The Year's Best Horror Stories 15 Part 14

Inside a dayroom, several girls her own age lounged on sofas and chairs, staring listlessly at a television set. They had already changed into their bathrobes and fuzzy slippers and were settling in for an evening of MTV. But of course Erin was not among them. This was not her building.

As she cut across to the corner bungalow, Lori looked back and saw her mother sitting resignedly in the swing next to the boy from the Special Olympics. From here she couldn't tell if they were talking. She hoped so.

Green Cottage was darker than the others. The older girls had covered their windows with rainbow stickers and tissue paper arranged in stained gla.s.s patterns. Lori managed to see into at least part of every room. With so many record alb.u.m covers scattered over beds and the piles of underwear collecting in corners, they reminded her of Erin's room at home. But Erin was not in any of these, nor in the dayroom at the end.

She stood outside, her own face reflected in the gla.s.s. It was easy to imagine herself living here. She wanted her own room to have unicorns and stuffed animals and colored lampshades, too. After a while all the Green Cottage girls returned and were accounted for except Erin. When no one noticed Lori and invited her in she moved on, dejected.

How could she tell Mom?

On her way back to the field, she saw the young counselor who had tried to help Mom out of the car. He was coming this way. He had a jaunty way of walking that made her feel good. With each step the keys around his neck jingled like music.

"Hi," she said.

"What are you doing out of your room?"

"I don't have one."

"What's your color? You're in Green Cottage, aren't you?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean, I'm not really here. It's my sister. Don't you remember me? I came here with my mother to-"

"Oh, yeah. How're you doing? Did you find that sister of yours?"

"No. Did you?"

"Me? I thought Lissa was going to track her down. Well, she'll turn up. They always do. Tell your mom not to worry."

He started away.

"Hey, where's your mom now?"

"Over there, I think." She tipped her head to the darkness.

"What's she going to do about that tie-rod? I can give her the number of the garage in town, if she wants. Does she have the Auto Club?"

"Um, I'll ask."

It was too dark now to make out anything from the edge of the field. As she drew closer she heard the Olympic runner's flat-footed gait start up again. He couldn't stop practicing.

Had they made friends yet? Even if they had, Lori should come up with something to say to keep her mother from getting too depressed. When she was little Mom had done that for her, reading her stories so that she would not be afraid. And now Lori would do the same for her. She hoped it would help.

She tried to think of something interesting from The Book of Uncommon Knowledge. The divorce rate, for example. It was fifty-one point seven percent now. Did Mom know that? She probably did. How about the one that said your hair and skin keep on growing after you die? If that was true, she thought, how could you ever know whether anyone was dead or alive? How long would it take to be sure?

"Mom?"

She let the footsteps pa.s.s once before she left the path, moving cautiously until the swings were lined up against the office on the other side. They were empty, but one set of chains was moving. Had Mom been sitting in that one?

At that moment the sound of running feet, magnified into a heartbeat between the buildings, was interrupted suddenly by a dull thud, followed by the ringing slap of flesh against steel. Lori had a mental picture of a wild horse tripped and brought to its knees, the way they did it in cowboy movies. Then there was a kicking and thrashing and a terrible high-pitched wail.

"Mom?"

Lori rushed in, her own heart drumming in her ears.

Somebody in the office heard, too, because the outside lights went on. And she saw.

The runner lay crumpled on the ground near the monkey bars, clutching one leg. A piece of bone stuck out below the kneecap. His face was twisted in pain and his mouth was open. Lori's mother was bending over him.

"Mom, what are you doing?"

Casey looked up. Her eyes were wild. She recognized Lori and stopped her fists. She lowered her hands and sat back, blinking at them as if they were someone else's, and pressed them to her face. When she took them down her expression was the same flat mask as always.

"It's all right now," she said. Her face quivered and changed once more, then to the mask, then back again. She could no longer control it.

Lori went to the boy. "What happened? Are you hurt bad?"

"Bad ...!" he blubbered, his tears falling like dew on the gra.s.s. "T-t-tripped ..."

Lori turned on her mother. "What did you do?"

"I asked him to help me find Erin," Casey said. "And he started to run. That's all any of them know how to do. They can't wait to get away. But that's all over. Come with me now, baby."

"No, Mom, you're wrong! I'm not your baby anymore." Lori began to cry. It was the first time since Dad left. "Don't you understand?" she sobbed. "We're not going anywhere!"

Some of the counselors came out and tended the boy, as Lori's mother told them a story about what had happened. They nodded solemnly. No one argued with her. How could they? It was her word against the boy's. But Mom told the story again just to be sure. As she walked away with them, her feet made a funny zigzag pattern on the ground, as if she did not know where she was going.

