Last Call (8 page)

“Bob,” said the fat fuck, like they were old pals, “what’ve you got for me today?”

Stretching his face into what passed for a smile, Bobcat said, “Hank, my boy, I got some real beauties for you.” He saw the man staring at his teeth, a grimace on his doughboy face, and slid his lips shut. “Yep, some real beauties.”

Bobcat stood across from the man at the display counter now and made a show of removing the cloth from a red-felt jewelry box that had belonged to his mother. He centered it on the glass countertop and pried it open, turning it to face Hank.

“Oh, my,” Hank said, seating a jeweler’s loupe over one eye as he leaned in for a closer look. “You, sir, are an amazing craftsman. The detail in these is spectacular. Better than the last batch if you ask me.”

Bobcat thought,
Yeah, well, nobody asked you
.

Hank said, “Are you ever gonna tell me what they’re made of?”

“Trade secret, Hank.”

“And you’re sure it’s not ivory.”

“That’d be illegal. You want ’em or not?”

Hank let the loupe drop into his palm and straightened, giving Bobcat a wary smile. “Sure I do, Bob. ’Course I do.” He pulled out a small gray cashbox and keyed it open. “The usual price?”

Bobcat nodded, pocketed the cash and left without another word. It was a beautiful day in cottage country. A perfect day for hunting.

* * *

But the day turned out to be a disappointment. Nothing but skanks and fatties at his regular spots, and there seemed to be more than the usual scattering of O.P.P. cruisers buzzing the two-lane today.
Probably looking for me
, Bobcat thought, oddly pleased by the notion.
Like they’re ever gonna find me.

Sammy was on his lap now, and he patted the little guy’s head, saying, “Well, Sambo, shall we call it a day? Head back to the ranch and boil up some dogs?” The terrier regarded him with worried eyes, his stubby tail no longer wagging, and Bobcat said, “
Hot
dogs, little buddy. Boar’s Head franks, your favorite. I’d never eat you. Hardly enough meat on them bones to make a meal any—”

There was movement up ahead now and Bobcat tensed, Sammy scooting across the bench seat to stand on his hind legs, front paws propped on the dashboard, sharing his master’s view.

Accelerating, Bobcat saw two young women standing on the shoulder of the oncoming lane with their thumbs out, heavy-looking backpacks at their feet. They weren’t wearing much—tank tops, skin-tight cutoffs, hiking boots—and Bobcat said, “Well, kiss my ass, Sammy boy, there
is
a god. And ain’t he a prick?”

He drove past the girls with his window shut and his gaze aimed straight ahead, paying them no heed. When they were out of sight behind him, he slowed in preparation for a U-turn—and now a souped-up Duster appeared in the oncoming lane, occupied by two teenage boys.

Bobcat said, “Shit,” and braked, pulling a U-ie the instant the muscle car passed, saying, “No way, Sammy. No
way
those dinks are gettin’ them toads.”

Within seconds he was riding the Duster’s tail, and now he tramped on the go pedal and passed them at speed, the kid leaning on the horn back there and flipping him the bird.

The girls were just a few yards ahead now, watching with their mouths open, and Bobcat hit the brakes, the Duster roaring past as he drifted onto the shoulder. The passenger in the car shouted something obscene and pitched a beer bottle out the window, then they were around the next bend and gone.

Without showing his teeth, Bobcat grinned at the startled girls and opened the passenger door, Sammy there to greet them with his tail going a mile a minute. One of them was blonde, the other brunette. They were not smiling, and neither made a move to get in.

“Evenin’, ladies,” Bobcat said, and the brunette said, “What was that all about?” He gave the girls a good-natured shrug and scratched the dog’s neck, making its tail go even faster. He said, “Kids. You know. Maniacs. Good thing you didn’t cop a lift with them.”

They were trading skeptical looks now and Bobcat knew he’d have to think fast. Either way he wasn’t going home empty-handed, but with the late afternoon traffic picking up now, he preferred to have this little transaction go smoothly.

The brunette—Laura, he noticed her name inked on the backpack at her feet—opened her mouth to say ‘No thanks’, and Bobcat said, “Ladies, it’s getting late and I got a long way to—”

A transport thundered past in the near lane, rocking the camper, drowning out Bobcat’s voice; it was followed by a string of domestic vehicles, most of them towing power boats or campers. In the brief racket Bobcat saw a sticker on the blonde’s backpack that said B.C. OR BUST and decided to take the long shot.

