Something Bad, page 19
The lightning couldn’t strike Press Cunningham’s car directly. It had to strike a tree. He couldn’t have taken the sheriff’s gun and shoot him with it. The sheriff’s death had to be due to an event of nature. And the fireball couldn’t incinerate Billy Smyth right off. It had to light up the trailer to give Billy a chance to get out. Why couldn’t the Councillor see that? Why couldn’t he understand that all this is aligned with the Organization’s rules?
Thibideaux sighed. In his current assignment, he hadn’t done anything that could be traced back to him, or the Organization. Everything conformed to the low profile, blend-into-society philosophy of the training.
His mind automatically clicked into recitation mode—he turned trance-like and spewed memorized rules. A recruiter can’t cause the death of a priest, minister, or other church leader, including nuns—directly or indirectly. It brings too much attention to the Organization. The same holds for ranking members of State or Federal governments, again for the same reason. The military is to be avoided at all costs. All aspects of life are too regimented there, and the level of record keeping is well in excess of that in public life.
I can’t even trigger a headache in Deena Lee Murtry, he thought. He patted the arm of his chair. “Still, it won’t be long now,” he said out loud.
CHAPTER
41
THE CAR ACCELERATED as it swerved into the fast lane. The roar of its engine registered in Gabe’s left ear, to the rear. Then, it was even with the back of the cab. The front fender of the vehicle appeared in his peripheral vision, but he kept his head straight, his attention on the road directly in front of him. The car pulled alongside and seemed to slow. Still, he stared ahead. Movement triggered an involuntary glance, but he did it with his eyes, not his head. The passenger’s window slid down. If I slam on the brakes, he’ll go past, Gabe thought. His heart gave an extra beat, then another. Why were people like this around the cities?
A larger movement caught his attention. Something extended from the open window, directly at him. He braced himself by stiffening his arms against the steering wheel and hit the brakes—not hard enough to start a skid, but hard enough so the front of the truck dipped downward with the decelerating force. The car flew past and he saw the puff from its exhaust pipe as the driver hit the gas. The car shrunk into the distance.
Gabe was familiar with the middle-finger salute, and its meaning. He’d even used it once when a grain elevator operator tried to cheat him on his vehicle tare weight after he’d offloaded his grain. But the frequency of its use in the Chicago area was incredible—worthy of a call to the Guinness Book of World Records. He had scanned a thick paperback book of their records some time ago and he had been totally unimpressed with the significance of some of the published accomplishments. A category for the frequency of middle finger usage must exist.
A full day’s mileage from Chicago brought on a fatigue that lowered its weight on him in parallel with the setting sun. He found the contralateral partner of the rest area he used on his inbound trip and pulled off. Once again, he parked between two eighteen-wheelers and curled up on the front seat of the pickup.
A loud voice broke through his slumber. A shout, and an answer. He looked at his watch. It was quarter to three. He peeked between the steering wheel and the dashboard and saw two men standing face-to-face, backlit by the distant lights of the parking area. He squinted until his eyes adjusted to the muted light. The taller man pushed the other and climbed up into the cab of the truck parked to Gabe’s left. The smaller man stumbled and went down on his left hip. His straight left arm prevented a total collapse.
The man propped himself up with both hands on the ground and slowly straightened his back into a hunched stance. He shuffled his feet a few times to gain his balance and stumbled toward Gabe’s truck. His clothes were tattered and dirty, his hair plastered to his head and infiltrated with the dulling tint of dust.
He came closer and squinted at the truck. Gabe tried to shrink down below the dash slowly so his movement wouldn’t be noticeable.
“Hey,” the man shouted and pounded the hood of the truck. He stumbled around to the driver’s side window and banged it hard enough to shake the truck. Gabe reached for the window crank, but he wasn’t fast enough. The man banged the window again and again.
Gabe didn’t want to drive with a broken window so he cranked it down about an inch. “What do you want?”
