Gecko (27 page)

He was feeling sorry for himself and he hated it. He stopped in front of Dewey’s Tavern. A drink might help chase the blues away and some of the cold as well. He went in. The tavern might have been transported from London. Even the smell was authentic. He bellied up to the bar and ordered a Guinness. When in Rome.

“
Mr. Washington, we are meeting again.” Hugh recognized the voice of Jaspinder Singh even before he turned around. He shook his hand. Singh was drinking a coke.

“
You live in Palma?” Hugh asked, making conversation.

“
Eleven years, since I bought the market Tampico side.” Tampico was on the north side of the bay, Palma the south.

“
You work Tampico side, live Palma side. You must know everybody in the area?”

“
Are you wanting more information?”

“
A little. I was wondering if you could help me put a couple of names to a couple of descriptions.”

“
I could try.”

“
The first fellow is a skinny little man, losing his hair, combs it over, right to left,” Washington swept his hand across his head to show what he meant, “slanty eyes, reminds me of a weasel.”

“
And the other,” Jaspinder Singh said, “Looks like an ape?”

“
Yep.”

“
They are Frank and Bobby Markham. Frank is the older brother, Bobby is as stupid as he looks. Not retarded. Just stupid.”

“
You can see it in his eyes,” Hugh said.

“
Yes, in his eyes. I am thinking these are not nice men. Very bad. As you must know, they work for Dr. Kohler. Where he found them, nobody knows, but many people are wishing he would send them back.”

“
Have they been into any trouble?”

“
No, I don’t think so. You would have to ask Sheriff Sturgees. It’s just that they look at you with contempt, like you’re beneath them. I could well imagine them as Gestapo working under a man like Kohler. They seem well suited for that kind of work.”

“
You wouldn’t happen to know where they live, would you?”

“
They live at Kohler’s.”

“
That’s cozy.”

“
The doctor is away most of the time. When he’s out of town you can find the Markham brothers Tampico side, drinking at the Long Bar, or here. When the doctor is in residence, they stick to him like shadows.”

“
One more question, not related. When I was a boy my dad used to take me Tampico side to Dewey’s Men’s shop. It was the only place you could buy Levi’s. This Dewey related?” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand.

“
His son.”

“
And old man Dewey? Is he still alive?”

“
Very much so and still selling Levi’s in the same location.”

“
It’s good to see that not everything has changed.” Washington took a long pull on his beer.

“
Much here has, like the murders this morning.”

“
What murders?”

“
A woman was attacked on the beach early this morning, right in front of her son. Fortunately an alert passerby was swift thinking and ran the homeless beggar down in his jeep.”

Hugh felt sick. He was a trained cop. He should have stopped and made sure that woman was all right.

“
Is she okay?” he asked.

“
Oh yes, the man was stopped before he could cut her.”

“
He had a knife?”

“
Oh yes, a big knife, a Bowie knife.”

“
Very bad,” Washington said, glad the woman hadn’t been hurt.

“
But it looks like he killed a young family earlier, before he attacked the woman. We are getting too much like the big city. Soon I fear I will have to look for another place to bring up my children.”

“
Where? It’s getting to be the same all over.”

“
Out by Victorville maybe, the high desert, not much crime there?”

“
What kind of life can kids have out there?” Washington wanted to know.

“
I just want them to have a life.”

“
I understand that,” Washington said, thinking about Glenna and what America’s violent society had done to her.

“
I went to a lot of trouble to become an American,” Jaspinder Singh said, as if reading his mind, “but I want my kids safe. I might leave. Maybe Canada or Australia,” he paused for a few seconds, “or New Zealand. Someplace safe.”

He sat with Jaspinder Singh through three more beers, before bidding the man goodnight. He should have gone too, but he stayed, sipping beer and feeling sorry for himself, till last call. Never again, he told himself, as he went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

Knowing he couldn’t sleep and feeling that he’d let Glenna down by not being on station in the thicket across from Kohler’s, he decided to go out there now. He changed back into the camouflage clothes he’d bought earlier, having to struggle into them. He wasn’t drunk, he thought, just a little tight, but deep down he knew that if he would’ve pulled himself over, he would’ve taken himself to jail. He grabbed his keys and went out the door.

He cranked the ignition, the starter motor whirred, but the car didn’t start. He tried again, nothing. The car was trying to tell him something, but he wasn’t listening. He pumped the gas three times, held the pedal to the floor, cranked the ignition a third time and the car sprang into life. He drove out of the parking lot, making a left turn on Mountain Sea Road, toward Kohler’s and that dirt road a quarter mile beyond.

It was a quarter to three when he turned onto the dirt track and parked the car. Once the headlights were off he was bathed in black. It was a dark night, the moon and stars hidden under a low, cloud-covered sky. Like last night, he thought, when he’d found the blood all over the walls. He had the unshakable feeling that the overhanging clouds and the bloody walls in that room were intertwined and he shivered, but he was too drunk to be afraid.

He fumbled the keys out of the ignition and stumbled out of the car. He wondered how he made it out here and how he was going to get the trunk open with his unsteady hands in the dark, but he did. He took out the carbine, the extra clip and the flashlight, then closed the trunk.

“
Prepared, like a boy scout,” he mumbled, as he flicked the flashlight’s switch. The light stayed dark. “Some boy scout,” he said, still mumbling. “No batteries.” But through the fog haze he vaguely remembered buying some. Again he fumbled with the keys, struggling with the trunk. Once it was open, he ran his hands around the interior, like a blind beggar searching for a dropped quarter.

He found the batteries and fought another dark struggle with the plastic wrap and another getting them into the flashlight, but still it wouldn’t light. He took the batteries out and reversed them. Still no light. He slumped over and started to fall, but he threw out his hands and held on to the car for support.

