Rot (8 page)

Kyle stretched out full length on the bed in his room in Uncle Bob’s farmhouse. He lay on his back with his hands clasped behind his head. He grinned at the ceiling, breathing deeply and feeling free. He could finally relax and savor this as his last night in Bischoff. Tomorrow he was outta here like a shot.

His red nylon roll bag was packed and buckled and propped up next to the door ready to go. The little radio beside the bed was tuned softly to an Appleton station that played Top 40s. This time tomorrow he would be breathing California air. Memories of Wisconsin, the Gerstner brothers, Dorando the Gypsy, and Marianne — especially Marianne — would fade. Life was good again.

A staccato knock interrupted his reverie. The door opened and his cousin stepped into the room without waiting for an invitation.

Kyle sat up on the bed. “Carney, what’s — ”

“Get up.”

Kyle stared, his mouth open.

“I want to talk to you.” Carney strode to the side of the bed and snapped off the radio with an angry twist of his wrist.

“What about?”

“Marianne.”

Warning bells clanged. Kyle swung his feet to the floor and stood up to face his cousin.

“What about her?”

“Something’s wrong with her. Something serious.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to tell me you didn’t see it?”

Kyle answered cautiously. “She did seem to be coming down with something.”

“What did you do to her? What did you do
with
her?”

“Do?”

“Saturday night. You went out together. I know that.”

“We went to a dance over at, what’s the town, Elkhorn City. That’s all. No big deal. We talked a lot about you.”

“You saw her again after that.”

“Just when she came over here to see Uncle Bob.”

“Don’t shit me, Kyle.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She said you … you slept together.”

“Hey, it wasn’t exactly that way, Carney. I mean it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t plan it.”

“Just happened, huh? Swept away by emotion. Bigger than both of you.”

Kyle spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “What can I say?”
What if I told you what really happened? How she damn near dragged me out to the tool shed, pulled off my pants and sat on my dick. What if I told you how gross and disgusting it was?

Carney hit him in the side of the face. It was a slow, clumsy punch, and Kyle saw it coming all the way. He moved his head just enough to rob the blow of its force, but not to get out of the way entirely. Carney stood ready to fight, but Kyle made no move to defend himself.

“Goddammit, why don’t you hit back?”

“You deserved a shot at me.”

Carney wound up as though to hit him again, but dropped his arm and let his shoulders slump. “I was going to marry her.
Marry her
, for Chrissake.”

“Carney, I — ”

“Shut up. It’s not just that you slept with her. I guess you weren’t the only one. Hell, I didn’t ask her to join a convent. I went away, and I wasn’t any saint either. I could live with that. But the way she looks … the way she talks. And God, the smell in her room. There’s something really wrong with her. I don’t know her any more. I don’t
want
to know her.”

Kyle opened his mouth, shut it again.

“I thought I had my whole life planned out,” Carney went on, talking more to himself than to his cousin. “After I got out of the army Marianne and I would get married. We’d take a long honeymoon, come back, live here, maybe build an addition to the house. Eventually I’d take over the farm from Dad. Now, with Dad the way he is and Marianne … Oh, damn, damn, damn.”

Carney’s eyes filled with tears. He spun away and flung himself out the door, slamming it hard behind him.

Kyle sat back down at the bed and stared at the door. All the good feeling was gone. He would have liked to go after his cousin, say something to ease the pain. But there were no words. There would be no comfort for Carney, not for a while. And, Kyle now saw, not for him either.

He stripped to his skivvies and got into bed. The sheets were cool and crisp, washed and ironed that morning by Mrs. Simms. The quilt kept him warm and cozy, the open window admitted the fresh night air and the lulling song of the tree frogs.

He closed his eyes, but there was to be no sleep for Kyle on his last night in Wisconsin. Whenever he started to drift off disturbing images floated before him.

Marianne as she had been — young, pretty, smiling, clean.

Fabian Gerstner with his sneering mouth and piggy little eyes. And his face contorted in pain as it must have looked when the screwdriver blade punctured his belly.

Dorando the Gypsy.
“I owe you a favor. Tell me what you would have.”
And later,
“Do you truly want this?”

And Marianne as she was now — disheveled, dirty, leering, corrupt. Marianne rotting away little by little.

He had been so sure of his priorities that Saturday night, standing in the cold rain, looking down at the dead girl. He had not a doubt that what he wanted most in all the world was to bring her back to life. God, if he could have that moment back, the one tiny moment out of all his life, what a different answer he would give the Gypsy.

