Tara put her hand in the middle of her friends back, pushing her out through the McDonald’s entrance. “They’re looking. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Quit pushing me,” Jules hissed.
“Hurry the hell up, then. That woman saw.”
The two girls broke out the door and hustled to a mid-nineties Toyota Camry, silver, with a dented hood. Tara reached through the open window, picked up a canvas bag, and sauntered three cars down. A slate gray Porsche Boxster, ragtop down, gleamed in the sun. Tara flicked the visor down, caught the keys. Throwing her second smile of the day at Jules, she nodded to the car.
“Get in.” Tara took the driver’s side, Jules the passenger. They strapped in, Tara shoved the car into gear and they spun out of the parking lot. They were gone, north on the interstate ramp, before anyone registered the blood.
***
Detective Frank Barbary chewed on a toothpick, contemplating. The crime scene folks were milling around, done photographing and taking samples, waiting for the call to close the scene. The body was zipped into a plastic Cobb County Medical Examiner’s pouch, the protruding knife pitching an obscene tent. The widow was crying plaintively in the living room.
Barbary was comfortable with what had gone down, felt he had a handle on the day’s events. Spike Hamilton shouldn’tve been boning his daughter in the first place. He didn’t blame that girl a bit for offing him. Doubted a court would either. They just needed to find her. A BOLO was in place for Hamilton’s Camry. Find the car, they’d find the girl. He might just shake her hand when they found her.
Word was she’d taken off with her best friend. Barbary shifted the toothpick to the opposite check. How far could two thirteen year olds get, anyway?
DELAY
Flashing in the Gutters 2006
“Poor, stupid fucker.”
Delay stood over the carcass of the deer.
“I’m soory, y’hear? I didn’t mean to hit ya. Ya just ran out in front of me like that, and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t hit the brakes, there’s that bag with the eggs in it in the backseat. And she’d kill me if I came home with broken eggs, you know? And you’re a cute little thing, aren’t ya. Aww, hell. Now I’m gonna feel bad all night. I didn’t mean to kill ya. Ended your life before it ever began. Ya still gotch ya spots on ya side. Little Susie’d cry all night if she knew you were dead by my hand. She don’t conscious with that killing of animals, ya know. Think she’s even started talking about becomin’ a vegetarian, one of those freaks who don’t eat meat. Now, that oughta make ya feel better. Not one of yer brethren being ate by my little girl. Sounds like we might have ourselves a deal, ya think? I’m so sorry, little fella. Ain’t so little, though, are ya? Man, you put a nice dent in the front of my F-250. Cost me a pretty penny, ya know, but the dealer was right. He tole me that them women hang out by the Home Depot, looking for a man with a big truck. Couldn’t afford the 350, that woulda been nice, but the guy said the 150 wouldn’t get me any tail. Ah, hell, I didn’t mean that, ya got a cute little tail, all white and fluffy. Susie sure would like to see ya, but I couldn’t take you home like this, she’d never understand. Ya know there’s a football player lives down the street, now he got hisself a 650. That fucker’d tow a house ya wanted it to. Man, I’d love to have me a truck like that, all shiny chrome and Mack details. Wow, that would be the life. But the 250, now that’s a workin’ man’s truck, cause that’s what I am, ya see, I’m a workin’ man. That’s what I was doing when I hit ya, little fella, I was headed home from work. Kinda cold to be roofin’, but it’s better than those 90 degree days when ya feel like you’ll slide right off them shingles and slip into the tar below. Hotter’n Georgia asphalt, hahaha, get it? I guess that’s not so funny to you now, laying here in the dirt. Aw, I’m sorry, little fella, I was trying to make a joke and I’ve gone and hurt ya feelins. I wish there was something I could do to help ya now, but it looks like yer all gone. No more light in those pretty brown eyes. Well, I guess it’s about that time. I need to get ya off the road so no one comes by and smacks ya one, and the missus, well, she’s waiting for those eggs.”
***
“Poor, stupid fucker.”
Billy Dean had been with Rescue for a little over four years now. It amazed him. For a rural stretch of road, a straight line of black nothingness—no hills, no curves—Route 3 attracted nearly all the accidents in the county. Most had no apparent cause. Something invisible jumped out, caused these redneck idiots to slam on their brakes with such violence that they’d fly right out the windshield. None of the stupid fuckers ever wore their seatbelt. Now Billy Dean was on his knees in the gravel, trying to pump some life back in to Delay, getting creeped out because the man was staring at the deer he’d hit like it would talk to him. Billy Dean pumped, but the life left Delay, left him lying on an endless stretch of blacktop next to a dead deer. What a way to go.
Billy Dean held the compressions. Closed his eyes. Said a prayer. Wondered what Delay would think about dying with egg on his face. And how they would explain the mangled body of the woman, under the tarps, in the bed of the 250, to his wife.
X
Demolition Magazine 2006; Nashville Lifestyles 2008
I watched X tidy up the kitchen. The routine was familiar, comforting in its mundane, expected way. Every night, she cleans up before she goes to bed. Oh, we won’t even talk about that.
I’ve been in that kitchen, of course. Smelled the warm aroma of clean, seen the knives lined up like tin soldiers. Each appliance in its place, each tool, each spoon, all in perfect harmony in her kitchen. Spotless, sterile. Unlike her, actually. X is warm, strong, caring, loving. I know this because… well, I just know. Dammit, don’t doubt me. I just do.
She’s smiling now and the warmth passing through my body is nearly uncontainable. It’s as if she’s looked me straight in the eye, her smile an arrow through my heart… oh, I see. X’s cat has jumped onto the counter, is flicking its tail under her perfectly formed chin. She runs her hand along the kitty’s back, purses her lips in a croon, then grabs her around the middle and sweeps her onto the floor. Okay, so I know the cat is a girl. Yes, I know her name. It’s Pumpkin, which, if truth be told, I find a bit beneath this particular woman. Surely a creature so exotic, so perfect can come up with a more original name. But that really makes no difference. All that matters is X, and what matters to her, matters to me.
The idiot creature had gotten out for an instant, slunk out the back door when X had her head turned. X had flown onto the deck, screamed “Pumpkin!” with such a note of panic in her voice that I had to stop and stare. How could she care so much for such an inconsequential creature? The cat must have sensed it as well, for she froze in the fallen leaves, glanced about once or twice, then turned and scurried back up the stairs and straight into the house.