PROLOGUE
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning
Wilfred Owen
June 3: Slaughter Saturday
Alllll Abbbooaarrrrrd !!!!!
Davie Cavanaugh rubbed his eyes with the backs of his ten-year-old hands. He couldn't believe it. In front of him atop a pair of shiny copper rails sat a life-sized Casey Jones Model-A train engine, complete with a cast-iron cowcatcher and a silver-plated stack that blew real smoke. Hitched to the engine was a long, red passenger car, the words SOUTHERN PACIFIC stenciled in bold, white letters on its side.
Davie blinked again. There was no doubt about it.
It was the Toy Train.
"You gonna come aboard Davie?" a familiar voice whispered in his ear. Davie spun around and was greeted by the smiling, round face of the conductor, Mr. Biggler. A plump, gnome of a man, Mr. Biggler wore his usual conductor's uniform; a pair of purple-spotted coveralls over a white shirt, and a bright yellow conductor's cap that fit snugly atop his round head. Completing the costume was a stick from a red lollipop that jutted from the side of his mouth like a thin, white cigar.
"Mr. Biggler. Is it really the Toy Train?"
The conductor laughed and clapped his thick hands together. "It sure is Davie-boy," he said, lifting his cap and making a broad sweeping gesture toward the engine car. "The Toy Train, just as you remember it." Mr. Biggler handed Davie a red lollipop before dancing a quick jig to the boy's delighted laughter. "All the toys you can imagine are waiting inside for you. The bikes, the baseballs, the cars. And of course, the dollies are there too," he said with a wink.
"I never play with dolls," Davie shot back.
Mr. Biggler hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his coveralls and looked down at the boy. "Is that so? I could have sworn you played with dollies. Perhaps you just don't remember that. Or maybe, I have you confused with some other little boy."
Waving the lollipop in front of him like a wand, Davie politely told the conductor that, while other little boys might like to play with dolls, he most certainly did not.
"I do believe you are right. What ever could I have been thinking?" Mr. Biggler bent forward and placed his hands on Davie's shoulders. "Why don't we climb aboard and see what new surprises are on the Toy Train?"
Needing no further encouragement, Davie bounded up the steps of the passenger car. His eyes widened when he saw the stacks of toys that jammed every corner of the Toy Train. There were model airplanes, tennis rackets and just about every board game imaginable heaped about. Davie looked up. Above him thousands of footballs and basketballs hung from the ceiling, suspended like rawhide planets from thin strands of silver thread. "Wow," he whispered. "I can't believe it, the Toy Train."
Davie turned and ran to the conductor, wrapping his thin arms around the man's waist. Mr. Biggler laughed and lifted the boy into the air. "Believe it," he said. "It's all for you." The conductor lowered Davie to his feet and gently ushered him deeper into the car. "And here's something new for you to play with."
"Wow," Davie gasped when he saw the hobbyhorse in the rear of the car separated from the other toys. It was an exquisitely carved mare, captured in midstride on its two runners. Davie shuffled over to the horse and ran his fingers against its polished wood surface that was black as midnight, allowing his hands to caress the smooth muscles that bulged from its flanks. Standing on his tiptoes to look into the deep black marbles that were its eyes, he saw his own reflection staring back at him "She's beautiful."
"Yes she is," the conductor said, holding his arms out to Davie. "Do you want to ride her?"
"Oh yes," he answered, but before Mr. Biggler could place him on the horse, Davie heard a phone ringing. As if reacting to the sound, the train lurched forward sending Davie crashing to the floor. "What was that?" he asked, pulling himself off the floor. "Why did the train ...?" Davie's question was swallowed back into his throat.
Mr. Biggler stood next to the horse, glaring at Davie through two narrow, grey slits that moments before had been green, oval eyes. The pleasant grin had also vanished. "Play time is over," Biggler said, revealing a mouthful of broken, jagged teeth.
Davie gasped at the transformation, but he was too frightened to move or cry out. Even when Mr. Biggler started to make his way toward Davie, the boy remained paralyzed. "You wanted the Toy Train so badly. Nothing could make you happy but the Toy Train." Mr. Biggler removed the conductor's cap revealing a thick mat of greasy black hair. Beside him the mare kicked on its runners and screamed. "Well you got your wish. Your precious train is back. And I'm on it." Mr. Biggler said something else but Davie wasn't paying attention. His eyes were fixed on two long fangs that were sprouting from the conductor's mouth.
"The better to gobble you up," Biggler laughed, running his pointed tongue across his lips.
Davie felt his heart about to explode within his chest. "No," he screamed. "You're not the real Mr. Biggler."
"Doesn't matter now, Davie-boy. This is my train. Mine." A long claw that barely resembled a hand slowly uncurled from the end of the conductor's left sleeve. Inside was a plastic toy phone. "Answer it Davie," the thing said. "It's for you."
"No." Davie jammed his ears with his palms. "I don't believe you."
The phone rang louder.
He opened his eyes just in time to see his wife return the cordless telephone to its spot on the nightstand next to their bed. "Linda," thirty-three-year-old David Cavanaugh said, his breath coming in hitches. "Christ, did I have a bad dream."
Linda ignored her husband's shaking body and laid her head back on her pillow. "We have to go home," she said softly. "My father died." Then closing her eyes, she drifted off to sleep.
***
Phillip Slaughter watched the thin sheet covering his wife's naked body rise and fall with the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Every time she inhaled, the sheet slipped a fraction of an inch down her chest toward the curve of her breasts. Phillip leaned across her body and kissed the exposed part of his wife's chest, savoring the salty taste of her perspiration. He carefully moved his head toward the small bump in the sheet that covered his wife's left nipple.
"And what do you think you're doing, young man?" Alicia Slaughter whispered.
"Nothing, go back to sleep."
"That's going to be kind of hard with you biting on my boob, don't you think?"
Grinning, Phillip snapped the sheet away from his wife and rolled on top of her.
"Oh, so that's what you have in mind," Alicia said laughing.
They made love, quickly and playfully. It was too hot for any type of extended sex. When they finished, they were both laughing, coated in a thick layer of sweat.
"Ick," Alicia said as her husband rolled off of her. "You're all slimy, but I still like you." She reached out to grab his waist, but Phillip was already out of the bed and slipping on his robe. "Where are you going?"
"I have to go downstairs for a second."
"Sure, sure. If you want to leave a beautiful, naked woman all alone in your bed, you go right on ahead. I'll just have to jump in the shower."
"You do that, and I'll join you later." Phillip hurried out of the bedroom and headed downstairs to the kitchen. As he descended the stairs, Phillip heard his nine-year-old son, Sam, in the living room laughing at a Saturday morning cartoon. Phillip stuck his head into the doorway and peeked in on his son. With his dark brown hair and large, hazel eyes, the boy was a miniature image of his father. Wearing his favorite Batman pajamas, Sam sat on the floor staring at the television. Phillip tapped on the doorframe to get his son's attention. "Hey champ. Come here, I got something to show you."
