Succubi Part 11

"Come on, come on, I ain't got all day."

They rose and began to move forward. Duke fiddled with the LECCO on the console, which secured a Remington 870P. The lock was designed to prevent unauthorized removal of the weapon when the officer was out of the car and the keys weren't in the ignition. Unfortunately, now the keys were in the ignition, and all it took was the press of a little b.u.t.ton to remove the shotgun. Duke promptly racked a round of 12gauge into the chamber.

"Duke-"

"Don't worry, buddy. I ain't gonna kill 'em. But we sure as s.h.i.+t ain't gonna get their van by pointing our fingers at 'em."

The two kids loped up the hill, approached the pa.s.senger side.

"Whuhwhat seems to be ththe problem, sir?" the guy asked.

"The problem is this, son," Duke explained. "We're not really cops, we're escaped mental patients. And we need a new set of wheels real bad." He stuck the shotgun out the window, aiming at the kid's head. "Now, that van there, it looks mighty nice."

The girl's face paled instantly. A light yellow wet spot appeared at the crotch of her pretty white shorts.

"Please don't kill us," the boy pleaded.

"Relax, kid. Just throw me the keys."

"The keys are in it, sir."

"Why, that's just daaaaaandy, son," daaaaaandy, son," Duke falsettoed, then squeezed the Remington's trigger. Duke falsettoed, then squeezed the Remington's trigger.

The boy's head blew to pulpy bits. A plop of brains splashed in the creek.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Duke!" Erik shouted, and pounded the dash. "You promised you wouldn't!"

Duke grinned. "That's right, buddy. I swore on my daddy's grave. Thing is, my daddy ain't dead."

The girl had fainted right away. The boy lay splayed on his back, his arms extended. He looked like a headless referee signaling a touchdown.

"Get them both in the van," Erik said, now weary with disgust.

Duke stuffed the last Twinkie in his face and got out. He threw their things in the van as Erik pulled the patrol car as deeply into the woods as he could. Then he checked the trunk. A box contained shotgun and pistol cartridges, a Second Chance bulletproof vest, several flashlights, and some flares. Erik took the whole box and put it in the van.

"Hurry up!" he shouted.

Duke scratched his head over the fallen boy, whose own head was gone from the jaw up. A few cerebral arteries hung like sc.r.a.ps from what was left of the ruptured cranial vault. "Can't we leave the dude?" Duke asked. "Seems silly to drive around with a dead fella."

Erik jumped in the van and started it up. "Duke, how many times do I have to tell you? When we leave bodies, we leave clues. If the cops find a body, they'll ID it, run the name through MVA, and then they'll know what we're driving. Drag 'em both in here and let's get going!"

Duke complied, hauling the kid to the van by overall straps. He paused to chuckle. "That's the third head I blowed off since we been out. Think that's some sort of record? Three blowed off heads in a day?"

"Come on!"

Duke dumped the boy in back, then dragged over the unconscious girl and did the same. He slammed the rear doors closed.

Erik backed the van up, s.h.i.+fted, and took off down the road. He headed south.

Eleven minutes later, two Luntville units and a state police pursuit car, heading south on Governor Bridge road, slammed on their brakes in succession, just past the old truss bridge by the fis.h.i.+ng dell. They'd all seen it at once, the rear end of a patrol car sticking out of the woods. The car bore the stencil along the back fender: 208.

At first it looked like it might've crashed. This prospect pleased one of the officers very much. His name was Lawrence Mulligan, chief of the Luntville Police Department. Yes, it looked like they'd been driving too fast over the bridge, lost control, and plowed into the woods. Aw, please, G.o.d, let it be so. Let 'em be sittin' in front with their heads busted open. Aw, please, G.o.d, let it be so. Let 'em be sittin' in front with their heads busted open.

But G.o.d, today, would not be so obliging to Chief Lawrence Mulligan.

