Vile Blood (16 page)

He lowered the weapon and allowed the giant to find his feet. He and Sally exchanged a few more words and Gene ended the call.

Drum was prowling the room, stepping over the bodies, clutching at his wounded shoulder, redness
dripping
through his fingers. He found a handkerchief in his pocket and shoved it under his shirt to stop the blood.

“We have to torch the place,” Drum said.

Gene nodded.

Drum toed the Glock lying beside the dead man. “That weapon licensed to you?”

“Yes.”

The giant shook his head. “Jesus Christ, boy, what you usin’ for brains? You never heard of a throwdown? I would advise you to retrieve the rounds and the spent casings.”

Gene found two cartridge cases and pocketed then. One of the rounds Drum had pumped into the man in the suit had emerged from the back of his head and was embedded in the drywall in the midst of a pointillist display of blood and brain. Gene clicked open the small knife on his keychain, dug out the slug and dumped it in his pocket with the shell casings. Of the other round there was no sign.

Gene inspected the dead man’s head. He’d seen enough gunshot trauma to understand that bullets did crazy things when introduced into human craniums: they bounced off bones, caromed like trick cyclists around the brain pan, and often came to rest deep inside the lobes of the brain.

“Take the head,” Drum said.

Gene looked up at him. “What?”

“Take the head. You can’t rely on the fire destroyin’ ballistic evidence and we don’t have the time for no post-mortem. Anyway, leaving him headless’ll make it look like cartel business.”

Gene couldn’t fault Drum’s logic but he doubted whether he had the stomach for the task.

Reading his mind, the
sheriff
said, “You too
weak bellied?”
Gene said nothing. “My wing's broke, I ain’t gonna be no use to you.”

Gene retrieved the wood saw from where it lay on the floor, still stained with Drum’s blood. He took it across to the man in the suit and laid it beside the body.

“Flip him onto his front,” Drum said, as if he had experience in these matters.

Gene rolled the man over and lifted the saw. He rested it high up on the man’s neck, two vertebrae at the top of his spine providing a cradle to guide the blade. He shut his eyes, a sour taste in his mouth. Then he opened his eyes and started sawing.

There was very little blood, and the blade was sharp and within a minute he was deep into flesh and sinew. The blade snagged on a spur of
bone
, stuttering to a halt, bile rising in Gene’s throat as the head lay at an impossible angle, the wound in the neck gaping on fat and meat and cartilage. Gene having to summon all his willpower—using Timmy’s face as a
totem—
to carrying on sawing.

Gene felt the saw bite into wood and the man’s head separated from his body and smacked the planks.

Gene stood, fighting a moment’s nausea and left the room, finding his way through to a kitchen that was spotless but for a couple of empty beer bottles on the counter. A trash can stood near the door and he pushed down on the swing lid, freed the black plastic liner and went back through to the other room. Gene dumped the head in the trash bag and knotted the top.

He left the bag by the door on his way through to the garage where the Mercedes SUV stood. It was unlocked, with the keys in the ignition. Gene opened the gas flap and unscrewed the cap.

A garden hose was coiled on one wall, beside a work bench. A set of tools hung in order of size above the bench. One saw was missing. Gene lifted a small hacksaw and cut a length of hose about two feet long. He found an empty paint can under the desk and walked it over to the Mercedes. He fed the hose into the SUV’s gas tank and blew into the end to create a vacuum, coughed when he caught the taste of gasoline, and dangled the hose in the can, listening for the trickle of fuel. When the can was full he took it and headed for the house, pooling a trail of gasoline behind him.

Back in the room he found Drum slumped in a chair, gripping his shoulder, the skin of his face gray and wet.

Gene doused each of the bodies with gasoline, splashed the drapes and walked a trail to the door where the black bag waited. Drum followed him. They listened a while, but heard nothing but the rattle of a helicopter and the distant wash of the freeway.

Gene opened the door and Drum handed him a box of matches. Gene knelt and struck a match, seeing the purple lick of flame as the gasoline ignited and rushed off into the house.

He and Drum walked down to the Town Car, its chrome kicking back the hard glare of the afternoon light. Gene popped the trunk, stowed the head and drove away just as the Mercedes in the garage blew. He resisted the impulse to leadfoot it, keeping well within the speed limit.