Reluctantly, Sam followed his father into the kitchen holding a Pepsi in one hand, a half-eaten chocolate cupcake in the other. "Huh?" Sam asked, irritated that his father would interrupt The Real Ghostbusters.
Half chuckling, Phillip shook his head when he saw what his son was eating. "Is that your breakfast? Don't let your mother see you with that junk this early in the morning, or she'll skin us both alive." Sam nodded and took a large bite from the cupcake while his father reached into a cabinet above the sink and pulled out a plastic jug.
"What's up?" Sam asked, sending small, black crumbs spraying from his lips.
"Neat trick I learned." Uncapping the lid, Phillip winked once at his son then raised the jug to his lips. "Bottoms up."
Sam didn't start screaming until he saw the green Mr. Yuk sticker on the side of the bottle; but by that time, Phillip Slaughter had already swallowed a quart of drain cleaner and was far past the point of caring.
***
"Too fucking hot," Dick Oldfield cursed. "Too damn, fucking hot."
It was not an unusual complaint for the obese, school bus driver. When the temperature got above seventy degrees, Dick Oldfield's pores opened up like valves. It was a lifelong discomfort that did little to improve his normal shitty disposition.
As did the kids.
Dick knew all their nicknames for him like "Blubber Butt" and "Old Smelly." For the most part, Dick ignored their giggles; he had grown accustomed to taking shit off people because of his size. But yesterday, that little Mike Peters called him "Fatso" right to his face. Dick told him to sit his ass down, but what he really wanted to do was twist his skinny arm behind his back until it snapped. That would teach the little shit a lesson.
They were too brazen, thinking they could get away with that type of disrespect. It was all the parents' fault though. Dick knew that. If he had been caught mouthing off to an adult, his father would have opened up the side of his lip with the back of his hand. No doubt about it. Step out of line and whack, the knuckles on Ben Oldfield's hand would be meeting flesh.
But all the crap Dick had to put up with was during the week. The weekends were his, and besides, the little bastards would be out of school for the summer in a couple of days, and he wouldn't have to see their pimply faces until September. It was best not to think about them at all, especially on a Saturday morning.
Morning.
Dick glanced at the clock beside his bed. 12:28 p.m. "Shit," he said, not so much surprised at the time, but the Pirates were playing the Phillys at one o'clock, and he didn't want to miss the pregame show on the radio. Dick hoisted himself out of bed and slipped a pair of ripped shorts over his boxers. Bypassing the shower, he went directly to his kitchen and started loading a Styrofoam cooler with a twelve pack of Iron City beer. After dumping two trays of ice onto the tops of the cans, he grabbed the transistor radio from the kitchen table and waddled through the screen door into his backyard. He made his way through the ankle-high grass to a lawn chair that he kept chained to a dead apple tree. Around him, scores of beer cans lay in various stages of decomposition.
Dick flipped the chair open and lowered his enormous ass into it. The chair bulged beneath Dick's three hundred-plus pounds, but somehow it held together. Comfortably nestled into his seat, Dick thrust his hand into the cooler and lifted out one of the cold brews. With the experience that comes from years of practice, he flipped the pop top open using only the thumb of his right hand then drained half of the can into his stomach. "Oh yeah," he said in mid-belch. "Breakfast of ex-champions." Dick placed the can in the grass and searched through the static on his radio until he found the ball game. He let the radio rest on his stomach, content to sit in the shade and listen to the Buccos whip the shit out of Philadelphia.
Sipping at his beer, Dick glanced up and watched a red pickup truck rumble up the cement incline less than twenty feet above the roof of his house. What a place to build a house, he thought. Right under a goddamn overpass. But then again that was probably why he got the place so cheap. Who else but a bus driver wouldn't mind living beneath the on-ramp of a bridge?
Dick finished his beer as the starting lineups were being announced. "Now we'll get down to some serious ass kicking," he said as his hand fished into the cooler for another Iron City. He was just pulling one out when he heard the blaring of a car horn. Dick looked up in time to see a yellow Ford Fairmont crash through the overpass guardrail and explode above his roof. Hunks of concrete and steel rained down about his chair as the car flipped end over end and finally landed at the far end of the lawn. Dick remained motionless as the burnt remains of the Fairmont rained about his yard.
When the fire truck arrived three minutes later, Dick still hadn't moved from his chair, but he had chugged four more beers and vomited, adding little to the colorful mess.
***
"Honey, are you okay?"
No answer.
"Larissa," Mrs. Montgomery called. "What was that noise?"
Silence.
"Larissa, answer me."
Mrs. Montgomery stood at the base of the stairs waiting for her daughter to reply. There had been a thud, she was sure of that.
"Larissa," she called out sharply. "Now you answer me."
More silence.
Moving slowly, she made her way up the steps toward her daughter's room. The door was slightly ajar.
"Honey?" Mrs. Montgomery whispered pushing the door open. The first thing she caught sight of was the mirror. There was something written on it.
SECRETS
Mrs. Montgomery pushed the door open further and stepped into the room. One step was far enough for her to catch sight of her daughter's body slowly turning in circles as it hung from the ceiling fan.
CHAPTER ONE
June 5
Detective Gary Overton was not an excitable man. Whether discussing proposed cutbacks in police funding with a member of the city council or arresting a drug pusher in a back alley of one of McKeesport's three housing projects, his calm demeanor never changed. He possessed an easy-going style that hid the intense drive for which the twenty-nine-year-old Connecticut native did his job. Gary came to McKeesport four years earlier after a stint as a Connecticut State Trooper, and the quiet, young man had little trouble adjusting to his new job as detective in the small, western Pennsylvania town. And at six-foot-four and two hundred muscular pounds, his intimidating physique was a definite asset in winning the approval of those on the force who thought he was too young to be a detective. But as far as Gary was concerned, most of the credit for the ease of his transition went to Steve Wyckoff, chief of McKeesport's detective force and Gary's most vocal supporter. He was the man who convinced the mayor and city council that the young trooper was a perfect fit for the McKeesport police department. He was also the man who now sat in front of him grinding a Marlboro into a clay ashtray.
"Those things are going to kill you," Gary said. The senior detective looked up and slowly uncurled the middle finger of his left hand. Gary laughed and plopped himself in the seat opposite Steve. "Oh, I see we're not in a good mood then."
Steve grunted and reached for a pack of cigarettes in the chest pocket of his drab, grey shirt. He was a short but powerful man whose thick muscles were deceptively hidden by a layer of fat. He had a round, uninteresting face with deep set brown eyes and a square jaw that in the past few years had begun to be swallowed by an extra chin. Blessed with an almost unerring natural intuition, Steve Wyckoff was generally considered to be one of the best police officers McKeesport ever had; smart, fair, and definitely someone who didn't take shit from anybody. He looked at the junior detective and snorted. "Every day you tell me smoking is bad, and every day I tell you to stick it. Don't you think I'm sending you a message?"
