Titan (77 hits)
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Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2006-11-19 18:44:24 EST
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Mike saw the lights of the rest stop ahead even before he crested the hill. There was a pearly glow in the night air on the other side of the rise in route 412. A battered green and white sign appeared.
TITAN
Pop. 938
"Michael, he's getting worse."
He glanced into the rear-view mirror. He had adjusted it so he could see the back seat. Milly was as white as a sheet. Even in the near dark he could see how white she was, how raw and red her eyes were. She was holding their son in her lap, and Teddy's chest was rising and falling dramatically as the boy struggled to breathe.
"There's going to be a motel on the other side of this rise," Mike said. A look at the flickering digital clock told him it was a few minutes after nine. He grabbed the thermos tucked between the two front seats and shook it again even though he knew it was empty. "We get a room, get Teddy some steam, and as soon as he's good to go we head south. Santa Fe is only about a hundred and fifty miles away."
The bigger the city, the bigger the emergency rooms, Mike thought. Free medicine for Teddy. That would be after they skipped out on paying the bill at the motel. And that would be if they got a room.
Mike had seventeen dollars in his wallet. Milly had about five bucks in bills and change. It was only a matter of time until he hit a motel that ran his cancelled credit card on the spot and denied them a room. That was why he chose out of the way places, hoping that whoever was at the desk wouldn't run his card through the system right there, submitting his billing information at a later time. And that was why they usually left each motel they stayed at in the early hours of the morning. Just in case.
Teddy's attack had started fifteen minutes ago. His inhaler was empty. Until he got another blast of Albuterol, he would need steam to help ease his attack, or at the very least, some strong black coffee.
My son could die tonight, Mike thought. He could be dead in an hour or two. He gave his head single violent shake.
The old Ford reached the top of the hill, and as Mike eased off the gas and the car coasted down to the rest stop, he tried to think positively. The knock in the car's engine was nothing. They would get a room and run the hot water in the shower until the room filled with steam that would help his son breathe, and then catch a few hours of sleep and hit the road in the morning. Teddy would get a fresh inhaler in Santa Fe. Mike's luck would turn, and he would find a job. He'd provide for his wife and kids. He'd stop this streak of bad luck that had run for years now.
He looked in the mirror again. He saw himself, dark brown hair going gray, and eyes lined more from hard work and worry than age. Behind him Milly was looking down at Teddy, her mouth a hard, bitter line.
She's probably thinking all this shit is my fault. And she's right.
Sitting on Milly's right was Becca. Becca was holding one of Teddy's limp hands, her eyes squeezed shut. Becca and Teddy were only a year apart, and very close.
"Look daddy," Lizzie said. "You were right. I knew you were right."
Mike glanced to his right instead of ahead. Elizabeth was their first, born just before all the bad shit stated, the shit luck that hadn't stopped.
When she said 'daddy' it sounded almost like 'deddy.' Lizzie had been seven when the family had pulled up stakes in Australia and come to the States, and her accent was almost as strong as Milly's after four years. Becca and Teddy were a couple of years younger, and they were still babies when they had come to America. Unless you heard their occasional drawn out vowels, you'd think they were born here.
Lizzie was the only one who always took his side when times were tight or tense, and those times were becoming more and more frequent. Teddy and Becca were closer to their mom. Mike remembered his granddad's odd way of describing loyalty, and thought it applied to Lizzie. She'd stay at the table through sugar and shit.
The last six months had been shit, hopping from one motel to another as Mike looked for work. He had been so sure that things would be better in the place he knew as home.
In the glare of the headlights Mike saw two buildings close to each other. One was long and low, a motel. There were cars parked in front of a few rooms. Beside the motel was a diner. To one side was a pair of gas pumps. There were a few cars parked in front of the diner. Mike could see a few people sitting in booths behind the big plate glass window.
Neon buzzed in the night, spelling the words 'Titan Motel & Diner.'
The word 'Vacancies' glowed candy-pink
Mike pulled up in front of the motel and got out of the car.
"Everybody stay here."