They had skirted the city and found themselves on the road home, heat haze warping the blacktop that lay flat and straight before them.

Drum, still applying pressure to his wound, sat up as the sun flared off tin roofs.  “Dump the head before we get to that town. Then you gonna have to get me some medical supplies.”

Gene checked the mirrors. The road stretched empty in both directions. He clicked on the flasher and took the Town Car onto the gravel shoulder. He stood up out of the car, stretched and went to the rear and retrieved the head. The garbage bag had torn in a couple of places and flies had found their way to the pink skin beneath.

A rig rumbled by and Gene leaned against the car, waiting. When the semi swam into the distance Gene took the bag and walked away from the car. A barbed wire fence was strung from rotting wooden posts and he stepped over it easily. He found a gulley and dumped the head. Rolled a few rocks onto it until the plastic was invisible. He threw the slug and the cartridge casings far into the sand and went back to the car, which was thick with the stench of Drum.

“Go into the town,” Drum said, “and find a drugstore.”

“You need a doctor.”

“There’s a
sawbones’ll
fix me when I get home. For now we’ll just patch me up.”

Gene found the drugstore in the sad main drag, most of the buildings boarded up. He parked the Lincoln a block away and walked down to the pharmacy, a bell gargling as he entered. An old man reading a newspaper stared at him from behind the counter.

“Yessir?”

Drum had been surprisingly detailed in his instructions: latex gloves, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a pair of scissors, gauze, bandage and surgical tape.

Gene relayed his requests to the old man who nodded and shuffled off, his carpet slippers cut away at the big toes, exposing bunions the size of cooking apples. The druggist rooted through dusty shelves and came back with the small pile of goods.

“Some fellah gone and done himself an injury?”

“My dog,” Gene said. “Got tangled up in barbed wire.”

“They’ll do that.”

The old man made a sum on a scrap of brown paper and gave Gene the total. Gene paid him and went back out to the car. Nothing stirred in the main road.

Gene started the Lincoln. “And now?”

“There’s a motel other side of town,” Drum said. “I once courted a widder lady from these parts.” The giant wheezed a chuckle, which got him coughing.

Gene found the motel, a tumble of buildings built around a scorched forecourt.

“I’ll be needing some liquor,” Drum said.

Gene left him in the car and went to the office. A
faded
hand lettered sign saying
VANCANCIES
was taped to the window.

A jaundiced man of indeterminate age watched a black and white television so old and unsteady that its strobing tube could have induced epilepsy. He looked up at Gene.

“I need a room for a couple of hours,” Gene said.

“Couple hours or the night, thirty bucks.” The man slid a broken-spined register toward Gene. “I’ll need some identification.”

Gene put a fifty down on the register. “Let’s skip the formalities, shall we?”

The man shrugged and the fifty disappeared. He gave Gene a key with a smudged and crumpled paper tag tied to it with brown string.

“Room Seventeen,” he said.

“You wouldn’t have a bottle of whiskey would you?”

“There’s a fifth of Jack I could let you have.”

“That’ll do.”

“Be another thirty.”

Gene paid him and took the bottle and went back out to the car, handed Drum the bourbon and drove down to the room which faced away from the highway toward a low range of soiled-looking hills.

Gene unlocked the room and Drum heaved himself from the car, stumbling as he crossed the porch and went through to the bathroom.

“I’m going to need your help, boy.”

Gene was about to refuse, but he thought of Timmy and followed the big man into the cramped bathroom that stank of old pipes.

“Cut away my shirt,” Drum said, sitting on the side of the stained tub.

Gene pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and did as he was told. The wound in Drum’s shoulder still oozed blood but the flow had slowed to a trickle. Drum uncorked the booze and drank from the bottle, speaking round the neck as he gave
instructions.

Gene cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide, the sheriff neighing like a gelded horse, throwing back nearly half the Jack in one swallow, liquid dripping down his chin. Gene applied gauze and taped bandage over it.  He fashioned a sling for Drum’s left arm. When they were done, he cleaned away the blood and dumped the mess in a plastic bag that he took through to the room where Drum lay on the bed, sucking on what was left of the bottle.

“What now?” Gene asked.