But there was no going back. No reversing the tape of his life to erase a mistake. The best he could do was move on, go away, forget, and get on with his life. He tried to think of other things: the surf at Zuma Beach, a plump, dripping beef burrito, college in the fall. No good, the ugly images kept returning.

Dawn came at last, gray and unpromising. Kyle watched the rectangle of his window slowly lighten. He heard the night sounds of crickets and frogs fade and give way to the crow of roosters, the chirp of early birds, the bark of a dog answered by another far away.

He got out of bed, dressed, walked quietly along the hall to the bathroom. He washed and brushed his teeth, not bothering to shave, and went back to his room. He made the bed as well as he could. Mrs. Simms would surely strip it down and wash the sheets, but he wanted to leave it looking neat.

Finally he sat down at the table and penned a short note to Uncle Bob. He thanked him for the hospitality, promised to send what he still owed for repairs to the Plymouth. He apologized for not staying to say goodbye in person.

He would have liked to leave a note for Carney too, but just as last night when they were face to face, there were no words for his cousin. It was too bad, but Carney was going to have to deal with the situation his own way.

He shouldered the roll bag and walked quietly down the hall and out the front door. He eased the door shut and started across the lawn toward the dirt road leading to the highway.

Fritz came nosing out of his doghouse with a little
whuff
. He recognized Kyle and came wagging over to him.

Kyle hunkered down and scratched the collie behind the ear where he liked it. “You’re one guy I’m gonna miss. Take care of your master. He’s going to need it.”

He rose then and walked away, not looking back. The dog followed him part of the way across the lawn. Then, when he saw Kyle was heading for the highway, he returned to the doghouse, lay down, and watched him go.

The sky was gunmetal gray. A fine mist hung in the air. Kyle pulled the windbreaker tight at his throat and strode down the dirt roadway to the blacktop. There he took up a position beside the Reuthman mailbox and waited for a ride headed into Bischoff.

Two cars driven by women, and a milk truck passed him. When someone finally stopped it took Kyle a moment to recognize the beatup camper. When he did, he hesitated. The door opened and a dark familiar face looked down at him. The black eyes of Dorando the Gypsy burned into his.

“Do you want a ride or don’t you?”

“I’m just going into Bischoff. To the bus station.”

“Get in.”

He jammed the camper into gear and they lurched forward. Kyle perched uncomfortably, leaning forward in the passenger seat.

“You’re leaving town.”

“That’s right.” Kyle turned and studied the man’s profile below the brim of his battered felt hat. Dorando had a high forehead, hawk nose, and a long, sharp chin. “How do you happen to be driving along here at this particular time. It’s too much to be a coincidence.”

“It is no coincidence. I feel that my debt to you is not fully paid.”

“Oh, yes, it is. I don’t know who you are, or what you are, but you did exactly what I asked. Don’t do me any more favors. Please.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t suppose you could take me back to that night for another chance?”

“There are no second chances,” said the Gypsy in an eerie echo of Kyle’s own thoughts of the night before. “If there is another way I can help you …”

“No thanks,” Kyle said. “Last time you helped me into the worst thing that ever happened in my life. I’ll handle it myself from here on.”

“As you wish.”

The camper rattled on into the town of Bischoff with no more conversation between the two men. When Dorando stopped and let Kyle off in front of the Rexall store and bus depot, they exchanged a nod, but no goodbyes. It was with a feeling of a weight lifting from his shoulders that Kyle watched the camper disappear around the bend in Main Street at the far end of town.

The morning sidewalks of Bischoff were deserted. An occasional car rolled by, the riders casting a curious look at the young man standing alone in front of the bus depot. Kyle ignored them and settled down on the wooden bench to wait for the Greyhound. It was not due for more than two hours, but he would rather wait here with his own thoughts than force conversation back at the farm with his uncle, his cousin, and Mrs. Simms.

A little after eight o’clock Mr. Avery’s Buick rolled up in front of the New Emporium. Frank Avery hesitated as he got out, and looked across the street. For a moment Kyle thought he was going to come over. Then he appeared to think better of it, crossed the sidewalk to the New Emporium, unlocked the door, and went in.

The sun began to push through the heavy overcast just as the Greyhound rumbled into view around the bend in Main Street. Kyle saw it as a providential sign. He climbed gratefully aboard, stowed his roll in the overhead rack, and settled into a seat. He smiled at his seatmate, a thin-lipped lady who sniffed once, then ignored him.

