Nightrunners (19 page)

"Nope."

"Then?"

"Let's change the tire and give it a try."

........

The Chevy was closing again, whipping around to the side of the Rabbit. Monty doubted the same trick would work twice, but perhaps another trick.

He whipped to the left, using the advantage of the small, maneuverable car to point the nose at the Chevy. The Rabbit hit the Chevy just behind the right fender and the momentum of Monty's whipping action carried the '66 to the left, toward the bar ditch.

Monty knew that if the driver reacted in time, could whip to the right soon enough, the weight of the car would be more than a match for the Rabbit.

But the Chevy's driver did not respond soon enough. The black car was at an angle, the rear end whirling around, and Monty was driving it straight for the ditch on the left-hand side.

Nearly there.

Come on, baby. Nearly there.

Just a bit more, Volkswagen, honey.

There!

The Chevy's left tire went off in the ditch, and Monty jerked the Rabbit back on the road.

But the car was not without damage. The maneuver had smashed the front of the Rabbit good, and the tail end, which had swirled around and smacked the Chevy, was also dented badly. But it was a small price to pay for freedom.

"By God, I beat them," Monty screamed. "I beat "em!"

........

Monty made a curve, but not before a glance in the rearview mirror told him the trick had not been entirely successful. He had not pushed the Chevy far enough. It had gained enough traction to reverse out of the ditch.

And they were coming again. Fast.

........

Larry and Ted had the tire changed now, and with Larry at the wheel and Ted and Moses pushing at the back, they were ready to rock it off in the ditch, hoping the front tires wouldn't bog and that they'd be able to pull out, around, and back onto the road.

Larry cranked the engine to life, yelled out the window. "Hit it!"

Moses and Ted put their backs into it, pushing.

Monty made the curve. The Chevy's lights went out of view.

God, he thought, we're almost back at the cabin. He jerked a look at Becky. She was white as a sheet and the moonlight made her look worse. She had wiped the blood from her face with her sleeve, but it was beading up again on her forehead and under her nose.

"Okay?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

There was a cutoff coming up. It was the one just before the Beaumont cabin. He decided to take it. Maybe it led to some house. Some kind of help.

He took the turn.

But not before he saw a wavy fragment of the Chevy's head beams making the curve. And if he had seen them, chances were they had glimpsed his taillights just before he made the turn.

Pine tree shadows clustered on the road like great, black spiders that seemed reluctant to flee before his headlights.

A shiver ran up his back. He thought: Pines. The lake. He glanced at Becky's face.

Her nose and lip were covered with blood again, her forehead wore a band of it. He remembered what she had said about a woman hanging upside down, bleeding.

"Becky," he said sharply.

She didn't answer, just looked straight ahead, her face a growing mask of blood.

........

The patrol car's front tires hit the ditch, spun, mud flew, and the machine's rear end swiveled to the left, then back.

Traction was finally gained, and the front tires, acting like the front toes of a scrambling sloth, pulled the car forward.

The front end came out of the ditch, and the rear end, clearing the rise, plunged down to take its place. The back wheels hit the mud with a plop, buried halfway to the hubcaps.

Larry kept gunning it.

The tires dug in deeper.

"Hold it!" Ted yelled. "Hold it, goddamnit!"

........

The road narrowed, and suddenly Monty felt he knew what was around the curb.

A dead end.

He was right.

There was a sudden end to the road. Pine needles took the clay's place. There was a picnic table, trees, and beyond that the lake.

He had trapped them.

"Get out of the car!" he yelled at Becky.

"It's no use. We're dead . . . I'm dead."

He reached over and back-handed her. "Get out of the car. Do you hear me, bitch?

I'm scared to fucking death, I don't need you to drop the liberated role now. Get the fuck out of the goddamned car or they won't get to kill you. I'll do it!"

Becky opened the car door, dream-stepped out.

Monty jumped out, ran around, grabbed her arm and began dragging her to the left, toward a dark swath of trees.

"Run, goddamnit, run," he yelled.

She did. Her arm came free of Monty's and she was moving ahead of him, and it was all he could do to stay within three feet of her. He remembered what she had once said about the track team.

