Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels) (23 page)

I raced brokenly across the empty, dusty driveway and into the space between two of the mobile homes. The tall steel cylinders were marked TOXIC GAS and labeled as Hydrogen Chloride. With those contents, a simple valve failure or breakage could suddenly create an unguided missile. I set the jack down in the dirt, knelt by one of the containers and put my shoulder to it. It rolled easily; it had already been emptied. I eased up the metal wall and tried to peer in one of the windows. It was closed, shuttered, and locked. I tried another, then one a bit more weather-beaten, and peeked through a tiny crack. I saw containers of red phosphorous and others marked as holding iodine.

I sniffed the air, caught the faint whiff of heated chemical agents and knew this was a very dangerous place to be. I concentrated on what I had come here to do. I knelt and picked up the jack. I found its heft comforting.

When it felt safe, I sprinted across the second open space, slid under a broken wooden fence rail and into the back yard of the big house. I stayed in the shadows behind the vegetable garden, my nose burning with the odor of concentrated fertilizer. The two-story house seemed quiet. I slipped over to the far end of the garden and around behind the bunkhouse. I heard some chickens clucking. A nearby horse whinnied.

Jerry's red scooter lay half-hidden in the brush by the watering trough, only a few feet away from a tall haystack.

Four large bales were covered with several paper targets, all of them well punctured. An old white Ford Fairlane was parked on the property, as was the battered red pickup truck I had seen the day before. I stayed in the gloom for a few moments, quieting my breathing, and then sprinted for the back porch of the two-story house. I vaulted the railing, the jack held aloft in my right hand, then rolled and came to a stop by some patio furniture. I was surprised by how little noise I had made. Waited, listened.

I heard nothing but my own hoarse breathing and a sprinkler hissing repeatedly from somewhere nearby, probably watering the parched lawn at the side of the building. I crawled across the splintered porch on my hands and knees, got to the back screen door and slipped it open. I winced at the whine of the creaking hinges.

I opted to enter the house standing up. I eased the door open, stepped in and gently closed it behind me. I slid down the wallpapered porch wall and stopped by a large laundry basin to get my bearings. Through a hall door I could see the living room, where I had first confronted Lowell Palmer. To the right, I saw the stairway with its elevator platform. I heard the ticking of the antique grandfather clock.

"Wait up a second," a female called, from perhaps thirty feet away. Another voice, male: "Hey fuck you. You just hustle your ass up."

"Go to hell, then. We'll wait here." The sound of male laughter, some hooting and hollering.

I heard a vehicle, its tires spinning for traction in the dusty road. When the sound of the engine had faded away, I let out the air in my lungs. For a brief moment, I considered running away.
Goddamn it, you stand and fight them
boy,
Danny Bell said. Stomach-curdling shame followed and when that feeling passed, the white heat of anger took its place.
Let's do this.
I stepped into the living room, the hair on the back of my neck standing rigid.

The area was still polished, immaculate. I turned and checked out the doorways. I opted to slide low below the long glass picture window, then clutched the jack to my chest and rolled lightly to the foot of the stairs. I wiped my face. It suddenly hit me that somewhere along the way — possibly out in the garden — I'd lost the damned cell phone.

I had intended to corner Lowell Palmer and somehow negotiate a solution. Because of what I'd seen in the abandoned mobile homes, I now knew that the situation was more dangerous than I'd realized. I needed a new plan.

"Well hell, that isn't
my
fault," someone said. She sounded close, perhaps only a few feet away. Within seconds she would be passing the porch. "Why are you guys always blaming
me
?"

"Shut the fuck up," a male voice said. Maybe the one called Mex? "You're always whining."

My heart leapt into my throat. The screen door was opening. I looked around for somewhere to hide; decided to sneak to the second story. Moving on my toes, angry with myself for wearing boots, I stepped on the corners of the stairs and jogged rapidly upward.

The screen door slammed, and someone moved through the room below and out into the kitchen area. I heard rummaging. The male voice again: "Don't he keep any goddamned beer?"

Something dropped to the kitchen floor and splattered.

"Shit. Oh, here we go."