When the traffic cleared he said, “I gotta be in Calgary by Wednesday night and daylight’s wastin’.” He emitted a brisk, almost inaudible whistle and Sam hopped into his lap and started licking his chin. “You gals coming or not?”

Smiling now, the blonde said, “You’re going out West?”

“The Sault tonight,” Bobcat said, “then full tilt boogie to the Rockies.”

The blonde said, “Can you give us a sec?”

“Take all the time you need.”

The girls moved away from the open door, speaking in hushed tones now. Bobcat scratched the dog’s ear, pretending he couldn’t hear them. But he could. The bobcat had taught how to be still, how to listen.”

Blonde: “What do you think?”

Laura: “He’s a creep. We should wait for another ride.”

Blonde: Well, I think we should go. We’ve been standing out here over an hour. It’ll be dark soon and I’m getting cold. Besides, look how much that sweet little doggy loves him.”

Bobcat kissed the dog on the head. He heard Laura say, “Julie wait,” then the blonde was on the running board, sliding in next to him with the backpack on her lap. Bobcat stuck his hand out and the girl shook it, Bobcat saying, “Julie, right?” and the girl nodded. She said, “And my friend’s name is—” and Bobcat said, “Laura,” and Julie smiled, looking over to see Laura climbing in with a scowl on her face, swinging the door shut behind her.

Bobcat said, “Seatbelts, ladies,” and merged into traffic heading north, away from home. The sun was sinking into the trees now, the shadows growing longer. He’d have to get this done soon. He didn’t like driving at night.

Still on Bobcat’s lap, Sammy pushed his head under Julie’s arm and the girl scratched his neck and told him how cute he was.

“I just love your dog,” she said. “What kind is he?”

“Jack Russell,” Bobcat said. “Smartest damn dog in the universe.”

Julie said, “This is so freaky. You’re really going out West?” and Bobcat drove his elbow into her temple, then reached over and slammed Laura’s head against the dash. Both girls slumped over unconscious.

“Not in your lifetime,” Bobcat said, slowing to get the rig turned around. “But I have always wanted to see them mountains.”

––––––––

Tuesday, June 30

TRISH TOOK OFF right after work, making the drive to Toronto in record time, the Jetta well-behaved for a change. She told her aunt not to expect her much before midnight, and promised to call if she was running any later. She knew Dean wanted to hang out, but she’d had some time to think about it and decided to keep her distance, at least for the time being. The fact that he’d turned his life around was great, for him, but it didn’t change anything between them. She’d see him later, pay him back the gas money she’d borrowed and say goodnight.

Her dad’s nurse met her outside the cubicle, and Trish noticed with some pleasure that the name tag on the door had been changed from
John Doe
to
James Gamble
. The curtains were drawn in there and Trish was eager to go inside.

The nurse said, “He woke up around noon and started trying to get out of bed. Sometimes, when they’re in the DTs like this, patients will get fixated on an idea—like getting out of bed—and won’t let it go. So we got him up in a chair and that seems to have settled him.”

“That’s good,” Trish said. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes and no,” the nurse said. “He popped some of his stitches last night and Dr. Peale had to come in and replace them under local. He really should be resting in bed until his wounds heal, but he was so agitated we were afraid he’d tear things loose again. We’ve got the TV on in there now and that seems to be holding him. But just so you know, if he gets worked up again we may have to ask you to leave.”

“I understand. Can I go see him now?”

“Sure. Just let me know if you need anything.”

Trish thanked the girl and waited till she left. Then she drew the curtain and went inside.

He was seated with his back to the door, hunched in a padded chair in a chest restraint, a sturdy plastic food tray locked down in front of him, his gaze directed at a small TV in the corner.
The Simpsons
was playing but Trish couldn’t tell if he was watching it or simply staring at the screen. His hands were shaking and a glistening strand of drool hung from his whiskered chin.

Trish said, “Hello,” and entered the room, trying not to startle him; but he didn’t budge, didn’t even look at her.

She moved closer and sank to her haunches beside him, noticing a crude, jailhouse tattoo on his wrist that said
Sal
, and she smiled and touched it with her finger—

Quick as a snake, Jim Gamble spun on her—“Who are you? Where am I? Why am I in this fucking chair?”—his ruddy face twisted in fury and bewilderment.