As he walked toward the glass doors of the motel office he heard his girls talking softly.
Becca asked, "Is Teddy gonna die?"
Lizzie replied, "Don't be stupid. Daddy will fix everything."
The door to the motel office was locked, and Mike saw a note directing him to the diner.
He quickly crossed the parking lot, took a look to make sure everyone was still in the car, and then pushed open the diner door. A little bell rang over his head.
There were five pairs of seats facing each other in booths along the front of the diner and a long counter along the back. Mike saw six or eight faces turn toward him and quickly turn away as he glanced around the room. There was no one sitting at the counter, although there were half-filled plates and cups of coffee in front of a few old-fashioned stools.
A wire rack held colorful menus informing him that the Titan Diner was the Home of the TITANIC Breakfast.
A woman was standing by the cash register at the near end of the long counter. She was heavy, probably pretty at one time. She was wearing a lavender uniform.
"I need a room," Mike said. "Got the family outside."
He tried to appear calm and ignore the way his heart was hammering in his chest. He tried not to think about the fact that he couldn't just call 911 because he'd skipped out on so many bills and bounced so many checks that there was a good chance there were warrants out for his arrest. He tried not to think about the fact that his son was getting less and less air in every breath, and a 911 call might soon be his only option.
The woman gave him a queasy smile. Her dark eyes looked troubled, and Mike figured she was just tired. He'd seen that minimum-wage burn-out in his own eyes often enough at the end of a long day.
"No vacancies, sorry," she said. Then she whispered, "You better get gone."
Mike frowned, wondering what was going on with this woman.
He could see into the kitchen through a wide service window. There wasn't anyone back there.
The bell over the door rang behind Mike and he turned and saw Lizzie entering the diner.
"One of mine," Mike said, giving the waitress a smile. Milly once called it his Moses smile, saying it could part thighs like Moses parted the Red Sea.
The waitress blinked at him, her throat working silently, as if she was nauseous.
Mike turned to Lizzie. "Baby, get back in the car."
"No vacancies," the woman behind the counter said. Her voice was almost a squeak.
Lizzie looked beyond Mike and gave the waitress a funny look.
Mike could feel time getting away from them, and he had to suppress the urge to let out a hysterical laugh when Lizzie cupped her mouth with one hand and whispered to him.
"She's bonkers, daddy."
Mike turned back to the waitress. "Sorry to press the issue, ma'am, but your sign is all lit up. The vacancy sign."
"And the room right in front of our car is empty," Lizzie said. "The blinds are open and the bed is made but there's no one there."
The waitress tilted her head, just a little, and her eyes widened. Her eyes flicked to the left.
There was nothing behind her left shoulder but the swinging door to the kitchen. In the door was a round window.
Mike felt a chill creep over him. Something was going on here, something far from good. He looked down the length of the diner again. There were six people, two couples and two sitting alone. No one was talking. No one was eating. Hey were all avoiding Mike's eyes.
"Okay," he said. "Any chance you can pour me a real big, real strong black coffee? My little boy has asthma and we're out of inhalers. A bathroom full of steam would work best, but a good jolt of caffeine should hold him if we have to get back on the road."
He got a blank stare from the waitress that went on far too long, and then a quick nod.
"Baby," he said, turning to Lizzie and bending down a little. "Run out to the car and get the thermos. Tell your mom coffee is on the way."
Lizzie nodded, turned on one heel, and went out the door.
Mike stood straight and noticed a framed photograph on the wall beside the door. It was a shot of the Titan Diner long ago. The place had been a ruined shell. Somebody had done a lot of hard work to whip this place into shape. Mike saw movement. He focused on what was reflected in the glass of the picture frame.
There was a face in the round window of the swinging door.
He turned around and saw an empty round window.
A voice in his mind was telling him to get the fuck out of here, right now.
The waitress turned and grabbed a pot of coffee. She started pouring a cup for Mike.
"No, he said, stepping close to the counter, "I've got a thermos coming."
Standing this close to the counter he could see a bit of the floor on the other side.
