road this late at night, and I didn’t want to follow so closely that he’d notice me, and that was exactly how it was working out. The Caddy’s taillights receded into the distance as Carpington floored it.
He was heading in the direction of Valley Forest Estates. He approached the subdivision from the south side, down by the creek, and I watched as the red lights sped into an area where the homes were in the earlier stages of construction.
When I saw the red lights come to a stop, I hung back, pulled over to the side of the road and killed my lights. The Caddy sat there, idling, Carpington staying behind the wheel, evidently waiting for a meeting. I backed the Civic between a stack of lumber and an idle forklift, figured it was far enough off the street not to be noticed, and got out. I was a couple of hundred yards away from Carpington’s car, and crept along carefully, behind the houses, making my way between wheelbarrows and stacks of bricks and two-by-fours. The sky was clear, the stars were out and the moon was nearly full, so I could see fairly well once my eyes adjusted. Still, at one point, my right leg dropped down into a shallow ditch and I went down, but I was still far enough away from the Caddy not to have attracted any attention. I got up, worried that I might have twisted my ankle, but everything seemed to be working properly. My jeans and shirt were scuffed with dirt.
I wanted to get as close to the Caddy as possible without being detected. It was parked, the motor still idling, directly in front of a two-story house still in the skeletal stage. Boards that would later be covered with insulation and drywall marked out the exterior and interior walls. I bypassed the door frames and slipped between two studs into the house, making my way to the front, where I got down on the floor, made myself as flat as possible, and settled in to watch the show.
Carpington constantly checked his mirror, made another call on his cell, fiddled with the radio, blotted his brow. The two of us waited nearly ten minutes before a set of headlights appeared at the far end of the street, followed closely by a second. The two cars approached slowly. The first, a four-door imported sedan, drove past the Caddy and angled in front of it, while the second car, a small Lincoln, pulled up tight behind it. Carpington was effectively boxed in.
The driver of the Lincoln killed the lights and engine and got out. In the moonlight, I could see that it was Don Greenway, still in his suit. Carpington got out of the Cadillac, turning off the engine but leaving the headlights on. Rick, who got out of the import, shielded his eyes from the glare as he joined Greenway, who was standing in front of an already raving Carpington.
“She’s dead!” he shouted. “This guy comes and sees me and tells me she’s dead!”
“Roger, calm down,” Greenway said, trying to maintain a normal tone of voice.
“How do you expect me to calm down? Stefanie’s dead!”
“I only just heard about it myself,” Greenway said. “The police were by the office.”
“Look, I never signed on for anything like this! Spender was one thing, and I never wanted to go along with that, but this is too much!”
Rick said, “I think you should lower your voice, asshole. There’s houses over that ridge people are living in, dickwad, and they might hear you.”
“Maybe I don’t care about that. Maybe it’s too late to care about anything.”
Greenway looked at Rick and nodded. Suddenly, Rick slapped Carpington across the face savagely, sending the councilman sprawling up against the side of his Caddy. Before he even had time to touch his cheek, Rick had him by the shirt and was dragging him across the mud-caked street in the direction of his car. Rick reached into his pocket, pulled out a set of remote keys, and popped the trunk on the sedan, which opened about an inch.
As Rick swung the trunk open a tiny light came on long enough for Carpington to see what was inside. There was barely time for him to scream “No!” before Rick had shoved him inside and slammed the trunk shut.
21
MAYBE, IF I’D EVER SERVED MY country in the military or something, I’d be more familiar with the sounds of a man screaming. Once, when called out around midnight to a particularly grisly highway accident as a young newspaper photographer, I listened while a man burned to death in a car, rescue crews unable to get close to him. The driver of a tanker truck had fallen asleep at the wheel and gone through a red light, virtually crushing a Chevette that was crossing its path. It was a wonder the man in the Chevette remained alive long enough for police and fire officials, and me, to arrive and hear him die. His final cries of anguish had stayed with me for a long time. Even now, some twenty years later, I can still hear him calling “Princess!” which I learned later was the nickname of the nine-year-old daughter he’d left behind.
And maybe those cries were worse than what I was hearing now. It’s a tough one to call. But there was something about Carpington’s screams that had nothing to do with pain. They were screams of outright terror and hysteria, and listening to them made my blood run cold. They were the screams-interspersed with cries of “Get me out!” and “Let me out!”-of a man finding himself locked in a trunk with his worst nightmare. The parked car bounced on its springs like it was being driven down a washboard road as Carpington rolled about and kicked and pounded at the trunk lid and walls.
It was hard to hear what Greenway and Rick were saying to each other, but they couldn’t have looked more relaxed. At one point, Greenway pointed at the moon, and Rick looked up, nodded, as if to say “You’re right, it is a beautiful moon tonight, isn’t it?”
Finally, the screams not subsiding at all, Greenway nodded to Rick, who popped the trunk open and hauled Carpington out. I was surprised, frankly, to see him still alive. At the very least, I figured Quincy would already be in the process of squeezing the life out of him, which I’d have almost welcomed if it would have meant an end to the screaming. But aside from his clothes being all rumpled, and a cut on his face from bumping into something in the trunk, the councilman didn’t look too bad.
Rick said, “Now, are you ready to calm down?”
“Yes, yes, thank you, thank you for getting me out of there.”
“He’s still pretty drowsy,” Rick said. “Look at him, he’s practically sleeping like a baby.” He slapped Carpington in the face again. “I think you upset him.”
“What, why isn’t he moving more?” Carpington asked.
“He’s on Prozac for Pythons. Merle and Jimmy gave him something, it’s taking him a while to recover. But I think I can guarantee you that the
“Okay,” Carpington said. “Okay. That won’t be necessary, I promise.”
Greenway approached Carpington and slipped his arm around his shoulder like they were old friends. “Now, Roger, what’s gotten you so upset tonight?”
“This man came to see me. He wanted to know about Stefanie, and he told me she was dead.”
“Who was this man?” Greenway asked.
“I’m trying to remember his name. He said he lives in Valley Forest, on the street you named after yourself.”
Rick cocked his head to one side. “Was his name Walker?”
“Yes, that was it.”
“That fucker. He’s turning up everywhere tonight. You know what he did?” He was asking Greenway.
“What did he do?”
“He fucking hit me right in the head with a robot.”
Greenway appeared to be considering whether this was something he wanted to follow up on, then decided against it. But Rick wasn’t through: “And I was really prepared to like the guy, you know? He wrote this book I got from the prison library, about these Earthlings who go to another planet, and they try to get everyone to stop believing in God, but when they do, there’s all this shit.” He paused. “I don’t read all that many books, you know.”
“Really,” said Greenway.
“But I really liked that one. He told me he’s writing a sequel, although I got a feeling he may not get a chance to finish it.” He smiled to himself. “I’m gonna have to drop in on him again. He’s got some of the coolest toys. Check this out.” He pulled my Batmobile from his jacket pocket.