The three cops approached the still vehicle with their weapons drawn. The state cop had an AR15A2, which he kept trained on unit 208's back window. A Luntville PFC edged in toward the pa.s.senger side, while Chief Mulligan squeezed through trees toward the driver's side.

"Careful, Chief," warned the PFC. "They might still be in there."

Please still be in there, Chief Mulligan fairly prayed. It was a misguided prayer to begin with. One does not generally pray with a 10mm Colt automatic in one's hand. Nevertheless, Chief Mulligan prayed again, aloud this time: "Aw, please, please still be in there." Chief Mulligan fairly prayed. It was a misguided prayer to begin with. One does not generally pray with a 10mm Colt automatic in one's hand. Nevertheless, Chief Mulligan prayed again, aloud this time: "Aw, please, please still be in there."

The eloped mental patients were not in there.

All that remained to reward Chief Mulligan for his efforts was a quick note scribbled on the back of a standard traffic complaint and citation form.

The note read: s.h.a.g my b.a.l.l.s, Chief. s.h.a.g my b.a.l.l.s, Chief.

Chapter 9.

The vast forest belt rose toward the county's northern line.

They cruised down long, straight twolane hardtops, pa.s.sing endless tracts of newly tilled soil. The air was filled with fecund scents, which seemed alien to Ann. She was used to smog. The hourandahalf drive seemed to transpose worlds. Ann had almost forgotten what the country was like.

Some vacation, she thought. she thought.

Melanie sat quietly in the back, reading Kafka. Martin drove. Ann could imagine his reservations. It was never easy for him. He would always be a city person to her parents, a cosmopolite. Strangers in a strange land, Strangers in a strange land, she mused. But wasn't the same true of her? She'd been born and raised out here, a product of the same sensibilities, but she'd turned her back on those sensibilities without thinking twice. It she mused. But wasn't the same true of her? She'd been born and raised out here, a product of the same sensibilities, but she'd turned her back on those sensibilities without thinking twice. It was was a transposition of worlds, one of which she felt no part. a transposition of worlds, one of which she felt no part.

"Is Grandpa going to die?" Melanie asked.

Ann couldn't fathom a response. Melanie was old enough now that she needed to be leveled with. It had been easy when she was younger; the innocence of children could be taken advantage of when life turned grim. Where's Daddy? Where's Daddy? she'd asked when Mark had left. she'd asked when Mark had left. He had to go away for a while, He had to go away for a while, was all Ann needed to say. was all Ann needed to say. He'll be back sometime. He'll be back sometime. As Melanie grew older, she put the pieces together herself. But this? As Melanie grew older, she put the pieces together herself. But this?

"He had a stroke," Martin said. "Sometimes strokes can be very serious, and sometimes they're not. We'll have to wait and see."

Martin always had answers for the unanswerable.

The last neck of the drive took them down State Route 154, the county's only main line to the web of tiny towns.h.i.+ps which rimmed the northern belt. Oddly, there seemed to be a lot of police out today, when ordinarily she wouldn't see any. She saw cars from Luntville, Crick City, Tylersville, Waynesville. She couldn't figure what all these cars would be doing so far out of their jurisdictions. Lockwood had its own department too, one of the smallest. They only had two fulltime cops, Chief Bard and some kid named Byron, and one car, which was another oddity. Lockwood's small population did not generate much in the way of munic.i.p.al funds, yet the town council insisted on a police department, and no one objected. It was Ann's mother who headed the town council, an elected post. No one had ever run against her, and that, too, seemed strange. "Lockwood is crime free," Ann had once observed. "That's why we must have a police department," her mother had replied. "To keep it that way. You'll find out all about crime once you get to the big city."

Everything her mother said seemed to possess some level of insult. Ann couldn't remember her ever being different.

"What's this?" Martin queried, slowing down.