Lights pounced on them—the Chevy's lights.

And then they were clawing, stumbling, running their way into the stand of trees, the brush, the ruthless vines.

They could no longer see the lights, but Monty could hear the car doors slamming, and could imagine that the kids were running after them— and at least one of them had a gun, a shotgun.

Monty saw lights through the trees, A house.

"Run, goddamnit," he said, even though Becky was pushing well ahead of him, slapping vines and small limbs out of her path. More than once a limb she had bent aside came back to whip him. He began to run with his arms up, looking between them.

Suddenly they were out of the trees and the lights were bright and the house was there in the moonlight. And Monty might have laughed had it not been so goddamned crazy.

It was the cabin, of course. They were right back where they had started from, ready to shake bloody hands with Becky's dreams.

Monty jerked a look over his shoulder.

Nothing. They weren't pursuing.

That fact failed to be encouraging.

"Get in the cabin," Monty panted. "I'm . . . going to grab something out of the toolshed, something to fight with."

Becky kept going, but when she reached the cabin door, she stopped, turned to look at Monty. He was going into the shed. It was unlocked, the way he had left it after getting out the fishing gear. "Hurry, baby," she said. "Hurry."

He came running out of the shed with a poleaxe and a frog gig.

........

"It's stuck good," Moses said.

Ted sighed. "Start gathering sticks, rocks, anything you can find to slip under the tires.

We've got to build them out of that."

"Any more bright ideas, Ted?" Larry said.

Ted turned leveled his finger at Larry. "Don't start in on me, asshole, not unless you want to wear the seat of your pants for a hat."

They began to gather debris to place behind the tires.

FIFTEEN

The kids had not pursued Monty and Becky because: when the five of them got out of the Chevy, Brian had turned to Loony and said, "Grab those two," and he'd pointed at Jimmy and Angela.

Loony waved the shotgun at them and smiled.

Jimmy said, "You promised."

"But
I
didn't," Brian said, and it was Clyde's voice.

"Man," Loony said, looking at Brian, "that's creepy. You sound just like Clyde."

Brian looked at Loony sternly. "I am Clyde, you frigging asshole." The voice switched back to Brian: "And I'm Brian too." Back to Clyde: "See, you fuckheaded dingledick!"

"Yeah, yeah, Clyde . . . Brian , . . You guys,"

Stone, his teeth nearly hanging out, was staring at Brian.

"What're you staring at?" Clyde's voice asked.

Stone shook his head.

"Then get these two over to that table."

"Don't hurt us," Jimmy said. "Let us go. We'll just go away, won't say a word."

"Sure you won't. Move it. Over to the table."

"Run," Jimmy said, and he pushed Angela hard to his right, and he bolted to the left.

Stone stuck a leg out, tripped him. Jimmy went down and Loony stepped over and cracked him behind the head with the butt of the shotgun, knocked him cold.

Stone went running after Angela; caught her before she reached the trees on that side, grabbed her by the hair, and like a caveman with his mate, began dragging her back to the others.

He threw her down in front of Brian.

Brian bent forward, pulled a knife from his belt. "First," he said in Clyde's voice,

"we have a little fun."

"Man," Loony said, "that voice is some creepy shit."

Brian whipped around to Loony. "You think this is some kind of fucking game?"

The voice was Clyde's. "Huh?"

"No, I just don't see how you do that . . . You do it good."

"You ignorant motherfucker," still Clyde's voice, "we're sharing a head." He tapped the blade against his skull. "See."

"Yeah,"

Clyde's voice: "There's me."

Brian's voice: "And there's me."

Clyde's voice: "But I am the king of this palace. Now, so you stupid fucks won't have to think this over too hard and cause your brains to overload, take the cunt over to the table."

"Please," Angela begged. "Leave me alone."

Stone grabbed her by the hair, tugged her toward the table. She kicked and screamed, but he got her there. Loony took Jimmy by the collar and dragged him over.

Stone still held Angela by the hair.

Clyde's voice: "Do you love this milquetoast?" He waved the blade at Jimmy.

"Don't hurt us," she said.

