Johnny Gruesome (11 page)

Circling the car, Matt slipped in the mud and went down on one knee. As he pulled himself up, he glimpsed the paramedics hurrying up the embankment.

You’re too late
, he thought. We all are.

Dan peered through the cracked driver’s side window, then thumbed the door handle, jerking the door open. Water cascaded out, soaking his slacks beneath the knees, and rushed down the slope. The dome light did not activate, and empty cans made hollow sounds as they knocked against each other. The water stopped pouring as Matt joined Dan, and they stared inside the vehicle together.

Johnny sat upright in the front seat, his hands locked on the steering wheel. His head had tipped back and turned to one side, his wet hair hanging straight down. One eye stared out from a halfclosed lid, white in the intense light. His soggy flesh had turned blue, and his jaw hung open, his black tongue protruding.

Dan removed a digital camera from his coat and squeezed off a series of shots, the flashes illuminating Johnny’s discolored corpse.

Tommy’s Lounge

Matt parked on Main Street, four blocks from the police station on Central Avenue, after 1:00 a.m. Fresh snow covered the town square, the wind the only sound on the street. A neon beer sign blinked in the front window, and he shivered as he neared the front door, a Paul Anka tune wafting outside. Entering the warm saloon, he surveyed its occupants: a half-dozen men with gray hair, broad shoulders, and worn posture. Unlike the other bars in town, Tommy’s catered to the older segment of Red Hill’s population. A slower pace prevailed, and retired blue-collar workers could enjoy a few drinks away from their wives, maybe flirt with a middle-aged waitress who would flirt back, knowing nothing would happen.

Matt spotted the man he’d come to see sitting at a back table near the CD jukebox, sharing a pitcher of beer with Don Bulashka, who owned a dairy just outside town. Matt approached them, his attention on the heavyset man facing Don. Glancing in his direction, the man did a double take.

“Hey, Matt,” Don said. “Sit down and pour yourself a drink.”

Matt shook his head. “Thanks, I can’t. Will you excuse us for a minute, Don? I need to speak to Charlie alone.”

Charlie Grissom tried not to react, but Matt saw his body turn rigid.

“Sure,” Don said, rising. “I’ll just wait over here.” He refilled his mug and relocated to the bar.

“I think I will have a seat,” Matt said, sitting opposite Charlie.

Charlie stared at him, waiting. “What’s he done now?”

Matt hesitated.
Your kid is dead
. “Why don’t we step outside, Charlie? Or into the back—”

Charlie drummed thick fingers on the tabletop. “No, we can talk right here. What’s my boy done this time? You have to lock him up for something?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.”
Your kid is dead.
“There’s been an accident.”

Charlie’s face slackened. “What kind of accident?”

Matt saw no way to get Charlie into a more private setting. “Charlie, Johnny drove his car off the Willow Creek Bridge tonight. We’re not sure how long he was underwater, but there was nothing we could do to save him. I’m sorry.”

Charlie stopped blinking. He seemed to age before Matt’s eyes, like Christopher Lee at the end of an old
Dracula
film.

“Dead? My boy’s dead?”

Matt nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Charlie ran one hand over his forehead, pushing pack a tuft of hair that refused to retreat with the rest of his hairline. He stared at his beer mug, his bloodshot eyes filling with tears. “No. Oh, no. Not him, too …”

Matt squeezed Charlie’s flabby left forearm. “Let’s get out of here, okay? I need you to come to the morgue with me and identify his body.”

Burying his face in both hands, Charlie wept. “Oh, God, not my son …” His chest heaved and his shoulders trembled.

Matt felt the eyes in the bar on them. He wanted to comfort Charlie, but what could he say? It didn’t help that in his mind he still saw Johnny sitting in the front seat of his Cutlass Supreme, his eyes upturned and his flesh waterlogged.

Your kid is dead.

E
ric watched gray sunlight stretch across his bedroom walls. His mother’s alarm went off, and a moment later the shower in the master bedroom began to run. He turned on his radio and switched off its alarm. He hadn’t slept all night. His head throbbed and his blood felt like it had been replaced by alcohol. The local radio personalities discussed sports events, television shows, and local politics. They announced birthdays and contests, but made no mention of school closings or Johnny’s death. Perhaps it had all been a nightmare—

No. It really happened. Johnny’s dead and I was there.

Rubbing his swollen eyes, he pictured the parking lot and dark hallways at school. He wondered how he would survive the day. He wanted to stay home and hide from the world, but that would only delay the inevitable, and he had given his word to Gary and Karen.

