Theresa Monsour (10 page)

Trip had never killed someone this way before. Had never gotten so close to one of his victims while they were still breathing. Still moaning and groaning. Fighting for life. This wasn't like running someone over with a truck, so high off the ground and impersonal and efficient. This was messy and personal. Hard work. Scary. Trip was perspiring under his hat. His armpits were clammy. He was panting. Couldn't get air into his lungs quick enough. That drowning feeling again. He wanted to get the hell out of the park. Get away from the mess. He hopped over the body and ran
to his truck and pulled the door open. The shovel and the shoe. He forgot the shovel and the shoe. He ran back and picked them up. Rubbed the back of the spade against the dirt to get the worst of the blood off. Wondered if there were brains on it. The ranger's pickup lights were on. Should he shut them off? No. Leave it alone, he thought. The ranger's flashlight was next to his body and it was still shining; the beam illuminated the man's bloody head. Trip was spooked by it; the flashlight was accusing him. He kicked it and it rolled away; the beam flickered and died. He remembered his own flashlight. Where was it? Did he drop it? He reached into his jacket pockets. His right one. Empty. His left. There it was. On the way back to his truck, he stumbled over the ranger's leg and fell in the dirt, right next to the body. It freaked him out; he made a startled noise that sounded like a pig's squeal. He scrambled off the ground, picked up the shovel and the shoe. He checked his pockets. Flashlight still there. Checked his head. Hat still there. Did he drop anything else? He scanned the ground with the beam and saw only the ranger's body and the ranger's flashlight. Good. He flicked off the light and shoved it back in his jacket. He ran to his truck and threw the shovel and shoe in back and shut the gate.

When he pulled out of the campsite he managed to back up without hitting the ranger's pickup, but he did run over the ranger himself.

HE WAS SHAKING as he sped out of the park. Vibrating like a car going faster than it could handle. He wanted to escape the sound the shovel had made with that last hit. It reminded him of something. A kitchen sound. An egg cracking? A mallet hitting a tough steak? No. His pa used to buy fryers whole because they were cheaper that way. He'd chop them himself into serving pieces with a meat cleaver. Sloppy and messy. That was the sound. Meat and bone being broken. Crunching and squishing. It'd be a long time before he could handle a raw chicken again. He needed to downshift. Needed his pills, and they were in the motel room. He'd calm himself with the next best thing: his music. His discs were in a case on the front passenger's seat. He grabbed one without looking at it, popped it in, cranked the volume. When he realized the CD he'd picked, he had to laugh.
The Grave Digger
. Dark and evil German power metal. The guitars and drums pushed the broken bones and meat out of his mind. His first instinct was to keep driving. Keep the pedal to the floor and tear out of town. What about his stuff? He couldn't leave his stuff in
the motel room. The purse was in his suitcase. Should have buried the bag with her, he thought. The risk hadn't been worth it to get a peek at a handful of her cosmetics and the lyrics from an Elvis song.

He headed for the motel; he'd pack his stuff and leave. Then he remembered he hadn't paid the bill. Skipping town without paying would attract attention. The motel owner, an old woman, lived in back of the office. Trip checked his watch. Midnight. Too late to wake her; that would arouse suspicions. He could slip the money under the door. No. That would seem odd. He could check out at dawn; the owner kept early hours. He pulled into the motel parking lot and sat behind the wheel with the lights off and the music on and his brain working.

The purse and her shoe. The only objects tying him to her. The shoe was in the back of the truck. The purse was in the suitcase. He'd left no witnesses. No one saw the truck run her over and no one saw him in the park except for the ranger, and he was dead. What had changed since he buried her? Had he dropped any clues that could steer the cops in his direction? He'd gotten rid of the biggest piece of evidence—her body—and it was well hidden. He'd left another body behind in plain view. He should have buried the old guy. Still, they would have found his car and probably a mess of blood and brains on the ground. Once the ranger's body was discovered, the cops might set up roadblocks. Stop cars and trucks. Couldn't let them see the shoe or the blood on the shovel. The shoe would be easy to lose. He'd clean up the shovel. Washing the entire truck bed wouldn't be a bad idea. Check everything out. Make sure the bridesmaid's body hadn't leaked anything while it was bouncing around back there. Something to do while waiting for sunrise; he sure as hell wasn't going to get any sleep. He turned his lights back on, pulled out of the motel parking lot and headed to town. He knew there was a self-service car wash in Moose Lake adjacent to a gas station.

