Finding 52 (20 page)

The Flamethrower

1967

F
or the next two weeks Ginny and Harley were inseparable; it truly was love at first sight for both of them. They agreed on most everything from Beatles music to current events. On a drive to Cutler, Maine, the Bangor radio station played, “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.” They both knew the words and sang along. A little later the disc jockey played, “When I’m Sixty-Four,” a song on the same album as Sergeant Pepper. When it was over, Ginny asked, “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?”

“That’s a long time from now. I hope we’re both around in 2013.”

“Do you think we’ll be together?”

“I’d love that, but you’ll be off to the University of Maine next week and I’ll be back at school.”

“I don’t want to lose you, Harley.”

“You won’t. We have nothing but time, all the time in the world.”

Cutler Harbor was the last protected waterfront before the Canadian border and the Little River Light Station satisfied the need for a lighthouse. The steep, jagged cliffs reminded him of Hawaii, the Halona Blowhole, and Evelyn Gale. He wished he could stay with Ginny, but there was plenty of work to do. He had to rid the world of all the REAL people first. It was as if Evelyn was calling from the gates of hell and begging him to send down the rest of them.

Ginny spent that night with Harley and they fell asleep in each other’s arms. For once in Harley’s life the bad dreams took a night off.

Harley did love Ginny but his concern with the REAL people trumped any possibility of giving love a chance. No way could Harley spend his life looking over his shoulder for them.

He needed to go on the offensive and find every last one of those bastards. A few days later he was back on the road, only this time he headed south, toward North Carolina and the academy. He stopped for breakfast in Danville, Virginia, and figured he’d arrive at the academy well before dinner, but that was before he stopped to help the motorist.

Dewey Parsons cursed the day he bought the 1954 Mercury Monterey. He loved the sleek lines and only paid nine hundred dollars for the car in 1958. It never ran worth a darn, but he couldn’t bear the thought of getting rid of his first car. Keeping it on the road became a hobby and a quest.

Once again the car was alongside the highway with the hood up, only this time it was all Dewey’s fault. He’d run out of gas, and never mind how the gas gauge never worked since the day he bought it. He always kept track of his miles with paper and pencil and had been certain the tank had another fifty miles worth of gas.

He was a long way from the nearest gas station and there he sat, hood in the air and his empty gas can close at hand. Traffic was sparse, but surely a Good Samaritan would soon stop by.

Harley drove around a curve and slowed down when he saw the car parked alongside the road. The driver looked pitiful, and Harley decided to see if he could help him out. He pulled over and got out of the Barracuda and walked across the two-lane highway.

“Well, at least you picked a highway to have car trouble. You need a lift?”

“Sure! There’s a gas station a few miles in the direction you’re headed. I ran out of gas.”

They chatted most of the way and Harley was beginning to get bad signals from Dewey. By the time they reached the gas station Harley knew for sure. It wasn’t the first time he’d routinely happened on one of them, and it wouldn’t be the last time either. Dewey put a couple of gallons of gas in the can and thanked Harley for the lift.

“I can walk back, I guess. You should probably head out if you want to make North Carolina soon.”

“I’ll drive you back and make sure gas isn’t the only thing you need.”

Harley’s thoughts were already on the new task at hand. They drove back and Harley pulled in behind the Mercury and they both got out. Dewey picked up the gas can and Harley reached under his seat and grabbed the tire iron he kept for protection. There were so many bad men and women out there, he thought.

He walked up behind Dewey and there were no cars in sight. Harley swung the tire iron in a wide arc and clipped Dewey alongside his neck, knocking him to the ground.

“What the hell are you doing?!?!”

“You know what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it, so just shut up.” Harley kicked him in the side of the head and pulled him thirty yards away from the shoulder of the road near a wooded area. As always, his luck held and there were still no cars in sight. He dumped the entire two gallons of gas on Dewey and reached into his shirt pocket and grabbed the card. The hissing sound of the match and then the flame soon set fire to the King of Clubs. He dropped the card onto Dewey and said, “Oops,” and began laughing as the gas ignited. Dewey screamed not unlike one of hells hounds had just been let loose. The smell was divine and Harley sensed the presence of demons that were easily distinguishable because of their rotting garbage stench; always a telltale sign they were near. Harley thought they were sent to watch and observe his artistic savagery.

