The sound of the camera grew louder. We crept closer, hugging the rock. New sounds.
Low, unintelligible speech.
Milo stopped, pointed, hooked his arm, indicating the far end of the boulders. The wall had acquired convexity, continuing in a smooth, unbroken semicircle. No breaks in sight, meaning entry had to be at the far north.
He pointed again and we edged forward inch by inch, bracing ourselves with palms against the rock. The wall curved radically, killing visibility, transforming every step into a leap of faith.
Twelve steps. Milo stopped again.
Something jutted out from the rock. Square, bulky, metallic.
Rear end of a vehicle. From the other side of the granite vt&\\,flash, whir.
Mumbles. Laughter.
We edged to the vehicle's rear tires, squatted, swallowed breath.
Chrome letters: Ford. Explorer. Black or dark blue. Sand spray streaked the rear fender. No license plate. A partially shredded bumper sticker commanded: ENGAGE IN
RANDOM
ACTS OF KINDNESS.
One-third of the vehicle extended past the rock walls, the rest nosed inside. Milo straightened and peered through the rear window. Shook his head: tinted. Crouching again, he secured his grip on the rifle, moved around the Explorer's driver's side.
Waited. Pointing his rifle at whatever was in front of him.
I joined him. The two of us remained pressed against the truck.
Partial view of the clearing. Plenty of light now, from a spotlight on a pole. An orange extension cord connected the lamp to a gray battery pack. The bulb was aimed downward, well short of the fifteen-foot walls that created the staging area.
Forty-foot stage, roughly circular, set on flat gray earth rimmed by the high, seamed rock. A few boulders were scattered in the corners, like sprinkles of pebbles where the mountain had given way.
Natural amphitheater. Derrick Crimmins had probably discovered it as a youth, driving out with his brother to stage God knew what.
The good old days, when he'd designed sets for his stepmother, acquired a taste for production.
Tonight, he'd gone minimalist. Nothing in the clearing but the single light, a tackle box, and several videocassettes off to the side. Three white plastic folding chairs.
The chair to the left was off by itself, twenty feet from its neighbors. On it sat a young, brown-skinned, plain-faced girl, arms and legs bound by thick twine, dark hair tied in pigtails. Pink baby-doll pajamas were her sole costume. A pink spot of blush on each cheek, red lipstick on a frozen mouth. A wide leather belt secured her to the chair, cinching her cruelly at the waist, pushing her rib cage forward. Not a belt-a hospital restraint, the same kind they used at Starkweather.
Her head hung to the right. Livid bruises splotched her face and breasts, and dried blood snaked from her nose down to her chin. A shiny red rubber ball was jammed into her mouth, creating a nauseating cartoon of gee-whiz amazement. Her eyes refused to go along with it: open, immobile, mad with terror.
Staring straight ahead. Refusing to look at what was going on to her left.
The center chair held another woman captive: older, middle-aged, wearing a pale green housedress torn down the middle. The rip was fresh, fuzzed by threads, exposing white underwear, loose pale flesh, blue veins. Auburn hair. The same kind of bruises and scratches as the girl's. One eye purple and swollen shut. Red ball in her mouth, too.
Her other eye undamaged, but also closed.
The gun jammed against her left temple was small and square-edged and chrome-plated.
Next to her, in the right-hand chair, sat Ardis Peake, holding the weapon. From our vantage, only half his body was visible. Long white fingers around the trigger. He had on his Starkweather khakis. White sneakers that looked brand-new. Big sneakers.
Oversized feet.
Tormenting the auburn-haired woman, but showing no sign he enjoyed it. His eyes were closed, too.
Beyond enjoyment into reverie?
The man holding the video camera prodded him. Handheld camera, compact, dull black, not much larger than a hardcover book. It sprayed a beam of creamy-white light.
Peake didn't budge, and the cameraman gave him a sharper prod. Peake opened his eyes, rolled them, licked his lips. The cameraman got right in front of him, capturing each movement. Whir. Peake slumped again. The cameraman let the camera drop to his side. The lens tilted upward and the beam climbed, hitting the upper edges of the rock and projecting the eye-dot onto the mountainside. The cameraman shifted and the dot-eye died.
Milo's jaw bunched. He edged around to get a fuller view. I stayed with him.
No one else in the clearing. The cameraman kept his back to us.
Tall, narrow, with a small, white, round, shaved head that glowed with sweat. Black silk shirt, buccaneer sleeves rolled to the elbows, black jeans, dusty black boots with thick rubber soles. Some kind of designer label ran diagonally across the right patch pocket of the jeans. From the left patch dangled the butt of another chrome automatic.
Milo and I sidled farther. Froze as gravel spat under us. No reaction from the cameraman. Too busy mumbling and cursing and prodding Peake.
Manipulating Peake.
Sitting Peake up straighter. Poking Peake's face, trying to mold expression.
Adjusting the gun in Peake's hand.
Adhering to Peake's hand.
Strips of transparent tape bound the weapon to Peake's spindly fingers. Peake's arm was held unnaturally rigid by a tripod that had been rigged to support the limb.
Tape around the arm.
Forced pose.
Milo narrowed his eyes, raised his rifle, aimed, then stopped as the cameraman moved suddenly.
Half-turning, touching something.
A tight, downslanting line that cut through night-space.
Nylon fishing filament, so thin it was virtually invisible from this distance.
Running from the gun's trigger to a wooden stake hammered into the dirt.
Slack line. One sharp tug would force Peake's finger backward on the trigger, propel the bullet directly into the auburn-haired woman's brain.