For the longest time Mike thought he was looking at a big flat piece of shiny plastic on the floor near the swinging door. Red plastic. Then Mike realized he was looking at a very big pool of blood on the white tiles of the floor behind the counter.
"Jesus," Mike said.
The bell rang behind him and Lizzie held the thermos up to him.
Mike gave her a quick glance, still watching the swinging door. "Get in the car, baby. Now."
Lizzie gave Mike her cross look. Usually it was amusing or endearing, but now was not the time for her to be testing her limits with him.
"Daddy, Teddy needs coffee. Why—"
"Elizabeth, get in the god-damned car right now."
Lizzie gasped in shock and put one hand to her chest, another thing Mike would have found lovely and comical if not for the fact that he felt like time was running out on him.
"Daddy, there's no need to speak to me that way. It was rude."
Mike wanted to smack her on the ass and and throw her head-first through the door, but it was already too late.
The swinging door began to open outward, and from the kitchen a gruff voice asked, "Now what in the hell kind of accent is that?"
The waitress tensed up like she was expecting to be hit.
Mike stepped between Lizzie and the big man who was coming through the swinging door. He shoved Lizzie backward toward the door to the parking lot and felt Lizzie push back. This was not the time for a budding adolescent to start butting heads with her father.
The guy was bigger than Mike. Taller, broader, with more of a gut. He had thinning blond hair and a wide mouth, but other than that his face was a lot like Mike's. The man looked worn down, over-worked, and bone tired. He was wearing black jeans and a faded denim shirt. He was holding an automatic pistol, a nine millimeter, either a Colt or a Smith & Wesson. Mike couldn't tell.
"Why don't you two sit over there," the man said, gesturing to the empty booth closest to the front door of the diner.
Mike closed his eyes for just a moment, convinced he could hear Teddy wheezing and fighting for very breath.
"My son—"
"Shut up," the man said. "Sit down. I heard about your son and if you don't aggravate me we can get him right as rain. Now sit."
Mike made Lizzie slide along the seat and then sat beside her, keeping his body between her and the man with the gun.
"The name's Carpenter," the man said. He turned, set his ass on the counter, and then raised his legs up and over. He set one foot on one of the stools covered in red vinyl and let the other dangle. "Gord Carpenter. I just stopped in to gas up and grab a bite to eat and things got a little screwy."
Mike didn't say anything.
"See, those pumps out there are dry," Carpenter said. "This is Wednesday night. Turns out they fill up the tanks on Thursday mornings, cause they get a bit of traffic over the weekend. Just enough to keep this shit-hole going, I guess. Truckers swing by here for the steak and eggs combo, ain't that right, Helen?"
The waitress nodded. She was still standing by the cash register.
"Anyhow, I came in here looking to gas up, and things got a bit crazy. Once everything settles down I'll borrow a car from one of you fine people and be on my way. I would have already been doing that but I had to make sure you weren't a cop, since Helen over here told me that the State Police like to come in from time to time."
On the wall over Carpenter's head was a clock. Mike looked at it and felt his stomach clench.
Four minutes. I've been in here four fucking minutes.
He looked down the length of the diner. He could only see the tops of a few heads over the other booths, no faces.
"What's your name, bub?" Carpenter gave Mike the lopsided smile of a hayseed.
"Mike. Mike Rennie." The big man's eyes were as shiny as glass. Mike couldn't tell if the guy was drunk, or stoned, or just plain old crazy.
"And how about you, miss?" Carpenter was holding the gun in his lap with both hands. The gun was pointing down at the floor as if he were about to piss bullets.
"Leave her out of this," Mike said.
Carpenter gave his head a shake. Still smiling, he said, "I'm the one with the gun, Mike. Right now this diner is the whole world, and if I want it to stand still, it will. If I want it or any fucking one of you to move, you will."
Mike didn't say anything. The others in the diner were still silent.
"Now," Carpenter said. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"My name is Elizabeth, and don't call me sweetheart," Lizzie said.
She was angry. She should have been scared, but she hadn't seen the blood behind the counter, and Mike was hoping he could keep it that way.