Clanking of glass, a twist top. "
Ahh
. That's better. It's hotter than a bitch out there, man. You want one?"

"No," the girl said. "We better get back to work. The Boss will be way pissed off if he catches you."

"He ain't gonna catch me," Mex said. "And I ain't afraid of him."

"Maybe you should be. I'm going back to work."

"Pussy," Mex said. But he followed her out the door. The screen banged closed again. I blew air like a horse ridden too hard. My palms were drenched with sweat, and I had to shift the jack to both hands in order to hold it. I moved to the top of the staircase and stood by the elevator seat, my eyes darting about. I went looking for Palmer.

The first room was a guest bedroom of some kind; it was furnished in a somewhat nondescript, Western way. It was dusty and hadn't been used in a very long time. I closed it up and slipped into the next room.

The hinges squeaked, and I jumped a bit. My flesh writhed as I sensed something bleak and soulless lay within. I turned sideways and pushed the door the rest of the way open.

It was Will Palmer's bedroom; there were photographs of him with several smiling young women. Will in high school, Will at college dances. In every photograph his cruel eyes seemed flat and empty. Some of his dark clothing was now scattered about, and there were pornographic magazines and videos by the bed. I saw stubbed-out marijuana cigarettes in an overflowing ashtray. An oddly eclectic collection of posters dotted the walls, a mixture of rock-and-roll and modern art. Several classic books lined a ceiling-high wooden shelf, and sloppily framed a multi-disc CD player littered with plastic cases. The room smelled musty and foul, as if somehow infected by the manner of his death.

I leaned the jack against the wall for a moment and wiped my palms on the legs of my jeans. As I passed by the window I peeked down into the driveway below. The red pickup truck was gone. The old white Ford was still parked in the shade of a weathered oak tree near the bunkhouse. Mex and the girl had returned to work, probably somewhere in the mobile home area. I was thirsty, so I stole a few sips of water from the tap in the dead boy's bathroom. I splashed some on my face and examined my sweat-matted black hair and slightly crooked nose in the mirror. I had never looked so boyish in my life.
Hail the conquering hero.

I stepped back into the hallway. The ticking of the grandfather clock seemed louder than before. Something small, with tiny claws, scampered through the attic. I moved on.

The next room was Sandy Palmer's; I knew because of the gentle fragrance and the pastel colors. Infused with melancholy, her room seemed to belong to another dimension. I saw one photograph of her, laughing with her brother. In another Sandy, perhaps eleven years old, was riding bareback on a handsome Palomino.

I eased back out into the hallway, stole a quick glance backward and then stepped briskly to the threshold of the master bedroom. I shifted the jack to my left hand, tried the brass knob and got a small static shock. The door was unlocked. I slipped inside and looked around. The room was spotless, with little warmth or charm, and cold as frozen bones. The very air felt wicked.

The bathroom door was open, and I could see handicap bars by the toilet and the tub. Lowell Palmer lived here. There was an inner door, solid oak, and it too was closed. I kept my boots on the thick, ornate area rugs to muffle my steps and tiptoed over. The blood sang in my ears.
Toughen me up, Danny
.
Here there be monsters.
I opened the door and stepped inside.

The closed-up room was like a furnace. There was a massive four-poster oak bed with a canopy, pale yellow in color. The bedspread was pulled up high, despite the heat, and molded in the shape of a human body. I could see an old man's wizened arm and hand above the covers. A flesh-colored Ace bandage had come undone and trailed away towards the foot of the bed.

Lowell Palmer's wrinkled face was frozen in a silent scream; his eyes were wide and spider-webbed with blood. The large, clear plastic bag had been tied over his head, probably while he was still sleeping. He had awakened to find himself unable to breathe. His wrists had been tied to the bedposts by the bandages; his right arm was still bound there. He'd untied his left, but had apparently been too weak to free himself completely. The old man had died slowly, in agony, gasping for air.

He's all yours now, Danny. Make him pay what he owes.
I set the jack down on the carpet and turned away from the body. I was swallowing air, trying not to vomit, when I heard a sound like distant thunder.

