Tales From the Gas Station 2 Page 17

  She nodded at me. I moved a little closer.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She looked like she was thinking about her answer, then she blinked twice. No.

  “Can you fight?”

  She blinked once. Yes.

  “Stay calm. I’m going to get us both out of here. It’s going to be okay.”

  One of the things that made Spencer so dangerous was his unpredictability. Psychopathic rage is bad enough when you know where it’s coming from or where it’s going, but they broke the mold with this guy. Or he broke it himself, after killing the mold-maker and burning down the mold factory. I shouldn’t have been surprised by anything anymore, but then he went and did something nobody could have seen coming.

  He returned from his vehicle, crouched down next to the grave, pointed the gun at my face, then flipped it around and offered it like a gift.

  “Here, Jack. Take it. See if you can save yourselves.”

  Why are people always trying to give me guns?!

  I knew it was a trick. Or at least, I thought it was a trick. I was reasonably certain it was probably a trick. It might have been a trick? But then again, maybe it wasn’t. My confidence was leaking out faster than my blood.

  I extended my hand, and Spencer put the gun into it.

  “Let’s play a game,” he said with a smile. “Who gets out of here alive? Here are the rules. If you put a bullet in your head right now, I’ll let the girl go. Or, you can kill her yourself, and I’ll let you go. Take your time and choose wisely.”

  Vanessa gave me a look and broadcast her thoughts so clearly she may as well have been speaking out loud. “Jack, what are you waiting for? Use the gun! Pop a cap in this mofo so we can get out of here!”

  I looked at the weapon in my hand and understood that my choice wasn’t really that simple. This was Spencer Middleton, after all. I ran through every possible scenario in my head, and only one thing made sense. He was screwing with us. He was an animal, playing with his food.

  “Come on, Spencer,” I said. “We both know you’re not about to hand me a loaded weapon. What? Is this like a trick gun and it’s going to explode once I pull the trigger?”

  “What’s the matter, killer? You don’t trust me?”

  He snatched the weapon out of my hand, stood up next to Vanessa, put the barrel against her temple, and executed her in front of me.

  I saw her die before my brain registered the sound of the gun going off. She jerked violently, then fell forward into the hole. Her limp body landed on top of me, and Spencer went to work burying us together. I struggled to get out from under her. She wasn’t heavy, but after all the digging, there was no strength left in my arms. I fell back and screamed, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

  I tried to push the body off of me as he shoveled the dirt on top of us. Her blood was still warm as it poured all over my face, and when I made the mistake of looking into her eyes, they were still wide open and full of fear.

  I’m sorry, Vanessa.

  There would be time to freak out and shut down later, but in order to do that, I first needed to figure out how to escape. The speed at which he was piling the dirt onto us guaranteed I was going to lose this race. Soon, it was all around me. I could barely move. The very act of drawing in a single breath was nearing impossible and getting harder with each shovel load.

  “Stop it!” I screamed in desperation.

  He threw the next load of dirt into my face and let out a gleeful laugh. I wiped the soil from my eyes and screamed, “What is your problem, asshole?! Why are you doing this?! Did you just not get enough hugs growing up? I’m so sorry I cost you your stupid job, but get the hell over it, you maniac!”

  He stopped shoveling. As soon as the dirt was out of my eyes, I looked at him. The smile was gone now. “You think this is about a job?” He knelt down next to the hole, right above my face, and said, “You don’t remember. Do you?”

  “Remember what?!”

  He stood up and screamed into the sky like a wild animal. The next thing I knew, he had me by the left arm, yanking me out of the grave with enough force that I thought he was about to tear another limb off. He dropped me onto my back next to the hole.

  “How can you not remember?!” he growled.

  I spat out dirt and wondered what I’d said that made him change his mind about burying me alive. “I forget a lot of things.”

  He grabbed the shovel, looked at me like he wanted to use it as an executioner’s axe, and decided against it, settling for another kick to my bad ribs.

  The shovel hit the ground next to me as Spencer recoiled, jerking back in an unnatural manner, shaking and clenching his teeth like he was having a convulsion. Then I heard the noise, a loud hissing from right behind him. He twisted, kicking at ghosts while I pounced on the shovel and started swinging.

  He moved like a wounded snake in water, but I landed the first strike against his shin. He was still shaking when he went down to his knees. We locked eyes as I pulled back for another go. “Hold still!” I screamed, swinging the weapon at him. This time, I connected with the side of his head with so much force that the shovel fell out of my hands, and he collapsed to the sound of my screaming, “I want to see how close I can get!”

  He was on his side, bleeding into the ground, his eyes wide open, his arms and legs jerking unnaturally. I didn’t have time to wonder why. This was my only chance. I crawled up to him, pulled back, and punched as hard as I possibly could.

  He went limp and fell onto his back. By all appearances, he was down and out, but I couldn’t be sure until I saw brains. I crawled over to the shovel and raised it over my head, ready to strike with everything I had, but O’Brien got to me first. She caught the weapon, pulled it from my grip, and threw it to the side. “Jack, look at me, look at me.” I couldn’t understand what was happening. “It’s me. It’s Amy.”