"Just keeping the status quo," Gary said. "What's up?"
Steve rose from his seat and walked to the lone window in his cramped office. Poking his head out, he took a deep breath. Immediately a wave of hot, stale air pressed against his face as the sound of a lawn mower roaring to life filtered into the room. Steve reached up and shut the window. "Too damn hot for this early in June," he said. The younger man remained silent.
From his trouser pocket, Steve pulled out the silver Zippo lighter he was never without. With a quick snap, he flipped open the top and a small, orange flame shot out and lit the tip of the Marlboro tucked neatly between his thin lips. He let the smoke settle in his lungs and then slowly exhaled, all the while staring out the window.
His eyes rested on the bronze statue of John F. Kennedy outside of McKeesport's city hall. The twelve-foot statue stood on a slab of granite in the middle of a small memorial garden named after the slain president. It stood on the same spot that Kennedy did when the president paid his only visit to the small steel town. Nine-year-old Steve Wyckoff stood with ten thousand other McKeesport residents to hear the president speak on that sunny, October day in 1962. Three years later, Steve Wyckoff was there again when the statue was unveiled in a cold, February drizzle.
Steve turned and snatched a yellow file folder from his cluttered desk. He skimmed its contents then handed Gary a photograph of a burnt Ford Fairmont implanted in the backyard of the unfortunate Mr. Oldfield. "The car belongs to a guy named Merrill Toth," Steve began. "I went to high school with him."
Gary picked up the photograph and examined it. It was not unlike the hundreds of accident photos he'd seen in his career, a grainy black and white picture of a twisted hunk of what used to be an automobile. He handed the photo back to Steve who tossed it onto his desk. "He's the guy who drove off the Josslin bridge the other day, right?"
Steve didn't answer the question. Instead, he handed Gary two other file folders. "Two people killed themselves Saturday morning. Phillip Slaughter," Steve said, pointing to the top folder in Gary's hand. "Up in the Grand View area. And a girl over on Willow Street."
Gary bypassed the first folder and opened the second file and looked through the report on Larissa Montgomery's death. "Jesus," he whispered. "Her mother found her."
"Uh huh," Steve half grunted. "How many suicides have their been in town this year?" Steve asked, not expecting a reply. "None. At least none that we know of. And only one the whole of last year." Steve sucked sharply on his cigarette and frowned. "Slaughter here had a kid, a son. And Larissa Montgomery's father died two years ago. Christ, if this doesn't kill Mrs. Montgomery I don't know what will."
Gary glanced curiously at Steve. "You knew them too, didn't you? This Slaughter guy and the Montgomery girl?"
Steve nodded and pushed his chair away from the desk. "Yeah. Phil Slaughter worked at the Ford dealership in town, and Larissa's father used to be a sports writer for The Daily News. But hell, that's not surprising. It's not a big town. I've probably met or arrested just about everybody who lives here."
Gary had no trouble believing that. There was very little that happened in McKeesport that Detective Steve Wyckoff didn't know about.
"It is sad, Steve. And a shame, but I don't know what to make of it."
Steve jerked his head and pointed to Gary. "Now don't even say shit like this happens all the time," he said with a crooked smile.
The younger man returned the grin. "No, shit like this does not happen all the time, but it does happen. Look at that guy in California who killed all those people in McDonalds, or Charles Manson, or even the Challenger blowing up on national TV. Go try to figure out Dahmer. You have to face it, bad shit sometimes just happens."
"McKeesport isn't California or New York. People don't cannibalize each other here or whip out Ouzis and start shooting up the local citizenry."
"Right," Gary agreed. "So our bad stuff is on a smaller scale. Instead of Son of Sam, we get a few suicides on the same day. It sounds bad, but it really isn't major headline news."
Steve shook his head. Gary was right, bad shit just sometimes happened, and after two and a half decades as a cop, Steve had seen more than his share of it. Yet for some reason this was different. "I can't explain it to you," he said. "It's just too damn out of the ordinary for me."
"I'm not denying it's odd, but you have to look at this objectively. People do kill themselves all the time. Maybe not here, but perhaps we were due."
"Horse shit," Steve barked.
The edge in Steve's voice made Gary take notice. "Okay," he said. "Something's bugging you, and I have a feeling you're not going to relax until I end up with a stack of paperwork. So what's on your mind?"
A small grin played at the corners of Steve's mouth as he noticed his friend's sour expression. He was glad Gary was there. He was a good cop. "Think about it," Steve began. "Saturday, June 3. Three people die in one day. Not so strange in itself except that they all die in rather nasty fashions. And two of them were known suicides."
"And you think that Merrill Toth may have been a suicide too," Gary interjected.
Steve shrugged his shoulders and stuck his palms out. "Could be. I'm not saying it was or it wasn't, but driving your car through an overpass would definitely do the trick."
"But we're not sure."
"Right. We're not sure, but I'm not satisfied with what I'm seeing in here," he said, tapping the files on his desk. "Look at this." Picking up Larissa Montgomery's folder, he started to flip through the pages. "Cheerleader, honor student. Never in any trouble. Not fighting with her parents, no dope, no booze. Nothing."
"Doesn't sound like your typical suicide candidate."
"But that's not what's really bugging me. It's how she did it. Teenage girls are three times more likely to attempt suicide than boys, yet they only account for half as many deaths. Why? Because they're mainly looking for the attention when they do it. They try to overdose on pills, or they slice their wrists. Stuff that takes time. However," Steve said, flinging the folder onto the desk. "They don't hang themselves."
Gary took Larissa's file off the desk and skimmed through it. SECRETS written in red lipstick. No motive. No note. Unusually violent method. "You're right, it doesn't make sense. But," he added. "When does a kid killing herself ever make sense?"
"Never, but then there's this too." Steve handed Gary a second file. "Another not so typical candidate for suicide. Bio stuff is in there, but take a look at the method."
Once again, Gary scanned the report until he came to the line that read Cause of Death. "Self-inflicted ingestion of poisonous liquid: drain cleaner," he read aloud. "Christ, he did this in front of his son."
"In the kitchen. Talked to his kid for a minute and then whipped out a bottle of Drano and started gulping. He polished off the entire bottle, all two quarts of it."
"Two quarts." Gary looked back down at the report. "How could he drink two quarts of drain cleaner?"
"That's the same thing I wondered," Steve said. "So I called Dr. Mendez at the free clinic this morning and asked her how much drain cleaner someone would have to drink in order for it to be fatal. I told her about Slaughter but left out the amount he ingested. Anyway, Dr. Mendez told me that about a coffee cup full of grade-A cleaning solvent would do the trick. Two cups definitely, the body will go into shock, followed by heart failure. I asked her about anything over a pint and she said it can't be done. Gag reflex would kick in and the throat would clamp up. Nothing goes down, not even air."
