Lady in Flames (7 page)

The Driver somewhere in the Upper Territory

Coastline. Someone’s view of summer, but faded and washed out. The level, gray slice of road stretches farther than I can see. On either side, flimsy grass stands calm, the barest hint of green.

From my vantage point on the shoulder, the dull, listless water seems like something from an old photograph—flat and without texture. It lies beyond the low-slung structures that dot the shallow properties every few miles. Small vacation homes—overgrown shacks—stand in ruinous shame, almost as if they are a sorry excuse unto themselves.

Before me lies the Shoreline Motel, a longish one-story affair. The crusty shingles curl not from the sun but from the memory of whoever left this place behind. Who were they? Someone young and free of worry? Someone old with regrets? I’ll never know.

Thick steel benches line the cement walkway, one in front of the window of every room. A brown, numbered door stands to the right of each. The parking spaces before them comprise a dusty, gravely void.

A slanting sign planted in the front lawn advertises cable in crude block letters. The neon vacancy indicator hangs dormant in the office window. This is where my search for Grimley led. He’s here, somewhere.

All night I drove from one waypoint to the next, following the path where I last saw him. The first was a dense vineyard—gnarled grape vines wrapping themselves in choked circles. Sometimes wanderlings play among the tangled growth.

I stumbled through the field for what must have been an hour. Moving on from there, I scoured back alleys and a crumbling cathedral, anywhere the little ones might hide. The far end of that urban dreamscape melted into a rainy, industrial strip of decaying smokestacks and warehouses.

There I found a pack of them, stomping in puddles and acting out something from someone’s dream. Their voices rang out on repeat as they mouthed their own sing-song version of what they’d seen the night before.

I stood among them. Each of their deformities was unlike the next—one with a concave chest, another with stumps for ears. Several minutes passed before they all stopped to stare at me.

They all knew me, or at least knew
of
me. It wasn’t difficult to coax what I needed from them. The promise of a ride in the Camaro purchased where Grimley was headed: Summerland.

Most places in the Territory aren’t named, but now that I see how this lazy vacation scene evokes what many associate with the warmer months, it makes sense. I’m told Grimley favors the motel.

I shove off from the front fender of the Camaro leaving the heaviness of the car behind. Sometimes it feels like a prison, the amount of time I spend in it.

The office is nearest. The brass knob on the door gives way with an easy twist and I peek my head in. Silence. A dingy laminate counter rests above a sign that says “Ring for service,” but there’s no bell.

Backing out, I close the door and step a few paces to the first unit. It’s locked, as is the second.

The third opens to a muted scene, darkened with the shades pulled tight. The brown bedspread lies immaculate with a small bed stand beside. A simple, studious desk sits opposite. It’s as though I’ve interrupted a world unto itself, one I shouldn’t disturb.

Closing the door, I work my way down the remaining units, and it’s more of the same. Some locked, others a forgotten world of tidiness. At the end of the motel I step off the edge of the walkway into the overgrown grass. A sideways glance off the back corner reveals a small figure sitting near the rocky ledge overlooking the water. Grimley.

He doesn’t turn as I approach, preoccupied with whatever lies before him. His sallow head tilts as he whispers something to himself that I can’t make out.

I stop a few paces behind so as not to startle him. “You’ve got one of my souls.”

The small figure jumps, wide eyes darting over a lumpy shoulder. “Oh, it’s you.” Coarse, matted hair hangs over his rounded head. A puggish nose rides over a dimple of a mouth.

“I think it’s time you gave it back.” I move alongside of him and crouch near.

Grimley sits Indian-style in the dirt, pudgy hands clasping the fringes of a wispy gray apparition. His mouth cements as he pulls it away so I can’t see.

“What have you got there?” I nod toward his hands.

“Nothing.” Grimley’s lower lip juts out, stubborn.

“Is that the one you took from me?”

A soul is just a glimmer, a loose semblance of a slack, lifeless, humanoid form. Over time, it will fold into chaos and disarray if left unattended—a mind without a body.

Grimley continues his pout and then looks away. “Yeah, it’s one of yours. I just wanted to play with it.” He turns enough that I can see the pale shimmer. There’s no way to actually grasp it; it’s more of an attraction—like a magnetic field.