"Well, Elizabeth, it has come to my attention that your brother is sick, is that correct?" Carpenter held eye contact with her for a moment, and then his eyes drifted downward.
Lizzie folded her arms against her chest.
Mike glanced at his daughter. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. A few months ago he had been rocked by the realization that his little girl was now sporting tiny nubs of breasts. That meant she was getting older. That meant high school. And dating. And college. Mike had wondered how the hell she had gotten so big so fast.
Now as he looked at her he realized she wasn't too crazy about the whole big boobs thing either, and big boobs they would be if Milly was anything to go by. Lizzie wore a lot of baggy tops. She was kind of a kick-ass tomboy, long dark ponytail notwithstanding, and it was clear that she didn't want to be seen as what she would call a 'girly-girl.'
Mike realized that he had spent most of his life taking a good long look at tits when tits were in view and always thought of it as simply following a completely natural instinct. Seeing Carver look at his daughter the same way enraged him on a number of levels, and for a moment he couldn't think straight.
How could a guy that age be checking out a little kid? And how could anyone try to reduce all the crazy inquisitive strong-willed energetic wonder that is Lizzie to a pair of tits? And who the fuck did he think he was looking at my little girl like that?
These thoughts went through Mike's mind in a flash, along with the realization that he'd stared at women like that thousands of times.
And out in the car, Teddy was probably turning blue.
Mike took a deep breath, feeling his muscles tighten up.
Carpenter raised the gun in one hand, pointing it in Mike's direction. "Man, you're like an open book," he said. "One of those large print books. I can read you from here. You want to jump up and be the hero and save your little boy. Well, cool your heels."
The big man glanced at the waitress, Helen, and then back at Mike. He looked Mike up and down, studying his scuffed work boots and blue jeans and flannel shirt.
"I like you, man. I do. I know you're a working man, like me. Worse off than most. Your little girl's wearing stuff from the dollar bin at Walmart. Your shirt collar is frayed. A man has to own a shirt a long time to wear down the collar like that. You got tears in your boot leather, and the steel toe cap is showing through. And it looks like your wife stitched up one of the seams in those old jeans. Only a woman who's had to make do can sew like that."
"My boy," Mike said.
Carpenter nodded and threw Mike a wink. "I know, I know. I jaw a lot. It's how I am. But I'm just trying to clarify things here, Mike Rennie. I don't want to hurt you, but I won't lose any sleep if I do. Here. Let me show you."
Mike watched the big man hop off of the counter and stride down the length of the diner. He could only see the man from the chest up.
Carpenter stopped by a booth near the far end of the room and said, "Stand up."
A man got up and stepped away from his booth. He was about Mike's age, fit and tanned. He looked scared and annoyed. He was wearing jeans and a button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
"Now look at these shoes," Carpenter said, facing the man. "Aside from a scuff or two they're hardly worn at all. And these jeans are those pre-washed kind. They look worn, but they're brand new. I bet you own that big SUV in the parking lot, huh?"
The man nodded.
Mike watched both of them. They stood face to face. Beyond them was a white stucco wall and the door to the restrooms.
Carpenter took a step to one side. He raised the gun and placed it against the man's ear.
Mike heard Lizzie suck in a breath and grabbed her, covering her face with one hand.
There was a bang, more like a flat palm slapping a table than a dramatic movie gunshot.
The man dropped out of sight.
The white stucco wall was spattered with blood.
Carpenter looked at Mike and gave him that goofy, lopsided grin again.
A woman started screaming. Mike caught a glimpse of blonde highlights and one of those slightly orange salon tans as the woman jumped up out of the booth and then moved down out of sight.
"Lady," Carpenter said, looking down, "Be quiet."
The woman was screaming, maybe saying something, but it was all coming out in one high-pitched keening wail.
Carpenter's arms were at his sides. Mike watched as Carpenter shrugged, and moved one arm just a little.
There was another flat bang and the screaming stopped.
Carpenter walked back to Mike's booth, gave him a nod, and then backed up and sat on the counter again.