Gary.

His jaw tightened. Why had Johnny ever become Gary’s friend? Other kids liked to party and listen to the same music as Johnny, but Gary had wormed his way into Johnny’s confidence. Eric wanted to believe it took more than good weed to earn Johnny’s loyalty. He stood and the room swam around him. Pain shot through his skull and his stomach performed gymnastic feats. He saw the framed photograph of him with Johnny on the wall, taken at a wrestling match two years earlier. Bile rose in his throat and he hurried to the bathroom.

The smell of sausage and onions assaulted his senses as he entered the kitchen, causing him to taste beer all over again. His mother, Pat, had made an omelet for his father, who sat at the table reviewing his lesson plans. Glancing at the island of skin on the crown of his father’s head, Eric sat beside him. Robert Carter held tenure as a professor of American literature at Red Hill Community College. His expertise on Nathaniel Hawthorne had brought him acclaim in academic circles.

“Would you like an omelet, Eric?” Pat asked.

“Just toast, please.”

Robert looked up, one eyebrow arched. “What kind of breakfast is that?”

“I have to make weight, Dad.”

“Are you sure it isn’t something else?”

“It’s nothing else.”

“You look a little peaked around the gills.”

Pat inserted two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster. “Eric’s assured me there’s no need for us to lecture him about drinking.”

“You don’t say? What a relief.”

Eric knew his father was just giving him an opportunity to set himself up, like a spider baiting a fly, so he remained quiet.

“You got in late last night, didn’t you?”

Games.
“Not really. I was home by ten thirty.” He had an 11:00 p.m. curfew on school nights.

“What did you do?”

“Johnny drove me around and then brought me home.”

“I hope he didn’t let you drive.”

“No, and I didn’t ask to drive.” His learner’s permit prohibited him from driving after 9:00 p.m.

“Eric, this is probably a good time for a discussion your mother and I have wanted to have with you for some time now.”

Great.
The toast popped out of the toaster and Eric flinched.

“Your grades are down this semester.”

“I have an eighty-nine average—”

“Down from a ninety-one.”

“—and I’m still on the honor roll.”

“That isn’t going to get you into a good college.”

Pat set a plate with the toast on it before Eric.

“It will get me into Red Hill Community.”

Robert traded looks with Pat. “We have higher hopes for you than that. And going away to college is a large part of growing up.”

Seeing no point in arguing, Eric stared at the toast. “I’ll do better.”

Pat sat on Eric’s other side. “It’s not that we don’t like Johnny—”

Yes, it is.

“It’s just that he’s very … provincial, and we don’t want him holding you back. We know you’re close now, but you’re from different backgrounds, and have different goals. Odds are, you’ll drift apart once you start college anyway.”

He wanted to blurt out,
Johnny is dead!
“You’re right.”

Palpable surprise.

Pat spoke first. “We are?”

“I know you don’t like me hanging out on school nights, and I won’t do it anymore. I’ll only see Johnny on weekends from now on.”

“How will you get to school?”

“I’ll go with Dad.”

Robert smiled. “You see? I told you he’d see the big picture if we just explained things properly.” He returned his attention to his lesson plans.

Nibbling on his toast, Eric avoided his mother’s suspicious stare.

When they entered the attached garage, Robert tossed his car keys into the air. “Catch.”

The keys sailed past Eric’s bleary eyes and rattled on the floor. He retrieved them from the smooth cement and raised his eyebrows.

“Your own set,” Robert said, vapor swirling from his mouth. “You need the practice.”

“Thanks.” But Eric didn’t feel grateful; the aspirin he’d taken had failed to ease the throbbing in his head. His stomach constricted and expanded. He tossed his gym bag into the Lexus’s backseat, got into the front, and opened the garage door with the remote control on his new key chain. Hazy sunlight spilled inside, causing him to squint. He fastened his seat belt as his father got into the car beside him, then turned the ignition and allowed the engine to warm up. Robert switched on the radio, and Eric’s heart skipped a beat. National Public Radio came over the speakers and he relaxed.

No local news.

He followed the same route to school that Johnny used, and they listened to the radio without speaking. His spine iced up as they passed the municipal building; a police officer crossed the parking lot and got into a cruiser. They continued up Main Street, passing the cemetery and, a quarter of a mile later, the supermarket. Out of the corner of his left eye, Eric spied another police vehicle parked in the supermarket’s driveway.

Chief Crane,
he thought, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror, but the SUV did not pull behind them.