The Camaro Murders (2 page)

Roughshod

January 8th, 1999

August Burroughs lying in the yard of his attacker

After the shovel cracks me in the face once, I don't think it'll come again—but it does. It smashes my nose while I choke on a few teeth, and through the dirt and blood I see the man swinging like he wants to take my head off.

I never believe when people say their life flashes before their eyes, but I see mine, or at least the last couple hours of it. Then all I hear is the barking dog while I'm fading out.

* * *

This morning I woke up coughing, my throat raw from yelling above table saws and FM static. I needed a shower and some adrenaline, but settled for deodorant and coffee instead. It was the routine of any other day—nothing more than a to-do list, a check box, a bullet in a 12-point inspection. Get this out of the way so I can get to that.

The foreman can wave his clipboard all he wants and I'll never be able to hang drywall fast enough. Old man Gott will try to raise the rent for my crappy apartment, even though he hasn't fixed the water tank or the bathroom sink. And I'll always be ducking my grandma, who never fails to guilt money out of me.

Seems like I'm always trying to make other people happy and it eats at me. My buddy Dirk called a week ago, and he was just in time. He lined up a job for me at a wildlife preserve in Lockworth, looking after traps and keeping hunters off the grounds.

Dirk says nobody bothers you up there. You just drive around in a jeep all day. I took him up on the offer. I hope to shoot some skeet and maybe write some songs on my pop's five-string. Mainly I want to lay low for awhile.

I sold a few things from my apartment to an ex-girlfriend, then cashed my last paycheck and loaded two duffel bags into the pickup. I was ready to go, but felt obligated to stop at Grandma's house before leaving town.

She lives in a dumpy split-level in Graehling Station, on one of the side-streets near the center of town. I did a good part of my growing up there and will be glad when I don't have to see the place anymore.

I pull into the drive and see the splintered trellis is rotting. Dead clumps of weeds are taking over the foundation where classier folks might've planted a flower bed. Most of the gravel in the driveway has been pressed into the dirt with tire tracks.

We haven't seen a lot of snow yet, much less real cold weather. There're still kids playing here and there. The hellions who live across the street are out, terrorizing a horse of a dog while their mother is leaning outside the house.

“You leave that dog alone, you little peckers!” she yells. The storm door slams, torn screen flapping, followed by the inner door as she backs inside.

I watch for a minute as the dog runs from one boy to the other, nearly toppling them over before I head into Grandma's house.

“August, come closer boy,” she says to me as I walk in through the kitchen. She's sitting in a small recliner, watching her “shows” in the living room. The whole place smells like an old person; I can't describe it any other way.

“You ever clean in here, Grandma?” I ask.

“Oh, shush. Give mammy a hug.” She holds out frail arms, hands wagging, like she wants me to come closer.

I lean in and wait for the inevitable.

“Have you been smoking?” she says.

“Yeah, Grandma. I've been smokin'.” And I drink beer, I don't add.

“You know I don't approve of that.” She reprimands me like a five-year-old. “Such a filthy habit. How much do you spend on those things? At least you've got steady work. Heaven knows what trouble there is out there in the world. Idle hands, idle hands,” she says while shaking her head back and forth.

There isn't any point in taking offense. Contrary to what she tried to instill in me when I was a kid, growing up with my pop in jail doesn't automatically make me a failure.

She was always trying to wear me down. Her favorite thing to say used to be, “You're an evil little boy.” That was partly a dig at my pop. She never liked him, but I don't think she ever gave him a chance. He had a run of bad luck and fell in with the wrong crowd, but he wanted to do better. At the end of the day, he wasn't such a bad guy.

That didn't keep him out of jail, though. The first time was shortly after he and my ma were hitched. He was up for a twelve month stint after getting pinched boosting cars—which is where I came into the picture: I was conceived during a conjugal visit.

Grandma wrote me off as a bad seed from the beginning, because “Nothing good can come of a child fathered in a prison.” The fact you don't pick where and when you're born didn't seem to matter to her. I had no redeeming qualities for being her daughter's son, either. “He's got too much of his father in him, I can tell already,” she would squawk.

I don't think my ma knew what to do. She was under Grandma's thumb after Pop went to jail because she didn't have a way to support us both. Then when Pop died during his second stint at Beacon Road, she was really up a creek. Ma didn't last much longer, though. She got Legionnaires' disease and then had a rough bout with pneumonia. I was eight or nine when she passed.