Somebody sniffled loudly in one of the other booths.
Mike could feel hot tears against his palm and he took his hand away from Lizzie's face. He gave her a quick kiss on the top of her head.
"Gonna be okay, baby."
Carpenter nodded enthusiastically. "That's right, little girl. And it's all up to you. That lesson was as much for you as your daddy. I want you to get up and go out to your car and bring your mommy and whoever else is out there with her in here. If you aren't back in about sixty seconds, I'll kill your daddy. Understand, sweetie?"
Mike glanced at Lizzie to give her a nod or tell her things would be all right, but he froze. Lizzie had a look of such raw hatred on her face that Mike knew for once and for all that his little girl was growing up. She scooted across his lap and ran out the door.
Carpenter looked over his shoulder at the clock.
Mike looked down at the booth's Formica tabletop and tried to ignore the slow burn that had started in his gut. Every time Carpenter looked at Lizzie or called her something like 'sweetie' that burn was going to get worse, until he did something about it.
"Steam?"
Mike looked up.
Carpenter was watching him, eyebrows raised in inquiry. "You said something about steam?"
"My boy has asthma. His inhaler is empty. Sometimes steam can loosen things up."
Carpenter thought a moment and then hooked a thumb over one shoulder. "I bet that dishwasher back there steams something fierce."
The bell over the door rang out and Lizzie came in. She held the door open and Milly came into the diner, holding Teddy and leading Becca by the hand. When Milly saw Carpenter she stopped dead.
"Come on in," Carpenter said, gesturing with the gun. He sounded almost jovial, a welcoming uncle. "Take a seat in the booth with your hubby."
Mike stood and took Teddy from Milly. He opened his mouth and before he could say anything she shook her head, her lips twisting a little.
"Oooh," Carpenter said with a laugh. "Do I detect a little tension? Does the missus think this is your fault, Mike?"
Mike couldn't feel Teddy's chest moving at all, and when he looked his son in the eye he didn't see any awareness there.
"I'm going to the kitchen," Mike said.
"Be my guest," Carpenter replied.
Mike carried Teddy to the nearest end of the counter. He squeezed by Helen, who still had not moved, and walked to the swinging door, keeping his eyes level after catching a glimpse of a body. He didn't want to see who had left all that blood on the floor.
He pushed through the door and went to the big sink by the dishwasher. If this place was like most kitchens, they probably had hot water that was really hot, for washing down greasy pots and pans. The big aluminum sink had a drainage platform to one side. Mike sat Teddy down and turned on the hot faucet. After a moment steam began billowing up out of the sink.
Still holding Teddy, Mike unbuttoned his shirt with one hand and pulled it off. He draped it over his and Teddy's heads and leaned over at an awkward angle so there wasn't any chance of Teddy getting splashed by the water. In a moment the steam gathering under the shirt was thick and moist.
Mike held Teddy like than until his back began to ache, telling the boy to breathe, and rocking him in his arms.
After a while, Teddy began to cough up mucous.
Over the sound of the running water Mike could hear Milly crying. He'd heard her cry enough over the years to know the sound intimately.
Mike had his hands on Teddy's chest and back, and he was relieved when he felt his son's slender body take a deep breath. "You okay, Teddy?"
The reply came out in a clotted wheeze, but any speech meant Teddy was getting some air. "You have stinky armpits, dad."
Mike took his time, holding his boy and letting him take deeper and deeper breaths of moist air.
Once Teddy was breathing well enough Mike turned off the tap. He was putting his shirt on when he heard Carpenter call out to him.
"There's a back door, but it's padlocked on the inside."
Mike looked down the length of the kitchen. He saw a door and a big brass padlock. He also saw the crumpled form of an older man. Probably the owner of this place, he thought.
"I've got the keys to that lock," Carver called, his voice drifting through the service window. "The only way out of the kitchen is the way you went in. And if you don't come out of there empty-handed, I'll shoot your wife."
Mike went back out to the diner, holding Teddy against his chest so his son wouldn't see the body on the floor. He averted his own eyes again as well. When he got to the booth Milly took Teddy and set him between her and Becca.
