Something Bad (3 page)

John stood up and stomped to the edge of the porch, then turned to face Press. He bobbed his head downward and clenched his fists.

Gabe’s mind accelerated. What was Horace up to? Another of his schemes to frustrate his wife? He shook his head and scanned the group. “Is Miz Murtry doing anything about it?”

“No.” John said. He took a step closer to the bench and positioned himself between Press and Gabe.

The roar of an engine increased in pitch at a rate that suggested an unusual speed for Main Street, and all four men turned their heads to watch a U-Haul whip by. It stirred up a small cloud of the same dust that had been stirring and settling in the town of Boyston for decades.

Billy started to say something but John held his hand up in front of Billy’s face in a stop motion. “Go get Mac,” John said.

No one moved.

The U-Haul turned left at the four-way without stopping, circled behind the church, and skidded to a stop in front of the rectory. All four men turned to face the truck, without a word.

The doors of the U-Haul opened to reveal two of the most mismatched individuals imaginable, even for these parts. What should have been a cacophony of speculative “betchas” was replaced with total silence. Gabe’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two men.

The driver was about the largest human Gabe had ever seen. His arms were as big as the thighs of a normal man, and they were decorated with a series of tattoos that stretched from shoulder to elbow, showing more faded blue decoration than normal skin tone. He wasn’t a young man and his barrel chest gave way to a midsection that was well on its way to dominating his shadow at high noon. He arched his back and stretched his arms skyward, turning his head toward the general store. To Gabe, his nose appeared to be missing its cartilage, like he had been a sparring partner for a series of heavyweight contenders over the past couple of decades. His dirty white tank top was tucked into faded jeans that fell significantly short of the top of well-worn steel-toed work boots.

The giant lumbered to the back of the truck, bringing his passenger into unobstructed view. Only about five feet tall, Gabe thought. Probably weighs in double figures fully clothed.

The man was dressed in a dark gray, three-piece suit over a silver turtleneck that seemed to reflect the sun, even when he was standing in the shade. In contrast to the lumbering walk of the giant, the passenger took small steps that barely placed the heel of one foot ahead of the toe of the other. To Gabe, it looked like he adjusted his gait like he was consciously trying to avoid stepping on sidewalk cracks and concrete spacers.

The passenger ascended the four steps of the rectory porch, bringing both feet to each step before navigating the next. He disappeared through the double doors as the driver raised the sliding door on the back of the truck.

An ache tugged at Gabe’s belly. It was weak, but it was there, and it appeared to be building, rising.

The giant man jockeyed a large wooden crate to the edge of the truck bed. The U-Haul was the smallest one available, and the box took up nearly the entire back of the truck. Its apparent weight made Gabe take a silent wager that it was highly unlikely the two men could lower the box out of the truck, much less carry it up the stairs into the rectory. As the giant inched the box to a tilting balance point part way over the edge of the truck bed, the passenger appeared from the doors of the building.

The giant grunted and strained against the box in a futile effort to lift the protruding edge, and Gabe counted the proceeds of his imaginary bet.

Billy Smyth uttered the only words that came from the general store porch over the next minute or so. “I betcha—” was interrupted by a jerky movement of the small man; his hands clenched into tiny fists, his elbows bent slightly, and his torso curled forward. The box appeared to lighten so the giant could easily lift it out of the truck. It looked like the only problem facing the giant now was the awkwardness of the box’s size.

Gabe bent forward slightly as a stomach cramp shot through to his backbone.

The giant maneuvered the box like it was made of styrofoam, first up onto the sidewalk and then up the rectory steps. The whole time, the small man remained at the top of the steps and kept his wide-eyed gaze on the ungripped end of the box. He turned his whole body rather than his neck as it was moved toward him. The little man walked backwards ahead of the box, through the rectory doors, never changing his unique posture.

“You see that?” Billy said. No one answered.