******

Simon Benchley held the third suspicious letter he had received in the past two weeks. There was never a return address or postage stamp. The plain envelopes must have been placed inside the mailbox soon after the regular mail arrived. He was terrified Caroline would ask him about the envelopes. The second one was sent to Mr. and Mrs. Simon Benchley, and the contents didn’t bode well for him. After the first one arrived he made sure he was always around when the mail appeared.

The first letter was a plain sheet of stationery with the word “Bastard” written on it, and it was signed by Evelyn Gale. It wasn’t actually signed by Evelyn; someone had cut letters out of a magazine, spelling out the words and gluing them to the stationery. That one was sent to Simon Benchley with more letters glued to the envelope, spelling his name out.

The next one was sent to both him and Caroline. It was a heart stopper for Simon. The contents were far more troublesome. Colorful letters from magazines and pasted to the stationery and envelope. The message on the second letter was vulgar and to the point: YOU FUCKED ME IN HAWAII AND LEFT ME THERE TO DIE – EVELYN.

Simon was sweating abundantly as he opened the third envelope. His hands were shaking as he looked at the bright letters pasted to the paper. He read the words: Bring fifteen thousand dollars in cash or else! Next Tuesday at noon. Clinton, NC, at the diner next to the bowling alley. Love – Evelyn.

Simon sat at a table in the diner directly under a picture of Richard Clinton, a Brigadier General of the North Carolina militia during American Revolution. Evidently, the guy in the picture founded the small town. There was a large manila envelope with cash inside, fifteen thousand dollars to be exact. He stared at the cup of coffee and wondered again how anyone knew about his affair with Evelyn Gale. He’d given up all hope that she could be alive. She’d been gone for six years and was surely dead, as the private eye’s investigation revealed. Simon was convinced that if Evelyn were still alive she’d have made contact with him. Someone was blackmailing him and Simon would pay.

Harley walked into the diner and smiled at Simon. Harley sat down across from him and said, “Well shoot me for a duck! Uncle Simon has brought cash money to pay the extortionist. Money stolen from me, no doubt. Have you ordered lunch yet?”

“I’m not hungry and haven’t been since the letters arrived. Why are you doing this?”

“Let’s take a ride and I’ll show you.”

“Why should I? Tell me what you want right here.”

Harley pulled his jacket open slightly and Simon saw the gun. “I think we can play Simon says and the rules are simple. I tell you what to do and you do it because your name is Simon. I say it and you do it. Grab the money and walk outside with me.”

They walked out of the diner and across the street where Harley’s car was parked. “Get in the car and drive. Nice and slow; we wouldn’t want the police interrupting us would we?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, Harley, I can explain.”

“Shut up and drive.”

They drove out of Clinton, and Harley made sure the barrel of the revolver was sticking in Simon’s ribcage. Harley turned the radio on and Tommy James and the Shondells were singing, “I Think We’re Alone Now.”

“How appropriate is that? We’re finally alone, Simon. Just me and you and Evelyn’s ghost.”

“What’re you talking about? Who’s Evelyn?”

Harley slapped Simon across the head with his free hand. “You know damn well who she is. You did her plenty of times while we were on vacation. I hate your guts, old man. Turn right at the next crossroad.”

Simon made the turn and a few more after that—he had no idea where they were. “I think we should head back, Harley.”

“Stop the car.”

Simon pulled over and stopped. Harley took the key out of the ignition.

“Get out.”

“Whatever you’re planning to do, it isn’t too late to stop. You can just drive away and leave me here. I never saw you today.”

Harley hit him with the end of the revolver and opened a gash above his eye. Simon started crying.

“Get out before I shoot you.”

Simon got out of the car and looked around. As far as he could tell there wasn’t another person for miles.

“Whatever I did to you, I’m sorry. Don’t hurt me, we’re family.”

Harley shot him in the kneecap and Simon fell to the ground. “Shut your mouth and stand up!”

“I can’t.”