Becca gave her brother a hug. Teddy rolled his eyes and made a face.
Mike sat down, across from Milly, beside Lizzie.
He spoke in a whisper. "I should have called 911."
Milly looked at him, her face softening a little. "Where would me and the children be if you got locked up and couldn't work?"
Mike shrugged. "I should have just called. I was playing with Teddy's life. I'll never do that again."
Milly reached across the table. Mike took her hand.
"Sorry," he said.
She gave her head a single slow shake.
"I'm sorry I dragged you and the kids here. Maybe we should have just stuck it out in Australia. Maybe—"
"Michael, my parents went through hard times. They lost everything in cyclone Tracy. Your grandparents went through hard times in the depression. We just have to hold out. Things will change. I'm sorry if I take it out on you all the time."
He squeezed her hand and she squeezed his.
"Aha," Carpenter said, looking at Mike. "Your wife and kids are Aussies, huh?" He was still sitting on the counter, watching them closely.
He pronounced the word 'Awsees.' Milly hated that, and Mike saw a little frown break through the fear on her face.
"Hard times, huh bub?"
Mike didn't respond.
"Yeah, you and me are brothers in the struggle. I lost my job, started trying to ease the tensions with a drink now and then, and the next thing I know my wife is throwing me out. Hell, sometimes it takes a year or two to turn things around."
In the last four months Mike had only missed two days of work. Most of the jobs he found were day labor, scrambling for a few bucks alongside Mexican illegal immigrants as he moved his family around the American west.
Mike was about to respond when Carpenter looked beyond him, sighed, and said, "Well, this night is about to get a lot more interesting."
The big plate glass window filled with light. When the light died Mike saw two New Mexico State Police cars in the parking lot. The doors on the black Crown Vics opened and one officer got out of each car and started walking toward the diner. One of the men said something to the other and they both laughed. The triangular crests on their shoulders glowed white in the light from the diner.
When the cops were ten feet from the window and heading for the door to the diner, they paused, looking at the big man sitting on the counter.
Carpenter raised the gun and fired four times.
The big plate glass window shattered, and everyone screamed, including Mike. He threw himself over Lizzie, and saw Milly do the same with Teddy and Becca.
Mike heard the slick sound of metal on metal. He looked up and saw Carpenter still sitting on the counter as he ejected the magazine from the gun. The people sitting in the other booths must have seen the same thing. They let out mindless little grunts and cries as they scrambled through the broken window and ran across the parking lot toward the road. A shard of glass had torn a red line in the white shirt stretched taut over a businessman's gut, but he kept going.
Mike had an overwhelming urge to do the same and felt a burst of shame well up within him, making his fear seem insignificant. He and Milly could move fast enough, so could Lizzie. But they would have to carry Teddy and little Becca. That would slow them down.
Carpenter swore softly and reached back, pulling another magazine from a back pocket.
He loaded the gun, cocked it, and seemed to fire a few random shots at figures fading into the night, two teenagers, a skinny guy dressed like a trucker, and the fat businessman, who actually passed the fast-moving teens.
Mike heard a radio crackle and leaned over Lizzie. One of the cops was unmoving. One was whispering into his mobile radio.
Carpenter hopped down off the counter and walked to an empty booth. He leaned out the window and fired one shot. The radio continued to crackle, but the cop was now silent.
"Hey, how much gas you got in your car, Mike?" Carpenter's tone was conversational. Casual.
Mike looked at the man and saw that lopsided smile. "We're down to a quarter tank."
"Well shit," Carpenter said. "I suppose I can try and hot-wire a car. Think there's an old Ford pick-up out there that should do fine."
Carpenter walked back to the counter and sat on one of the stools covered in peeling red vinyl. He reached out and tapped the stool on his left with the gun. "Come sit with me a while, Mike."
Mike got up and nearly fell. His legs were numb and weak. He sat beside Carpenter. He saw that the waitress was still standing by the cash register. She hadn't moved, but at some point she had thrown up, and vomit stained the bosom of her lavender uniform.