Someone large was coming up the stairs. Moving rapidly, two steps at a time. I looked around desperately, darted into the closet; sliding mirrored door, blackness, and the scent of mothballs. I stood frozen, face and palms soaking wet, and then realized with horror that I'd left the car jack lying near the head of the dead man's canopied bed. Before I could correct that mistake, someone else was in the hallway. I groped around in the darkness, but found nothing I could use for a weapon.

Someone entered the bedroom. Silence. An explosion of air, followed by a male voice saying: "
Oh boy, oh boy!
" The one called Donny Boy. He called out at the top of his lungs: "Hey, this old motherfucker is dead, dude. He's stone cold dead."

Muffled response from downstairs. "I shit you not. Old man Palmer is way dead up here."

Donny Boy trotted out of the room and back down the stairs. I slipped out of the closet as soundlessly as possible, grabbed the jack and froze when I heard footsteps running across the floor and coming back up the staircase. I got back into the closet in time, jack in hand, and held my position in the darkness.

"Well I'll be damned," said the one called Mex. "He looks awful, don't he?"

"We better tell Bobby," Donny Boy said. "He's not going to like this."

Mex laughed. "Hell, he probably
did
it!"

Whispering? Maybe, I couldn't be sure. After a long and uncomfortable silence, I heard the footsteps walking away. I waited as long as I could, slid the mirrored door open and stepped back into the room. Lowell Palmer lay as before, his bulging eyes staring up through the plastic. I slipped over to the window and looked out. No one was in the yard. I thought about slithering down the latticework on the side of the house, rather than risk the stairs again. But I'd be hanging out in the open for a long while.

I considered using Palmer's phone to make a quiet call, but who, if anyone, could I trust? I held the jack in my left hand and walked over to the door. The silence screamed obscenities. I listened to some wasps as they square danced through the attic. I peered into the hallway, and then moved out of the room.

"
Oh boy, oh boy!
'

The ragged breathing and the whisper tipped me, but too late to avoid the blow. Donny Boy brought a raised fist around hard and caught me right on the side of the jaw. My knees buckled and my torso went limp. The jack slipped from my fingers. I heard circus music. My skull bounced off the wooden door. Then I was kneeling on the rug, trying to shake the punch. Donny Boy was dancing around like a delirious prizefighter. I groggily tried to locate the jack. His boot caught me in the midsection and I crumbled.

"I told you so," Donny Boy shrieked. "I told you somebody was here. I saw the jack and then it was gone and I told you so."

Two powerful hands gripped my throat and squeezed. The world became a black screen with flickering white dots. I felt too weary and broken to care.
Don't you fucking quit on me, boy, fight back!
I grabbed the thick wrists and began to struggle. I broke the choke-hold, pushed up and away.

"Oh boy, oh boy,' Donny said. He punched me in the jaw again. Meanwhile I gasped for air.

"Easy," Mex said. "Don't kill him yet. Leave him for Bobby."

"Donny, Mex, look," I croaked, thinking fast. "Listen to me. Let me try and explain something."

"Shut the fuck up!"

After the next blow to the head, I pretended to be unconscious. Donny Boy kept hitting me. Finally, I passed out for real.

Near Noon . . . Memorial Day

The world smelled terrible and it was very dark. I was staring at something ugly and wriggling, something that had a fat, waxy body and too many legs. I flinched and watched the insect scamper away onto a pile of potatoes near my head. I was sideways in the dirt, and my hands and feet were bound. There was something in my mouth; a rag that smelled faintly of oil and gasoline and tasted of rich soil. The insect vanished into the shadows.

It was a potato bug. I hate those filthy suckers. I was on the floor of the potato cellar I had seen towards the front of the Palmer property. It was half sunk in the earth and half above it, with a large wooden door. The only light emanated from a lantern several feet away. I tried to move my feet, and was able to loosen the bonds slightly, but my hands were well-tied. My head throbbed with pain whenever I moved.

There was a sudden racket and sunlight filled the enclosure, blinding me. I closed my eyes again, but not before I saw that I was facing the wall, lying with my back to the doorway.