The man slurred a phrase through yellow teeth. “Knee somebody.”
Gabe leaned back away from the window. He wasn’t sure if he heard right.
“Knee somebody. Knee somebody.”
Gabe still wasn’t sure what the man said so he lowered the window another two inches, just enough to prevent the man from pushing his head into the cab.
The man’s eyes widened. He brought his mouth to the opening and with a nasal voice, sprayed saliva into Gabe’s world. “Need some money.”
Gabe fished in his right pants pocket and pulled out a half-fist of coins. He showed it to the man and slid over to the passenger’s side window. Cranking it down to the halfway point, he leaned his right arm out of the window. With an elbow flip, he flung the coins backward, past the truck bed and into the night. The money rang on the pavement like metallic chimes. The scavenger stumbled toward the sounds.
Gabe rolled up both windows, started the truck, and pulled out of the parking lot to the freeway entrance. “Might as well drive on through,” he said to the steering wheel. “I’m awake now.”
He pulled up to the farmhouse in a state of near exhaustion. It was mid-morning, and for half of the time since the sun broke the horizon, it had glared through the driver’s side window, high enough to produce a squint but low enough to avoid the rotated visor. It had given him a headache.
He pumped the truck to a stop and hesitated behind the wheel. Something wasn’t right. By this time of day the front door should have been open, the doorway protected by the wooden-framed screen door. It was warm enough for most windows to be at least halfway open, but they were all secured.
His eyes returned to the porch and he froze. The porch light was on. The fixture’s activity cycle was strictly dusk-to-dawn, and even though it was operated manually, its diurnal rhythm was never altered. Wanna never left it on.
He swung from the pickup and half limped, half jogged to the front door. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open and hesitated in the doorway. Quiet inside. “Wanna? Miz Murtry?” No answer.
He tiptoed through the front room and peered around the corner into the kitchen. A pot was on the stove. A few steps closer. Soup of some sort was cold but well mixed. A bowl of batter was on the counter next to the stove. He opened the oven. A muffin pan held eight half-cooked muffins. The oven was cold.
“Must have left in a hurry,” he said out loud. It took a few more seconds before his road-weary mind clicked. “The hospital. Miz Murtry.”
A shower of rocks peppered the porch as he spun the truck around toward the county road. His dream of coming to her rescue, of getting her to the hospital just in time, was gone. Now, he hoped he could get there before the birth, to lend emotional support and words of encouragement. It was little consolation, but it helped him keep the gas pedal down after his speedometer matched the number on the signs.
In the hospital, Gabe heard the answer to his question, but it didn’t make much sense. “Dilated to seven centimeters,” the nurse had said. It didn’t matter. To him, it meant she hadn’t delivered yet.
He was ushered into an anteroom and given green paper surgical scrubs to put on over his clothing. The shoe covers didn’t fit so he put them on the front of his shoes and walked on this toes. Leaning around the doorway, he saw Wanna trying to feed ice chips to Miz Murtry, who winced with a painful contraction.
“Dammit, Wanna. I don’t want ice chips,” she said when the contraction released its grip. “My tummy’s hurting something awful and ice ain’t going to take the pain away.”
Wanna put the cup of ice down. “Sorry. The nurse said it’d make you feel better. I’m trying my best.”
“I know. Thank you. But the only thing that’ll help me now is to get this young one out of my belly and into the world.” She grimaced into another contraction.
Just in time to save the day, Gabe thought. He strode into the room with a triumphant spring. “What are you hassling my Wanna about, little lady? You got something wrong with you, or what?”
Deena Lee slid her eyes toward Gabe then narrowed them to slits as the needle on the chart recorder quivered upward signaling the next contraction. When it let up, she reached a hand toward him. “I knew you’d make it in time. I’m getting close and it’s really hurting. I’m needing to tell someone off, particularly a man, since it was one that done this to me. I can’t yell at Wanna because she’s been so good to me. I need some help to get this critter into daylight. You be my coach now?”
