The Boulevard Monster, page 17
Ryan’s eyes squinted in confusion as I turned the volume up to an uncomfortable level. I made my way back over to the couch, and he took a hard drag from his smoke. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “Are you on something?”
My eyes moved from Ryan, to the blinds, to my backpack. Once the words fell out of my mouth, there would be no turning back. A rejuvenating jolt of adrenaline and fear surged through me and my stomach fluttered. I met eyes with Ryan. He had no idea what was coming. No idea the weight of the hammer I was about to drop on him. But if anyone could bear the burden of my truth’s weight, anyone who would saddle up next to me and attack the challenge head-on, it was Ryan Patrick Collier.
I picked up the backpack. “Come to the bathroom with me.”
Ryan snuffed out his cigarette. “What for? You need help wiping your ass?”
“Just come on. Please.”
He dropped his eyes to the backpack. “What’s in there?”
“I’ll show you in the bathroom.”
His eyes slid to mine, and he slowly picked up his hunting knife, gripping it tight. He stood up, looked at the blaring TV, toward the bathroom, back at me. He pointed at the backpack with his knife. “What’s in there? A gun?”
I held out the backpack. “You carry it,” I said. “And look,” I tossed the backpack onto the couch and lifted my shirt and spun around. “I don’t have any weapons on me. I just want to talk.” A beat. “Please. I need your help.”
I went to the bathroom and turned on the shower and sink water full blast. My paranoia knew no bounds. A few seconds later, Ryan came in carrying the backpack and sat on the toilet lid. I closed the door, splashed a handful of cold water on my face, and told Ryan my truth. Most of it anyway. The only part I left out was the way I’d kicked that one woman.
First I told him about Randy’s disappearance, how I hadn’t lied about finding the girl’s body in the back of his truck, how bad it had disturbed me, and how I’d called Detective Morrell and those guys because it was the right thing to do, not because I wanted Randy to take the fall for something we did together. I told him at that point I wasn’t involved at all.
Clutching the backpack on his lap, Ryan gave me a single nod, and I went on.
I asked if he remembered the day the bird bandit dive-bombed me at work. How could he forget that? He and the guys at work talked about it regularly. I told him about the note the bird took, what it said, that I assumed it was a prank set up by him and some of the guys to fuck with me.
He sat perfectly still and listened as I paced in the tiny space in front of the toilet and tub and spewed out a jumbled mess of information about my meetings with Luther and the birds following me and the ruse of investing in EnviroTek. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he had a million questions he wanted to ask, but I didn’t give him the chance. I’d finally popped the blister that had been swelling inside my chest for almost two years and I wanted to squeeze out all the pus before I dealt with questions.
I told him everything about Luther. His threats on my family. His ability to manipulate emotions and talk to birds and God knows what else. About the naked man in Colorado. All the jobs I’d done. How the blue jays followed me everywhere, all the time, and could seemingly understand me and pass messages to Luther. Which is why I wanted the blinds closed and TV loud and water on. They were outside waiting. Watching. Listening.
Talking openly about Luther, revealing the truth, made me feel like a huge burden, a huge weight, had been lifted off my chest. The only problem, a fucking huge one that will haunt me until the day I die, was that my burden felt lighter only because some of the weight had been passed to Ryan.
Like any guilt-ridden person trying to rationalize their actions, I explained how I’d tried to use the money to help everyone I could. Him. Brianne. Their mom. My dad. Sera. A pitiful and pathetic excuse, I admitted, but I couldn’t do anything else. I had no choice. I had to make the best of the situation and protect my family, right? Wouldn’t he do the same? I explained how, although I was uncertain as to how many of the Boulevard girls I’d actually helped dispose of, I’d kept all the flyers and memorized their names, birthdates, and good characteristics out of pure guilt.
Then I told him that when I learned Brianne was pregnant and that Detective Morrell and the cops were suspicious of me, I knew I had to sever ties with Luther somehow. My guilt and fear and paranoia had risen to an unbearable level and knowing I had a new baby coming was the tipping point.
