“Did you know he destroyed us?” he interrupted. “Did he tell you that? ‘Course he didn’t. He comes home from his six-month trip, spooked to shit, and then we had to leave, change our names, our fuggin’ lives. It was like that show, “The Pretender.” Brand-new identity, tear up the past, it never happened. You ever watch that show?”
I told him I hadn’t.
“Changed our names, man. Fuck him and his war. I changed mine back.”
He cracked open the second beer, staring at the floor, saying nothing. A faraway symphony hissed from the boombox.
“You said Richard was frightened,” I prompted, “when he came home. Came home from where?”
Daniel hummed a melody I didn’t recognize.
“Eh? Right?” he said, his eyes wide now. “National fuckin’ anthem, See-See-See-Pee. Moscow or something, I don’t know. We moved, it wasn’t explained. I thought he’d blown a whistle on some bank fraud or something. Witness protection, Dad was a hero, he thought about it and did the right thing. And then…”
He took a deep drag of his cigarette.
“…and then Mom and Jenny were killed, and it was just me and Dad. And he lost it, man, he just fuckin’ lost it, started obsessing about death, jumping at shadows—literally jumping at shadows—and then we moved out here to B.F.E. He said we’d be safe here.”
“From what?” I asked.
“From the monster… but… but I didn’t know that then.” Daniel blinked slowly now. The man was hammered. “Life in the fucking boonies. But people were nice, at first. One lady, Bethany Walch, dropped by a few weeks after we came here, introduced us around, took a—hah—a keen interest in the Widower Grace, if you catch my drift.”
“They had a relationship.”
“Depends on your definition. The next week, she got threshed right along with the hay.”
His glazed eyes glittered.
“It’s quiet out here. We heard her scream three miles away.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“Few days later, he sits there, right where you’re sitting, and tells me that he’s responsible, he killed her. Which is bullshit, and I said so, cuz he was standing next to me when she died. He doesn’t listen.” He opened a fresh can of beer. “Then he tells me something worse is coming. He tells me my girlfriend’s going to die on the Scrambler, he’s seen it, and he’s telling me about it now so he can stop it from happening.”
“Scrambler?”
“Carnival ride, pitches you around, makes you wanna fuh”—Daniel belched here, wiped his mouth with the top of his wrist—“fuckin’ puke. Here’s the thing, mister, the thing that’ll crack that fuckin’ brain of yours. I didn’t have a girlfriend when he told me that. And then a few weeks later, I did. And the carnival came, and I didn’t listen, and we went.”
“And she died,” I said.
He touched the long scar on the side of his face. “Yeah.”
“Did your dad know the girl before he told you this?”
Daniel Drake looked at me. The cigarette hung from his lips. Smoked streamed into his watering eyes.
“He saw her picture in the paper. It was Ms. Walch’s daughter. Her picture was in the Sunday paper, the day after her momma died.”
Daniel’s face twisted into a snarl. He plucked the cig from his mouth and pitched it to the hardwood floor, mashing it with his work boot. His voice was cold now.
“He left the next day. Fucking coward left his eighteen-year-old son with a paid-up house, a shitload in the bank and a letter on the kitchen table. Says he’s a ‘death-bringer,’ he’s cursed, seein’ things—a giant, living Inkstain sliding across the walls. ‘Unholy retribution,’ he says, some convoluted monster-movie bullshit, and he’s leavin’ to save my life, not coming back, and I shouldn’t look for him.”
He threw his can of Coors at the fireplace. I flinched. The can bounced off the hearth, spraying foam and beer onto the floor.
“And by fuck, I didn’t.”
I looked up from the mess to Daniel’s face. Four arrests in as many years, I recalled. Two for assault. I had to tread carefully now.
“What… What did you think of that?” I asked.
His bloodshot eyes locked with mine. The music filled the silence.
“About. What.”
“About what he said in the letter.”
Daniel Drake stood now, towering above me, his body swaying. His face had gone blank, impassive. Just like his father’s.
“My girlfriend’s head was cut clean off her shoulders,” he said. “I swallowed so much of her blood that day, I can still taste it. Mister, I believed every word.”
I didn’t need the drunk to walk me to the car—and frankly, after the spook story I’d just heard, I didn’t want him to. But Daniel Drake insisted, and so we trudged through his slop-soaked front yard toward the Saturn. I tapped the remote entry button in my hand, and the doors unlocked.
“Nice car,” he commented. “Yours?”
“It’s a friend’s.”
He nodded to his blue, battered pickup truck. Behind the shitheap’s cracked windshield was a faded, handwritten FOR SALE sign.
“Everyone needs wheels. Got a guy comin’ tomorrow to see it. It’s yours for two hundred now, if you wannit.” He snorted through his nostrils, sucking phlegm into his mouth. He swayed, spat and smiled. “Cash or check, it all spends the same.”
I opened the car door and smiled back.
“I’m good. Listen, I really appreciate you talking to me. It’s been really helpful.”
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” he said.
I extended my hand again. This time, he shook it. His calloused palm squeezed far harder than I liked.
He leaned toward me. The air turned rancid as he spoke.
“Mister, you’re not trying to cure him, are you? Make him see again?”
“I… I don’t think he wants that,” I said. “I just want to do my job.”
Daniel’s green eyes probed mine. “What’s dead’s buried. You’d be right to leave it alone.”
I can’t leave it alone.
“Thanks again,” I said, and climbed inside the car. My feet found the clutch and brake pedals. I switched on the ignition. The Saturn purred.
Being inside was literally a breath of fresh air. I leaned my face toward the cartoon pine tree dangling from the rearview mirror, and inhaled. I suddenly felt as if I were in a Glade commerciaclass="underline" Fresh forest scent! Ahhhhhh!
Ah.
I looked at the dashboard. There, in its center, was my iPod. My brain made the cross-reference: Richard Drake, the song he played at The Brink, Russia, the classical music streaming from Daniel Drake’s boombox. If there was anyone who might know…
“Daniel!” I called, rolling down the window. “Daniel, one quick question!”
The man turned in the yard, spat again, and walked back to the car. Goddamn, he was burly. He slapped his hands onto his knees and peered into the car. He flashed me his brown teeth, gleeful.
“Changed your mind about the Chevy, huh?” he said. I shook my head.
“Actually, it’s about your dad. I heard the music inside, and it made me think of something. Your dad played this, on a piano. Does it mean anything to you?”
I tapped the iPod. The opening high notes of “Night On Bald Mountain” were playing now, leaves scattering in the wind—
“NO!” he screamed. “NO NO NONONONONO! Heard it enough then, still hear it in my fucking sleep! Turn it OFF! Turn it OFF, you motherfucker!”
“Wait, just—”
His hands were inside the car now, his scarred, crimson face an inch from my ear. His fingers tore at my face. I felt blood surge down my cheek.