Lady in Flames (12 page)

Have I made things better? Or have I only complicated what should be simple, cold, and efficient? Am I sealing some ultimate punishment for myself for having intervened? Sometimes that digs at me with a stabbing persistence. I don’t know what waits for me at the end of my road, what wages I’ve earned.

This weariness does not relent even in the face of duty. I’m a tool, an instrument, after all. My focal point is the grotesque. Whatever violence, whatever bloodshed, whatever motive, it’s mine to attend.

My work in Halgraeve is not yet through. There’s one soul to gather before I return to the Upper Territory. I guide the Camaro south of the square before cutting over to the main route out of town.

Dead spaces of empty lot and field find shelter between sparse garages, choked off from the living. Warped roofs sag under their burden of snow. A lone grain silo stands stark against a black horizon, banished to isolation.

Driving past these thickets of dilapidated structures and worn to the bone foundations, I understand the hopelessness here. Optimism fizzles out like the few weak lights that glint on a random pole. A bitter gust will mute them in snowy suffocation.

Maybe that’s the sickness of Halgraeve, the ill that infects its residents. A disease so saturating that few ever recover. Still, I have to believe that some of them won’t be snuffed out. My involvement in their lives suggests I’m committed to that belief.

Three miles past the mill’s blotch on the rolling blanket of field, I fall in behind my lead. A stray spark, a leftover ember that wouldn’t be quenched…an absurd man whose sense of purpose overrides his restraint. His ludicrous aspirations to enforce the law peak when he’s behind the wheel of his old police interceptor.

I remain close, shrouded from his sight as I keep pace with the steady revolutions of his snow-packed tires. One hand on the wheel and the other on the console shifter, my own spinning mind responds with similar speed.

The countless deaths I’ve seen before blend into faceless automatons. I tried and often failed to treat them as if they were parts on an assembly line, just another cog in the machine of murder. This one will come to pass just the same, except it will be without remorse from me.

Taillights appear on the horizon a half-mile up the road; the cruiser ahead quickens in response.

I match speed, right foot planted. The engine snarls its signature tune.

In another minute, a red emergency beacon flashes bright atop the cruiser.

The vehicle ahead of us draws nearer until the hindquarters of a van come into view. After a quarter-mile, the van slows and drifts to the shoulder. Two-thirds of the driver side are smashed and buckled.

The cruiser shoots up and around the van, blocking any attempt to escape. Once stopped, a flabby character rolls out, the same one who was sneaking about downtown yesterday. He spits and shuffles over to the van, right hand at his beltline, and motions for its driver to roll down his window.

I pull up behind the van, still cloaked from both drivers’ sight, and remain hidden from their consciousness as I step out and plant trackless footsteps in the snow.

A pudgy, reddened face, full of recognition, leans out of the van—Buck Armstrong. Spittle flies from his mouth as he launches a volley of insults.

“Willis, you retard! Get outta my way! I’ll have you arrested for impersonating a police officer!”

“Not tonight, Buck. I’m placing you under arrest for killing Doppler Jennings.” The man called Willis speaks matter of fact, mouth pursed and eyes upturned in ignorant superiority.

Color vanishes from Buck’s face, evident even in the weak light. “The hell you ain’t!”

Willis takes a step back from the window and yanks a silver revolver from his waistband. He points it at Buck’s face. “You just sit tight, now. I’m taking you in.”

“Put that gun away, you psycho. I’m backin’ up. If you don’t get outta my way, I’m gonna run your ass over!” Buck points like he has authority and then rips the shifter into reverse.

Willis thumbs the hammer on the revolver, never taking his aim off of Buck as the van whips up slush in an attempt to reverse. When he sees that Buck won’t comply, he lets off one round that punches a hole through the windshield.

“You almost shot me!” Buck yells, voice wavering like he can’t believe it happened. He shifts back into drive and floors the accelerator.

Willis fires another two rounds; one strikes Buck in the chest and the other penetrates his neck. Willis steps aside as the slumping, bleeding Buck lets off the accelerator and the van coasts the few feet into the rear quarter panel of the cruiser.

Hugging the battered sheet metal, Willis slinks up to the open window and fires another round into Buck’s head, the muzzle flash igniting the interior of the van. Then he hurries around the back of the cruiser and wedges himself into the driver seat before speeding away down the darkened road.

I wander over to the van’s dented driver-side door and peer in. Breaking the physical boundaries, I reach through the steel and into Buck’s body to take hold of his spine. His orphaned soul loosens, unbinds itself, and falls into my grip.

I bundle up the vaporous shimmer as compact as I can and carry it back to the Camaro where I pack it into my duffel bag, snug along with the one that Grimley stole from me. Once secured, I take a measured gaze toward town before positioning myself behind the wheel.

This isn’t my world anymore.

Those More Hopeful

February 27
th
, 2002 8:47 PM

Leland Shaw talking to police in the square

Not sure why the kid ran off like he did. That’s what I told the officers, anyway. Best guess is he was afraid. Told the officers that, too.

They’re through with their questions and didn’t have many of them to begin with. Neither wants to stand around in the cold, so they shuffle back to their cruisers, puffing trails of steam. Just another rowdy night for them down at the bars, I suppose.

That leaves me standing in the street like a vagrant. My legs don’t want to budge. Can’t get my body to lean one way or the other. It’s like I’m dumbstruck or something. Don’t have any good answers for what I just witnessed.

I could only say what I could say. Cutting through town, I saw Buck trying to run down that kid. I spun the wheel hard and wasn’t sure I’d make it, but I walloped Buck’s van good. Crumpled it like tin foil.

Buck didn’t waste time in skipping out. Ran like the coward I figured he was. Thought he was going to take out my truck in the process, the way he wedged between me and the wagon.