The doors flapped shut, the diesel engine growled, and the bus pulled away up Main Street. Kyle watched the small cluster of buildings that was Bischoff, Wisconsin, flow past the window and recede into the distance, and into the past.

• • •

The route taken by the Greyhound through Elkhorn City did not pass Zenith Mobile Home Park. If it had, the passengers would have seen an unusual amount of activity for this hour of the morning. The residents were gathered outside their trailers, talking in low, excited voices. At the back of the park a blue and white Sheriff’s car and an ambulance from the County Hospital, both with emergency lights flashing, were parked in front of the rusting trailer that had been occupied by two of the Gerstner brothers.

“How is it nobody found him till today?” the sheriff asked. “He’s gotta be dead a good twenty-four hours.”

A deputy shrugged. “Nobody much came around. Wasn’t for the smell, them kids wouldn’t of peeked in either.”

Jesse Gerstner’s tongue protruded from his mouth like the head of a dead lizard. His face was bloated, the color of eggplant.

“Two murders,” the sheriff said, shaking his head sadly. “We ain’t had one around here in ten years, not counting Indians. The only good thing is the election was last year.”

He rose from his examination of the corpse and stepped outside the trailer for some fresh air.

• • •

Unaware of the police activity, Kyle Brubaker relaxed and leaned back in the upholstered seat of the Greyhound. He let the farm country flow past his window and enjoyed the feeling of a prisoner released as the miles stretched out between him and the horror of the recent past.

The sky above all of Southern California was luminescent pearl gray. The temperature at the beach was in the middle 60s. A brisk offshore breeze raised choppy little waves — nothing that would carry a board. Maybe the sun would burn through sometime this afternoon, maybe not. Kyle Brubaker did not care. He was home.

It was not unusual weather for California in late June. The water was too cold for casual bathers, and all but the most dedicated body surfers stayed away. It was not the kind of a day to attract flatlanders to the beach. For Kyle Brubaker it was perfect.

The short stretch of beach Kyle had chosen lay between two rocky outcroppings between Malibu and Point Dume. It was secluded, hidden from the highway, and used by a hardy few surfers, who were absent today due to the lack of waves. The privacy was the reason Kyle chose it. Since his return a week ago from Wisconsin, this was his first real chance to be alone.

He lay full length on his back on a purple and gold beach towel with a Los Angeles Lakers logo in the center. The corners of the towel were clipped to foot-long spikes driven into the sand to hold it in place against the wind. Kyle’s eyes were half-closed, his mind drifting overhead with the seagulls in their aerial ballet. On his little Sony portable the oldies station played Stones hits of the 60s. Life was good again. At last.

It had not troubled him that today all his friends seemed to be otherwise occupied. Dean was in summer school trying to bring up his GPA. Elliot was working with his father in the p.r. department at Warners. Brian was in Greece looking at ruins with his parents. For the first time in his life Kyle appreciated solitude. In the past week he had been surrounded by people at the beach, at their pools, at home, at the mall. The old party-till-you-barf scene did not have its former zest.

He could, of course, have brought any one of a dozen girls along today. There were plenty of girls available, and Kyle had never been shy about putting the moves on. But strangely, since his return he had no interest in females. He had even experienced a feeling of aversion. It worried him a little, but he supposed it was to be expected, considering his recent experiences. He was sure it would soon wear off.

He laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the overcast. He would have preferred a bright sun, but no complaints. He would gladly take whatever he got, as long as it was far from the state of Wisconsin. And he could still build his tan through a thin cloud cover like this one. That was something the flatlanders never grasped, resulting in painful burns.

For a time he watched the gulls sail gracefully overhead, scouting for edible garbage along the beach. Ironic that such lovely birds should have such dirty habits. For some reason the idea disturbed him.

He shifted to thoughts of his plans for the evening. There was a party at a friend of a friend’s place in Venice. It was an everybody-come, anything-goes blast in a house along one of the old canals. Kyle was not crazy about Venice with its nouveau hippies, mimes, panhandlers, street gangs, and druggies. But that’s where the party would be tonight, so that’s where he would go. He hoped this one would be something more than the shallow time wasters he had attended since his return. Nobody seemed to have as much fun as they used to. The old zing and spontaneity were missing. The thought nagged at him that maybe the change was not in the parties, but in himself.

Next week he would look for a summer job. Definitely. He knew Dad would get him something in a minute on Spring Street in one of the financial institutions. But that was not what he wanted. He was not ready yet for the three-piece suit and the attaché case. Time enough for that in a year when he had his degree.