I paused to splash cold water on my face again before telling him his role in all this. I told him that Luther knew he was suspicious of me and had confronted me a few times. That Luther said he was going to kill Ryan after our fight yesterday, but that I’d told him I’d do it myself so he wouldn’t have to die the way that man in Colorado did— scared shitless and basically eaten and drank and pecked dry.
After I told him I was supposed to take him out to Plemons and kill him, and that Luther was waiting for us there, he stood up and said, “I need another cigarette.”
When he came back into the bathroom, he closed the door, lit up, and flicked on the ventilation fan.
“Do you believe me?” I asked.
“I know you couldn’t make up anything like that,” he replied. “You don’t have a creative bone in your body, and that’s one crazy fucking story. So yeah,” he locked eyes with me, “I believe you.”
“Even the Luther and bird stuff?”
“I know you believe it.” A drag. “And if I don’t and you’re right, then I’m fucked, right?”
I nodded.
“Then of course I believe it.” A smirk teased the corners of his mouth but quickly vanished. “I don’t like being fucked.” A drag. Another brief smirk. Dark humor had always been his answer to stress. “So what are we supposed to do now?”
“You sure you want in on this?” I asked. “We could kill all the birds around here, and you could try to run if you want. Maybe you could take Brianne and Sera and—”
“What kind of life would that be?” he cut in. “A life running scared? Never feeling safe? Everything I know and care about is here in Mercy. I’m not running. It’s not an option.” He lifted the toilet lid and dropped his cigarette butt in the water. “Besides, I would never do that to you.” We held eye contact for a moment, and a hundred unspoken fears and apologies passed between us. Apologies for the fights, doubts, accusations, lies. Fears of the future, the unknown.
He lit another cigarette. Staring at the tattered linoleum floor, he puffed away for a minute or two before I broke the silence. “I’m sorry I got you involved in this. You don’t deserve it.”
“You don’t either.” He looked up at me. “But like Forest Gump said, shit happens sometimes, right?”
I chuckled. He’d mimicked Tom Hank’s voice perfectly. “It does,” I agreed.
He took a hard drag. “What do you think we should do?”
I grabbed the cigarette, took a puff, passed it back. “We have to try to kill Luther. He’s going to kill both of us if we don’t.”
“Try to kill him?”
“Yeah. Try. I assume he can die. I mean, nothing on Earth lives forever, right? But I honestly have no idea. Maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s not from Earth. Or maybe he can heal himself. Maybe he…I don’t know…I don’t know…but we have to try.”
Twenty-Five
Two Fools, One Errand
We stopped at Toot N’ Totum on 45th and bought a six-pack and a few burritos before heading out to Plemons. Paranoid of the large cluster of following blue jays, we drove with the windows up and the radio at a decent volume so we could talk freely. Odd thing was, other than Ryan’s few comments about the pursuing birds, we didn’t talk about Luther or the crude plan we’d hashed out in the bathroom after I’d showed him what was inside the backpack.
Instead, we talked about the gut buster burritos we were eating. Guessed at how many we’d eaten over the years. Speculated for the thousandth time about their contents. Laughed until our eyes watered about the time Ryan tried to eat one for each beer he drank; he puked half of the thirteen all over Dora Dean’s chest outside Wizzards that night and dumped the rest in the floorboard of the Chevy ten minutes later. I spent the next month trying to get the smell out of the cab.
I don’t know if we didn’t discuss Luther because of fear, stupidity, nervousness, confidence, or all of those. But I was glad we didn’t. For the thirty minutes it took to reach Plemons Bridge, we talked about dumb stuff that didn’t matter. Just like old times. We hadn’t had a conversation like that since I’d met Luther. It was relaxing for me, calming, and based on the look in Ryan’s eyes, I think it was relaxing for him as well.
After we crossed the bridge, which was lined with blue jays, I drove toward the same spot I’d buried the body the night Ryan had followed me after our argument in the alley and pulled to a stop in a small clearing next to an abandoned water tank, twenty yards from the dry riverbed. Before I killed the engine, I reminded Ryan that he couldn’t talk about the birds that were dotting the surrounding mesquite like blue fruit. He was there to get shot in the head and didn’t know about the birds or Luther. He winked at me, opened a beer, and got out of the truck. I grabbed the other five beers and followed him to the back of the truck where he lowered the tailgate and we sat down.