Gabe sat down on the side of the bed. “I’m here to help any way I can. You want some ice chips?” He chuckled.
“I’d like some ice chips to put in your backside and I know Wanna would help me put them there. Right, Wanna?”
Wanna offered a strained grin. “Gabe, I’ve seen some bad things in my time, but I don’t look forward to going through this. I’m mighty frustrated right now, mostly because you ain’t been here. So don’t you bend over while I got this ice. I’ll follow Deena Lee’s wishes and give you a shiver you’ll never forget.” Their laughter was terminated by Deena Lee’s next contraction.
Deena Lee hissed through clenched teeth. “Gabe, you turd. You men think you can trot around the country … when we’re needing your help … You look hard at what’s happening here … and the next time you think women have it so good … you think about what this little one’s doing to me today.”
Gabe squeezed her hand. “Calm yourself. I know they go in easier than they come out so you don’t need to get worked up at me. I’m here now. You don’t need to get huffy.”
The contraction eased. “Huffy’s what I need to get. It makes it go easier to yell at someone, you turd.”
With the ground rules set, Gabe pushed the hair from Deena Lee’s eyes and settled in for a heap of abuse. This wasn’t how he imagined his triumphant saving-of-the-day, but if this was how he could help, he wouldn’t be a moving target. He leaned close to her ear and whispered a short message.
Deena Lee smiled. Tears filled her eyes. “I love you too, you turd.”
After a few more contractions, a nurse came in for the next exam. As she pulled on a latex glove, Gabe got up to leave.
Deena Lee glared. “Where do you think you’re going? You sit right on back down. You’re in this for the whole show now, you turd.”
“I just thought you’d like some privacy.” Gabe’s face sweltered.
“Privacy leaves us in the hospital. Besides, you’re going to watch this little one come into the world so you can tell me about it later. I’ll be a little busy to take it all in.”
The nurse pulled the glove from her hand with a snap. “You’re ready to go. You can start pushing on the next contraction.” She turned to Gabe. “When it comes, you help her sit up. Count off ten seconds for each push. I’ll be here to help, but I have to go give Doc a call first.”
The next forty-five minutes of pushing made Gabe realize that Deena Lee’s privacy comment was an understatement. It was all forgotten when the baby’s head crowned. Gabe was so mesmerized, he forgot he was staring at Deena Lee’s privates. This was a miracle that immediately and forever changed his views of the functions of these parts.
Doc Halvorson angled the head, then the shoulders from security into uncertainty and Gabe snuffled. He was taught men shouldn’t cry in public, but there had to be exceptions. This was at the top of his list.
As the baby’s lungs strained to produce their first cries, Doc Halvorson peered over the drapes at Deena Lee. “It’s a boy. And a big one, too.”
Gabe saw Deena Lee choke with emotion so he leaned close and hugged a hug that committed him to her, on the spot, for the rest of his days.
The baby, cleaned and swaddled, was presented to the new mother. Deena Lee struggled to hold back tears. “What are we going to call you, little one? I had some names picked, but now I’m not so sure. Gabe, you got any ideas?”
He was startled by the question. They had talked about names, but he hadn’t given it serious thought. He didn’t know what to say. “How about Turd, Jr.?” His was the only laugh.
“I’m serious, Gabe. If what you said to me before was true, you better get used to having this little man in your life. You can start by helping me give him his name. I’m stuck so you look in his eyes and tell me what he looks like.” She held the blanketed package out to Gabe.
He took the baby in his huge hands and pulled him close to his chest. His smile faded. How could he keep him safe from Thibideaux? He leaned close and whispered. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”
“What did you say to him?” Deena Lee said.
He disregarded his literary caution. “Nothing.”
Gabe’s eyes met those of the little wonder and he blurted the first name that came to him. “Cory Dean. He looks like a Cory. It’s a strong name. And Dean is for Deena Lee, his Momma.”
