The Nightrunners Part 3

Then he saw the light. Way out on the highway, coming from the south; car lights made fuzzy by the rain.

He thought whoever was driving that crate was going much too fast; cruising like they had bone-dry highways and lots of light.

"Gonna end up in a G.o.dd.a.m.n ditch," he said around the stem of his pipe.

And now the car was splashing by with a hungry roar- -and Malachi felt cold; more so than any rain should make him, even a late October rain. The wet slush in his chest that had been serving as a heart turned to a fist of hard ice.

He shivered.

For a moment it was as if nothing else lived in the universe but him.

Lightning flashed, lit the night bright as day. Malachi could see the car clearly-a black '66 Chevy turning off 59 onto the Old Minnanette Highway, which was hardly a highway at all anymore.

Then it was night again and there were only the taillights winking away in the cold, dark sockets of night and the growl of the engine receding in the distance.

Suddenly the driver hit down on his horn.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Sharp, harsh punctures in the messy, wet night.

Then silence.

Malachi shivered again. Thought: It's as if Old Man Death himself just drove by with his window cranked down and his breath leaking out; the rotten, chilling breath of the sick and the dying.

After a moment the sensation pa.s.sed. Malachi thumped the contents of his pipe out and hauled the kettle inside, put it in its place and put the pan away.

Then, removing his shoes, pinching them between thumb and forefinger, he stole silently back to the bedroom, pushed the shoes beneath the bed and removed his pants. He eased softly under the bedclothes and for a moment lay still on his back, looking at the ceiling.

Dorothy did not awake.

He had it made now.

Gently, he rolled on his side and put his arm around her-and felt the marble-cool flesh of the recently dead.

FIVE.

October 30, 1:30 A.M.

The black car pulled off the Old Minnanette Highway and rolled down a wet, clay road. It found harbor in front of a barbed-wire cattle gate. Sat there while the sky went about its wet tantrum.

After a moment, a back door opened. A girl got out, moved across the road and into the woods behind the car. She found a place thick with overhead branches and surrounding foliage, dropped her pants, squatted to pee.

She could see the car from where she squatted, and even in the darkness, she could see the white face of the driver. It was pressed up against the door gla.s.s, looking out at the night. It didn't look quite human, a white, pasty thing with gun-barrel eyes; eyes loaded with hate and fury.

She shivered.

"Blessed Mother," she mumbled to herself, "how did I get into this?"

All she wanted was a wedding. The sort with a veil, a long bridal train dragging behind her. Nothing more. Except Jimmy dressed in a suit instead of greasy jeans and jacket for a change.

That was hardly what she had gotten.

But then, not getting what she wanted or expected had become a way of life for her.

It had always been that way.

Each day was just one bigger s.h.i.t-brick than the last.

Her first memories of her father were of him speaking Spanish drunkenly, fondling her between the legs-until her mother caught him one night, and that was the last she saw of him. Here today. Gone tomorrow. No big loss.

The thing she remembered best after that was her mother constantly making her strip and lie on the bed so she could explore with cold hands- always cold hands-the inside of her s.n.a.t.c.h. Make sure she was still a virgin. This was an obsession with her mother, making sure her daughter was unsoiled.

She went out on a date, her mother would be waiting. Then she'd get the strip, cold fingers in the s.n.a.t.c.h routine.

If her mother suspicioned she had been near boys, it was the strip, cold fingers in the s.n.a.t.c.h routine.

Look at a boy's picture too long in a magazine, it was the strip, cold fingers in the s.n.a.t.c.h routine. What was she expecting to find in there? The refuse of wood-pulp j.i.s.m?

Was the guy in the magazine going to come out of the picture and stick a paper d.i.c.k in her? What was the deal?

The routine got to be daily.

She began to think maybe her mother just liked smelling her fingers afterward.