"Are you deaf?" Clyde's voice asked.

"Do you love this asshole? This is important. There'll be a pop quiz later, so you remember your answers."

"Who are you?"

"I'm asking the questions here," Clyde's voice said.

"Please . . ." she said.

"Last time, for all the apples, do you love this shit?"

"Yes, yes."

"Got a proposition," the Clyde voice said. "I'll let you go if you'll tell me to cut him instead of you."

She looked up at him.

"That's right," the Clyde voice continued. "You say: Cut him, Clyde, cut him up, cut him to pieces, and I'll let you go. Just like Brian made the Beaumont cunt do."

"No . . . No," Angela said.

"Get her up,"

Stone just looked at Brian for a moment; the Clyde voice, the way Brian was posturing ...it was almost too much.

"Has everyone gone fucking deaf around here, get her up."

Stone pulled her by the hair.

"Put her hand on the table, please." The voice was still Clyde's, but oddly gentle, almost kind. Stone recognized that tone; meant something nasty was going to happen, Clyde always did that when he was about to get nasty.

"No, let go," Angela begged.

Stone grabbed her wrist, jerked her hand on the table.

Brian went to the table, moved behind Angela, ran his hand down the length of her long black hair. Angela trembled.

He leaned over and whispered in her ear: "I've got something for you. Something long and hard and pretty."

There was a long pause, then he said sharply: "This!"

He jerked a fist in front of her face; a knife was clutched in that fist.

"Not what you wanted, huh?" Brian said.

Then the knife was gone, and Brian came around and grabbed her, pushed her face down across the table. He pulled her arm out beside her, and she heard a thunking sound.

This was followed by pain.

She twisted her face to see. He had cut off her index finger at the knuckle with one swift chop. He leaned down to look at her face. He had her finger in his hand, pretending to pick his teeth with her fingernail.

She screamed and the scream tapered off to a sob. She passed out. Unfortunately, only for a moment.

When she hazed into awareness, Brian had her middle finger positioned on the table.

Stone was helping him by holding her wrist.

Brian leaned his face down to hers again. Her finger was between his teeth, being rolled about in his mouth like a tycoon with a cigar.

"Quick now," Clyde's voice said, "let's hear what you have to say about your sweetheart."

The moon hit Brian/Clyde's eyes and they were as bright and sharp as the knife he held, and behind those metal-bright eyes something bad moved.

"Cut him," she said. "Don't hurt me anymore. Cut him!"

Brian smiled. "Take his pants down," he said to Loony. "Wake him up."

"Yeah, Clyde . . . Brian, whatever the hell," Loony said.

Stone and Loony rolled Jimmy over and unfastened his pants, pulled them down to his knees.

Loony took hold of Jimmy's feet and Stone settled at his head, used the palm of his hand to slap him awake, slow and easy, building rhythm.

"Get his underwear down," Brian said, but it was still Clyde's voice.

"By the Blessed Virgin," Angela said, and she began to sob.

Brian stared at her. He hardly looked like himself. His face appeared harder, thicker, darker, the brows looked lower. "There's still time, spick." He showed her the knife. Her blood still dripped from it. "You or him, baby?"

"Him," she said softly, and put her face against the table.

Jimmy was awake now, and aware of what was about to happen. "For God's sake, no.

Don't do this, Brian. Please, I'm begging you."

Brian, who looked and walked even more like Clyde now, moved around Loony and stepped between Jimmy's legs.

"God, don't. God, please don't." Then he abruptly began praying. "Our Father, who art in heaven . . . ?"

Brian reached down, clutched with his left hand, and the knife in his right flashed briefly in the moonlight.

SIXTEEN

They heard Jimmy's screams, followed by those of a girl, and though they did not understand them, they felt them to be an echo of their future.

"Monty . . ." Becky began, but if there had been a thought behind the opening, it had died at birth.

"Heat some water," Monty said.

Becky looked up from the chair where she was sitting; she was clutching the axe and there was a sunburst of blood on her forehead, a few rubies of it beneath her nose.

"Heat some water," Monty repeated.

"A little coffee, I suppose?" Her voice rode the line between hysteria and sarcasm.