“Grandma, I'm leaving,” I say, sitting across from her on the shabby couch. I try to speak casual. “I've got work up north.”

Her face scrunches up, and her reading glasses ride up her nose. “What do you mean, you're leaving? You've got steady work here! And that nice Mr. Gott rented you his in-law suite!”

I already decided Old Man Gott doesn't care much for his in-laws. “I ain't here to argue about it. I'm just here to say I'm leaving and to see if you need anything before I go.”

Grandma leans forward like she's gonna get up. “Boy, you've got a lot of nerve trying to leave me here—after I raised you like you were my own. You ungrateful brat!”

So that's the kind of fight it's gonna be. “Bye, Grandma,” I say as I stand up and move towards the door in the kitchen. I figure I'm about par for the course.

She shuffles to her feet and follows me. “Who's going to pay the cable? How am I supposed to get along by myself? I'm just a little old lady, here all by my lonesome.” She's starting to get that “pity me” whine, which means if I didn't give in now, she'll really give me hell.

“Here.” I toss a few bills onto the kitchen counter. “Don't say I never did nothin' for you, Grandma.”

She lets me have it as I go out the door. “August Burroughs, you lousy, good for nothin' layabout! Don't you dare show your hide 'round here again!”

The slamming door closes her out of earshot. I need a cigarette and reach inside my flannel jacket, forgetting I left my reds in the truck.

The neighbor kids are still playing across the street; it looks like they're trying to set something on fire. Their dog takes notice of me opening and closing the driver-side door, and starts lumbering over.

Leaning against the truck, I'm frozen with cigarette in mouth and lighter in hand, watching its approach. I don't think about getting into the truck, and running is probably a bad idea, so I'm still as can be in hopes it'll stop at the edge of its yard.

No such luck. The dog stays its course—and it's a monster. Jowls and ears flopping, it stops short only to rise up on its hind legs and place its paws on my chest.

I stumble backwards trying to catch it, steadying myself against its upper body. It looks at me, face to face, and wags its tail before greeting me in standard dog fashion. It's like we already know each other.

“Hey, pal,” I say with cigarette dangling. I give its black and grey head a good scratching before it drops to the ground, tail going like it's got its own motor. The dog is big enough to ride.

“What in the hell? What in the hell?” The father is making his way over from across the street, wearing a pair of dingy Carhartts with a patch that says “Hank.” Barrel-chested and potbellied, he's furious as he marches up the drive. “Damn dog. Can't even keep him tied up.”

“What's his name?” I ask.

Hank jerks the dog by the collar and gives me a “why do you care?” look. “Halfacre.”

“Because he's so big,” I say.

“Yeah, something like that.” Hank spits tobacco near his feet. He squints at me like I'm the sun.

“I've been looking for a dog,” I say. “What kind is he?” I wanted to take a dog up north with me. Dogs don't care how much money you make, and they sure as hell don't care about your carpentry skills.

“Irish Wolfhound, and he ain't for sale.” Hank doesn't want to answer any more of my questions. He pulls harder on Halfacre, so much that he lifts the dog's front paws from the ground. Halfacre wheezes against the strain.

I should keep my mouth shut, but I can't stand to watch this clown abuse the dog. He doesn't know how to handle an animal this size. “You know, you shouldn't be so rough with him.”

“You oughta mind your manners, boy.” Hank glares at me like I just called his wife a whore. “Or I'll slap you upside the head like you was the dog.” He turns and drags Halfacre with him across the street, scolding him as they go.

I mutter under my breath what I would like to say out loud before I put the Marlboro back in my mouth to light it.

“What did you say, boy?” Hank spins around, head cocked in disbelief. He must have heard me.

I'm trying to think of a way for my mouth to get me out of the trouble it just got me into as he trudges back over. In the end it probably isn't possible, so I aim for honesty. “I said…”

Hank doesn't give me time to finish before he clocks me alongside the head, sending ashes flying and me to the ground. “I done like I told you!” he says before spitting again.

I make a weak attempt of kicking gravel at him while I hold the side of my head. “Prick.”

“Ha,” he says, satisfied he got the better of me. “Now why don't you go run on home.”