"Except for Phillip Slaughter and an extra quart and a half of Drano," Gary added.
The two detectives stood silent for a moment before Steve plopped himself back into his chair. "Merrill Toth driving his car through the overpass, I would call a terrible accident. A suicide on the same day, I would call a pretty shitty twenty-four hours. But Merrill Toth and two suicides, I say that's just too much to swallow. June 3 was not a normal day for these folks, and I want to know why."
"I know I'm going to be sorry for asking this, but what is it you want me to do?"
"I don't know," Steve said. "Poke around a bit. Ask a few questions. Try to find out if there was anything going on in the Montgomery girl's life that might drive her to suicide. Same thing for Slaughter."
Gary wasn't thrilled with the request, but agreed to take on the assignment. "Alright," he said as he got out of his chair with the two files in his hand. "I'll do some checking, but I don't know what you think I'm going to find."
"Hopefully nothing," Steve replied. "I really hope that you tell me everything's kosher. Then my funny feeling will go away."
Gary started for the door. "And if I tell you differently?"
Steve clapped his hands on the top of his head and sighed. "Then that would be a problem."
Gary nodded and left the office. Steve listened as his footsteps faded down the hall, then he rose and walked to the window. He pushed the sash back open and stuck his head out. The smell of fresh cut grass hung heavy in the air. Steve could feel the heat of the morning sun directly on his face, but for some reason, he felt cold.
***
June 5 continued
Nathan Espy stared at the sleeping figure of his father and wondered how it would feel to bash in his head with a baseball bat. A few good swings with a Louisville Slugger and Marcus Espy would be nothing more than a bad memory and a nasty red stain on the sofa. And the sofa could always be cleaned.
Nathan stroked his right cheek with the tips of his fingers. It was still slightly discolored and sore to the touch. Next time, he thought. The next time his father hit him, Nathan swore he would get his bat from the cellar and pound his father's face into a pulp.
Next time. It was a promise he had been making to himself for nine years.
"Dad," Nathan whispered. "You asleep?"
Marcus rolled onto his side, one beefy arm dangling off the edge of the sofa. He was an enormous man, a two hundred and fifty pound slab of useless flesh. Unemployed for the last four years, Marcus was content to spend the rest of his life living off welfare and beating the crap out of his kid in between naps.
"Dad," Nathan said again, this time poking his father in the arm. When it twitched, the boy wisely stepped back.
"Hmmm," Marcus mumbled, opening his eyes to see the nervous figure of his son. "What do you want?"
"I got to go to work now. Your dinner's in the microwave. You just have to heat it up whenever you want."
"You woke me up to tell me that. What's wrong with you? I would've figured that out." Marcus glared at Nathan taking a perverse pleasure in knowing his son was scared shitless.
Nathan lowered his head and mumbled an apology. "I just thought I should tell you."
Marcus huffed and rolled over onto his stomach. "Don't think next time. Just get out of here and let me go back to sleep."
Nathan took the cue and headed for the door as his father buried his face back into the sofa. As he walked out of the house, Nathan could almost feel the comfortable weight of his Andy Van Slyke autographed bat nestled in the palm of his hand. Just one good swing right above the bridge of the nose. One good shot and then you could kiss that son-of-a-bitch goodbye. Smiling, Nathan strolled out of the house and into the hot June sun.
It was going to be another scorcher of a day and that meant business would be brisk at the Tasty Cone where Nathan worked four afternoons a week. The prospect of spending an afternoon busting his ass making frosties and milkshakes for a bunch of little leaguers and old farts who make a big production out of ordering a chocolate swirl was definitely not appealing. At least he'd be out of the heat he told himself.
After walking a little more than a block, Nathan stopped and pulled off the red polyester shirt that made up half of his uniform. He closed his eyes and turned his thin frame toward the sun and tried to remember if there had ever been a time in his sixteen years when life seemed better. Ever since his mother died when he was eight, Nathan lived alone with his father. There wasn't much that Nathan could remember about Gloria Espy, except that she was a brunette and had a temperament like her husband. What he did remember were the fights. Usually late night screaming battles when both of his parents were drunk. He never really understood what they were fighting about, but there was always a lot of yelling and the occasional sound of breaking glass or furniture being knocked over. When the breaking glass started, Nathan would wisely hide beneath his bed. Even at six years old, Nathan knew better than to ask his mother about the black eyes and bruised arms she always seemed to have. It was what grownup people did when they were married.
And then Nathan's mother died at the age of thirty-eight leaving Nathan to bear the weight of his father's drunken rages.
"Screw it," Nathan said and spat on the ground. There was no sense in crying about what you couldn't change. At least that's what that counselor at the youth center had told him. Accept reality. And the reality of Nathan's life was simple: His father was an asshole, his mother was dead, and if he didn't hurry up, he was going to be late for work. And if Nathan lost the eighty bucks a week he brought in from working at the Tasty Cone, Marcus would knock his teeth down his throat. That too was a reality.
His eyes still closed, Nathan slipped his shirt back over his neck and was pulling it over his shoulders when a strange sensation came over him. For a moment, he felt as if he was being watched. Not by just one person, but by a hundred pair of eyes gazing down at him from all directions. Nervous, Nathan glanced up and down the street. It was completely empty, no cars, no people. Even the sound of birds was missing.
But still he felt the eyes boring into his body.
It was the dead silence of the street that set off the slight tinge of fear in his stomach. Something wasn't right, his mind screamed at him. That tinge ballooned into a full-fledged panic when he realized what that something was. The sun.
He could no longer feel it.
The day, which had been unmercifully hot a moment ago, was now bitterly cold. The cold bit into Nathan's skin, freezing the thin film of sweat that covered his body. Nathan turned his attention to the tall trees that lined the far side of the street and watched astounded as they swayed against the force of some hidden wind. As the trees whipped back and forth, their dark green leaves began to turn brown and brittle and fall to the ground. Above the tree line, the sky turned a pale grey as winter storm clouds filled up what had been a second before, a field of pale blue. As Nathan stood wide-eyed watching a winter storm developing above his head, a sharp blast of wind blew down the street, catching the thousands of dried leaves that were falling from the trees. For a moment, Nathan was blinded by leaves slapping into his face. Nathan turned away from the onslaught and clapped his hands over the deafening roar of the wind. He glanced upwards in time to see the leaves form a funnel cloud and zigzag down the street.
"Naaathaannn," a high-pitched voice called from above the din.
Nathan looked in the direction of the tornado as it made its way to the end of the block. It stopped, forming a wall of leaves in the street.
