Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (4 page)

By a little past eleven thirty the three
couples had left and O’Neil moved to a bar stool. Clay's position
was about twenty feet from the door, and he continued to sip his
drink slowly while talking to anybody who seemed to want to talk.
At a little after midnight O’Neil picked up his cigarettes and
change and slid off the bar stool. Clay sat his half full beer
bottle on the top beer case and headed out the door to his car.
When O’Neil left Clay followed him at a good distance. O’Neil drove
five MPH over the speed limit and went straight to his house. Clay
called it a night too, and went home. The following Sunday morning
O’Neil left the house an hour before noon, and drove to another
house in Des Plains. Sunday dinner with the family he guessed.

The following week mimicked the previous
routine and Clay ended up at the biker roadhouse again on Saturday
night. The only major change had been when O’Neil went to the bar
after work on Friday night and stayed until eleven. Then he picked
up a hooker on the street and disappeared into a cheap motel for
half an hour. Apparently there were no steady girl friends in his
life and he was paying for sex. He felt he knew O’Neil’s routine
enough to put a loose plan together.

Sunday morning Clay again drove the route
from the roadhouse. He had noticed an interesting spot at night and
planned to check it out in daylight. A highway overpass had been
built several years earlier over a two lane highway at a spot about
ten miles from O’Neil’s house. When the state built the overpass
the engineers had allowed for future growth by building an
additional outside lane on each side of the highway. The paving on
the additional lanes looked to be about a thousand feet long on
each side of the overpass, and blended back into the single lane at
each end. An inside shoulder lane ran the entire length of the
outside lanes and the overpass supports extended about four feet
into the shoulder lane. Although he didn’t have any experience in
this kind of thing to rely on he thought the plan he was developing
would work.

The next stop took him almost nine miles from
the overpass, to an abandoned quarry site where he and Jimmy had
spent many days from the time they were sixteen and old enough to
drive. They had ridden their dirt bikes around the site and later
shot target practice and caught fish down in the bottom of the open
pit quarry. After parking on the shoulder of the highway, he
climbed over the double swing gate. It was made of two inch
diameter steel pipe and secured with a heavy chain and padlock. The
road from the gate was about fifty to sixty feet from the wall of
the pit, behind a rusty chain link fence that ran around the edge
of the deep open pit mine. The gravel road was unused and rutted
from the run off of many years of rain and snow melts. About a
quarter of a mile from the highway the gravel road ran twelve feet
higher than the edge of the pit. The ground sloped gently through
small saplings and brush to the protective chain link fence. This
location was above the solid rock portion at the bottom of the pit.
The road wound gently though trees and brush for half a mile, back
to the main mechanical equipment area where the abandoned crushers,
sorters, conveyers and such were located. The road then continued
another quarter mile to an opposite entrance on a parallel
highway.

He had seen enough, and decided to put his
plan into action the following Saturday night.

Monday through Friday he reviewed the plan
again and again. He drew detailed sketches of the locations and
identified pertinent features he would use. While in his junior and
senior years of high school he had worked part time at a plant
nursery to pay for a car, car expenses and spending money. The
nursery had a big duel wheel flat bed truck that would be perfect.
The business closed at five on Saturday as did most of the other
commercial businesses across from it. He knew the layout, knew how
to operate all the equipment and knew where the keys were left in
the office. He regretted needing to involve the nursery owners;
they were an honest, hard working family who had treated him
right.

Jimmy had a 250 cc. Kawasaki dirt bike in the
garage he had bought as a wrecked basket case. They had rebuilt the
engine completely. It was bought without papers and could not be
licensed for the highway. Jimmy hadn’t gotten around to repainting
the bike so it was very inconspicuous. A black helmet with small
silver striping was hanging on the handlebar. Nothing bright and
flashy. With what was found at Jimmy’s house, additional items from
his house, and articles bought at re-sale shops in adjoining towns,
he was ready.