Drum found a remote and clicked the TV to life. “I need to rest up for a while,” he said, voice thick with pain and liquor. “We’ll move out at sunset.” He surfed until he found a porn channel and sighed. “Can’t say why exactly, but the sight of barenaked ladies always soothes me.”

Gene sat down on the single chair by the window and tuned out the grunts and moans from the TV. He called Sally Heck to check on Timmy, reassured by the woman’s good-natured chatter, and pocketed his phone and stared through the lace curtain at the distant hills, waiting for dark.

34

As Aunt Sally led Timmy past the half-open door to the dead baby’s room he saw just a flash of the infant lying in the crib, pedaling its little naked feet, hands flapping. He could hear it too, screaming like a siren.

He stopped in his tracks with his eyes squeezed closed and Aunt Sally said, “What’s wrong, Timmy?”

“Nothin’,” he said and let her lead him into the kitchen, saying they were going to have
fun, fun, fun
, Timmy making good and sure he sat in a chair facing away from the corridor, trying to ignore the cold fingers on his backbone, shutting down the Creepshow by pretending to listen to Aunt Sally chattering on as she made cookies.

She wasn’t his aunt, of course, just like Uncle Bobby wasn’t his uncle—only a man who worked with his daddy. But whenever Timmy saw them, at the sheriff’s office or sometimes at a fair (even though his daddy didn’t much like going out) they were real friendly, Aunt Sally talking too loud and hunkering down and telling him how big he was getting, how much he favored his daddy.

She always touched him a lot, kissing him on the face and hugging him, and she smelled of old sweat under the lavender
scent
that made him sneeze.

He hadn’t wanted to come here today, the first time he’d ever been in this house, but Daddy said he had to go to the city.

“Why can’t I stay with Skye?” Timmy had asked.

“Skye’s busy.”

“Busy doin’ what?”

His father had got hard faced and real quiet and Timmy knew better than to ask more questions. So Daddy had dropped him here, Uncle Bobby standing on the porch in his uniform, shaking his hand and taking him inside to Aunt Sally who got down and planted him full of kisses like she was some big old slobbery dog.

Uncle Bobby drove away in his cruiser and now it was just the two of them,
Aunt Sally
setting down a big glass of Kool-Aid before Timmy and though he was powerful thirsty he didn’t take but a sip, knowing if he drank more he’d have to pee. And that would mean walking down that corridor past the dead baby’s room.

No sir.

Aunt Sally gave him cookies—they tasted dry and bitter and stuck in his throat and he had to wash them down with Kool-Aid, even though he didn’t want to.

They sat at the kitchen table, Aunt Sally jawing away, Timmy using a pretend remote on her, muting her mouth so her lips moved soundlessly, looking over her head at the big clock with the white face and black hands that seemed to be stuck in treacle it moved so slow, but somehow hours went by.

He tried to use the remote on his bladder, too, but he could feel it growing, swelling up against his jeans and he knew he was going to have to go.

Soon.

And it scared him real bad, cause he knew the Creepshow was gonna be waiting.

 “Timmy? Are you okay?” Aunt Sally asked, staring at him.

“Yes. I just need the bathroom,” he said, and it was real urgent now, a few drops already escaping into his skivvies.

“Go down past Baby Laura’s nursery and you’ll find the restroom,” Aunt Sally said, feeding a cookie into her mouth and crunching down on it, talking as if the baby was still alive.

Timmy knew she wasn’t, of course. Had not long ago heard his daddy and Skye talking about how Uncle
Bobby
and Aunt Sally had had but one baby that’d died from what they called crib death ten years ago, and that Aunt Sally couldn’t have no more after that, no matter how hard they tried.

“Left her broken,” his Daddy had said. “Just broken.”

 Timmy slid from the table and stood in the corridor for the longest time. It was gloomy now, the sun near set, and there were no lights on. Then his aching bladder got the better of him and he started down toward the bathroom, trying to keep his eyes away from the door that stood ajar, but seeing a wooden crib and some pink soft toys and fluffy things hanging from the ceiling.

And as he got closer he heard that crying again and the Creepshow took hold of him, and he couldn’t fight it as it pulled him toward the door and he found himself pushing it wide and stepping into the room.