"Naaathaannn," the voice repeated. The leaves separated and a tall, bald man in a black suit stepped forward. In one hand he held a skull while the other gripped a baseball bat. "Batter up," the man yelled, tossing the skull in front of him. Nathan heard the sound of the bat connecting as the skull flew into the air. "Pop up, Nathan. Go get it."
Nathan screamed as the skull flew toward him.
CHAPTER TWO
June 6
David Cavanaugh shifted uncomfortably on the metal chair, fighting back the urge to check his watch. When he had looked at it five minutes earlier, Linda fixed him with an icy stare that seemed to scream, "You're pissing me off, buster." David sighed and shifted again. No sense tempting fate.
It wasn't that David was trying to be rude, but after the testimonials and speeches about Dr. Smith had gone into their second hour, he thought that enough was enough. Everyone knew Linda's father was a pillar of the community and a great humanitarian, "One of the giants of goodwill and service," the beefy fire chief had called him about a half an hour ago. But in God's name why did it need to be said by every politician and community leader in McKeesport that Henry Ellis Smith was one hell of a good guy?
At the moment, the head of the town's city council was praising Dr. Smith for his involvement with the Boys Club and the Youth Outreach Center. "Dr. Smith loved the young people of McKeesport. And they have lost their best friend." David stiffened. He was certain the Parks Commissioner had said the same thing three speakers ago.
The council president ended his remarks and quickly exited the podium, only to be replaced by yet another dignitary. David didn't hear who the short, round woman was. He was thinking about the three days since his wife received the news of her father's death.
They spoke little during the nine-hour drive from their home in Raleigh, NC to McKeesport. Several times David tried to start a conversation only to receive a curt, "Not now, David," from his wife. David gave up before the trip was halfway through, and the couple drove the last three hundred miles in silence. As they made their way up Interstate 95 through Virginia and on into Maryland, David thought of the different worlds he and his wife were from. Linda Smith Cavanaugh belonged to one of the wealthiest and most established families in her hometown; her father, a fifth generation doctor, and her mother a wealthy socialite, Linda grew up accustomed to every privilege wealth brought with it. Instead of McKeesport High School, Linda attended an exclusive private school in Connecticut where she graduated first in her class. After that, four years at Columbia, followed by graduate work at Yale and in England, where she received her Ph.D. at the age of twenty-eight. After a year's travel in Europe, Linda accepted a faculty position at the University of North Carolina, teaching Native American History.
David's childhood was decidedly different. David's father died when he was nine, and for the next two years, David and his mother were shunted between a succession of cousins and aunts until Mrs. Cavanaugh was lucky enough to find a decent job in a Laundromat. Not yet twelve, David and his mother lived alone in a two-bedroom apartment in Raleigh's lower east end. While his mother often worked double shifts to make ends meet, David began working odd jobs after school with a local building contractor. The pay was usually the pocket money the building foreman had on him, but the experience taught David how to build and fix nearly anything. Between the Laundromat and David's odd jobs, the Cavanaugh's scraped by.
Never a stellar student, David did attend community college and earn a degree in history. After graduating he applied for an assistant curator position at the museum of the Raleigh Historical Society. David didn't have high hopes of getting the position, but his experience with tools and construction made him an ideal candidate for the struggling historical society. As the assistant curator, David's duties were evenly split between organizing exhibitions and maintaining the building and grounds. After six years, the society's board of directors appointed David the museum's full-time curator.
When David and Linda met during an exhibition of colonial weapons, neither thought the other looked the part. With her striking good looks and athletic build, David thought Linda looked more like a fashion model than a history professor. For her part, Linda concluded that the broad-shouldered man with thick, calloused hands was more suited with a hammer than explaining the intricacies of Napoleonic battle tactics. After the tour, Linda surprised David by inviting him out for a drink. He accepted, and a little over a year later the two were married.
At the wedding, David could sense that he was definitely not the type of man the Smiths had envisioned for their daughter. Though they never openly voiced any displeasure, he felt a distinct coolness from Linda's parents, especially from her mother. Mrs. Smith tried to mask her disappointment in her daughter's choice by taking complete control over the wedding preparations, presiding over the ceremony and reception with an authority that David recognized as natural for her. Linda's father chose a different tactic; he ignored David all together. Only her brother, Harris, was honest enough to tell David that he thought he was marrying Linda for her money.
The morning after the wedding, the trio flew from Raleigh back to McKeesport. It was the last contact David had with Linda's family.
Now as he sat in the sweltering heat listening to the drone of politicians, David sensed that little had changed. Mrs. Smith seemed particularly intent on ignoring her son-in-law, and at those times when she was forced to acknowledge him, she was quick to introduce him as Linda's husband, the historian. David imagined that historian sounded better in society than curator--or "glorified janitor" as he was first referred to by Mrs. Smith before the wedding. He didn't bother to correct her.
Harris, however, was a bit of a surprise. He seemed to be making an effort to treat David with some civility. The day before the funeral, in what amounted to their first extended conversation, Harris took David to the Smith Rehabilitation Clinic.
"Come on," Harris said when they arrived at the four-story building. "We can't go inside now; they're getting things ready for the funeral, so I'll give you the abbreviated tour." He stepped out of his car and walked to the edge of the parking lot. David followed.
Architecturally, the Smith Rehabilitation Clinic was not impressive. Built in the early 1920's, it was a boxlike structure of brick and mortar, slightly taller than it was wide. Over the decades, its red brick surface had faded in spots, leaving a patchwork of dull, yellow discolorations across the front of the building. Though he wouldn't admit it to anyone in the Smith family, David was a bit disappointed in what he saw.
But any disappointment David felt about the structure was overshadowed by what he knew of the history of the Smith Clinic. Though Linda was never fully forthcoming about what she called "the family business," David knew that for several generations, the Smith family owned and operated one of the most successful private hospitals in the country.
Harris made a broad arc with his arm. "This land, the building, and all the property down to the river bank has been in our family for a over 150 years. The annex over there was the original hospital. Built around 1860 by my great, great, great grandfather." Harris paused, checking his fingers. "Yeah, that's right, three greats. During the Civil War the hospital was primarily for soldiers with massive injuries. Burn victims and amputees mainly. In fact, some of the earliest experiments with reconstructive surgery and prosthetics were done here."
"Impressive," David admitted. "What happened after the war?"
"After the Civil War came the Indian wars, then the Spanish-American War. A rather disappointing one for profits, so I've been told. Right after the First World War the new building was constructed, and the old hospital became the administrative wing. Then came WWII, Korea, and finally Viet Nam."
"I imagine that one was good for business," David said.
Harris didn't pick up on the sarcasm. "The opposite actually."
"How's that?"
"Well, it was because of Viet Nam that my father became mainly interested in treating substance abuse. You see, the hospital started filling up with kids, eighteen and nineteen, many of them strung out on dope, but the government wasn't paying any attention to that. So when Nam was over, my father severed his ties with the Veteran's Administration and the government, and took the place in a new direction. Over the years he did a lot of good for a lot of people, but there's no money on the curing side of addiction. In the end, it was a bad business move, and he had to shut down a few years ago."
