. I make my way along the hardwood to the front of the house, and then I climb the groaning stairs. The bathroom is at the top with a bedroom on either side. Around the corner from the steps is another door—probably the attic.

  I start with the first bedroom. The paisley wallpaper is peeling, and what I assume was Mendelssohn’s bed is made up nice and neat with a dull brown comforter. A nightstand sits next to it. I rummage through its drawer: a notepad and a pen, reading glasses, and a book of matches.

  The shallow closet across from the bed has some moth-eaten articles hanging inside as well as a pair of boots caked with old dirt on the floor. There’s a box of shotgun shells on the shelf above the clothing.

  I exit and wander past the bathroom and into the next bedroom. It contains about twenty cardboard boxes, all full of yellowed newspapers. The closet has another five boxes crammed into it. The wallpaper is like the first room, except it’s in worse shape.

  Turning, I retreat back into the hall. It’s almost a letdown there’s nothing suspect. Not downstairs or up here. ’Course there’s still the attic. I expect it will be more of the same.

  Turning the knob, the door squeals and I climb the dingy, narrow stairs. They creak even more than the first flight did. Near the top, the wood feels like it’d give way if I stomped hard enough.

  The steps lose my focus when I get in full view of the attic. Even in the dim light from the single window, I can make out the chair in the center of the floor, with a shotgun leaning against it.

  The cobwebs make the gun and the chair look like they have grown from the floorboards. An open box of shells lies nearby. The items themselves don’t seem out of place so much as their position. There’s a readiness about the scene, kind of a front-and-center, ready for action feel.

  Who knows? This may have been where Mendelssohn cleaned his gun. I navigate around a few boxes and a crooked bed frame to get a closer look. Crouching, I don’t want to handle it, but the gun looks like a Mossberg 500—probably a 12 gauge.

  I also notice a faded sheet of notepaper on the chair. A few words are inked in neat cursive: “If I’ve gone through with this, it means the guilt got to me. So all I can say is—just check the barn.”

  Check the barn? What in the hell is that supposed to mean? I stand up, wondering about this message and how long it’s been here. Surely it must have been Mendelssohn who wrote it. It’s clear no one’s been up here for years.

  There’s a barn on the back of the property, and after the disappointment of the house I have new hope. This is another wrinkle. What could Mendelssohn be talking about? What did he feel guilty for? I bound down both flights of stairs, wondering.

  This admission of guilt might be the last words of a man who thought he’d die—or to put it more direct, a man who thought he’d kill himself. That doesn’t exactly dovetail with what I knew of Mendelssohn. He was supposed to be a man
of God. It doesn’t add up.

  I reach the front door and shuffle down the porch steps. Rounding the corner of the house, the barn comes into view, maybe five hundred feet away. There’s no telling what I’ll find in there. Not in a million years would I have guessed I’d find anything substantial as a hand-written note in the house, so this could be anything.

  The barn is a faded grey, having lost whatever color it was originally painted with. Two boards near the peak lean inwards, smashed. The shingles on the gambrel roof are streaked and rotting.

  The door is only loosely secured and swings open with a good shove. Inside, it’s damp and cold. Sunlight splinters in through cracks between the boards.

  An old tractor rests just within the door, faded red with rusty spokes. A few tools line the wall behind it. There’s nothing in the hayloft above…a pitchfork to my left. I keep moving.

  Mixed with bits of hay, the dirt floor is soft and giving. A rodent darts out of my path as I pass empty stalls, but has nowhere to go as it comes to the end of the barn. It burrows into the corner as I stop and turn in a semi-circle, let down. There’s nothing worth seeing in here.

  Wait—I didn’t see it before, but a shaft of light catches it just right. There’s a trap door near the stalls, probably for a cellar. I hustle over and kick away the dirt and straw to uncover the rest of the door.

  With some prying, the iron latch breaks free of its rusted position. I heave back the door, inhaling damp earth and musty air. I grab the small flashlight on my belt and head down.

  The steps are shallow and steep, hurrying me down. At the bottom, I swing my beam around. The cellar isn’t very big at all; it’s more or less a hole in the ground. In the corner there’s a small mound with a shovel beside it. A shovel…

  This is it. This has got to be what Mendelssohn was talking about. He buried something out here…or someone. No, that can’t be. There’s no way. Not Mendelssohn.

  I put the end of the flashlight in my mouth and grab the shovel. The moist earth gives way as I start digging, frantic. My teeth soon hurt from biting into the metal, so I put the flashlight at my feet, pointed at the hole I’ve begun.