Deena Lee smiled. “Cory Dean. Now we just have to come up with a last name.”
Gabe smiled at her.
Around nine in the evening, Wanna walked to the window of the nursery and elbowed Gabe in the ribs. “Are you going to spend all night staring at him? We need to get out so everyone can get some rest. Especially you.”
He gave a small wave and pivoted as Wanna’s hand hooked his arm.
She stopped him in the parking lot. “You dog. You got to her in a moment of weakness. Now she’s hooked on you and you on her. You dog.”
“It doesn’t bother you, does it?”
“I’m happy for you both. I’ve been hoping for it to happen for some time. I just don’t know where I’ll be staying now. I guess I can look for a place of my own, although I don’t know what I’ll do for it.”
Gabe pulled her into a hug. “You’re talking garbage. We’ve always talked about finishing the old playroom in the attic. We can run some plumbing up there and give you a place of your own. I’ll still need your help with the farm, particularly with the prices the way they are. We’ll just be a big family. You, me, Cory Dean and Deena Lee.”
“Since when did you start calling her Deena Lee?”
Gabe shook his head. “After what I saw of her today, Miz Murtry just don’t seem appropriate.”
CHAPTER
42
JOHN JOHNSON WALKED along Main Street, headed for his wife’s café and a bite to eat. He passed a stretch of vacant lots overgrown with intentionally planted shrubs and volunteer weeds, and a gust of wind stirred up a dust devil of road debris that stung his eyes enough to interrupt his gait. With balled fists, he rubbed his eyes until a pyrotechnic display of stars stippled his visual field. It took a full second and a half for his vision to clear and he wished it hadn’t. Thibideaux stood in his path, only three feet away.
John let out a loud “Ah” and spun his head to the right, then left to gauge the best path of escape. Despite an overwhelming need to run, none of his muscles cooperated with his brain. Thibideaux broke the silence, but not the tension.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson. I’ve been looking for you. Can we talk here or would you prefer to go to you wife’s café and talk over a plate of food?”
“What do you want?” John’s voice cracked like a teenager’s. “I don’t want no trouble. I got no beef with you. All the snooping was the others’ idea. I had nothing—”
“Relax, Mr. Johnson. I mean you no harm. In fact, I doubt if I could hurt you if I wanted to. I’m just a frail little man.” He paused and took a small step closer. “I’m also a businessman and I want to talk to you about my work here. Nothing more.”
“What about Press Cunningham and the other families? What about Billy and Mac, and what about the sheriff? Are you telling me you had nothing to do with them?”
Thibideaux shook his head, but with his stiff neck, his entire upper body rotated. “Do I look like the type of person who could do those things? Is there any human on this globe who could do what you’re suggesting? Pardon me for saying so, but I suspect you’re the type of person who believes in UFOs, voodoo, and mental telepathy. You won’t find anything like that in me.” He spread his arms out from his sides. “I’m just a physically weak man with a simple job to do here in the Tri-counties and nothing more.” He lowered his arms. “I’ll admit I’m really good at what I do. There are few better. If you get to know me, you’ll see I’m a master of deception. I can make people believe the darndest things. That’s the reason I haven’t rebutted any of the outrageous accusations some people have directed at me. I’ve found utility in those rumors. It’s helped me go about my work without tipping my hand as to what that work might be.” He paused. “Until now, that is.”
John inched a half-step closer and put his hands on his hips. “And what might that job be?”
“That’s what I came here to talk to you about. It’s time for me to reveal my business in the Tri-counties.”
John tilted his head and squinted. “Why are you telling me about it?”
“I wanted to tell you first because it seems you’ve figured it out already. Since you’re so perceptive, I wanted to ask your opinion about the best way to announce the results of my work to the citizens.”
John stood tall. “So you’re working for the highway department on a new freeway shunt?”