The two men stood staring at the large, empty building. Tomorrow the grounds would be turned into a temporary monument to the man whose family name was chiseled into a granite slab above the front door.
"What happens to it now?" David asked.
Harris didn't hesitate to answer. "Sell it."
***
The speeches were finally over, and as the friends and well-wishers filed past Mrs. Smith, David couldn't help but be surprised by her calm demeanor. In the few days he'd been in McKeesport, he had seen no show of emotion from his mother-in- law. No tears, no anger, no sadness. It was oddly similar to his wife's behavior.
When the last of the mourners was gone, Linda motioned for David to follow her to where a line of limousines waited in the parking lot. David took Linda's arm and the two of them made their way to the third vehicle where they were joined by the president of the local chamber of commerce and her husband. Mrs. Smith and Harris rode in the first limo.
As the slow parade of cars started the four-mile trip to the Versailles Avenue Cemetery where the Smiths owned a private, family vault, Linda took David's hand. She squeezed it gently and laid her head against his shoulder. "Thanks for being here," she whispered.
He wanted to tell her that she was welcome, but he didn't. Linda closed her eyes, and David was thankful for the silence. While she rested, he looked out the window, not paying much attention to the town that passed in front of him.
June 6 continued
Standing in front of the open window in his office breathing in the humid, night air, Steve could hear the hum of the traffic on Fifth Avenue heading eastward toward the Josslin Bridge and out of McKeesport. He fixed his eyes on the well-trimmed lawn in front of him as the last rays of sunlight bathed the statue of John Kennedy in a pale, orange glow. Staring at the statue, Steve wondered what it was like to be dead.
A Roman Catholic, just like Kennedy, Steve had been raised to believe in heaven and hell, and God and the trinity, and all the other mysteries of the faith that the nuns at St. Pius elementary school drilled into his head. As a kid in the pre-Vatican II days, faith was easy. It was just a matter of memorizing a bunch of questions and answers from the Baltimore Catechism, and knowing the difference between a venal sin and a mortal sin. Religion was simple; go to church on Sundays and Holy Days of obligation, don't eat meat on Fridays, and don't piss off the nuns. Do that and God would take care of the rest.
But that was before he turned twelve and his brother Terry was killed in an accident at the mill. Terry was eight years older than Steve. Tall and lanky, Terry had never wanted to do anything besides work in the mill, making steel like his father and grandfather had done for nearly forty years. Two weeks after graduating high school, Terry got a job at the Imperial Tube works. Like most kids right out of school, Terry started on the bottom rung. Janitorial work mostly. But he was smart, and he put in his time, and within three years he had gotten a pretty good job as a flow regulator. Terry liked the work, and the paycheck was certainly welcome in the Wyckoff house. All that was left, Steve's mother would say, was for Terry to find some girl and start making some grandbabies.
But Terry never found the girl. Four weeks before his twenty-first birthday, a steam valve exploded while Terry was taking a routine pressure reading. The steam struck Terry squarely on the chest and face, melting away most of his top layers of skin. He was rushed to McKeesport Hospital but there was nothing anyone could do for him; the burns were too severe. While the doctors worked furiously over his brother, Steve got a glimpse of Terry through the glass wall of the Intensive Care Unit, and for a moment, the brothers' eyes met. It was only for a second, but that was long enough for the sight to be burned into Steve's memory. Even at 12, Steve knew what terror looked like.
Then Steve and his parents were ushered to a waiting room outside of the I.C. unit.
Three hours later Terry Wyckoff was dead.
Steve inhaled slowly and tucked Terry's memory back into a corner of his mind. The sun finally set and the small row of lights in front of the Kennedy statue flipped on. Four incandescent bulbs bathed the entire thing in a soft, white glow. To Steve, it looked as if the statue was standing in the middle of a cloud.
Steve glanced at his watch. 8:00 p.m. Normally, he would have left the office over an hour ago, but tonight, he couldn't seem to take his eyes off the statue. It was a remarkably good likeness of the former president. Especially the face. It showed more than just Kennedy's handsome features; it captured the subtleties, the thin laugh lines around his mouth, the slight squint of his eyes which gave the impression of a deep sadness behind the permanently cast smile.
A hint of a breeze blew into the window; the first one Steve had felt the entire day. Steve turned his face toward it. Looking past the Kennedy memorial, up Fifth Avenue and Broadaire Street, he could see the remnants of the Imperial Tube Works where Terry had his accident. Like most of the mills in the Monongohelia Valley, it didn't survive the strikes and cutbacks of the early 1980's. It closed in 1985. In 1987, after all of the salvageable equipment had been removed and sold piecemeal to Japanese companies, two of its three blast furnaces were razed, leaving behind a giant graveyard of twisted metal and brick.
Steve stepped away from the window. Glancing at the pile of folders that cluttered his desk, he sighed knowing what was in store for him. Tomorrow he had to attend the Montgomery funeral, and he wasn't looking forward to it. The night before, when he stopped at the funeral home for Larissa's viewing, Mrs. Montgomery was oblivious to her surroundings, seemingly catatonic. Two women Steve didn't recognize sat on either side of her propping the woman up by her elbows. The funeral director, Neville King, told Steve that Mrs. Montgomery had not spoken to anyone since finding her daughter's body. "She's gone away," Neville said not unkindly. "And I don't think she's ever coming back."
Steve started for the door when he caught sight of a memo on his desk stamped with the mayor's seal. Steve gave it a quick once over. The mayor wanted details about the number of extra officers who would be working the combined dedication ceremony for McKeesport's new marina and Fourth of July celebration, both slated for July third. Following the example of Pittsburgh, McKeesport's Independence Day parade and fireworks were to be held July third, thus saving the city the expense of paying the police and fire departments double overtime for working on a holiday. It was not a popular decision among the rank and file of the police and fire departments, and while Steve, like the rest of his colleagues on the police force, complained about it, he recognized the logic behind the mayor's decision. The town needed to save money any way it could. The new marina and entertainment complex would go a long way toward revitalizing McKeesport's economy, but there was still quite a way to go, and if the mayor could save some revenue with a little creative scheduling, more power to her.
Steve tossed the memo back onto his desk and headed to the door. But still, he thought, flipping off the lights and sending his office into darkness, celebrating Independence Day on July third didn't seem all that American.
CHAPTER THREE
June 7
It was an unbelievably high pop-up, and for a moment, Nathan lost it in the sun. But then, as quickly as it disappeared, the ball was back, streaking down toward the earth. Nathan jumped, his legs swinging gracefully across the outfield. Eyes on the ball, his arms and legs pumping furiously, he felt his heart pounding in his throat. Behind him twenty thousand voices chanted: Nathan, Nathan.