What he wanted was something like for the Park Department, up in Yosemite, maybe. He could work outdoors and maintain his tan, and there was a great opportunity to meet girls. Yes, that was it, he decided, a job that would get him out of the house and away from the old crowd for a while. That should rekindle his fire and, hopefully, revive his interest in sex.

Any thought of sex, no matter how oblique, returned him in spirit to Bischoff and to Marianne Avery. He could picture how fresh and pretty and sexy she was on their first meeting. But as soon as he felt a stirring in his crotch the picture began to blur and change to the Marianne he had seen in the tool shed on Uncle Bob’s farm. Instant detumescence.

He had some control over his thoughts, but the nights were bad. Dreams had no internal editor, and they reminded him of things he wanted desperately to forget. Main Street in Bischoff kept reappearing like some surreal ghost town. Dave & Emma’s Tavern, the Rexall store, Happy Otto’s, the New Emporium, The Idle Hour, the Shawano County Bank, and the rest of the drab, lost buildings raced past as his dream self flew down the street.

Then there was the carnival at Elkhorn City transformed into a hell of clashing fun rides and discordant calliope music. He would see in his sleep the dark figure of the All-Seeing Dorando, and the porcine face of Fabian Gerstner. From Gerstner’s bare stomach, spouting blood, grew the handle of the screwdriver. And gripping the handle, Kyle’s own hand. A segue to himself in prison with the three Gerstner brothers, naked, huge phalluses erect, advancing on him.

And always lurking somewhere at the edges of his dreams was Marianne. More than once since coming home he had awakened shouting, sweat soaking his pajamas and the smell of rot in his nostrils.

Kyle rolled over onto his stomach. As he did so he saw coming carefully down the trail from the road — a thick, ungainly figure, dressed in heavy clothing unfit for the beach.
Oh, no, not company. Not today
.

As the figure reached the bottom of the trail and started awkwardly toward him over the sand he saw it was the layers of clothing that gave the illusion of mass. The head was hunched in the collar of a ragged, buttoned-up topcoat. Under the coat there must have been several sweaters — a getup that should have been far too warm even for a cool, breezy day at the beach. The dark, heavy skirt hung down around the clunky shoes.

Bag lady
, Kyle thought. Santa Monica’s liberal attitude toward transients had attracted more than the city’s share of wackos, winos, and bums to the beach area. These were collectively referred to in the press as “the homeless.”

He rolled onto his side facing away from the approaching woman. Maybe she would get the message and leave him alone. He did not want to be bothered with some old drunk hustling him for a handout.

The clumsy shoes scuffed to a stop in the sand at the edge of his towel.

“Hello, lover.”

The ragged growly voice sent icewater surging through his veins into his brain. Slowly, hating the thought of what he might see, he rolled over.

“Miss me?”

“Marianne?”

She spread the collars of the topcoat and let him have a good look at her face. The skin was an ugly yellow-gray. Her eyes were deeply sunken, circled by sooty shadows. The flesh caved in under her cheekbones and hung loose at her jawline. The strawberry red hair was a greasy clump at the back of her neck. The smile she gave him made his stomach lurch.

“Glad to see me?”

“How … how did you get here? How did you find me?”

“Never mind. We’re together again, Kyle, that’s all that matters.”

“No.” His protest was weak, despairing.

“I’ll always find you, wherever you go. We’re locked together. You and me. Forever. You know why.”

“No!” he cried, more forcefully this time. His mind rejected all that was implied in her words.

“Yes!” The smile vanished as she barked out the single syllable. Yellow mucous trickled from one of her nostrils. She let it slide down her upper lip with no attempt to wipe it away.

Kyle scrambled to his feet. “What do you want from me?”

“I need to be with you, Kyle. You’re the only one I
can
be with.” She held her knuckly hands to the deteriorating face. “I couldn’t stay at home. Not looking like this. So I’ve come to you.”

His mind raced ahead. What to do with this ghastly apparition? He perversely saw himself taking her home to his parents.
Mom, Dad, I’d like you to meet Marianne, a girl I knew back in Wisconsin. You understand, she was a lot prettier then
.

“You can’t stay here,” he blurted.

“I have to, don’t you see? You’re responsible for me, for the way I am. You did this to me, Kyle, and now I belong to you.”

The words were spoken without anger, but with a cold deadly finality that made Kyle feel for a moment as though he would pass out.

“It’s crazy,” he said. “It’s … wrong!”