  “O’Brien?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I got your message. Don’t worry. We got him. He’s done.”

  “Oh…” I said, as it all started to fall into place.

  She left me long enough to flip Spencer onto his stomach and put him in handcuffs. When she did, I realized that there were tiny pins in his back, connected by a coil of twin wires to the bright yellow taser gun on the ground where she had dropped it.

  The deputy yelled into her radio mic, calling for all available units. She needed backup and an ambulance. Then she crouched down next to me to ask if I was okay.

  “Yeah,” I answered. “Why? Don’t I look okay?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  When it comes to ambulances and ambulance rides, I wouldn’t exactly call myself an ‘expert,’ but I’m no novice, either. I’ve taken more than my fair share. Enough that I could tell that something was definitely wrong here.

  The first red flag came at the start of my ride, when one of the EMT’s gave me some pills for the pain without asking about my allergies or current medications or even the pain itself. The girl, a skinny goth with a neck tattoo and septum piercing, put the drugs in my hand and said “take these” before handing me a bottle of water to chase it with. I didn’t think too much about it. They were the experts, after all.

  The guy, a bleached blonde with a cauliflower ear and raised scars on his left cheek, redressed my leg wound while the medicine kicked in. In a matter of minutes, I was high out of my mind and couldn’t feel anything anymore.

  After a while, the two of them sat back and started talking.

  The guy said, “He’s not gonna remember any of this, is he?”

  She answered, “When he wakes up, he’ll be lucky to remember his name.”

  I asked, “Who are you guys talking about?”

  The guy looked at me with surprise. “How’s he still awake?”

  She shrugged, “Fuck if I know.”

  As if things weren’t weird enough already, this ambulance ride didn’t end the usual way: at a hospital. F
or some strange reason, we stopped outside the sheriff’s station. The two EMT’s threw me into a wheelchair and delivered me unto Deputies Moustache and Buzzcut. I might have been tempted to panic, considering I knew these guys were knee-deep in murder conspiracies, but that mystery medicine was terribly effective at keeping me from caring about anything.

  They put me in a small room with a metal table and two chairs and left me alone long enough for the high to wear off and dread to set in.

  Eventually, the door opened and a short, round man with a cherubic face and thin comb-over entered. He had tiny glasses, beady eyes, and a simpering smile. When he saw me, he walked straight over, extended his hand, and greeted me. “Good evening, Mr. Townsend. My name is John Normal, and I will be your if you cannot afford an attorney attorney today.”

  He wore a black suit, blue shirt, and striped red tie. I shook his hand and watched him take his seat and open his briefcase before I asked, “Why do I need an attorney?”

  He sorted through some papers as he answered, “Oh, well, technically, you don’t need one. But trust me, it’s a good thing I’m here. The charges against you are pretty grim, but don’t worry.”

  I wasn’t worried until I heard my lawyer say ‘Don’t worry.’

  “What charges?” I asked.

  “Well, I’ve only been briefed on your case—ha! Brief case—but it doesn’t look great for you. This is a classic ‘he said/he said,’ and Mister Middleton has retained an impressive counsel.”

  “I’m very lost. Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  “I should say so! You’re looking at attempted murder, but I think we can probably plead you down to misdemeanor assault.”

  “Assault of what?”

  “Mr. Middleton, of course.”

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  My lawyer blew a raspberry into the air, then continued, “Look, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I overheard them talking in the lobby. They want to make an example out of you. Vigilante justice is becoming rampant in this town. Of course, there’s a small chance we can swing a self-defense argument, but it would have to be precise and exact and match up perfectly with the evidence.”

  “Spencer killed somebody right in front of me! Then he tried to kill me! Who cares if I took a shovel to his face?”

  John shook his head nervously, then said with a sad smile, “No, I’m afraid you won’t be able to prove either of those things. You see, they’ve gone over the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb. The techs didn’t find any other body. According to the evidence, it was just the two of you out there. Alone. Take note, because here’s what they say really happened: Spencer came to the gas station to apologize for prior misunderstandings. You, naturally, overreacted, pulled an unregistered gun on him, and forced him out of the store. He begged for his life, but you lost control. You nearly killed the unarmed man, and likely would have finished the job if not for the timely intervention of one Deputy Amelia O’Brien.”

  “This is crazy,” I exclaimed. “And I should know. Crazy is kinda my thing.”

  “As your lawyer, I’d advise you not to say things like that ever again.”

  “Whose blood do you think is all over my shirt?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, Jack. All that matters is the evidence.” John Normal slid a sheet of paper in front of me. “This is Miss O’Brien’s official statement corroborating the story.” He put another sheet on top of it. “This is the crime lab’s official report confirming that your fingerprints were a match for the gun found at the scene.” Another paper. “This is your tox screen, which shows the presence of several illicit substances in your blood, along with an unnerving blood alcohol content.” Another paper. “Deputy Franklin’s summary of your interrogation where you said way too much despite being told that it could and would be used against you.” Another paper. “Here’s an expert witness describing how you display callous and unemotional style traits consistent with a conduct disorder that might explain all these violent tendencies of yours.”