I scanned the overcast sky, wishing the clouds would go away. I knew the sun couldn’t kill Luther, but I hoped it could weaken him At least a little. We needed any edge we could get. As we drank, I continually scanned the trees, looking for Luther. I knew he was already there. Watching. Listening. Just like the birds. Waiting to see me take another step toward becoming a monster like him. I figured it would delight him to no end to see me kill Ryan. After I’d done it, he’d probably glide over to me and say something like, “I know it’s hard the first time, but it’s for the best.” He would sound genuine and try to look sympathetic, but his ice blue eyes would sparkle with pride and giddiness, betraying his true emotions.
Ryan tossed his empty bottle into the trees, opened another, and gestured at the riverbed. “Remember when it used to have enough water in it to fish?”
I nodded, and opened another beer. A dam built in the late nineties had shrunk the river from a steady four-foot depth down to two, and the drought that has ravaged the panhandle for the last five years took those two. Now the cracked soil absorbed every inch of rain without showing anything for it.
“Robert,” Ryan said, “one of my mom’s boyfriends when was I eight or nine, used to bring me out here on Sunday mornings to fish. I’d never fished before then.” He took a long swig. “I remember the first fish I caught was a small catfish. Robert showed me how to gut it, and we ate it right there on the river’s edge. I’d never tasted a fish so good.” Another swig. “I wonder what ever happened to Robert? He was one of mom’s only boyfriends who didn’t totally suck balls.”
I knew all about Robert. Ryan had told me the fishing story twenty times over the years. Robert had been one of Brianne’s favorites, too. She said he was nice and comforting without being fake or gross like some of the other guys. She said that’s probably why he didn’t last long. Three or four months, tops.
“My dad brought me out here once, too,” I said, and chuckled. “Only because my mom forced him to, though. I don’t think he said more than five words the entire time we were here.” I’d told Ryan this story before, too, but continued. “So I just sat there and thought about Lurth. Imagined I was at a magical river filled with magical beasts. Beasts that would only befriend children. Beasts that would jump out of the water and swallow my dad whole if I wanted them to.”
“I was wrong earlier,” Ryan said, elbowing my arm. “I forgot about Lurth and all that shit. You do have a creative bone or two in your body.”
Half-heartedly moaning, I rubbed my arm, and Ryan realized he’d elbowed my stab wound. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I forgot.”
I raised my beer and said, “Nothing this can’t remedy.”
He raised his bottle, and we drank.
“I don’t think I’m creative at all,” I said. “My mom, now she was creative. I just followed her lead.”
Following a long silence, we both finished our second beer and opened a third. As we sat and talked about how shitty the Mercy Sox team was and about Brianne and the baby, I kept scanning the trees, nervous, looking for Luther.
After Ryan finished his third beer and tossed it into the trees, scattering a few of the blue jays, he eyed mine, which was half full. He made a gesture for me to take it down so we could get the plan rolling.
I jiggled my bottle, sloshing the liquid around, feeling as though cement had been injected into my veins. It was go time. I chugged the rest of my beer. When I stood and threw the bottle toward the riverbed, Ryan stretched his arms to the sky and loudly announced that he had to go take a piss. I nodded and made my way to the truck cab to get the gun. Ryan had his hunting knife in his waistband, hidden beneath his White Zombie T-shirt. He had a clove of garlic in his pocket, as did I, and he had a single shot snub-nosed pistol he’d stolen from his mom years earlier in his sock, hidden by his baggy jeans.
The plan to lure Luther out was simple. I was to walk to the edge of the clearing and call him over to look at something. A piece of scrap metal, an animal, whatever. When he bent to look, I was to step behind him and aim the 9MM at the back of his head. But before I fired, he was going to spin around, see the gun, freak out, and attack me. Let me have it. Punch me in the face or gut hard enough to make it look real. Then I would fall on my back, and he would jump on top of me. As we fought and he took the gun from me, I would call out for Luther’s help. But that’s where our plan ended. When Luther appeared, all bets were off.
The plan took only a minute or two to execute and went exactly as scripted. When Ryan hit me in the face the first time, knocking my lucky Rangers cap off, I dropped to a knee, and when he kicked me in the side, I fell onto my back and he jumped on top of me. As we struggled for control of the 9MM, I called out, “Luther! Luther!” Many of the blue jays were circling above the treetops; some had landed on the ground around us.