Lori waited in the dark, on the gra.s.s, crying and crying. Now that she had started she was afraid she would never stop. And that she would never know.

TAKE THE "A" TRAIN.

by Wayne Allen Sallee.

Wayne Allen Sallee created some controversy in The Year's Best Horror Stories: XIV last year with his story, "Rapid Transit." "Take the 'A' Train" is a follow-up to that story-an exploration of some alternative interpretations of "Rapid Transit" which Sallee says he had not considered at the time he wrote the story.

Born September 19, 1959 in Chicago, Wayne Allen Sallee has taken the small press field by storm and force. By the first day of 1987 he had had 320 poems accepted for publication and had sold twenty-four horror stories. His work has appeared in Grue, New Blood, Twisted, Sycophant, Gas, 1130 Club, Back Brain Recluse, Dreams & Nightmares, Portents, Doppelganger, and dozens more. As I've earlier commented, the small press field is intense. Sallee resides in Chicago, where he is working on his second novel, The Holy Terror, while his first, Paingrin, stalks a publisher.

Ca.s.sady spent October in his dingy, three-room hovel, submerged in his own guilt, self-exiled from the city. He ventured out rarely, and then only for food. His phone was disconnected on the twentieth, three days after the girl's murder. ComEd hadn't taken care of the lights yet, so he was able to spend the days watching television, safe from the prying eyes of the neighborhood. He watched situation comedies from the 1960s, mostly shows with father figures.

The scar on his hand was healing nicely. And on Halloween, Ca.s.sady stayed in the corner tavern for three beers and n.o.body had asked him any questions. That made him feel better, feel as if he could tackle the world again.

When he went home from the bar, Ca.s.sady spent long, quiet moments contemplating the Terri Welles centerfold on his bedroom wall. He decided he would talk to Sarah about the murder the next afternoon.

The first of November came in with a freezing downpour, but the rain did not deter Ca.s.sady from waiting the half-hour for the train to Sarah's flat on the north side. The four-car E1 was delayed by what the conducter said was a police and gang-related incident, and when it finally did arrive, icicles were forming in Ca.s.sady's beard. He cursed an elderly woman for not boarding the train faster. She had begun to say something in return, but stopped when she saw the hatred in his eyes.

He stood commando style against the sliding, graffiti-washed doors. Let someone try and make him move out of the way! He scanned the faces of the others in his car carefully, but did not see the killer's face or anybody else's that was recognizable. This was a city of strangers. He would leave soon, yes oh yes. No one knew him anymore. He would go to Boston or ... or New York City. It was a grim resolution.

The train wormed underground, avoiding the rich bankers and pretty secretaries who lived and/or worked on Rush Street and the Gold Coast. Ca.s.sady knew in his mind that it was not always this way; the fatcats and moneymakers had forced the city government to change the tracks to fit their needs. But, Ca.s.sady didn't think the train was an eyesore. The pretty stewardesses and waitresses who lived on Sandburg Terrace could f.u.c.k themselves. He was glad that the Tylenol Killer had been able to kill at least one of them. Whoever he had been, if Ca.s.sady had known him, he would have told the killer to put cyanide in all the bottles in the Walgreen's on Rush Street. Then they all would have died. Forty minutes later, Ca.s.sady stepped off the train at Addison. He was humming Van Morrison's "Brown-Eyed Girl."

Picking up a copy of the Tribune's Green Streak at a corner kiosk on Waveland that smelled like c.r.a.p, Ca.s.sady read that a suspect had been questioned as the E1 Murderer. Ca.s.sady was shocked to find out that Quita McLean's knife-killing was the third in the last four weeks. Why hadn't he read about the others? Were the papers covering this up like they did everything else? Were there people out there who maybe had witnessed one of the other murders like he had? Maybe seen the killer's face? Would they be sympathetic toward him or hate him?

Ca.s.sady pressed his fists to his forehead, dropping the paper. Two Hispanics in leather blazers stared at him from across the street.

Witnesses ... the thought made him shiver. He was getting sick again, just like Martin Balsam in "The Taking of Pelham One, Two, Three." This city was killing him. Sarah would help ease his suffering, though, like she always had.

Wait. Someone was watching him from behind.

Turning quickly, Ca.s.sady saw no one. Perhaps the watcher was some kind of acrobat and was now hiding behind the newspaper stand? Turning back, he saw the blond man staring, white hairs sticking out of his beard like weeds. Red veins quavered in his eyes. Ca.s.sady suddenly realized that he was staring into mirrored gla.s.s.