Just a few more steps and ...
He leapt, his body stretching horizontally in the air above the green Astroturf. For that moment he was free. Somewhere where his father couldn't touch him. He was Superman and Cal Ripken Jr. all rolled into one.
Smack.
Stinging his palm, the ball hit his glove as the boy landed hard. All around him the crowd was going crazy, chanting his name and tossing beer cups and nacho plates into the air.
Oh, it was soooo good to be the hero.
"Nice catch."
Nathan bounded to his feet. He was no longer in Three Rivers Stadium; the cheering crowd was gone. Instead, he found himself in the alley behind his house.
He turned suspiciously to the tall, bald man who had launched a skull in his direction two days earlier, and asked him who he was.
Still dressed in the black suit, the man was now holding a baseball in his right hand. In his left hand was a catcher's mitt. "Me?" he replied smiling. "I got lots of names. I've been called Sombus. Incubo. Dust. I've been called the 'bringer of wonder' and the 'dark despair.'" He tossed the ball to Nathan before crouching down into a catcher's stance. "But you can call me Coach, how's that?"
Nathan nodded. That was fine with him.
Pleased, Coach slapped his fist into the mitt. "C'mon boy, put it right here. Right down the pike. Let's see what you got."
Nathan eyed the catcher's mitt then looked up at Coach who was chanting: "Here we go, batter, batter." Gripping a two-fingered split fastball, Nathan went into his windup and whipped a perfect strike down the middle.
"Impressive," Coach grinned, tossing the ball back to Nathan.
It sure as hell was, Nathan thought. That pitch was faster and straighter than anything he had ever thrown before. Nathan was about to go into his windup again when Coach stood up.
"Plenty of time to deliver the heat later," he said. "How about a nice game of catch, Nathan? How does that sound? Just you and me tossing the old ball around, a real father and son kind of thing."
Why not? Nathan thought. It wasn't like his old man ever wanted to play catch. Nathan flipped the ball to Coach. A game of catch would be fine.
"That's absolutely right," Coach said, tossing the ball back to Nathan. "Your father doesn't seem to appreciate America's favorite pastime the way that you and I do. As a matter of fact, I don't believe that your father even appreciates you."
Nathan agreed.
"Such a shame." Coach paused. He shook his head sympathetically before tossing the ball back to Nathan. "What a waste of energy, your father is. A complete misuse of flesh and bones. I simply don't understand how it is possible that a man could be so ambivalent about his own son, especially when he's a fine, athletic lad like you."
Damn right, Nathan thought. He fired the ball back to coach as hard as he could. He wanted to demonstrate his fine athleticism.
"Now if you were my son, I certainly wouldn't treat you the way your father does. No siree bub. We'd do things together, me and you. Yes, we would do things, and go places together. Places like the ballpark." Coach eyed the baseball for a moment then tossed it underhand toward Nathan. The boy watched, amazed as the ball floated impossibly slow toward him. It inched its way across the space between Nathan and Coach, rolling lazily so that Nathan could see every thread stitched into its rawhide cover. As it neared the boy, it slowed until it came to a stop, hovering just a few inches in front of Nathan's outstretched glove. The ball turned on its axis as if held up by an invisible string, but it came no closer. Coach smiled. "If you'd like that, if you think that would be fun, just grab the ball. Just reach right out and take it."
Without hesitating Nathan snatched the ball out of the air. That's when the crowd roared its approval.
Nathan beamed. He held the ball above his head to let the sold-out crowd at Three Rivers Stadium see that he had just made another game-saving catch.
"Bee-uu-ti-ful," Coach yelled from the dugout. He was wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates uniform and waving a ball cap in a circle above his head. "Absolutely-beautiful."
Heaven, Nathan thought. I'm in heaven.
Coach put the ball cap back on his head, and Nathan immediately found himself back in the alley. Coach stood opposite him still dressed in his Pirates uniform. He was eating a hotdog.
"These are fantastic," he said between bites.
Nathan told him he wanted to go back to the ballpark.
"Of course you do." Coach took a last bite of the hotdog then threw his napkin over his shoulder. He moved closer to Nathan, close enough that he could rest his outstretched arms on the boy's shoulders. "We'll go back, Nathan. We'll go back there, and other places too. Fenway, Candlestick, all the ballparks. We'll visit everyone, you and me. And you'll get to play in them with all the greats. And I promise Nathan, you'll be the hero of every game."
Tears filled the grateful boy's eyes as Coach pulled Nathan close, wrapping him in a tight, but gentle hug. "Oh Nathan, you've lived with so much pain, so much. I can feel it all around you. I can smell it, taste it." Coach stopped. He pushed Nathan away from his body but still maintained his grip on the boy's shoulders. "Now it's time for you to give a little of the pain back. It's time for you to be free."
Nathan nodded. The feeling of soaring through the air at the fly ball was still fresh in his mind.
"We'll be free together," Coach said. "I'll help you to be free, and you'll help me to be free. Okay?"
Of course it was okay. It was perfect. Nathan looked at the baseball in his hand. Stitched into it was the face of his father.
"Of course, first things are first. You have to work on throwing strikes."
Nathan's eyes were still locked on the image in the baseball. Throwing more strikes, that seemed reasonable. He asked Coach to teach him.
"Certainly," Coach whispered. "Right after you wake up."
June 7--night ...
"Davieee-boy! Yoo-hoo, Davieee-boy," a familiar voice rang out. "Aren't ya comin' to play?"
David stood on the side of the railroad tracks staring at the open door of the Toy Train. Come on in, it seemed to whisper. You've been here before, hundreds of times, and it's always been fun. Standing on the platform in front of the doorway to the passenger car, Mr. Biggler still wore his conductor's uniform, only now dark crimson stains were splattered across his coveralls. "Here you go Davie," Mr. Biggler said, holding out an oversized red lollipop. "Take it. A nice treat and we'll be friends again." David didn't move. He stood staring at Mr. Biggler's empty white eyes.
"No?" the conductor replied. "Oh well." Mr. Biggler tossed the sucker over his shoulder into the Toy Train behind him. The lollipop disappeared, followed by a sudden, powerful crunching sound as the train jostled on its tracks.
Ba Boom
Ba Boom
"I'm not going in there," David said. "Ever again."
Mr. Biggler shook his head and sighed. "I figured as much. Especially now that we've gotten to know each other a little better." Mr. Biggler laughed and his face became transparent. For a split second, it flickered like a candle that was about to go out, then it began to liquefy and reshape itself. "I do like this look, Davie-boy. I am so glad you came up with it." Mr. Biggler shook a bent finger at David's puzzled expression. "Don't forget the cardinal rule, Davie-boy; you're responsible for what goes on in your head. You dream of the Toy Train, you get the Toy Train. You want a conductor, you got a conductor. Me, I'm just the uninvited guest at this particular junction. But, that's neither here nor there, is it, Davie-boy? Neither here nor there. But oh my, " Biggler said, slapping his knees with his clawed hands. "I am sorry. I really can't call you a boy anymore. Look at yourself. You've done gone and grown up."