Ryan paused, glanced left, right. “What? Who’s—”
I slugged him in the gut and called out for Luther again. It was then that I saw Luther in my peripheral vision behind Ryan, approaching fast, crouched low like a stalking cougar. I looked at Ryan and widened my eyes and he knew. Without hesitation, he jerked the 9MM from my hands, turned and fired.
Luther’s shoulder jerked back when the bullet struck. He let loose a fierce growl, causing the blue jays to go into a fluttering frenzy much like they had that night in Colorado. Ryan fired again but must have missed because Luther’s aggressive pursuit didn’t slow. He lunged at Ryan, knocked him off me, and they barrel-rolled into a patch of prairie grass. Another shot went off as I jumped to my feet and rushed toward the backpack that we’d left on the ground beside the driver’s door. As Ryan hollered in either pain or adrenaline, I couldn’t tell which, I pulled two of the eight-inch wooden stakes out of the backpack and rushed toward Luther.
Luther turned his head sideways as I approached and shifted left when I stabbed. The stake punctured his upper right back rather than the heart-shot I was hoping for. His eyes locked on mine, ablaze with fury, and he growled a terrifying growl. He knew I was involved now. Ryan hadn’t bested me. I’d been a willing participant to lure him out. I raised the stake in my left hand, and the blue jays immediately began dive-bombing me, driving their beaks into my flesh. I swatted at the birds with the stake and my free hand as I tried to keep my eyes on Luther.
Abandoning Ryan, who had gone silent, Luther stood, gripping the 9MM in his hand. The shoulder of his Guayabera was ripped and soaked with blood where he’d been shot. A grimace spread across his face as he reached over his shoulder and removed the stake from his back. He was hurting, in pain, injured. Which meant he could probably die. But he was also furious. He’d been betrayed, setup, lied to. By his friend.
In a blur of motion, he spanned the ten yards between us in a blink. He drove his shoulder into my chest and tackled me to the ground. I heard my ribs crack under his weight and my lungs seized up. I opened my mouth in pain and desperation, eager to inhale, needing to scream, but nothing came out.
Luther knocked the stake out of my hand, then slapped me across the face with the 9MM. “You stupid idiot,” he said, followed by a second smack. The barrel sliced my skin, peeling back a wide flap of floppy skin. Warm blood dripped onto my neck. A glint shined in Luther’s eyes when he spotted the blood. His nostrils flared, and he inhaled loudly. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he said. “I’m going to take it nice and slow. And you know what that means for you, friend.” The word “friend” fell from his mouth hard and heavy, like a wrecking ball cut loose from twenty feet in the air.
I struggled to shove him off me but couldn’t. I don’t know how to explain it other than to say his weight seemed more than physical. Maybe I was weakened by fear or dazed by the blows to the head, I don’t know, but I couldn’t budge him. He wrapped his slender fingers around my wrists and pinned them to the ground. Then he moved his knees up onto my shoulders and held eye contact with me as he forced all the misery he could into me.
A dreadful, relentless sense of doom assaulted my mind, dominated my thoughts. A deep, unknown sorrow squashed my chest with the strength of a hundred hands, like the day my mom died, the day Esperanza died. An overwhelming sense of irrational fear, nightmarish fear, unreal fear, washed over me, terrorizing my heart the way it had when I was a child and was certain I’d seen a witch poke her head out of my closet. I couldn’t breathe. I squeezed my eyes shut and fought down the beer-bile creeping up my throat. Time slowed to a crawl. I was paralyzed, suspended in a state of despair. I wanted to die. I truly wanted to die right then and there.
When I opened my eyes, Luther licked the blood off my cheek and laughed a maniacal laugh. After flashing me his unbreakable smile, he bit into my arm. The blue jays began hopping around my head as his teeth sank in, chirping and eagerly pecking at my neck and arms and legs to get their share of the feast. He ripped out a small chunk of my flesh, spat it out, and drank from the wound on my arm. As he swallowed, the misery and sorrow and fear he was injecting into me grew in intensity.