The beginnings of another contraction grumbled through Gabe’s midsection, so he shifted his weight and took a deep breath. He wanted to go into the store. Tending to his business would dull the cramps, but he couldn’t move. He needed to see what happened next.

John turned to say something, but he spun back around when Billy flicked his eyes back to the rectory. The two strangers emerged from the doors and stopped on the porch. The small man presented the large man with a white envelope, and the giant turned on his heels and jogged to the U-Haul. He sped away like he wanted to put a great deal of distance between him and his employer as quickly as possible.

The little man moved back toward the rectory doors, but suddenly spun around, stiff-necked, to face the general store.

Gabe felt the little man’s eyes burn into his, and his stomach let loose with a powerful pain that nearly doubled him over. Hair raised on his arms. He felt like he was looking through a telescope, with a fix on the man—nothing in the periphery of his vision. His knees went weak. The little man had high-arching eyebrows and a mouth guarded by narrow lips that were straight for most of their length. The corners of his mouth appeared to turn in upward arcs, ninety degrees, giving the mouth a strange grin. But the upward turns didn’t look the same as the lips. His eyes were dark, cold looking, as if there were no irises, only pupils.

A shock of panic hit Gabe from head-to-toe all at once. He wanted to drop on the ground and curl up into a ball. His heart produced an extra beat, then another, and his throat felt thick, full. Lightheadedness darkened his peripheral vision. No way this should be happening here, in his comfort zone.

As quickly as the little man made the long-distance visual acquaintance, he terminated the greeting with a pivot, again with stiff neck, and short-stepped back into the rectory.

Someone spoke, but Gabe didn’t focus on it. His mind was closing down. Something in its deep recesses tried to warn him that the little man was familiar, and evil, but that was as far as it went. Gabe had no active recollection of the man, yet connections were coming, each with a wrong-number hang-up. He resisted the urge to drop to the floor, and hunched slightly to get control of his heart. The words came out of his mouth involuntarily, but loud, interrupting John in mid-sentence.

“Something bad.”

“What?” Billy said.

Gabe blinked three times and focused on the three men. “Huh?”

“You said, ‘Something bad,’“ John said. “You know that man?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Gabe said. “Must have been day dreaming. I have to go now. See you later.” Gabe turned and headed for his pickup.

“Thought you had to do some shopping,” John said.

Gabe didn’t react. A command echoed in his head, its source unknown. “You’ll forget what you saw today if you know what’s good for you.” But who had said it? Did it have to do with the little man in the rectory? Was it a clue to his missing years? He had to find out. Even though his instinct screamed for him to run.

A
BRIGHT STREAM
of crimson light shot through his closed eyelids and heated the pain in his head. Gabe curled tighter, into a ball. He crossed his arms over his head, bringing his hands over his eyes, but the pain wouldn’t go away. It throbbed with his pulse, way too fast. He turned slightly, and the surface gave with his weight. He was in a space that was small, confined—he felt something solid with his feet and with the top of his head. He knew his left side was on some kind of soft floor, and his back against a soft wall. Then, he felt the cold. A shiver started in his back and diverged into two waves; one ran down his legs and the other up his torso. The violence of the first wave pulled his hands away from his eyes and he closed them tight to keep the light from getting through. The pulsing pain in his head crashed like cymbals with the effort. It felt like his head was expanding and contracting with each heartbeat. He turned away from the light.

His right arm hit something hard. Or, was it the left? With his arms crossed and the pain in his head, he had trouble telling. But whatever arm it was, it hit something hard. He pushed his back against the wall and pulled into a tighter ball. Both arms hit. It was solid, immovable, and right in front of his head.

He was always safe when he curled up. He could roll up his mind into a tight ball, just like his body, and let it go black. But now, the light pulled at him, unfolding his mind from its dark cocoon. And the light carried something hard, closing in on his head. He had to do something. He had to get away.

Gabe pushed his hands outward at the hard object, and his legs involuntarily kicked. The force pushed his head against the opposite wall hard, amplifying the pulsing pain. He struck, then grabbed the hard object, and twisted, trying to move it away. It turned slightly with his push.