He walked toward Broadway in the quickening darkness, leaves piled like ashes all around him. Ca.s.sady had known Sarah since his freshman year at the University of Illinois on Polk Street. 1980. Geez, six years that seemed like yesterday. He still couldn't find a decent job.

Sarah had tawny hair and almond brown doe eyes. Ca.s.sady felt himself getting an erection. Once, when he has awakened after dozing on the bus and dreaming of Sigourney Weaver, Ca.s.sady was embarra.s.sed to discover that he was the proud owner of a raging hard-on and at least three bus pa.s.sengers were aware of it. They had t.i.ttered amongst themselves, thinking everything was funny as usual. If only more people could be concerned with what was happening in the real world. After the bus incident, Ca.s.sady learned to sleep with a copy of the Trib over his lap, even if he was only daydreaming.

Sarah had taken up nursing after graduation. He had dropped out in his junior year at the U of I. She still loved him, though. The suspected killer's name was David Spellman, age 27, unemployed. Chicago's Finest found him in an alleyway behind a Winch.e.l.l's Donut House. He was in the process of raping a fifteen-year-old girl. He had a broken c.o.ke bottle in one hand, and still had not actually confessed to anything. Ca.s.sady reeled off the stats from the newspaper article as if he had been reading the back of a Topps baseball card. He did not realize he was talking out loud.

He knew them all, though. Manson. Speck. Son of Sam. And Gacy, just five Christmases ago. What was that joke ... Gacy's favorite country and western song: I'm walking the floor over youuu ... His voice trailed in mock falsetto, echoing madly in the shadowed corners of New Town. Some people thought the gays deserved it, deserved getting picked up by Gacy and shown the old handcuff trick. Ca.s.sady didn't think so, though. Gays were different, but that was no reason to kill them.

The paper also had a short piece about the man who had found Quita McLean's body. It was on page three of the Chicagoland section, next to an ad for Field Days.

Sarah Dunleavy lived in a second-floor walkup at 1123 Wolfram. Wrigley Field was a short distance away, and as he trudged toward Sarah's block, Ca.s.sady imagined opening day of the '86 season. Maybe this would be the year the Cubs would take it. He remembered all the times his mother had taken him to the weekend games with the Cardinals and the Mets. The smell of hot dogs and pizza, watching couples hold hands, yelling when Banks or Santo hit one out on Sheffield. Songs on the radio ...

(Do you remember when, we used to sing, shala la la) Well, shala la la, here he was. He scratched nervously at his right hand before ringing the bell.

(Whatever happened, to Tuesday and So Slow?) He wondered whatever had happened to Van Morrison, the Dave Clark Five, Paul Revere & The Raiders.

"Denny!" Sarah said buoyantly in the open doorway. She was wearing Levi's and a loose-fitting burnt-orange sweater. The sleeves were pushed up around her elbows. When they kissed, Ca.s.sady felt that she still wasn't wearing a bra. "Bet you're hungry after that long train ride, huh?"

"Yea." Ca.s.sady tried not to sound distracted. "You bet."

He sat at the kitchen table while Sarah busied herself with the dinner. She turned now and then to ask a question, her hair falling across her face. He was happy that she was not wearing makeup or nail polish. That was for the s.l.u.ts who worked downtown.

He made small talk about the weather and his job interviews and then stared at the flowered wallpaper until Sarah walked to his seat with the prepared meal.

(Countin' flowers on the wall, that don't bother me at all) They walked together into the living room and sat near the television. Sarah placed a steaming plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes on the tray next to him. She poured a Pepsi into his gla.s.s. He watched it fizz, as if was something mystical.

"Hey, thanks," Ca.s.sady said, smoothing his shirt.

Sarah sat back on the sofa and watched him eat. Using the remote control, she turned on the television. He was grateful when Sarah switched from the news to a rerun of Barney Miller.

Ca.s.sady slowly cut into the meat. It was rare, his favorite. The knife sc.r.a.ped against the ceramic plate, and the juice sprayed finely onto the sleeve; (The juice erupted from the woman's breast and soaked his sweater) he watched it spread into the cotton blend like a hideous sunset, pushing his plate away in disgust; (Because she was dead and his hand o G.o.d his hand held the b.l.o.o.d.y knife) and Sarah looked away from one of Dietrich's witticisms to Inspector Luger at the sudden jangling of the plate.

"This steak is too d.a.m.n rare," Ca.s.sady spat, needing something to say.

"Denny," Sarah exclaimed, wiping her hands down the sides of her jeans. "You always order it that way everywhere we go. You know how the waitresses all think you're some kind of werewolf!"

"The waitresses don't know s.h.i.t!" Ca.s.sady hissed.