 

THREE bays, all of them empty. He steered the truck into the middle one, punched off his lights, turned off the engine. He opened the driver's door but before he hopped out, he took off his baseball cap and set it on the passenger's seat. He didn't mind if he got his clothes wet, but he didn't want to mess up his hat. Didn't want to ruin his leather gloves, either. He pulled them off and threw them on the seat. He got out of the truck, slammed the door behind him. Walked behind the truck and pulled down the bay door. The streets were empty and the gas station was closed for the night, but he didn't want to chance anyone seeing what he was doing. He opened the truck gate. The shovel and shoe—partners in crime—fell out together. Lying on its side against the gray concrete floor, the peach pump resembled a dead tropical bird. How to get rid of it? He looked around the bay and saw a trash can. Too obvious. The drain might work. A narrow trench that ran nearly the entire width of the floor and was covered by sections of grate. He bent over, wrapped his fingers around one of the sections and tugged hard. It didn't budge; screwed in. He tried the next grate. It lifted out easily. He set it aside. Using two fingers, he picked up the shoe by the tip of the heel and carried it over to the drain. He dropped it in, watched it settle in the muck, replaced the grate.

The shovel. He lifted it up by the handle. Wet spots all over the spade. Blood. A few clots of something red and raw and glistening, like bits of uncooked liver. He dropped the shovel on the floor directly over the drain and walked to the power hose mounted on the wall. He scanned the sign over the hose. It listed spray settings:
Tire Cleaner. Engine Cleaner. High-pressure Soap. Suds 'n' Brush. High-pressure Rinse. High-pressure Wax
. At the end of the list:
Warning. Grip wand tightly due to 1000 lbs. pressure. We are not responsible for damage
. He turned the knob to
High-pressure Soap
and plugged the machine with a dollar's worth of quarters. He pulled the wand over to the shovel. Sprayed the blade with soapy water. Pink dripped down the drain. He kept shooting the blade until the water
ran clear. He flipped the shovel with his foot and sprayed the other side. Ran the wand up and down the handle. His time ran out. He walked back to the knob. Turned it to
High-pressure Rinse
. Four more quarters. He sprayed the blade and handle until the water shut off. He picked up the shovel and inspected it. Clean as a spoon out of the dishwasher. He set it upright against the wall. Plugged the hose with more quarters and took the wand over to the gate and sprayed it down to give him a clean working surface.

Now the hard part. He started reaching in and pulling his merchandise out of the truck. The unopened boxes filled with individually wrapped shirts were easiest. He slid them out of the truck, held them up, examined the cardboard cubes on all six sides for bloodstains. Each of the five sealed boxes was clean. He threw them inside the cab. He leaned in and grabbed the two opened boxes out of the truck. The cardboard was clean on the outside. He carefully lifted out the polybagged shirts inside and held them to the ceiling light. Clean. He put the shirts back inside, folded the box tops shut, set the cubes inside the cab. Now all the loose stuff. One by one, he pulled out two dozen packaged shirts. The shovel must have rested on top of them because six of them were smeared with dirt and traces of blood. It looked like red food coloring against the clear plastic. He set the clean ones on the floor, propping them upright against the wall, and stacked the dirty ones on the gate. Then one by one, he picked up each bloodied package with his left hand, holding it by a corner. With his right, he worked the wand. He used the gentle
Tire Cleaner
setting. The high-pressure sprays could rip the polybags and he didn't want to ruin his samples; he'd already paid for them. As he finished each package, he propped it against the wall to dry next to the clean ones. By the time he was done, he had a row of shirts sitting upright on the floor as if on display. Instead of a garage sale, he thought, it would be a grave digger's sale.

He had to crawl inside to reach the truck's winter gear: jumper cables, a set of chains, a towrope, one bag of rock
salt, six sacks of sand. As he pulled out each item, he held it up, examined it from all angles. Set the clean stuff against the wall next to the shirts. The edges of two bags of sand had dirt on them; he couldn't tell if it was plain dirt or dirt mixed with brains and blood. He washed the edges with the
Tire Cleaner
setting and propped the bags against the wall.

The truck bed itself. Should probably spray the sides and ceiling of the topper, too, he thought. He plugged the hose with coins and turned it to
High-pressure Soap
. He shot foamy water inside the truck and watched as it poured out of the bed and ran down the floor drain. He didn't see pink. Only dirt. When his time ran out, he plugged the hose again for the rinse. When it stopped, he hung up the wand and scanned the bay, hoping for a towel dispenser. Nope. He wished he had some rags to wipe the bed dry. He studied the row of shirts, picked out the ugliest one. He ripped the package open and took out a yellow oxford with navy blue and white vertical stripes. He pulled out the stickpins, removed the plastic from around the neck and the cardboard from the back. He ducked under the topper and leaned in to wipe the bed. When he was finished, he balled up the wet shirt and its packaging and threw them into a corner of the truck bed. He wanted to get a good look. Where was his flashlight? He checked his jacket. Still in his left pocket. He took it out and turned it on and ran the beam around the inside of the bed and ceiling of the topper. Clean.