The plow’s all messed up now, but that’s my fault I guess. It had another season in it at least. Truck seems okay, though. I steered it over to the curb after the kid took off. Looked over the front end real quick and then hopped back in before radioing for a patrolman.

The two of them showed up after fifteen minutes or so. No idea why dispatch sent both. Now their cruisers sneak away, tires crinkling in the snow. Here and gone. It’s like they’d rather leave the “why” to me.

The past two days haven’t been regular. I’ve got a simple mind and accept most things at face value, but there’s quite a bit to raise my brow at. Can’t seem to connect the dots for the life of me.

It can’t be coincidence that there was a blaze at Potter Oaks tonight. Everyone knows that Buck put his dad up there. And did that structure burn fast! Torched like it was built out of paper. Some hero decided to go in after a few of those trapped inside. Got ’em all out somehow.

It took us an hour to put out the flames…had to use the deck gun. We were limited to defensive operations because there was no chance of going in by the time we were on scene. The place smoldered like it would burn forever if we left it alone.

Still doesn’t sit right. Like I said, I reason on simple terms. Buck seemed like the common thread in all of this, but I’ve got no pretense about my detective skills. Lots of things go on without my knowing. Probably even more goes on without my understanding.

I can’t argue it out with the snow. Pitted brick is the only thing within earshot, but it won’t listen. It’ll just echo back my questions and a lonely excuse for why it hasn’t crumbled in on itself.

Plus, my shoulders ache from shivering. The frozen air isn’t going to loosen its grip for nothing. Hands stuffed into my vest, I trot back to the truck, step up into the cab, and swing the door shut.

I dial the heat as far as it will go. The vents in the dash don’t work, only the ones underneath. The slush from my boots slides off into a pile of muck while I work the pedals.

Easing into the gas, I loop around the square, feeling worn through as the cruddy floor mats. The twinkle of the bars isn’t enough for a wandering eye. Passing a few darkened vehicles and bleak storefronts with rag-tag signage, I head west. The bus station is out that way.

It’s Lilly’s birthday for a few more hours. She still might show, but the skeptic in me says to keep my expectations in check: Lilly isn’t coming home no matter how bad I want her to. It’s a waste of time to make the drive, but I’ve made up my mind about it.

Sometimes that’s all you’ve got, though. Just your expectations. You can expect the best from people or you can expect the worst. Either way, you can’t make up people’s minds about anything. They do as they do.

And sometimes that means they walk out of your life. You don’t plan for it like you don’t plan for a fire, but you learn to deal with it. You learn to hope, too. Even if it’s far-fetched.

Tonight’s a long shot, but sleep’s a few hours off anyway. I’ve got excuses at the ready—enough to last the ten-minute haul out there. If one’s not good enough then there’s the other. So I wrap stiff, calloused fingers around the cold wheel and just drive.

Bitter nights bite even harder on these lonesome roads. Frozen, chalky stretches just go on forever. There’s no one to share it with. Just you and the frigid black. Alone.

Later that emptiness will follow you home like a stray. Nothing can be done about it. You can turn on all the lights, just to make it seem homier, but after a while you’ll let it in. You’ll succumb to it as you lock up for the night and crawl into your cold bed.

I don’t want that nothingness anymore. My best years are behind me. No doubting it. But a man’s got to have some kind of fulfillment. Having Lilly around isn’t too much to ask for, is it? Even if she just checked in to let me know she’s safe, it would be something.

The station sits a few miles further. My heart picks up the pace; I can’t help it. Stupid stomach flutters like I’m a kid. It’s that damn hope again, getting me all worked up.
Don’t lie to yourself. She’s not gonna show.

The parking lot should creep up over the horizon any second, its lone lamplight a beacon for the wayward traveler. Hopefully it draws in more than just me tonight. A solitary drive home would just about kill me, the way I’ve built it up in my mind.

It’s too late to think about turning around. With a firm grip on the wheel, I hold my breath as the lot comes into view. Is there a bus? Anyone waiting? Any sign that someone’s been there?

No, nothing. Empty. Dead as the vacant fields around it. I exhale and loosen my grip. Shoulders fall as I lean over the wheel. I know better. Isn’t any point in being surprised.

I coast the rest of the way to the turn-in. Down the short drive and into the lot, I wheel the truck around and face the road. Suppose I’ll sit awhile seeing as I made the trip. I’ve got nothing else worthwhile to occupy my time.

The motor huffs its uneven pant. Old and broken in, like me. I rest one arm across the back of the seat and gaze out past the glow of the lamplight. The horizon gets lost somewhere in the black.

This town’s got heart. Most don’t see it, but it’s there. Something keeps it alive even when it should die. Survival’s in the blood. I suppose something like that keeps me ticking. Maybe we’ve wore off on each other.

I don’t know any other way to go about it. Get up in the morning and don’t make the same mistakes as before. Hope tomorrow’s a lighter shade of gray. There’s reason enough, and she’s out there somewhere—living her life that’s a part of me.

The charcoal clouds part and the glint of the moon shines through for the first time all night. Washes out the world like someone turned on a spotlight. The snowy fields reflect soft and velvety.

Up the road, headlights peek over the rise. They move steady down the line while I hold my breath again. The orange marker lights of a bus come into view. It’s got to stop here. No other reason for it to come out this way.

I don’t want to move, like I’ll disturb its progress or something. I just wait. Hushed and still like I’m as frozen as the light post. The bus slows, turn signal flashing, and lumbers into the lot.

It pulls around and halts a few feet away. Air brake safety valves let loose their hiss. I lean back in the seat and swallow hard as the folding doors swing open.

End