  I picked up the papers and noticed something almost as disturbing as the fabricated content. “These are all post-dated.”

  “That’s not true. O’Brien’s report should be from today.”

  “This is ridiculous!”

  “Well,” he stroked an imaginary goatee. “There is another way it can all go down.” He cracked his neck loudly and put another sheet of paper next to the stack of incriminating “evidence.”

  “I’ve already prepared your official statement,” he explained. “All you have to do is sign it and keep your mouth shut, and we can make everything go away.”

  I took a moment to read the paper in front of me, a firsthand account—my firsthand account—of Spencer’s most recent attack, only with a few interesting liberties taken.

  According to this version, Spencer visited me at the gas station while I was alone (that’s about where the accuracies end). He held me at gunpoint while he confessed to the murders of Robert Hanchey and Doug Matherne, then forced me out back, where he had already dug a shallow grave with the intent of burying me alive.

  O’Brien showed up just in time to save the day. When Spencer refused her verbal commands to drop his weapon, she discharged her taser. It proved ineffective, and a fight ensued. O’Brien managed to subdue Spencer with her standard-issued baton before putting him in handcuffs.

  Meanwhile, in this version of events, I sat nearby and cried.

  There was no mention of Vanessa Riggin.

  “This is hot garbage,” I said. “Most of it’s not even true.”

  He explained, “Try not to think of this in terms of true or false. Your statement is basically just a formality so the prosecution can move forward with their case against Middleton. We just made a few adjustments for the sake of simplicity. You do agree Spencer is a bad man, don’t you?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Then don’t sweat the small stuff!”

  “Why did you change the part about me digging the grave?”

  “You? An amputee digging a grave that deep? In one night? We don’t want this report getting flagged for sounding unbelievable.”

  “But I did dig the grave. It was really hard, too.”

  “What, did you want a medal or something?”

  “Who the heck are Robert Hanchey and Doug Matherne?”

  “Why does that matter? The important thing is this, you and O’Brien get to go home as heroes, and Spencer goes to jail. Everybody wins.”

  “Not everybody. Why isn’t Vanessa in here? How are you going to explain her death?”

  His answer was nothing more than a pained expression.

  Oh. They’re not going to mention Vanessa.

  Before I could push the matter any further, the man took something else out of the briefcase. He put it onto the table in front of him with the barrel pointed right at me.

  “I didn’t want it to come to this, but there is an option C.”

  I looked at the tiny pistol and shook my head. “What the hell is going on? Why are people always trying to give me guns?!”

  He seemed surprised. “What? No. This isn’t for you.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “I mean, it is for you. But not like that.” He looked flabbergasted.

  “I’m confused.”

  He took his glasses off, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, licked it, and used it to wipe down his eyeballs. When he was done, he put his glasses back on and tried to explain, “The gun was supposed to be intimidating.”

  “How?”

  “You know, the implication. That I could pick it up and pew pew.”

  “Shoot our way out of here?”

  “No! That I might, you know… shoot you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you aren’t playing ball with us. It’s supposed to show how serious this whole thing is. That we’re willing to kill you to keep you quiet. You’re supposed to be intimidated!”

  “I guess this is
like when you have to explain a joke to someone, but then it isn’t funny anymore because you explained it.”

  He picked up the gun, gingerly put it back into the briefcase, and exclaimed, “Most people don’t question it, John!”

  I almost didn’t even correct him, but if he was going to be my lawyer, I felt like he should know. “My name is Jack. You’re the one named John.”

  “I am? Oh, that’s right, I got them mixed up again. I’ve never been any good at talking to humans.”

  “Yeah, me neither.”

  He let out a short, desperate laugh. “Hey, look at us, bonding over our similarities. I think you and me are going to be great friends. Oh, wait, hang on, you’re the one whose friends all die, right? Nevermind. We’ll keep this professional.”

  “You’re not really a lawyer, are you?”

  “Whaaat?” he responded. “Of course I am!”

  “This is all about Vanessa. Isn’t it?”

  “No, no, no. Of course not! This is about appearances. Do you have any idea how many murders and vanishings and other suspicious deaths happen in this town in a single month? We are way over our quotas here! You gotta keep an eye on this sort of thing or else people are going to take notice. It’s a never-ending fight to stay off the radar. I’m sure you can relate. Please, Jack, take the ‘W’ and leave it alone.”

  He reached into his briefcase one last time and pulled out another piece of paper. This one was smaller than the rest. He put it on the table in front of him and said. “Cheer up. It’s not all gloom and doom. I am happy to report that Spencer, it so happens, had a warrant by the federal government for unrelated charges. Do you know what that means?”

  “Obviously, I do not.”

  “It means there was a reward offered to anyone who could provide information leading to his arrest.” He slid the piece of paper towards me. I picked it up to see that it was a check for ten thousand dollars, made out to “Cash.” When I looked back at John Normal, he was smiling and raising his eyebrows.

  “So this is a negotiation?”

  He scrunched up his face and made a shrill whine, then said, “I’m not really supposed to negotiate. This is more of a take-it or leave-it kind of deal.”