“I know it. But it doesn’t belong to you. It doesn’t even belong to me.” I pause to let that sink in and then hold out my hand. “Are you going to give it back?”

Grimley looks up with a puckered smile. “Tell me a story first.”

I nod in agreement, but inwardly sulk. This is a delay I hoped to avoid. I’ve become so focused on the goings-on of Halgraeve that tearing away to haggle with Grimley seems a great inconvenience. The time for me to intervene there approaches at a relentless pace, so I opt for something simple.

“Adam lay with his wife Eve, and she became pregnant and gave birth to Cain. She said, ‘With the help of the LORD I have brought forth a man.’ Later she gave birth to his brother Abel…”

“I’ve already heard that one,” Grimley cuts in. “Tell me something different.” He drills into me with insistent eyes.

Annoyed at his demand, I concede and switch narratives—a story someone once told me. “Years back—a time when man lived in fear of his neighbor—the Night Drivers rode. No one knew their number or who they were; people knew them only by the roar of motors howling in the night.

“They drove dual-exhaust monsters belching a raucous tune. Flat black and muscular, their vehicles tore through the region ousting the wicked from their hiding places.

“Some said they were concerned citizens who took a call to arms. Others thought they were restless spirits returned to visit punishment on evil man. Whatever their origin, the Night Drivers meted out justice as they saw fit.

“Wife beaters were beaten senseless, drug peddlers overdosed on their own supply, murderers were found with their throats slashed, molesters castrated. No villain was safe.

“Residents took secret solace in knowing that someone stood ready to do what no one else would. The reign of the Night Drivers promised that any offender would meet swift retribution. No one knew where they’d hit next.

“Then as quick as they brought about their vengeance, they disappeared. No one woke to the far off rumble of big block muscle; there was no mob of black cars racing through the night.

“It came to pass that a man by the name of Sinclane dismissed the idea of the Night Drivers. No one had seen or heard of them in a long time, he reasoned.

“Sinclane was an imbalanced, disturbed individual, eaten away over time by the subliminal inclinations of his twisted soul. He had no love of decency. He thought of the world as his toilet. Morally corrupt, there was no depravity too base to amuse him.

“Even so, Sinclane failed to act on many of his impulses. He feared the loss of freedom more than anything, but pride is a fragile thing. To submit to another’s claim to authority was too much for him to bear.

“He took it personally when one night his path crossed with an officer of the law and was made to show himself a coward. There was a barroom scuffle, and Sinclane was about to smash a bottle across someone’s skull when the officer manhandled him in a restraint.

“The officer’s name was Mason. Mason was a good man. He worked the second shift as a patrolman and lived with his young family in a modest home he and his wife bought when they were first married.”

Grimley interrupts. “So he had kids?”

“Yes—two small boys. Mason was the most honest, upstanding man you could find. He held the respect of his family and those in the community that knew him.

“That night at the bar, Mason was making his rounds and stopped nearby to assist with a flat tire. He was drawn in by the clamor he heard from the street.

“Mason stepped in just as Sinclane was ready to take a swipe at an already bleeding patron. He pulled Sinclane away from the fray, locked his arms, and forced him to his knees.

“Sinclane wiggled free and took a drunken swing without stopping to see that Mason was a police officer.

“Mason took it in stride, smacked Sinclane around a bit to sober him up, and put him in his place. Marching him out to the curb, he sent him off for home.

“The other patrons shared laughs and guffaws at the way the sloppy Sinclane took his scolding and stumbled off with his tail between his legs. Some of them waved from the window or the open door. They always said he was yellow and now they knew it.

“This burned Sinclane to no end. He wouldn’t be showed up by some young badge. He wanted to nail him to the wall. There would be a comeuppance; Sinclane was sure of it.

“He took it upon himself to get to know Mason’s schedule. It wasn’t too difficult because he knew the right people to ask. Soon after, he shadowed Mason on his patrols, trailing off on a side street and picking him up on another.

“After a week or two of tracking him, Sinclane began to follow Mason home. He saw how “perfect” Mason’s life was: the tidy lawn, his pretty wife, the respect of his neighbors. Sinclane hated him for it.