Light flooded his eyes and his mind let it in. The blurred image showed a horizon, removed from his immediate view by a tall ledge. His focus moved from the light to the ledge, and to a large, round dial with numbers in a circle. Closer in, a large ring projected from the ledge.

Gabe’s mind was slow to put the images together through the pain, but the initial sensation was of familiarity. Friendly familiarity. He shifted his eyes downward toward his feet and a bright beam of orange cut through the horizon directly into his eyes. He cringed, eyes shut, and felt the give of the wall against his head. His unfolding mind was making connections now, and his anticipation turned the pain loose again. He was … in his truck. He was curled up on the seat of his truck.

The connections were now outpacing the pain pulses. He was in his truck. Last night was card night. He was in the front seat of his truck sleeping off the Jack Daniel’s from his bi-weekly card game. Maybe if he drank more frequently the alcohol wouldn’t have such an effect. His stomach growled in agreement. Then, another sensation elbowed its way in. He had to pee.

He reached for the top of the steering wheel and pulled himself up on the seat. The long, angled gearshift poked into his side. He looked down at the floorboard, at the rubber bellows that hid the entry of the gearshift into the floor, and smiled. The original leather casing disintegrated years ago. But two years back, when he was junking an old washing machine, he noticed the rubber bellows sealing the washer’s transmission shaft against the outer water tub. It fit perfectly on the gearbox of his truck and solved his annoyance of seeing daylight through the floorboard.

His smile faded. The stretch of the bellows was severe left, down. “I left it in reverse?” Gabe said out loud. “I always leave it in first.” No wonder it’s poking me, he thought.

He shifted his weight so he could raise his head over the dashboard and supported himself with a straight left arm. He rubbed his right eye, then his left with his right fist, and waited until the blazing afterimages faded. He squinted at the morning, forgetting about his pounding head.

“What the hell?” He fell into a fetal ball on the truck seat so fast the last word came from beneath his arms, which were crossed over his face and head. His knees bumped against the gearshift and the steering wheel brushed his right ear.

It’s a lake, he thought. I’m right on the edge of a lake. He relaxed his body a little. “Which one?” he said out loud.

He pulled himself back up by the steering wheel and squinted to his left, following the bank of the lake off in the distance. His head started to pulse again. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, so tight his knuckles went white, and flicked his gaze to the right. He followed the lakeshore into the distance. Looked left again.

“God damn it.” He collapsed back into the seat, in a ball again, and his body shook with the violence of an electric shock. Eyes wide, he stared at the metallic shine of the clutch pedal. He could feel his heartbeat again, each beat a piercing streak of pain that shot through his head, and his worry came to life. An extra large beat, too soon, then a pause. He felt the tingling of sweat beading on his skin and the drifting feeling of slipping toward darkness. He was about to enter a spinning whirlpool, pulling him into its light-less vortex.

“Come on,” he said out loud. The beat came back, fast. Then, another extra beat. Two, three in a row.

It felt like his heart was in his throat. Then the long pause.

“Come on, damn it.”

He knew what he had to do. He wasn’t having a heart attack. He just had to slow his breathing. Think about something pleasant. Take control. Focus on the clutch. It’s been slipping a little lately. Maybe the cable is going.

The lake pushed the clutch aside.

“Not in the Tri-counties,” he said. “But where?”

Another extra beat.

“Something bad always happens.” He patted his right knee.

Gabe’s mind flew back over the past twenty-five years. That was the boundary of his memory. One recollection was etched deep. It was the one time he had left the Tri-counties. In all that time. One time on a hunting trip, and what happened? Tripped on a log and put out the knee. Gun went off, right into poor old Rumford. One time out of the Tri-counties and I get a limp for life and lose my best hunting dog.

“Something bad,” he said out loud.

The memory slowed his pulse and turned his mind on his predicament.