"Hey Helen," Carpenter said, "How about you pour me and Mike here a cup of coffee. And try not to drip any puke in it, sweetcheeks."
Helen started moving, in slow motion.
Mike looked at the counter. There was a congealed plate of mashed potatoes and chicken-fried steak in front of him, and he pushed it away. The napkin had not been used. It was real linen, worn shiny and frayed at the edges. For a moment Mike wondered many greasy spoons like this still used real cloth napkins. Then he wondered if he was losing his mind.
Carpenter sighed, and swiveled on his stool to face Mike.
"You know something, Mike? We're alike, you and me. I'm willing to bet you're one push away from..." he made a broad sweeping gesture with the gun, "All of this."
Mike shook his head. "No," he said, even though he knew there were times when his frustration and rage made him want to strike back at someone, anyone.
Carpenter looked over his shoulder at Milly and the children, and then leaned close to Mike. "I been on the run a couple days now. Pain in the ass, let me tell you. I blew my cunt of a wife's head off and hit the road with my kid. That's all. You'd think I was part of al fuckin queda the way people are treating me. I was listening to the radio yesterday out on some damn lonely stretch of road and heard one of those Amber alerts. Can you believe that shit? They said I kidnapped my own fucking kid."
Mike was looking at Carpenter, studying the man's round face, thinking the man was crazy, hoping those thoughts didn't show on his face, and watching the gun in the corner of his eye.
He was wondering if Milly could haul ass with the kids if he grabbed the gun. Carpenter was big, and would have one hell of a weight advantage. But if he could just hang onto the gun long enough—
Helen set down two coffees on two saucers. The moment before they touched the counter the cups and saucers rattled against each other.
"Thanks, darling," Carpenter said. He raised the gun and shot Helen in the throat, and then aimed the gun at Mike's chest.
Helen staggered backwards and hit the wall behind her, slumping down behind the counter.
"Come on, Mike, you think I didn't see you checking out this gun? Wondering if you could grab it? Fight me for it? Like the hero in a movie on cable?"
Mike looked at Helen. He could see her head and shoulders and her vomit-stained bosom. She was sitting up and looking at him. Blood was coming out of a small hole in her throat, and all Mike could think of was ejaculate, that the blood was coming out with the same rhythm as when he came. Stream. Pause. Steam. Pause. Each stream a little weaker than the last.
"That was the final warning, Mike. If I have to shoot anyone else, it's gonna be you, or part of your family."
Mike looked back at Carpenter. An anguished look passed over the big man's face.
"I don't want to do that, Mike. We're brothers, man."
Mike looked out the window. The night was quiet.
Carpenter leaned close again, and whispered. "Come on, man. You never wanted to blow you wife's fuckin head off and just... blow? Hit the road? Fuck, man. Who hasn't? Am I such a bad guy for doing what we've all wanted to do?"
Mike looked over the counter again.
Helen's head had slumped to one side.
He looked back at his kids. They'd seen a lot of scary shit tonight, but they couldn't see any actual dead people from where they were sitting. Would that make a difference later on? Would they still have nightmares about all of this?
Carver cocked his head toward the far side of the counter. "That bother you?"
Mike shrugged. "I just don't want my kids to see that. Any bodies, I mean. The cops. The waitress. Your wife."
Carver leaned back and gave Mike a curious look. "My wife? My wife is back in the basement of our lovely home in Denver. Well, she was until she was found by the cops. That's what started this whole thing. Shit, I probably could have been in Mexico by now, looking for some kind of work, instead of having to dodge cops by tooling down backroads."
Mike looked around the diner again. "I thought you said you hit the road with your kid?"
Carpenter nodded. "Yeah, I did."
Mike knew kids were the only children here.
"You didn't," he said. His voice was raw with anger and disgust.
Carpenter grinned and laughed, but this close Mike could see that the man's eyes were filled with a crazy mix of madness and despair.
Mike stood up.
"Sit down," Carpenter said. Now he was angry.
Mike leaned over the counter as far as he could.