Harley shot him in the other kneecap. “Now you can’t stand up. Feel free to keep your seat.”

Simon was writhing in pain, twisting and struggling to get away. Harley stood over him and held the gun to Simon’s ear.

“You ready to die yet? Or should we talk?”

“I want to talk! Let’s talk. What did I do?”

“You son of a bitch! You cheated on my aunt…my only living relative in the entire world. You rutted with one of THEM….one of the REAL people, one of the fifty-two, and don’t you dare play stupid just because you are. Admit it, you sniveling pup. Admit what you did to me.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I never stole—”

Harley shot him in the hand. “You bit the hand that fed you, so how do you like it? You’re one pilfering, dishonest two-timing sonofabitch.”

“Don’t kill me, Harley. Please…don’t kill me.”

“And when you get to hell tell that floozy—the one I pushed off the cliff—that Harley sends his regards.”

“Please…”

He placed the gun in Simon’s mouth and let the next one rip. He did it for his aunt and he did it because he felt like it. Most importantly, he did it so Simon could relay the message to Evelyn Gale. He figured right about now they were both in hell burning together for all eternity. Because Simon wasn’t one of the REAL people a playing card wasn’t left at the murder scene.

Harley drove back to school and placed the cash, his cash, in the safe. The gun had already been tossed in a river not far from Clinton. He slept well that night and knew that his aunt would eventually get over the loss of a husband. How long did someone mourn someone like Simon Benchley? Not too long he figured.

Simon’s bullet-riddled body was discovered a week later and the local police were oblivious as to motive or much else for that matter. Simon’s wallet was still in his back pocket and there were a couple of hundred dollars in it so robbery was ruled out. The funeral was largely uneventful and Harley stayed at his aunt’s side.

“We’re the only family left, Harley, just us.”

“Don’t worry Aunt Caroline, we’ll be fine. Uncle Simon would want us to be happy. I just wish the police would catch the…you know. Catch whoever did this to him.”

Three days later Harley left Winston Academy for good. He had plenty of money to tide him over until he turned twenty-one.

******

Harley was officially out and about and certainly on the prowl. On the same day the North Koreans captured the
USS Pueblo
and the crew of eighty-three, Harley sat in a lodge near the Cumberland River not far from Corbin, Kentucky. He was eating lunch and gazing at a panoramic view of the river itself. The day was unusually warm for late January and he watched two men shovel coal from the river’s edge into the back of a pickup truck.
Good work if you can find it
, he thought. He planned on leaving the next day and the privilege of leaving was something the Pueblo crew wouldn’t have for another eleven months.

He stopped at the lodge because he’d heard of a phenomenon called moonbows, which are akin to rainbows but they’re generated by moonlight instead of sunlight. A full moon was expected that night and the spectacle couldn’t be found anywhere else in the entire western hemisphere. Later in the evening he was able to see the moonbow and thought it better than most things the academy had to offer. The next morning he packed the car and headed north. He was excited with the possibility of trying a new weapon that was in the trunk.

A few years earlier a man in Germany killed several people with a homemade flamethrower. Harley built one just like it. His flamethrower was made from an insecticide sprayer with a wire netting fastened to the nozzle and filled with a concoction of old motor oil and paint thinner. He was eager to try it—and hopefully soon. It occurred to him that while it was absolutely essential to rid the world of REAL people it was sometimes necessary to take the lives of innocent ones as well. In the case of the flamethrower, Harley needed to find a guinea pig. He started the car and drove away.

He spotted her hitchhiking just outside Radcliff, Kentucky. The girl eagerly climbed inside the Barracuda. “Thanks for stopping. I’m nearly late for work.”

“Is that right? Where you headed?”

“Fort Knox. You can drop me off anywhere close, if you’re headed that way.”

She was in her late twenties and average-looking. Harley figured she’d do. He reached in the glove box and pulled out a pint of Bacardi Rum. “Or we could find ourselves a couple of glasses and some ice and coke and go for a ride?”

She looked at him and a smile slowly appeared. “Sure! I don’t feel much like working today. You could pull over at the next party store on the right. I can go inside and get the fixings and call in sick. They have a phone I can use.”