“You’re a little late in deciding what’s right and what’s wrong. You made your decision that night on the road between Bischoff and Elkhorn City. You made your decision and now you’re stuck with it. Stuck with me. Now you’re going to help me.”

“Help you? What do you mean?”

“I have one more job to do.”

“What?”
Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know
.

“Lloyd Gerstner.”

“Lloyd?”

“You remember him. He’s the oldest and biggest of the three brothers. And he’s the last.”

“What do you mean last?”

She moved closer to him and he got a nose full of putrefying flesh as the sea breeze shifted momentarily. “Didn’t you hear about Jesse? No, I guess you didn’t. You left town too fast. It seems Jesse got his neck caught in one of his own belts and choked to death.”

“You … killed him?”

“Yes. It took a long time, Kyle, and I enjoyed every minute.”

He could only stare at her, his ears ringing with her words.

“So now there’s only Lloyd to pay for what they did to me that night. He did the most, so I want him the worst. I can’t move around too well by myself. You can imagine why. So I need you to take me to him.”

“And what then?”

“Then I will be finished. The bastards will be punished for what they did.” She paused, seeming to enjoy his discomfiture. “Yes, Kyle, then I will be through with you too. You can go back to being whatever it is you were before.”

“You said you’d never leave me alone.”

She shrugged.

“And I’m supposed to believe you now?”

“I don’t see that you have any choice.”

Kyle turned away from her and looked out over the gray ocean where seabirds swooped and dived and the breeze scooped little sprays of foam from the whitecaps.

He considered his options. Refuse and this … this thing that had been a girl would cleave to him like a rotting, stinking tumor. He would never be free of her, never live normally again. Do what she asked, and he would again be accomplice to a murder. Even then she might never leave him alone. He could hope that her rate of deterioration might one day cause her to crumble into inanimate dust, but who could say? She might last forever getting progressively more hideous.

He gazed far out over the water to where the gray Pacific blended into the gray sky. There was one more possibility. Two months ago he could never have considered such an act, but he was not the same person he was two months ago.

He stooped and unclipped the corners of his towel from the anchors. As Marianne turned away for a moment toward the seat he drew one of the steel-pointed spikes from the sand and hefted it. He half-hoped she would turn back and stop him, but she continued to gaze outward. He raised the sand spike high like a dagger and plunged it downward. The point caught Marianne at the crown of her head, just above the knot of grubby red hair. There was a muffled crunch, and the spike sank in easily to the depth of Kyle’s fist. It was like stabbing a honey-dew melon.

Marianne did not cry out. Her head bobbed forward under the force of the blow. Kyle snatched his hand away from the shaft of the spike as she started to turn.

“That was stupid,” she said. “You can’t kill somebody who’s already dead.” She reached back and with some tugging and twisting, drew out the sand spike. It made a soft sucking noise. She dropped it in the sand and reached again to the back of her head. Her fingers came away sticky with dark viscous fluid. “Now you’ll have to get me a hat,” she said.

Kyle hugged his bare shoulders and shivered in icy despair. “What is it you want me to do?”

“Take me to Lloyd Gerstner. I’ll do the rest.”

“You want me to go back to Elkhorn City?”

“He isn’t there any more.”

“Then how — ?”

“I have an address for him in Chicago.” She dug into her grubby bag and brought out a crumpled piece of paper. Kyle read a street number on Judson Street, Chicago, written in soft lead pencil.

“I need you to take me there.”

“And then?”

“I told you. I’ll do what I have to do.”

“What about me?”

She put on a grotesque parody of a coquettish smile. “We’ll talk about that when it’s done. One thing, lover …”

“What?”

She turned slowly, and tilted her head back so he could see the round dark hole in her head. A sharp fragment of yellow skull stabbed through the scalp. Black liquid like used motor oil seeped into her hair.

“Don’t do this again.”

Kyle swallowed the sour bile that rose in his throat. She had him. This unnatural creature held his fate in her rotting fingers. He could only surrender and cling to a desperate hope that by performing this last hateful task he might somehow win his freedom.

“I won’t,” he said.

From up the beach two long-legged girls waded around the rocky promontory and headed toward them. They wore high-cut swimsuits in neon colors, one green, one orange. Their laughter was carried before them on the breeze. Kyle grasped Marianne by the arm, feeling the spongy flesh through the sleeve of the raincoat and the thickness of several sweaters.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get started.”

She stumbled awkwardly through the sand, and together they picked their way up the trail to the road.

“I knew you would help me, lover. Like I said, we’re locked together.”