Spree (35 page)

He caught 218 and headed south. He was traveling through farmland and, even covered over by snow, the friendly terrain made him feel better because it made him think of home.

He knew he ought to feel angry about what they done to Pa, but mostly he just felt sorry they done it. What Pa said about it not mattering when somebody died, ’cause everybody died sooner or later, didn’t seem to make so much sense to Lyle now. Maybe Pa meant, where other people was concerned.

He’d miss Cindy Lou, too, but at least she wasn’t dead. He wished he could join her, wherever she was; it was too bad she was his sister, ’cause no girl fucked and sucked like Cindy Lou. Not that he was sorry she was his sister—with Pa gone, her (and Willis, who was in the pen) was all the family he had left. If she tried to call at Christmas, though, nobody’d be home. Lyle had to stay away from the house, after today, in case Nolan tracked him down.

Lyle thought of Willis again, when he saw a sign that said eighteen miles to Fort Madison at the junction of 218 and 2. He was tempted to stop by, but he didn’t know whether it was visiting day or not.

And then about the time Lyle crossed over the Iowa/Missouri border, he remembered his Uncle Daniel. That was what he’d do! He’d stop for his things at the house and go right on down to Nashville. Uncle Daniel and the boys would take him in. And his Uncle Daniel could tell what to do about those murderers! His mouth was pinched with decision. He pounded the steering wheel with a fist. That was it. That was the answer. Uncle Daniel.

He wondered if they still had their record business; that’s where all their moonshine money went, Pa said. It had something to do with people paying them to make records, which never got released or something. Pa said it was Vanity, but Lyle didn’t think she recorded in Nashville. Pa also said it was a sweet scam. Anyway, Lyle’d have to learn to put up with country western, but that was all right. Small price to pay for a home.

And they had good-looking gash in Nashville; he’d been there before. A real foxy singles scene. He’d fit in just fine.

He had relaxed after that. He had, for the first time, hours into the long drive, pushed a tape into the cassette deck. He turned the music up real loud and filled his brain with Billy Idol. He was tired of thinking.

He ate lunch at a truck stop outside of Kirksville; he was on Highway 63, now. He didn’t bawl and he kept the lunch down—two cheeseburgers and a load of fries and a Cherry Coke. Uncle Daniel. That was the ticket.

Now, hours later, midafternoon, sun reflecting off the snowy ground, he turned off the asphalt road onto the familiar gravel one. Almost home. He felt a bittersweet twinge. It would be great to be home, but sad to go in an empty house, nobody waiting for him.

Well, he’d just pack his stuff and go. He hoped he could get all the clothes and records and tapes and stereo stuff in the car. He shrugged. He’d just have to make do.

He pulled onto the cinder path, enjoying the crunching sound the tires made; he’d heard it so many times before. Then, like something on a Christmas card, there was the house—the aluminum siding Pa conned that guy out of was holding up real good. After some time passed, maybe Lyle could sell the place; his uncle would know. The old homestead looked real homey, snow touching the rusty vehicles on the overgrown lawn. The silo and the barn reminded Lyle that his were farmer roots; of course, Pa taught him early that farming was a fool’s game.

He pulled up in front and locked up the Camaro—Pa taught him that; some people just can’t be trusted—and headed up the steps onto the porch. He felt sad being here but a little happy, too, even if it turned out to be the last time.

He had a house key tucked away in his billfold, and he used that, but the door wasn’t locked. That struck him as funny. He went on in, and the first thing he saw was the big-screen TV, and he sighed and shook his head about having to leave that behind. Then he saw the man, a stranger, sitting over at the left, on the couch, under a John Wayne western velvet painting, the real big one, right where Pa always sat.

The man was heavyset and wore white, like a doctor; but his face looked funny—first off, he hadn’t shaved in a long time, his cheeks were real stubbly; second off, his eyes were puffy and red. And he looked kind of familiar, even though Lyle was pretty sure he never saw him before. There were empty beer cans on the floor, a lot of them, all of them crushed by a hand that didn’t give a shit about nickel deposit. Next to the stranger, on the couch, was an ashtray that was overflowing from crushed-out cigarettes and ashes. But the man wasn’t smoking right now.

“Who are you?”

“Are you Lyle Comfort?”

“Yes, sir. Are you a doctor?”

“I’m a butcher.”

That’s when Lyle saw the knife in the man’s lap. A long knife. A shiny knife.

“I don’t understand,” Lyle said.

The man smiled, but it wasn’t at all friendly.

“My name’s McFee,” he said.

“Huh?” Lyle said.

The man rose; the knife was so long he held it by the handle with one hand and cradled the blade in the other.

“I’m Angie’s father.”

And as the blade came down, Lyle understood. He finally understood.

   About the Author

Max Allan Collins, who created the graphic novel on which the Oscar-winning film
Road to Perdition
was based, has been writing hard-boiled mysteries since his college days in the Writers Workshop at the University of Iowa. Besides the books about Nolan, the criminal who just wants his piece of the American dream, and killer-for-hire Quarry, he has written a popular series of historical mysteries featuring Nate Heller and many, many other novels. At last count, Collins’s books and short stories have been nominated for fifteen Shamus awards by the Private Eye Writers of America, winning for two Heller novels,
True Detective
and
Stolen Away
. He lives in Muscatine, Iowa with his wife, Barbara Collins, with whom he has collaborated on several novels and numerous short stories. The photo above shows Max in 1971, when he was first writing about Nolan and Quarry.