He stayed like that, fighting nausea and trying to hold down the vomit that wanted to come. He lost the battle and threw up. His stomach muscles clenched as great gobs of viscous vomit seemed to tear his insides apart. He fought for air, wanting it to stop, hoping it would stop, but still he heaved, spewing out the contents of his stomach and continuing on, dry heaving.

Finally it stopped, leaving him gasping for air, his body demanding oxygen. He used the car for support, bending over the right front fender, holding on to good old Power Glide. He took deep breaths, the way he’d seen Glenna do when she was doing her yoga exercises and after a few minutes he felt better.

He stood up, backed away from the car, faced into a cool breeze, forced his shoulders back and took one last, deep breath. The wind cooled his face. He felt better, less drunk and he wanted a cigarette. The stale Marlboros were in the glove box.

He slid into the passenger seat, popped the glovebox, grabbed the cigarettes and his gold Zippo. Normally he didn’t smoke in the car, but it was his rule and he felt like breaking it. He flipped a smoke into his mouth and flicked the lighter.

He inhaled deeply, sat back and closed his eyes. What was he doing out here in the middle of the night? By now Kohler had surely called the sheriff. If he was caught out here like this, it wouldn’t be hard for even the most incompetent of small town cops to stick him with the crime. It was stupid for him to have broken in that way. Even dumber to go at the video and sound equipment with the ax. It was a weakness, that kind of stuff made him go out of control.

He took another drag, held the tobacco in his lungs, exhaled the blue smoke, and didn’t feel any better. The cigarette wasn’t any help. He stubbed it out.

He should go back to the motel. Shower and sleep it off. He almost started the car to do just that, but as he was about to crank the ignition a picture of Glenna flashed through his mind and he knew he wasn’t going back to the motel. He cursed himself for drinking when his daughter was in danger, but he was confident he had purged himself from the worst of the alcohol’s effects. He got out of the car.

The dark clung to him like a second skin, blocking his vision and chilling his soul. There was just enough light for him to see the road at his feet and two arm lengths ahead, not any more. A good boy scout would have checked the flashlight and made sure it worked before embarking on such a fool’s errand, but boy scouts didn’t go on fools errands. A cop might—fathers do.

Clutching the carbine, holding it in front of himself, at the ready, he started his trek toward the gray house. He had almost made the twenty feet up to the road, when he heard the sound. A movement in the brush. He stopped and listened, more sober by the second. But he heard only silence.

He started again, eyes down, on the dirt road. He let out a sigh of relief when he reached the pavement. Easy sailing now.

A deep throated growl came from up ahead, blocking his way. Washington stopped, moving his eyes off the road, willing them to reach out through the night and bring him a picture of whatever was blocking his path, but the night armor was too strong for his vision’s arrows. Something threatening was there and he might as well have been blind.

He stopped again, tuned his ears to the dark as he chambered a round. He pointed the carbine ahead, where he thought the sound had come from, and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot ripped through the silent night followed by an agonizing howl, then by the sound of something thrashing through the thick brush, scraping and tearing along the ground, bellowing as it fled away from Washington. And the night went silent again and as if nothing had happened, he forced his eyes down to the paved road and continued his trek. Kohler’s place was a quarter mile away and at the rate he was going, it would be dawn before he arrived at the thicket.

Watch dog, wild dog, child’s pet or bear, he didn’t know or care what it was he’d shot. His only thought was of Glenna. If he wanted to get her back, he would have to be at Kohler’s when she arrived with Jim Monday. He had delayed too long already. His resolve was firm. Nothing was going to stand in his way, not animal, nor man, but his resolve was quickly tested. He heard something twisting and turning in the brush and it was no longer tearing away from him in desperate flight. It was moving toward him with deliberate caution.

He put his nose in the wind. The thing coming for him had a smell all too familiar. He had been assaulted by it before, once following a freeway accident, once when he helped a fireman drag a burning woman from a blazing building. It was impossible to guard against. There was no protection from the smell of burning flesh. This thing coming for him was no dog, or bear.

He sensed that it was hugging the ground, forcing the brush aside like some kind of great snake. He used his ears, forced himself to concentrate on the sound and not the odor, which threatened to make him sick all over again. He was alert now, the adrenaline forcing all effects of the alcohol away. And in his new state of awareness, he reasoned that the thing was using the odor to misdirect him. Odor is carried with the breeze which twists and turns through the woods. It lies. He had to depend on his ears, they would give him the animal’s true position.

He listened as it drew closer, clawing and scratching on the ground. He closed his eyes and let the sense of sound take over. Again he used his instincts and fired into the night. And again the thing screeched, thrashed and moved away. Two shots and two hits, but this time it didn’t move as far. It hissed, like a snake hisses, but sounded more like a giant boiler releasing pent up steam, and he was overpowered with the pungent burning smell. He was tempted to shoot again, but he held his fire. He was a veteran and he wanted to make every shot count.

Something in the back reaches of his mind said run, but somehow Washington knew to run was to die. He waited, motionless. And it moved in closer, stalking him. It might be tough, Hugh thought, but it couldn’t be silent. He waited till he heard it leave the brush. It’s on the road. It thinks I can’t hear if it advances along the blacktop, but it’s wrong, I can. The thing was unable to mask the sound of its claws sliding on the smooth road and Hugh’s excellent hearing guided the direction of his fire like radio guided lasers.

Five quick rounds filled the night like explosions and the roar of the beast followed like an erupting volcano. Hugh fired the last three rounds of the ten round clip, ejected, jammed in the fresh clip and, while the animal still roared, he fired five more shots into the screams, still failing to silence the howling beast.