Special effects.
The cameraman ran a fingertip along the line, stepped back. Peake's gun arm remained stiff but the rest of him was rubbery. Suddenly a wave of tardive symptoms took hold of him and he began licking his lips, rolling his head, fluttering his eyelids.
Moving his ringers just enough to twang the line.
The cameraman liked that. Focused on the woman. The gun. Back to the woman. Seeking the juicy shot.
Peake stopped moving. The line sagged.
The cameraman cursed and kicked Peake hard in the shins. Peake didn't react. Slumped again.
"Go for it, fucker." Low-pitched gravel voice. "Do it, man."
Peake licked his lips. Stopped. His legs began to shake. The rest of him froze.
"Okay! Keep those knees going-don't stop, you psycho piece of shit."
Peake didn't react to the contempt in the cameraman's tone.
Somewhere else, completely. The cameraman walked over and slapped him. The auburn-haired woman opened her eyes, shuddered, closed them immediately.
The cameraman had stepped back, was focused on Peake. Peake's head whipped back, bobbled. Drool flowed from his mouth.
"Fucking meat puppet," said the cameraman.
The sound of his voice brought a whimper from the auburn-haired woman. The crepe around her uninjured eye compressed into a spray of wrinkles as she bore down, struggling to block out the moment. The cameraman ignored her, preoccupied with
Peake.
No other movements in the clearing. The brown-skinned girl was in a position to see us, but she showed no sign of recognition. Frozen eyes. Fear paralysis or drugs or both.
Milo trained the rifle on the back of the cameraman's head. Thick ringers around his trigger. But the cameraman was only inches from the fishing line. If he fell the wrong way, the gun would fire.
Tucking the camera under his arm, the filmmaker positioned Peake some more. Peake's arms dangled; he threw his head back. More drool. He inhaled noisily, coughed, blew snot through his nose.
The cameraman yanked the camera up and filmed it. Slapped Peake again, said, "Some monster you are."
Peake's head dropped.
Unbound. Free to leave the chair, but constrained by something stronger than hemp.
The cameraman filmed, shifting attention from the woman to the gun to Peake, still inches from the rigged line.
More lip-licking and head-rolling from Peake. His eyelids slammed upward, showcasing two white ovals.
"Good, good-more eye stuff, give me eye stuff."
The cameraman was talking louder now, and Milo used the sound for cover, charging out into the clearing, raising his rifle.
The cameraman's right thigh nudged the line. Made it bob. He realized it. Laughed.
Did it again, watched the pull on Peake's hand.
Peake was able to pull the trigger, but even tardive movement hadn't caused him to do so.
Resisting?
Again, his head dropped.
The cameraman said, " Where's good help when you need it?" Taking hold of Peake's ear, he shoved Peake's head upward, filmed the resultant gaping stare. Caressing the line with his own index finger as the camera panned the length of Peake's body, moving slowly from furrowed skull to oversized feet.
Disproportionate feet. Puppet.
I understood. Insight was worthless.
I readied my gun, but stayed in place. Milo had inched closer to the cameraman, fifteen or so feet to his rear. With exquisite care, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, trained it once again on the cameraman's neck. Sniper's target: the medulla oblongata, lower brain tissue that controlled basic body process. One clean shot and respiration would cease.
The cameraman said, "All right, Ardis, I've got enough background. One way or the other, let's do the cunt."
The auburn-haired woman opened her good eye. Saw Milo. Moved her mouth around the red ball, as if trying to spit it out. I knew who she was. Sheriff Haas's wife-Marvelle Haas.
Mail on the table, one day, maybe two. One car gone, the wife left alone.
She began shivering violently.
The young girl remained glazed.
The cameraman turned toward Marvelle, gave us a full view of his profile. Deep lines scored the sides of a lipless mouth. Grainy, tanned skin, several shades darker than the white, hairless head. The head accustomed to wigs. Small but aggressive chin.
Beak nose sharp enough to draw blood. No facial fat, but loose jowls, stringy neck.
Forearms wormed by veins. Big hands. Dirty nails. Derrick Crimmins was turning steadily into his father. His father had been a sour, grasping man, but nothing said he'd been anything other than a flawed human being.
Here in front of me was monstrosity.
Yet open him up and there'd be unremarkable viscera. Bouncing around the vault of his skull would be a lump of gray jelly, outwardly indistinguishable from the brain of a saint.
A man-it always came down to just a man.
Marvelle Haas closed her eyes again. Whimpers struggled to escape from behind the red ball. All that emerged were pitiful squeaks. Milo crouched, ready to shoot, but
Crimmins was still too close to the line.
"Open your eyes, Mrs. Haas," said Crimmins. "Give me your eyes, honey, come on. I want to catch your expression the moment it happens."
He checked the tape around Peake's hand. Adjusted the gun barrel so that it centered on Marvelle Haas's left temple.
She squeaked.
He said, "Come on, let's be professional about this." Moved toward her. Away from the fishing line.
"Used to fish," he said, arranging her hair, parting her housedress. Slipping a hand under the fabric and rubbing, pinching. "Look what I caught here."
Still within arm's reach of the line.
"Back when I fished," he said, "a tug on the line meant you'd caught something. This time it means throwing something away."
She turned away from him. He moved to the left, focusing, filming.
Away from the line. Far enough away.
"Don't move! Drop your hands! Drop 'em drop 'em now!"
Derrick Crimmins froze. Turned around. The look on his owlish face was odd: surprised-betrayed.