Saturday evening at eight o’clock he entered
the nursery on the dirt bike from the access road at the rear of
the plant fields. The bike was running great and wouldn’t be any
problem. Driving through the fields of deciduous and then conifer
trees, he made his way to the planting and equipment sheds. He knew
the flatbed truck was running because he had made several trips by
the business during the past week to see if it had been moved.
After breaking the glass in the back door of the office to gain
entry, keys to the truck and a fork truck were located on the key
board in a hallway. Two pallets of sod were loaded on the flat bed
with the fork truck to give the truck added weight. The dirt bike
was loaded onto the truck, tied down, and the truck driven out the
back way, between the fields and to the blacktop road through the
previously entered gate. So far, so good, Clay said to himself.

The trip to the quarry took thirty five
minutes in the big diesel. It had fair pick up and could run better
than eighty mile an hour. Reaching the quarry, he cut the chain on
the gate with bolt cutters and draped the chain around the gate
after the truck was driven through. At a spot previously picked
out, the dirt bike was unloaded and hidden in the brush along with
items in a cardboard box. A section of the chain link fence was cut
on one side with bolt cutters, and dragged back to the next post
creating a ten foot wide opening. The truck was turned around,
driven back to the gate and parked along the highway while the
chain was again fixed to look like the gate was locked.

It was close to ten thirty when he arrived at
the roadhouse, drove through the parking lot, located the black
Chevy and verified the license plate number. After circling the
parking lot and driving across the highway to the back side of the
truck stop, the truck was parked in the meager shadows cast by the
lights at the fuel pumps. It was much lighter than he would have
preferred. Then the long wait began. The truck was high enough to
afford a clear view of the entrance at the front of the roadhouse.
The wait was torturous and he felt the same sick feeling starting
in his stomach he’d experienced several months ago after the
episode at a similar joint.

He thought back to when he had joined the Cub
Scouts and met Jimmy for the first time; they were seven. As they
grew older, both went to the same junior and senior high schools.
Finally, his mom and step-dad had given up trying to keep them
apart. Neither of his parents could condone being associated with
Tony Giliano and his family; a man frequently linked to criminal
activities by the newspapers. He remembered how early on his mother
was especially adamant about his staying away from Jimmy.

Tony owned a farm west of Chicago and would
take both boys there for hunting, fishing and camping. When he and
Jimmy turned sixteen both passed their drivers license exams; Tony
and Anna gave Jimmy a new 1965 Chevy Chevelle Super Sport
convertible for his birthday. Sixteen years old and a new red
convertible with a white top, man that was something. Clay spoke
softly, “I can’t believe you’re gone Jimmy.”

The evening temperature was in the upper
sixties, and with a light breeze blowing, Clay had both windows
rolled down. His clothing was all items purchased during the past
week at resale shops and yard sales. All would be disposed of later
before he went home. The shotgun was loaded, wrapped in used dark
blue towels and placed behind the seat. The short barrel revolver
was in his right jacket pocket. Several M-80 fire crackers were in
the left jacket pocket with a cigarette lighter. The other items
were in a canvas bag with a shoulder strap, setting in the seat.
Music from the truck radio was helping to keep him calm; it was the
“Oldies but Goodies” country western station. Crying in your beer
lyrics was appropriate to the job. His hands were sweaty, not just
due to anticipation, but because of the leather gloves being used
to prevent leaving finger prints. His greatest concern was O’Neil
changing his routine or picking up a woman. A thermos bottle full
of water was for sipping, but an effort had to be made not to drink
too much. He snickered to himself as a thought sped through his
mind; he imagined he was ready to shoot O’Neil and had to tell him,
wait a minute, I have to pee.