Startled, Trish rose to her full height. She said, “You’re in the hospital—”

“What
hos
pital? There’s nothing wrong with me.
I want the fuck
out
of here!
”

He was trying to lift the tray now, jerking it up and down, trying to squirm out of the chair. Trish looked at the doorway but no one was coming.

He said, “Are you a nurse?”

“No, I’m—”

Then
get
me a nurse, god damn it.”

“I’ll get you a nurse, but I wanted to tell you...I’m...”

“What? You’re what? Get me a nurse, you little cunt. Get me a
nurse
.
I’m fucking thirsty.
” He seized his IV pole and started wrenching it back and forth, the bags of fluid it supported flapping on their hooks, Jim yelling,
“I need a drink, I need a drink,”
over and over in a mad chorus.

A nurse came in with a paper cup saying, “Okay, Jim, here’s some water,” and he batted it out of her hand, splashing everyone in the room. Another nurse appeared with a loaded syringe and asked Trish to wait in the hallway.

Stung, Trish left the unit and took the stairs to the main floor, running full out by the time she hit the lobby.

She ran to the Jetta and got in, wondering why she’d even bothered, thinking her mother had been right—he’d called her a
cunt
—determined now to just get on with her new life as a university student. She’d come this far without a dad, she could make it the rest of the way.

When she turned the key the Jetta refused to start and she hammered the dash with her fist, one furious shot that made the radio come on. It was the Power Hour on CHUM FM and the request line was open, the DJ’s manic voice contrasting almost comically with Trish’s sobs.

“You’re listening to the CHUM FM request line on this sunny Tuesday in June, the last of the month, and this one goes out to Bobcat—yeah, you heard me right,
Bob
cat—who says he’s a dentist and hunting enthusiast. From
The Doors...”

The intro to “Light My Fire” came out of the speakers and Trish turned the radio off. She rested her head against the steering wheel for a long beat, thinking,
You can do this, you
have
to do this,
then grabbed the keys and hurried back inside.

* * *

The madman came through the screen door at the back of the house with a lit Cigarillo in one hand and a portable radio in the other, and Julie cringed as he stomped past her down the steps. He’d locked them overnight in a black box that turned out to be the camper he’d kidnapped them in. Before sunrise he’d dragged Laura into the house and pulled out all of her teeth. Then he’d come back for her.

About an hour ago he’d led them out here, first handcuffing her to the wooden railing at the foot of the steps, then duct-taping Laura to an old vinyl truck seat in the middle of the dirt yard. They were both naked now, shivering is spite of the heat, and there was nothing around them but bush, no other sound but the indolent buzz of cicadas and Laura’s helpless sobs. Nearby in a chain-link kennel a half dozen Rottweilers paced in silent agitation, drooling and sniffing the air.

Bobcat set the radio on the bottom step and turned it up loud, grinning at Julie when the announcer said—

“...goes out to Bobcat—yes, you heard me right,
Bob
cat—who says he’s a dentist and hunting enthusiast. From
The Doors...”

Then “Light My Fire” blared out of the speakers and Bobcat clamped the Cigarillo between his teeth and started Indian dancing around Laura in the yard, bobbing and weaving to the music. Laura gaped at Julie with terror in her eyes.

Bobcat said to Julie, “Now Blondie, I want you to pay attention. I’m thinking I can use you around here a while.” He paused behind Laura’s back, removing a can of lighter fluid from his hip pocket, and flashed Julie an antic grin, showing those hideous teeth. Then he bit off the cap and spit it to the ground. “But I can’t abide no troublemakers.”

Julie watched as he resumed his capering, squirting Laura with lighter fluid as he jigged around, making her cry out, the shrill sound provoking the dogs. He made a few more circuits, drenching Laura’s shivering body, the yips and howls of the Rottweilers all but drowning out her wretched sobs. He stopped when the can was empty, its contents dripping from Laura’s face and breasts and hair.

Looking at Julie, Bobcat said, “This is what happens to troublemakers on the Bobcat ranch.” Then he flicked the Cigarillo at Laura, the half-smoked butt snagging in her hair. There was a
!whuff!
of ignition followed by a burst of flame.