The winter gear went back into the truck first; he shoved it all against the rear of the bed, including the shovel. He stacked the merchandise on the bed. Did it in rows so it appeared neat and professional. Sealed boxes in back. Then the unsealed. Then the loose shirts. He ran the flashlight around one more time. Satisfied with his job, he flicked it off and shoved it in his left pocket. He slammed the gate shut. Might as well wash the outside of the truck, he thought. He reached into his pants pockets. Bills. No more quarters. He peeled three one-dollar bills off and fed them
to the change machine mounted against the wall. Twelve quarters. Enough for a wash, rinse and wax.

When he was finished, he stepped back and admired his truck. It always looked so good after a wash and wax. Shiny and new and invincible. He wiped his hands on his pants legs. Went behind the truck. Opened the bay door. Scanned the street. Still quiet and empty. Went to the driver's door, opened it, got behind the wheel, slammed the door shut. He turned the ignition and started to back out of the bay. As he pulled out he saw a sign on the outside of the car wash:
Thank You for Your Dirty Business
.

He checked the clock on the dashboard. Still too early to wake the motel owner. He felt safe and calm after washing the truck and sorting through his merchandise. He thought he could snooze a little and still get out of town at dawn. He pulled into the motel parking lot exhausted. He pushed open the door to his room, dropped his jacket on the floor and collapsed on top of the bed, his shoes still on.

 

AT first light, he rolled out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. He unzipped his pants and peed for what seemed like half an hour. As he was zipping up, it occurred to him that he could have gotten blood on his clothes. He looked down at his pants legs. Didn't see anything. They were dark so if there was any blood, it wouldn't be visible. He checked the bottom of each shoe. Clean. If they had had any mud or blood, it had probably come off while he was washing the truck. Satisfied he was clean, he decided against changing. Better shave, though. He looked like a bum. He turned on the television and watched the early morning news while he lathered. Nothing on the ranger. Either his body hadn't been discovered or it had been found, but the media hadn't yet learned about it. He shaved in front of the bathroom mirror with an ear still keyed to the news. He toweled off his face. Packed up his stuff. Switched channels a few times. Still nothing on the ranger. He turned off the set and walked out of the room with his
suitcase. He set it on the floor of the cab on the passenger's side; he didn't want to mess up his neat merchandise arrangement in back. He peered through the office window. There she was behind the counter, wearing the same polka-dot dress as when she checked him in Saturday. Hair still knotted in a bun in back of her head. He rapped twice on the door with his knuckles.

“Come in,” she said. She had a singsong voice.

He turned the knob and opened the door.

“Watch your head,” she said.

Trip walked inside. He was used to people reminding him to watch his head. Ducking through doorways had become second nature. His posture was so bad, he didn't have to duck too much. “Morning,” he mumbled.

“You're an early bird,” she said.

The coffee was still dripping into the crusty pot she kept behind the counter. “Smells g . . . good,” he said. He was hungry; his stomach growled. She pulled the pot out even though the coffee wasn't done dripping. Some splattered on the warmer and sizzled. She poured some into a foam cup and handed it to him.

“Thanks.” He sipped. Exactly what he needed. Hot and strong.

“Sorry to see you go.” She set a box of gas station donuts on the counter and lifted off the cover. “Help yourself.”

He took a chocolate glazed. Ate it in two bites.

“Take more,” she said, hands on her hips. “Sure was fun having a celebrity around.”

He popped a powdered sugar one into his mouth. Chewed three times. Took another sip of coffee to wash the donut down. He set the cup on the counter, licked his fingers.

“Do me a favor, Mr. Trip?” She pulled a newspaper out from under the counter. The Minneapolis
Star Tribune
. “Sign your picture? Please?”

He grinned. “No p . . . problem.” He checked his pockets for a pen. She slid one across the counter. He picked it up and signed at the bottom of the front-page color photo:
Good luck. Justice Trip
. She took the paper from him. He tried to hand the pen back to her.

“You keep it, Mr. Trip. It's got the name of the motel and the phone number. You're always welcome here.”

He pulled out his wallet. “What d . . . d . . . do I owe you?”

“Got a special rate for heroes,” she said, and winked at him. “Half off.”

He took three twenties out of his wallet and thought:
God I'm going to miss the attention
.