"Prepare to stop," read signs propped up on the shoulder. Stubs of road flares had burned down. Roadblock, Roadblock, Ann instinctively thought. But it wasn't a drunktrap. State police pursuit cars sat facing each way at the point, their motors running. Cops of various towns.h.i.+ps stood alertly along the shoulder and examined each vehicle which slowed before the point. Many had the thumb snaps of their holsters open, others openly grasped shotguns. Ann instinctively thought. But it wasn't a drunktrap. State police pursuit cars sat facing each way at the point, their motors running. Cops of various towns.h.i.+ps stood alertly along the shoulder and examined each vehicle which slowed before the point. Many had the thumb snaps of their holsters open, others openly grasped shotguns.

Melanie leaned between them as Martin pulled up to the point. The vehicle ahead of them was being searched.

"This doesn't look right," Martin said, and lit a cigarette.

Police to either side stared into their car as they waited. One's gun hand hovered over his holster.

"Today must be National Terrorize Citizens Day," Ann said. "I hope they don't think they're going to search our our car." car."

"Don't start a fuss," Martin advised. "We'll just cooperate and be on our way that much sooner."

Cooperate, my a.s.s, Ann thought. This Ann thought. This isn't Iran. isn't Iran.

They waved the pickup through. Martin pulled up.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

A short, portly cop leaned over their window, his hand on the b.u.t.t of his service pistol. "Sorry about the inconvenience. We need to look things over real quick."

"What you need to took at first," Ann suggested, "is the state annotated code. Check Chapter VII, paragraph 7:1, 'Predispositions Pursuant to Unlawful Vehicular Search.' You also might want to take a look at the Fourth Amendment of the United States Const.i.tution. Ever heard of it?"

The cop squinted. He was bald, with a short mustache that looked like a brush in a guncleaning kit. "I know you, don't I?" he questioned. "Yeah, you're Josh Slavik's daughter, right? The lawyer?"

Great, she thought. She recognized him now-Chief Bard. she thought. She recognized him now-Chief Bard. What the h.e.l.l is Bard doing running roadblocks ten miles out of Lockwood? What the h.e.l.l is Bard doing running roadblocks ten miles out of Lockwood? "h.e.l.lo, Chief Bard," she said. "h.e.l.lo, Chief Bard," she said.

"Well, I'll be," he replied, smiling.

"We've just come up from the city," Martin offered.

"Oh, yeah, I guess on account of Josh," Bard realized.

"Have you seen him?" Ann asked.

"Well, no, but your mom told me it was a stroke, they think. Happened real sudden. I see your mom quite a bit."

Of course he did; she ran the town council, which ran the police. "What's with the roadblock?" she asked next.

Bard's frown seemed to shrivel his face. "Couple of crazies escaped the state hospital yesterday. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds moved so fast they got through our net. We're checking everybody coming in and out just to be on the safe side. One of them's from Lockwood, but you probably don't remember him; he came along several years after you moved. Erik Tharp."

Erik. Tharp. It was a name she slightly recalled. She remembered her mother telling her about it years ago. A drifter, a substanceabuser. Something about him burying bodies off the town limits. Several of the bodies had been children, babies.

"Trouble is, like I said," Bard went on, "they moved real quick and changed cars a couple of times before we could get a fix on them. We just missed nailing them earlier today. d.a.m.n shame too. They killed a cop."

Christ, Ann thought. Ann thought. No wonder every cop in the area is out. No wonder every cop in the area is out.

"Well, you all go on now," Bard bid. "Give your mom my regards. I'll be stopping by later to see how Josh is doing."

"Thanks, Chief." Ann waved.

Martin pulled through the point. "How do you know him?" he asked.

"I don't, really. My mom hired him when the old chief died. That was years after I moved out of Lockwood. I talked to him a few times in the past when I'd come home to visit my parents. He keeps a low profile. Not much use for a police department in Lockwood."

"Until today," Melanie suggested. "Escaped lunatics!"