"I don't need you," David said. "I'm not a kid anymore."
"Daviee, Daviee," Biggler began, his voice growing melodic. "I'm heart-broken. Don't you remember all the fun we had together? When there was no one to play with, there was always me. I was the one you went to, David, when your father died and your mother was too tired to pay you any attention. I was the one you turned to in your dreams. Me and the toys." Biggler stepped to the side of the door and waved his left arm like a model on a game show. As he did, the doorway became illuminated in yellow light, revealing the scores of toys waiting inside. "So don't be too quick to abandon us yet, David. Come on, let's go and play. If you do, you'll never be lonely again."
Biggler stepped to the side giving David a clear view of the Toy Train's interior. The entire car was coated with mud as if a river of filth had been diverted through it. Even worse, globs of thick brown shit had been smeared across the walls. The toys that had once hung from the walls and ceiling had been smashed and were now scattered across the floor. Nailed in their place were the crucified limbs and torsos of a thousand dolls furtively wriggling their plastic arms and legs in an attempt to free themselves. In the middle of the Toy Train, untouched by the blanket of mold and shit that covered the other toys, the Black Mare pitched forward spewing white foam from its mouth. Biggler sighed and snatched one of the broken doll arms off the wall, leaving behind a dull, black stain. "Souvenirs," Biggler said. "Little mementos of others who dreamt of the Toy Train." Biggler examined the still wiggling arm then flipped it into his mouth.
David shuddered. "It wasn't you I dreamt about. I don't know what you are, but you're not Mr. Biggler," David said, his voice rising. "And I'm not lonely. I don't need the Toy Train anymore."
Biggler laughed. "Oh David, you got it all wrong. You never needed me," he said, taking a step forward. As he did, his arms came thrusting out of the sleeves of his conductor's uniform and stretched across the platform. The claw ends of Biggler's hands clicked together as they halved the distance between himself and David.
"No," David screamed, throwing his hands out in front of his face.
Biggler stopped. "For now." Biggler snapped his arms back to their normal size. "No playing now. But there is something you need to see." David's eyes followed Biggler's finger to a long cattle car that was hitched to the back of the passenger car. From inside erupted a chorus of high-pitched screams. "Inside that car is what's left of those who have tried to imprison me." Biggler chuckled. "There might even be one or two people you know."
David made a motion toward the cattle car when the train began to move backward. "What is it?" David shouted at the approaching form of Biggler, but his voice was drowned out by the loud whine of the train whistle.
Mr. Biggler focused his blank white eyes on David. Behind him the door to the passenger car was once again illuminated in yellow light. "You'll visit us yet, Davie-boy." Inside the train, the yellow light grew brighter allowing David a glimpse of a figure kneeling amidst the toys. As the train passed in front of him, David screamed.
"Now, now, none of that," Biggler chuckled, hopping back into the cabin of the Toy Train. He paused for just a moment, long enough to let David get a last look at his wife before the door slammed shut.
June 8
Stopping her car in the middle of a bridge was against the law, but Gladys Decorta didn't think the police would mind her doing it just this once. It was a nice June afternoon, and the police had more important things to do than to bother about her Ford Escort blocking an entire lane of the Josslin Bridge. After all she had some very important business to attend to of her own.
Very important business Gladys told herself, and if the police department didn't like the fact that she parked her car in the middle of the right hand lane of the bridge, well, they could just go and fuck themselves.
The retired schoolteacher giggled at the brazenness of the thought. It was very rare, if ever, that she cursed, but considering the importance of her work, it was appropriate. If the police, or anybody, tried to stop her, she would simply tell them to go and fuck themselves.
Gladys's head snapped back, her eyes trained on her thin hands clutching the steering wheel. This wasn't right. She was supposed to be in her kitchen making a cup of tea. But now she was in the car thinking terrible things about ...
(... the enemy)
... the police.
Yes, that was it, the police. But how did she get here? She remembered putting the water on the stove and sitting down on the sofa. Then there was a knocking at the back door.
The back door, she thought. That was it. She had to answer the door and that's when she realized she had to do something very important, and very secretive. It all came back to her. She let her hands fall away from the steering wheel and undid her safety belt. Everything was clear now.
Gladys stepped out of the car and made her way to the hatch. She paid no attention to the cars that sped by her. Instead, she calmly reached into the back of the car and removed a grocery bag. She took a quick peak inside, then satisfied with its contents, carried it to the edge of the bridge. From the bag she pulled out a thirty-foot length of rope. With a quickness and dexterity that surprised her, she firmly secured one end of the rope to the bridge's metal handrail. With the other end she fashioned a hangman's noose and slipped it around her neck.
Gladys tightened the noose just enough so that she could feel a slight pinching about her throat. It was the first time that she ever had a noose wrapped around her neck, and she wasn't exactly sure how much give it should have. Satisfied with the fit though, she leaned her body against the flat handrail and peered down at the river flowing sixty feet beneath her.
"Mrs. Decorta?"
Gladys turned to see a young woman standing beside a red pickup truck that was now parked behind her car. The woman looked nervous as she raised a shaking hand.
"Hello, Mrs. Decorta. It's me, Megan Tallbright. I graduated in '88. Remember?" the young woman said, her voice coming in quick gasps as she stared at the noose wrapped around the neck of her former science teacher. "What are you doing, Mrs. D.?"
Gladys raised a thin finger to her lips. "It's a secret," she whispered. Then offering Megan a warm smile, she leapt over the handrail.
Gladys fell for only a second, but it was long enough for her to notice how brown the water was as it came rushing toward her. "Filthy," she thought just before the rope went taut. Gladys heard a popping sound as her neck snapped back.
There was no pain, only a sudden sensation of weightlessness and a soft, reassuring hum in her brain. For a moment she was surprised to find herself looking up at the bridge. Her eyes traveled up the length of the rope that hung limply from the guardrail toward the face of a young woman (Megan?) whose eyes bulged and mouth hung open in horror. Gladys smiled at the girl. She wanted her to know that everything was alright; this was important work she was attending to. There was nothing to be afraid of.
Gladys felt her head twist downward once again giving her a clear view of the river. Far below she saw a decapitated body in a pink summer frock plunge into the dark water. At that moment the reality of the situation hit her. This was not important work. This was her death. It was all a lie.
She tried to scream but the only sound that came out of her was a shrill whistle from the air that sped into her mouth and out her open neck. As her head teetered on the coarse rope, the last bit of life mercifully left what remained of Gladys Decorta. She blinked once in darkness as her head fell toward the river.