“One night, Sinclane staged a breakdown. He knew Mason’s routes by then and was ready when Mason approached his vehicle on a vacant back road. Peeking out from under the hood, Sinclane played nice to earn Mason’s trust. He acted like he didn’t remember the incident at the bar.

“Then when Mason wasn’t looking, Sinclane pistol whipped him and shoved him to the ground. He pressed the barrel to the back of Mason’s head and asked why he shouldn’t blow it off. He could do it; it would be so easy. ‘I know where you live,’ Sinclane said. ‘What do you think will happen to your little wife?’

“Mason dug his hands into the gravel as his mind flooded with fear of what Sinclane might try to do.”

I’ve Got Ears All Over This Town

February 27
th
, 2002 1:04 PM

Johnny Rollins’ apartment

What a high. I could hardly sit still the whole ride home. Nobody saw me. I drove at least a mile before I saw another vehicle. I just wish I could’ve stayed to watch the rest of it burn.

I wanted to make sure I had the car back before Mom got up, though. Don’t need to look suspicious. It turns out she’s still asleep, probably hung over.

Now I’m lying in the crumb-lined recliner trying not to move. My ribs kill. The T.V. mumbles on low, and I can’t find any aspirin, so I’m just staying put.

The bedroom door creaks and I hear a slow shuffle in the hallway. Mom appears over my shoulder, hand on her head, wincing. “How come you’re not in school?”

“Didn’t feel like going today.”

“Well I don’t want to talk to no office if they call.” She leans against the wall, hand still on her head. Her oversized t-shirt makes her look skinnier than she is, hanging over black sweat pants. “We’re out of aspirin. Can you go get some?” She holds out a twenty. “You can get yourself something to eat, too.”

I snatch the bill. The only time mom’s civil is when she’s hung over.

“Just get whatever’s cheapest,” she says before turning to go back down the hall.

She didn’t see the cut on my face from last night. Good. I don’t want to answer any of her questions. I toss the remote on the stack of magazines and collapse the recliner in a squeaky thud.

I grab the keys and my coat from the kitchen and swipe a cigarette from mom’s purse. Once outside the apartment, I light up and trudge out into the lot. It still hasn’t been plowed.

The car chokes back to life and I crank the radio because the tape player is busted. Sliding past the other cars in the lot, I head for the drug store.

Part of me still can’t believe I did it. I’ve never burned something so big before. The Lady is probably just cinders, unless they caught it early. And Buck probably knows by now. He’s going to want to put a hurt on somebody.

What if he suspects me? My stomach tosses itself over in a sick somersault. I rushed into this and didn’t think it through to the end. Buck will probably come looking for me. Maybe I shouldn’t go back to the apartment.

It’s like when Will Hart wanted to kick my ass in the eighth grade. Doppler let me hang out at his place for a while to lay low. Will said I was a coward and worse but he never got his hands on me.

I haven’t been out to Doppler’s place since before he died. It’s near the high school, maybe a twenty-minute walk. The tiny house sits on some worthless property that nobody else wanted. No one ever bothered him out there, and as far as I know, no one ever bought the place after he died either.

One hand on the wheel, I’m zoned out when a flashing red light appears in the rearview. Damn police. I’m not even speeding. What does he want? There’s no way…no…he can’t know anything about the fire. Nobody saw me!

I don’t want to pull over, not now, not ever. Punching the gas seems like the right thing to do for a second, but the cop’s got nothing on me. There’s no reason to run. I’m not guilty. I didn’t do anything. That’s all he needs to know.

Steering to the shoulder, I stamp out the rest of my cigarette between the other butts in the ashtray. Then I turn down the radio and put both hands on the wheel. Dead white fields stretch empty on either side—I try to make my mind the same way.

The cruiser whips around and parks diagonal in front of me. It looks like it might be one of those undercover cars. There’s no light bar on the top, only one of those slap-on dome lights—no decals on the doors either.

A chubby slob of a guy rolls out of the driver side door. His open jacket exposes a stained green t-shirt. Black smudges smear the thigh of his jeans. Son of a bitch. It’s Willis Freed.