Ann thought of a lot of things when they entered town. None of them were good. Lockwood was a splotch, a bad meld of memory: her frustrated childhood, social isolation, her mother's dominance and her father's pa.s.sivity. Her past felt like a shadow she was about to reenter. She felt suddenly sullen.

The town looked equally sullen. It looked deserted. Martin idled the Mustang down Pickman Avenue, Lockwood's main drag. Almost everything here had been built a hundred years ago, refurbished since. A little brick fire station, the police station alongside. A general store, a diner called Joe's. Most of the economy here was agricultural; the men either worked the vast corn and soybean fields to the south, marketed farm supplies, or serviced tractors. Lockwood had always seemed to do better than the surrounding towns.h.i.+ps. There was no poverty and, hence, no drugs and no crime. It was almost idyllic.

Almost, Ann thought. Lockwood was isolated, remote. At times it seemed untouched by the modem world, and that's the way everyone wanted it. There was a curfew for minors, and town ordinances against package liquor sales. The only place a person could get a drink in this town was a dusty little tavern called the Crossroads. Kids had a dress code for school. More ordinances prohibited latenight convenience stores, bowling alleys, arcades, and the like. "As a community, we must strive to resist debilitating attractions for our youth," her mother had proposed before the town council years and years ago. Motels were prohibited too. Outsiders were not encouraged to visit. Ann thought. Lockwood was isolated, remote. At times it seemed untouched by the modem world, and that's the way everyone wanted it. There was a curfew for minors, and town ordinances against package liquor sales. The only place a person could get a drink in this town was a dusty little tavern called the Crossroads. Kids had a dress code for school. More ordinances prohibited latenight convenience stores, bowling alleys, arcades, and the like. "As a community, we must strive to resist debilitating attractions for our youth," her mother had proposed before the town council years and years ago. Motels were prohibited too. Outsiders were not encouraged to visit.

"What's the matter?" Martin asked.

Ann's thoughts had been adrift. "Just...thinking," she answered. Did she blame her parents for her constrained childhood, or the town itself? Lockwood seemed to emanate repression. Here it was, early afternoon, and the town looked dead. Kids should be out playing, housewives should be out shopping. There should be traffic, activity, etc., typical things of any small town. But there was none of that here.

"Where is everybody?" Melanie asked. "Aren't the kids here on spring break too?"

"In Lockwood?" Martin chuckled. "Who knows? They probably have a town ordinance now against children."

"It's not that bad," Ann said. "Just different."

"Yeah, different. I'm surprised we haven't pa.s.sed a horse and buggy."

The end of Pickman Avenue formed the large town square. Here was the old, steepled white church that Ann had never attended, and the town hall. Beyond that, all that could be seen was the vast rise of the forest belt, which kept the town dark till mid-afternoon.

"Oh, yeah, and there's probably an ordinance against sunlight too," Martin said. "This place has always been creepy, but never like this."

Martin was right. They hadn't seen a single person yet.

He turned left onto Lockhaven Road. The residential section extended from here past the old middle school. The town possessed fewer than five hundred people; dark, narrow streets led past modest homes, mostly one floor, which all seemed to be white with dark trim, and big trees in the yards. More trees lined the streets, adding to the queer darkness. The entire town seemed to brood.

"Which one is it?" Martin asked.

"Turn here," she instructed. It had been so long even Ann wasn't sure. The narrow road seemed to rise. "Ah, here," Martin said. He turned onto Blake Court and stopped.

"Jesus."

The long culdesac was filled with cars.

"Looks like half the town's here," Melanie said.

They're all at the house, Ann thought without knowing why. But what would bring so many people here? Ann thought without knowing why. But what would bring so many people here?

A long driveway led to the Slavik house. It was the largest house in town, large and gabled on a big lot full of trees. Very little of the house's original brick could be seen, covered by sheets of crawling ivy.

Martin pulled up next to her parents' old Fleetwood and parked. He sat a minute, peering out, and stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray.

"This is bizarre," he said.

Melanie leaned forward. "Mom, how come-"