My ear's splitting in red hot pain, but I'm not bleeding. I stand and brush off the dust while Hank walks away, dragging Halfacre with him. I've had my fill.

The driver-side door slams behind me. I light a new smoke and the rear tires spin as I barrel out of the drive. I chirp 'em coming out of first gear and tear down the road, the motor straining the whole way.

I drive like this for the better part of a half hour, taking my aggression out on the truck. Like it'll help… Graehling Station is full of people like Hank and his family. I'm wasting my time if I think they have any shot of escaping their white trash hell. They perpetuate it.

Their type shouldn't be allowed to own dogs either. Growing up, Grandma never let me get one. I always say you can't appreciate something until you go without, and I know those inbreeds won't give a second thought about that dog. Someone ought to take it from them.

A plan starts to come together in my head. Since I'm clearing out for good, I won't be around to answer questions… Yep, I'm gonna do it. Slowly at first, I begin to turn the truck around, and then I'm speeding back the other way.

It's getting dark by the time I reach town, which is fine by me. No one will see me sneaking up to the house. Halfacre is tied up in the yard when I pull onto Grandma's street. I cut the motor a few houses down and walk as easy as I can up to the inbreeds' house. Halfacre sees me and lets out a warning bark, but then recognizes who I am.

“Hey, pal, remember me?” I say as I work on the rope that's got him tied to the house. Halfacre wags his tail and nudges my chin with his nose. I almost have him loose when I hear the storm door creak.

Hank stumbles out and sees what I'm trying to do. “You sonuvabitch!” he slurs.

I don't have time to stand up before he grabs a nearby shovel and takes a swing. I eat the steel and fall backwards, scrambling to get away. Halfacre isn't loose yet.

This isn't how things were supposed to go. My mind is racing with images of me driving away, and then turning around. Why did I turn around?! What's going to happen now? I touch my mouth and feel like I'm going to pass out when I notice I'm missing teeth. I've got to get to my truck…

Hank is getting ready to swing again when a car pulls up near the truck—a Camaro. I twist and squirm on my backside, trying to get away from Hank, and hope the driver will lend a hand. Halfacre, straining the whole time, finally breaks loose as the shovel comes down again.

Red Wake

February 19th, 1999

Culver Crisp standing in the doorway of his childhood home

I was seven years old when Ezra Mendelssohn wrapped his bony hands around my neck and squeezed. Our eyes met and shared a silent exchange—a realization I knew what he'd done—before he rose from his chair and lurched towards me.

The sight of him hunched over in his scruffy cardigan, hands twitching, is still revolting. I've never been able to wipe the image from my mind, or forget the pressure of his filthy grip.

Coming home brings this out of me. Standing inside the door of my old house, childhood comes rushing back, except it isn't full of Little League and birthday parties like I used to wish. Life is always one-eighty off of what I expect.

I left the Remington University campus this afternoon and took the three hour bus ride to Graehling Station. Dorm life is claustrophobic and I prefer to be alone most of the time. My roommate doesn't understand this; he'd rather be shotgunning beers with whoever he can find on our floor.

The walk from the bus station is about a mile or so, and I sloshed through the snow taking in scenes of rural blight. The run-down mom-and-pop shops with their faded signs and unkempt doorsteps were a downer. I still feel worn-down by them.

The house—a white ranch with a one car garage—doesn't exactly lift my spirits either. It sits a hundred feet off the road like the rest of the houses on our side of town. My parents haven't lived here since work took my dad out west.

The housing market took a dive around that time and the place never sold, so I still have my key to the front door. The leftover furnishings reflect the basic life we eked out. Our family drove secondhand cars, wore someone else's hand-me-downs, and got our haircuts in the garage.

“We can't afford that, Culver,” was a phrase I heard often. That was my mother's excuse for why we didn't have things other people had, and after awhile I regarded the word “afford” with fear. Money must have been tight if we had limitations, I thought.

The Crisp household is now a collection of dead memories, simple and naive. Whether it's the nail where a school portrait hung or the marks from the kitchen table where we ate our meals, faint traces of the American Dream linger in every corner.

In the living room, the last of the daylight is a weak glow in the window sheers. There's a lonely couch whose rust color reflects the decade to which it belongs. Dents in the carpet mark where a bookshelf and a T.V. stand used to sit.