That and looking at her religious c.r.a.p were her only pastimes. Had the s.h.i.t all over the house. A living room full of tiny Blessed Mother shrines and crosses. And in the kitchen, over the sink, so she could watch it while she did the dishes, there was a five-dollar plastic Jesus with batteries and a lightbulb inside. Touch the switch-cleverly located in the statue's side wound-and J.C.'s eyes glowed like a cat in the dark.

And there was that stupid 700 Club blaring all the time. Lots of preachers in expensive suits with hair sprayed down hard enough to look like concrete curbing.

It was enough to drive a madman sane.

Some life.

Then she met Jimmy. Ugly, pimple-faced Jimmy.

But he was nice and interested in marrying her, could take her away from the shrines and the 700 Club.

She met him one day after school. He was sitting on the hood of an old battered white Ford. When she walked by he yelled, "Hey," and she stopped.

He climbed down off the hood of the car, went over to her.

"Hey, I'm Jimmy. What's your name?"

"Why do you need to know, taking a survey?"

"'Cause I wanta."

"Why?"

"I like the way you look."

"No kidding, so do a lot of other guys."

"Yeah, I bet."

"Really?"

"Sure. You say so, I believe it. Besides, look at you."

"That some kind of crack?"

"Naw, no way. I mean, look at you. You look good. Lots of guys would like the way you look, just like me. I mean, you could probably have any guy you want."

"Yeah, yeah, maybe I could."

"You could."

"Yeah, okay, I could."

"Now, will you tell me your name?"

"I guess. . . Angela."

"Nice name."

"Yeah, well, Jimmy isn't so hot. I had a hamster named Jimmy. My mother killed it with a broom."

"So it's not a good name. Do I look like a hamster to you?"

"A little."

He smiled. "Carry your books, Angela?"

"I guess."

He put her books under his arm and started walking toward the Ford. "I'll give you a lift.

Where you going?"

She thought a moment. "Nowhere," she said, and meant it.

At first he was something to fill the hours, someone to spend time with after school. And each day, after she left him, and after her mother made with the exploration through the country of her privates, she would find herself looking forward to the night, to when he came to her window. He'd sneak up the back alley and scratch on the screen and they'd talk, sometimes until way into the morning. Talk was all they did, nothing more. She never even unlatched the screen.

Jimmy never tried any funny business with her, just told her he loved her and wanted to marry her.

It was an idea, she told him, but he didn't have a job. What were they going to live on?

He admitted it was a problem.

Shortly thereafter, he dropped out of school and got a janitor job at the Galveston courthouse. Didn't pay much, but it was something.

Each week he brought her the bulk of his earnings, and now she was unlocking the screen, taking the money, holding his hand, and leaning forward to take his lips.

Things were looking good for Angela baby, and that should have been a clue.

Because suddenly, it was s.h.i.t-brick time again.

Yep, she could count on it. Soon as she started having a pretty good time and things started looking up, the s.h.i.t-bricks would fall.

Angela's feeling good. Look out! Here comes the s.h.i.t-bricks.

Angela's luck looks like it's going to change, and watch it! Because here comes a whole wall of tumbling s.h.i.t-bricks, right down on top of her little Puerto Rican head.

This time was no exception.

The first s.h.i.t-brick to fall was not the last, not by any means, but it was certainly a doozy.

Hit right smack on the head of her dream.

Jimmy got buddies, and suddenly he was a tough guy. Started seeing her less, and when he did come around he'd say: "I'm not so sure about this marriage stuff. How do I know you're going to be a good piece of a.s.s? I mean, I haven't seen any action."

She let that go for a while, then one night, while he was singing the same song, one hundreth verse, she said: "Whatever happened to my nice Jimmy?"

That seemed to get him a bit, but he said, "Part of my problem. Too much Mr.

Nice Guy.

What's it got me?"

"After we're married you can have me."

"After we're married, after we're married, that's all I ever hear about. You got stock in marriage licenses? I'm not so sure I want to get married anymore. I mean, I might be getting a pig in a poke, you know what I mean? Or maybe a pig that won't poke, know what I mean?"

"What's with you? . . . You're different."

"I'm learning some things about women."

"From your friends?"