Carpenter raised the gun and pointed it at Mike's gut.
"I said sit the fuck down."
Mike saw the pool of blood on one side of the body behind the counter, and smears of blood on the other side. Now that he was looking right at the body he could see it wasn't a woman back there. It was a girl about Lizzie's age. She had been shot, dragged back there, and then left to bleed out.
"Tell me again how we're alike," Mike said without thinking, almost falling back onto the stool. "You sick piece of shit."
Carpenter hit Mike with the gun, sweeping it up into his face. It clipped his right cheekbone and the eyebrow above it, and Mike saw his own blood spatter the counter.
In the booth close by Milly hugged Teddy and Becca. Lizzie started to get up. She was holding one of the rounded butter knives that had been set beside a clean plate. Her eyes were Mike's eyes, normally a lively golden brown. Now they looked almost black. Mike waved Lizzie back, and when Carpenter glanced in her direction she was sitting in the booth and staring out the window.
As fucked up as this situation was and as much as his face hurt, Mike knew he would never forget that moment, and the look on Lizzie's face.
Mike reached for a napkin, and pressed the folded, starched linen against his face.
"Daddy's girl," he muttered.
"What are you," Carpenter asked, "A fucking comedian?"
"You killed your own kid," Mike said. It was half question, half statement of fact.
Carpenter thought about that for a moment, then he spoke in a thoughtful tone. "She became... difficult."
Mike didn't say anything.
"Up until tonight," Carpenter said with his lop-sided grin, "She was real sweet. Be kind of a shame if I had to hit the road again all by my lonesome little self."
Carpenter turned and looked at Lizzie.
With all he had seen tonight, this was the worst. Mike's chest felt tight with revulsion and rage and he felt like he might be sick right in his lap. He looked at Milly and the kids. Beyond them, he thought he saw a glimmer of light.
The big man gave Mike a slow wink. "A man's got a right to lay pipe in his own backyard, am I right? Sure I am."
Mike stood up.
"Hey, I'm talking to you," Carpenter said, his face darkening.
Mike backed up until he was standing between Carpenter and his family.
Carpenter stood up and pointed to gun in Mike's face. "Sit the fuck down!"
"Milly," Mike said. He hoped he would sound strong and in control, but his voice was watery and weak. "Take the kids and run like he—"
Carpenter sucked in air with an angry snort.
Mike raised a hand as if to ward off the big man and Carpenter pulled the trigger.
Mike felt twin flares of pain. His right hand jerked and split open as a bullet passed between his knuckles. At the same time he felt a red hot knife slice the side of his face from his right eye to his ear. He staggered back into the booth and fell into the seat beside Lizzie.
His right ear was ringing. In his left he heard a high whine, like a bumblebee passing overhead.
Carpenter grunted once, twice. Two red holes appeared high in the center of his faded denim shirt
Somewhere outside Mike heard distant shouts and the roar of car engines. Headlights flared out on the road.
Carpenter fell onto his ass against one of the stools. He dropped the gun on the floor. He reached for it, and Milly jumped out of her seat. She grabbed the gun and threw it out into the parking lot.
Mike couldn't help but notice she threw like a girl. He hoped he'd be able to give her shit about that later.
Carpenter watched men in uniform swarm into the diner. His head slumped, his chin resting on his chest.
Mike looked outside and saw cops everywhere, guns drawn, all of them wearing bulletproof vests. A few of them were carrying binoculars. One of them had a rifle with a big scope. The rifle looked like it was made of plastic, and Mike wondered how something that looked like a toy could do any damage at all.
He looked back at Carpenter. The big man wasn't moving, and his shirt was almost black with blood.
Cops hustled them out of the diner, and in moments Mike was sitting in the back of an EMT unit.
A cop was standing nearby, and behind him were Milly and the kids.
The cop asked him his name.
He thought of all the bounced checks, and all the bills he had skipped out on. None of it seemed to matter anymore.
Mike gave Milly a tired smile, and she smiled back. Then he began answering the cop's questions.
User Reviews
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2007-06-04 22:42:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
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