It won't be getting warm any time soon. There's no heat or electricity so I'll have to spend the night by the fireplace. I found some dry wood in the garage—enough to last a day or two.

No one relishes the cold, but I have a special distaste for it. The chill that braces my bones at night is full of the dreams which first haunted me at seven, miserable visions that ambush me in sleep.

I see these images through a lens of red, and they're filled with every freakish image my subconscious can conjure up. Bodies torn to shreds, disembowelment, corpses moving around of their own accord…and all the while children running and playing in a deranged circle of oblivion.

Are these manifestations of childhood fears? Maybe. I can't see why my mind associates them with the cold. The earliest I can recall anything like them is clinging to my mother's frantic arms. That was the night after Mendelssohn revealed to me his true nature.

My mother held me and shushed me at the same time. She was so scared when she awoke to my gasping, but didn't ask what was wrong. She only said, “It'll be OK, honey.”

My parents never learned what happened that afternoon in Mendelssohn's house. I always imagined they had a sixth sense about those things, where they could look at a situation and know something just didn't add up—my father especially.

He found me in the back room, bangs plastered to my head in perspiration. Mendelssohn was on the floor. Certain he was dying, I just watched.

I hate that day. I remember fighting back, as much as a scrawny boy could. I dealt Mendelssohn what I thought was a death blow—my thumb pushed through the soft, fleshy part of his throat so easily. At the time, my immature mind was convinced I was responsible for his passing.

In truth Mendelssohn didn't die until a month later. It was a stroke. A common death for a common man, some people said. Held in high regard, he lived as a humble servant of God, and commanded great respect in the Graehling Station Community Church. At least my father said so.

My father looked up to people like Ezra Mendelssohn—men of order and integrity, men whose character stood above the rest. He would give Mendelssohn the best chair in the living room when he came to call on our family, and the most comfortable pillow to prop up his aching legs.

I'd sit close by and listen to their good-natured exchange, usually after we finished dinner. My mother and sister would clean up the kitchen while Mendelssohn spoke to my father about raising Godly children and doing good works.

They never talked about anything bad; most people didn't. Most didn't even say much when Starla disappeared. There was just a quiet murmuring about what kind of sick people operated in the world.

No one got their answers, but I did. I found out all I ever wanted to know in Mendelssohn's back room. I got my first taste of malaise and hypocrisy and stomached it like I had no choice.

But I did have a choice. I didn't have to keep my mouth shut for fear of what my parents would say, and I didn't have to play dumb with the Sheriff. Those were my selfish decisions.

The evening chill settles and I need to get the fire started. I'll sit on the brown carpet and watch long enough to see the cobwebs on the wood melt. Then I'll write in my notebook for as long as I can stay awake. It's packed in my bag with a few changes of clothes.

I never liked the idea of a diary—that no one would ever read it but me—so I journal instead. Someone needs to read my account of what happened. It's mostly about when Starla went into the woods and never came back…but it's also about what it's like to feel my soul slipping away.

There's an internal disconnect that I can't put into words. I'd just as soon dissolve, or fade into some dull smudge. To sink into solitude and forget that I exist is really all I want. Dissatisfaction outweighs everything I've ever tried to do.

I imagine people would soon forget about me. They'd only have some faint recollection of a person, a random face on a random day. “He had a scar, didn't he? On his forehead—no, his chin. On his forehead and his chin. And boy, was he ever skinny. Yep, he was a rail. What was his name again?”

They'd forget, and I wouldn't have to think anymore. It would be a lot like sleep, but without the dreams and without the cold—and without the guilt. But if there's no guilt, then there's no Starla.

I can't let go of my memory of her, so I need my guilt. It's a necessary part of who I am…a building block of sorts…one I covet but am quick to hide in shame.

Holding on to it won't get me anywhere in the end. My condition is more complex than that. I'm so close to breaking free, but someone, something, somewhere is holding me back.

Is it Mendelssohn reaching out in death? I blame him for everything else—my dreams, my guilt—he may as well shoulder the blame for my lack of motivation as well.

It's easier that way. I don't have to be accountable or even love myself. Still, I've asked God so many times to forgive me for not being braver, but I suppose some things just aren't forgivable.