"Denny, what the h.e.l.l is the matter with you," Sarah said, concerned lines finding their proper place on her face.

Ca.s.sady's hands played twister with his hair. His eyes were squeezed shut. Minutes pa.s.sed thickly.

Finally, with Ca.s.sady staring at the powder-blue carpet, and Sarah looking at him, studying him, the entire time, he spoke. He explained that he was having a rough time finding a job since his unemployment ran out, and that his shoulder was sore again because of the damp weather. Sarah understood him well. And oh how she loved him. Soon, they were laughing about the new Woody Allen film, and about snoopy old Mrs. Spinoza next door. They talked about dinner on the lakefront that summer, Christmas shopping, and the taverns on Division Street. Then Ca.s.sady's face clouded over as fast as a schizoid's, as if he had just remembered why he had come.

"You know, Sarah," he said softly. She stopped smiling. "Well, I sort of knew this girl once. She worked down the mall from me when I was at the Jeans place in the mall. A few of the girls at the store used to go to lunch with her."

Ca.s.sady was speaking in a detached way, strangely formal, as one might speak to an old friend at a wake. Sarah studied his face more closely, looking for some clue as to his behavior. There was none.

"It's been almost two years since the night she didn't come home," he continued. "She was a lot like me, you know. She really loved the city. Not being afraid to go out at night like just about everybody else."

"I'm not afraid," Sarah interrupted softly.

"I know." Ca.s.sady didn't hear what she said. "I guess that's why I still think about her.

(sometimes I'm overcome thinking about it, making love in the green gra.s.s) even though I only met her once or twice. She reminded me so much of myself. I don't know ... it's hard, Sarah. It's hard to explain why I love it here so much. Yea, I know. You can't walk around smiling without people thinking you're gay or r.e.t.a.r.ded or something.

"But, let me tell you something, Sarah (behind the stadium with you) on a day when everybody and everything spits in my face, I love it here that much more (my brown-eyed girl) "It was December. This one girl I knew, Karen-she was manager of my store at the time-she told me how her and Vicki used to sit in front of Foxmoor's, and that's what they had done that last day, eating lunch on the floor because it was so crowded with Christmas shoppers, and they were throwing fries at each other, making faces at the shoppers. And that night, Vicki went to a bar and never came home.

"This wasn't in a bar in a rough neighborhood or something," Ca.s.sady said, shaking his head. "It was in Palos Heights, for chrissakes. Four blocks from her home."

More silence. A car honked outside. The door upstairs slammed distantly.

"They found her in January. This farmer up near the Wisconsin border let his dog out one morning, and ... this is how the paper put it; 'After several minutes of digging in the snow, the dog ran proudly back to its master, the head of the missing girl jauntily dangling from his mouth.' Jauntily dangling. Jesus, can you believe that? The coroner put the time of death at about a week before that. There were pieces of her all over the field."

His hands were still pressed tightly against his skull. Ca.s.sady made claws out of his fingers and dug them into the creases around his forehead, as if trying to re-open a line of sutures that held back a slow trickle of mistakenly discarded memories. He thought of the blood dripping down Quita McLean's thigh, black in the glow of the streetlamps. Just like the others. He did not mention that he had asked Vicki out to dinner, and that she had refused, placing him in the cla.s.s of all the other macho animals. Sarah didn't need to know that.

Sarah had begun to speak when Ca.s.sady lifted his head. The blood vessels stood out in his cheeks from where his palms had pushed against the skin. Several thin red scratches ran across his forehead. My G.o.d, Denny used to have laugh lines, Sarah thought.

The clock behind Ca.s.sady read ten o'clock. Over two hours had pa.s.sed. A rerun of "M*A*S*H" was on the television.

"No," Ca.s.sady said with a tone of finality, knowing what Sarah was going to ask. Oh he knew her only too well. Women were all alike, really. "They thought it was her boyfriend, but they couldn't be sure."

He stopped talking then. He was thinking about other, more private things. Sarah reached across the distance between them and took his hand, wiping the blood that was on his nails, soothing him just like she did in that dream thousands of years before. Yes, she knew him well. Too well.

Ca.s.sady knew this, knew that it was only a matter of time before the cops came and asked her questions. He really had only one choice.

Sarah slowly realized the change that was occurring in Ca.s.sady. He looked too calm. Too serene. Instead of wondering why he had brought up all these memories, tragic as they were, she felt chilled.

Denny's eyes were different, she thought.

"Denny, I-"

"Sarah, wait. Do you remember a few years ago, it was around the time of the Humboldt Park riots, that girl who was raped near the Belmont E1?

"Remember that guy, he was a clerk in a record store, and he tried to help, and the guy stabbed him to death? ..."