“Don’t worry, Sarah. It’s not against the law to be an absolutely awful person. You should congratulate yourself on a job well done… Now, see if you can interpret the significance of the following gesture.” Wade pushed his nostrils up with his index fingers and began to make pig noises.
Sarah shrieked: “I’m getting my new boyfriend to kick your ass!”
“Hey, I’m shakin’,” Wade said. “I’m leaving town. See?”
Sarah tromped off, her lips pursed to a tight, red seam.
“When are you gonna learn to control yourself?” Tom complained.
Wade shrugged sheepishly. Many patrons were staring at him, brows raised. “I couldn’t resist. She had it coming.”
Tom ordered two more Spatens. “I don’t understand how Jerv could fall in love with that gold digger anyway.”
“Love’s a funny thing,” Wade speculated. “It clouds our sense of reason. The Eleventh Commandment: Love makes morons of men.”
Tom slapped the bar. “I knew you had religion in you somewhere.”
The Spatens caught up fast; you could only put so much in before you had to let some out. Wade excused himself to the men’s room, which was empty and damp. As he tended to business, the wall provided an engaging display of graffiti. “Eat, drink, and be Larry,” one scrawl read. “West Virginia men are men…and sheep are nervous.” And: “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than have a frontal lobotomy.”
Sounds like you need both, Wade thought. But when he turned to leave, he found a frightfully large figure standing in the doorway.
“Pardon me, brother. You’re blocking the door.”
“Zat iss correct,” came a succinct, zinging German inflection.
Wade already knew who it was. This fucker’s huge, he thought, and that was all he thought for some time. Wilhelm Karl von Heinrich loomed, bringing his angular face and blue eyes into the light. He wore tailored gray slacks and a silk shirt that must’ve cost five hundred dollars.
“You get that shirt at Ward’s?” Wade asked.
Wilhelm’s face remained a stoic blank. “Herr St. John, you unt me, vee must come to an understahndink.”
“I understand that you’re possibly the biggest motherfucker on two legs, but that’s about it. I like the accent, though. French?”
“Unt comedian,” Wilhelm said. “You insult mein girlfriend, and vut it iss you must understant iss zat no vun insults mein girlfriend.”
Wade took a crack at the accent. What did he have to lose? “Vell zen, mein namen must be no vun because your girlfriend iss unt ahz hole, Herr Big German Mozzerfocker.” And then Wade slammed his fist into the soft of Wilhelm’s belly. Only…there was no soft. What his knuckles impacted felt like padded rock. The German didn’t flinch, or even react, to the blow.
“So much for the warm up,” Wade said. This guy must have the Berlin Wall under his shirt. Wade pointed to the ceiling. “Stukas! Look!” Wilhelm looked. Wade rammed his fist into Wilhelm’s jaw with a raw, wet smack.
Wilhelm chuckled. “Unt comedian,” he remarked again, smiling, and flung Wade effortlessly across the bathroom. He crashed into the stall and banged his head against—of all things—the toilet seat. Wilhelm then put a wristlock on him…and twisted.
“I tell you ziss only vunce, scheisskopf. You ever speak to mein girlfriend again” —Wilhelm’s free hand produced a shiny knife— “unt I will kill you.”
The knife flashed. Wade could read the words Blut und Ehre! on the blade. Wilhelm gave Wade’s arm another twist and emphasized: “I vill cut your guts out und stuff zem down your sroat.”
“I think I get the idea,” Wade wheezed, wondering when his wrist would snap.
“Vee have understalindink, zen, ja?”
“Ja!” Wade conceded. “Ja-ja-jaaa!”
A tad more twist on the wrist. The knife turned. “Ja?”
“Ja, goddamn it! Ja!”
Wilhelm put the knife away. “Gute, gute, we have undestahndink, but zere iss vun more sing. In zah fazzerland, vee have a special way of sealing unt agreement.”
Wade rolled his eyes. He knew what was coming.
“Vee drink to zat agreement, Herr St. John, and ziss drink iss on me.”
Wilhelm then thrust Wade’s face into the toilet and flushed. “Gute?” he asked. He pulled Wade up. “Unt anuzzer? Ja?”
“Nein, nein,” Wade groaned, dripping.
“Ja, I sink vun more for zah road,” and down Wade’s face went again. This time he was held much longer. Bubbles erupted from his lips. Somehow he managed to think: I am going to drown in a toilet. What a way to go.
When Wilhelm let go, Wade fell out of the bowl and onto his back, gasping. He coughed up toilet water as his conqueror towered flagrantly above him, hands on hips and smiling.
“Until vee meet again, Herr St. John—guten Nacht.”
Wilhelm turned and left. Dripping, Wade struggled to his feet and tried to clean himself up at the sink. Remind me to never insult Sarah Black again, he chastised himself. Wade’s defeat was optimized when he plucked a big pubic hair off his nose.
««—»»
And what happened after that—the vision of teeth—was a smudge in Penelope’s mind. All she could see was that widening, bright red mouth ringed with teeth. The teeth were pointed and long.
Then came a blur, a vibration. A sudden, nettling pain pricked Penelope’s throat. Then the woman in black got out of the car.
Penelope couldn’t move. She could see, hear, feel, think, but she couldn’t move. She slumped, paralyzed, at the wheel, her hands upturned in her lap like dead birds.
—Hurry.
Someone was coming. A shadow moved across the windshield.
She fell out on the ground when the door was opened. The horse-killer bent over—the axman—and that was when Penelope first recognized him: Professor Besser, her biology teacher!
He did not look pleased.
—Hurry!
He grunted, threw Penelope over his shoulder, and started walking.
He was taking her back to the stables. Where had the woman gone? Besser’s feet thudded the dirt floor. Penelope saw lines of stains, blood. Then Professor Besser stopped.
—Hurry up with her and come right back. There’s much to do.
Mr. Sladder’s flashlight was on the floor. It was still on. Penelope could see upside down past Besser’s legs. And what she saw…
The flashlight cast crisp, black shadows on the wall. One shadow was a prone figure—Mr. Sladder with the ax still in his head. Another shadow squatted over it.
“I’m very tired,” Professor Besser complained. “I need help.”
—You’ll have help soon, the woman’s slushlike voice replied. But where was she now? Was she the second shadow?
More shadows converged. Suddenly there was a wet plunging sound, like someone cleaning the insides out of a big pumpkin. Shadows of hands and arms were reaching into Mr. Sladder and pulling things out.
Professor Besser’s feet started up again. Penelope remained limp over his shoulder as he carried her out of the stables and into the foggy, moonlit fields.
She was slipping away. Her breasts bobbled upside-down. The fog came nearly up to Besser’s waist. They were passing the utility shed and the chopped down fence. All the while, the stinging throbbed at Penelope’s throat. What had the woman done to her?