People had been coming and going from the bar
all evening, but finally the figure he was waiting for headed
toward the black truck. He was alone: thank God he had not been
able to pick up one of the pigs at the Hog House. The time was
one-o-six a.m. The Diesel engine roared to life, at the same time
O’Neil was getting in his truck When O’Neil started the Chevy and
turned on the headlights, Clay was already steering the flatbed out
onto the highway. The big truck came up to fifty easily and was
held there until O’Neil caught up with him and passed. There were
several stop lights on the route and timing would be crucial to
staying close to the Chevy. Traffic was light on the two lane road
in the early morning hours. As the first stop light came into view
he pulled the flatbed closer to the pick-up and just caught the red
light as he sped through. The big truck slowed until there was at
least a hundred and fifty feet between them again. Clay noticed his
breathing had quickened and his skin had a clammy feeling in
addition to the rumbling going on in his stomach. They had green
lights the rest of the way and soon were approaching his chosen
spot. Only one car had passed them in the opposite lane.

In the distance he could see the orange
tinted light cast from the light fixtures at the overpass. No
vehicle lights were in sight behind him and a car coming from the
opposite direction was just clearing the overpass. The big truck
began to close the distance to the pick-up and by the time they
were at the start of the extra lanes it had momentum and speed to
go around. The pick-up stayed in the left lane and Clay took the
right, getting along side the pick-up several hundred feet from the
overpass. At what he judged and prayed to be the right moment, he
turned the steering wheel sharply to the left, hitting the pick-up
broadside, forcing it into the guard rail. He later would recall
the loud screeching from metal scraping and tearing as they hurled
along the shoulder; both drivers standing on the brakes trying to
bring their vehicles to a stop. The center support under the
overpass was approaching at unimaginable speed, even though they
were slowing with every foot. When the pick-up hit the concrete
support, it stopped instantly, pushing the front left bumper,
fender and grill back at least two feet. Because of the sudden
impact the rear of the pick-up was forced to the right, against the
flatbed. The big truck continued another three feet before it came
to a stop. The engine died, and was quickly restarted. No vehicles
were visible in front or behind, so he left the rubber Halloween
mask on the seat. Before opening the door he grabbed the canvas
bag, and then jumped out of the truck and onto the concrete pier.
O’Neil was trapped in the cab with the guardrail on one side and
the bigger truck bed against the passenger door. Although O’Neil
had been drinking, he appeared to comprehend what was happening.
Clay removed the pistol from his pocket, put one foot out near the
center of the pickup's hood and leaned forward. When Jerry O’Neil
saw the gun he sensed the wreck was not just an accident. Clay
elevated the gun, to clear the dashboard, and put three rounds into
O’Neil’s crotch and stomach. Stepping off the hood and back on to
the concrete support base, he crossed the guardrail to reach the
drivers side of O’Neil’s truck. Raising the gun again he shot the
man in the left shoulder, making certain he couldn’t pull himself
through the open window. The trapped man was yelling curse words at
him but his facial expression showed fear.

O’Neil was in great pain from injuries caused
by the wreck as well as the bullets he had taken, but was fully
aware of his position. He looked to be confused and disoriented in
addition to the effects of the drinks he had consumed earlier.

A small two pound sledge hammer broke the
glass window behind the driver. A half gallon jar was removed from
the canvas bag and half of the gasoline and diesel mixture was
poured down O’Neil’s back before the remainder was slowly poured
over his head and left shoulder. The jar, wood handled hammer and
canvas bag were thrown into the cab.

When O'Neil smelled the gasoline vapors a
scream formed in his throat and a look of pure agony filled his
face. He watched as Clay stepped to the front of the driver’s door,
removed the lighter and one of the M-80 firecrackers from his
pocket; O’Neil was screaming, “No! Noooo! What the fuck are you
doing? Who are you?”

Before lighting the fuse on the firecracker,
Clay looked him in the eyes while speaking calmly “This is for
Jimmy Giliano.”

“Giliano? He was an accident. You can’t do
this to me because of him.”

“Jimmy was my friend and didn’t deserve to
die the way you killed him. You didn’t have the guts to fight him
fairly so you attacked him from behind.”

“Then we're alike” screamed O’Neil. “What’s
the difference in what I did and what you’re doing? You’re nothing
but a damn cowardly assassin. Let me get healed up and I’ll fight
you one on one, fair and square.”