Another car appeared on the horizon, racing towards me. My heart pounded and my breath caught in my throat. I figured it was the cops, at first, but there were no flashing lights or sirens. As the vehicle drew closer, I saw that it was a blue Chevy Nova, completely restored, chrome rims, custom paint-job—the works. Any other time, I’d have slowed down and admired it. The motor hummed, much louder than the forklift’s engine. Megadeth’s ‘In My Time of Dying’ blared from the speakers. I could feel the bass, even over the forklift’s vibrations. The irony of the song choice was not lost on me. I wondered if Whitey appreciated it, too. Probably not. He didn’t strike me as a fan of Dave Mustaine. The Nova’s driver raced past us without slowing. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed us. If I’d had a car like that, I probably wouldn’t have been paying attention to what was around me either. I’d be too busy eating up the highway.
I took the exit for Lake Pinchot. Asphalt gave way to gravel and stone. The forklift bounced along the stone road. The propane tank rattled behind me, but I didn’t slow down. I willed the forklift to go faster. Whitey grew active again. Once more, he gripped the bloodstained forks and pushed himself backwards, dragging his ruined flesh across the steel. Luckily, each bump impeded his progress. I started aiming for potholes, mindful to hit them slow so the impact wouldn’t knock him loose. I wanted him shaken—not freed.
Both the lake and the surrounding State Forest were open to the public. There were no guards or rangers or gates. We passed a few signs. One said ‘Welcome to Lake Pinchot’ and another was a list of rules and regulations —what time the park closed, warnings about campfires and alcoholic beverages—stuff like that. I didn’t see anything that told me murder was prohibited.
Whitey had given up on trying to free himself. Maybe he’d realized it was futile and had resigned himself to his fate, or maybe he was reserving his strength, preparing to make a final attempt when the time was right. I don’t know. But he went limp again. His body was motionless—lifeless—except for his eyes. They still moved, promising menace and death and butchery.
I drove down a wooded lane and into the park. Oak, pine, maple, and elm trees loomed over us on each side. Even though the sun was still shining from between the steadily darkening clouds, there was no light beneath the foliage. The deep shadows among the tree trunks reminded me of our flight through the sewer. I wondered where Sondra had gone and if she was okay. The cops were probably swarming the lumber yard by now. Had she been caught, or had she got away? Maybe she was following me. I hoped not. Chances were good that the woman in the Ford Taurus had called the police on her cell phone. I checked the rearview mirror again, but there was still no sign of pursuit.
Whitey’s head slumped forward and his eyes fluttered twice, then closed. He didn’t open them again.
“Hey,” I shouted. “Wake up. We’re almost there.”
Suddenly, there was an explosion overhead. I jumped in the seat, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel, and my foot slipped off the throttle. Immediately, our speed decreased. I accelerated again, glancing around to see where the shot had come from. Another loud boom echoed across the park, and I realized that it wasn’t gunfire. It was thunder. The storm drew closer.
The noise disturbed Whitey. He opened his eyes again and looked around, as if unsure where he was. Then his gaze fell on me and his eyes narrowed.
My stomach fluttered.
There was a parking lot near the lake. I’d expected to encounter a few swimmers or fishermen, maybe even some boaters or campers, but instead, the lot was deserted. A small shack stood between the parking lot and the shoreline. A giant plywood ice cream cone was nailed to the roof. A large sign advertised sno-cones, pizza, french fries, hot dogs, and ice cold beverages, but the door was shut and a ‘Closed’ sign dangled from the counter window.
The sky grew darker. Thunder rumbled again. Something cold splattered against my burned scalp. Then another. Fat raindrops pelted the forklift. Then the clouds opened up and the rain began in full. Lightning flashed across the horizon, zigzagging between the clouds and then striking somewhere deep inside the forest.
I drove past the concession stand and onto a grassy area. It had been mowed recently. The grass clippings were fresh. I looked around again, searching for a groundskeeper, but we were alone.
It seemed fitting, somehow. Felt right.
Along the shoreline was a concrete boat ramp and a long, wooden pier that extended out over the lake. I considered both, and then, after a second’s hesitation, I turned towards the pier. The supports were made out of telephone poles and the boards were thick and sturdy. It looked solid enough. I was sure it would hold the forklift’s weight.
We clattered out onto the pier. It groaned beneath us, but held. I took my foot off the accelerator and pumped the brakes, slowing us to a crawl. The rain fell harder. Another loud blast of thunder cracked overhead, and I ducked instinctively. My heart rate increased. I was terrified and excited at the same time. I wondered what Whitey was feeling, but his eyes were closed again, and he wasn’t moving.
Raindrops struck the lake’s surface, making thousands of concentric rings. More lightning flashed overhead. I stopped the forklift at the edge of the pier. The forks stuck out over the water. The lake was deep at this point. At least fifteen feet. I’d heard it was even deeper further out, and there were sinkholes in the bottom, supposedly leading down into underwater caverns. Wouldn’t have surprised me. Central Pennsylvania is littered with limestone caverns and old mine shafts. There’s an abandoned iron ore mine out between Spring Grove and Hanover that’s supposed to be bottomless. Supposed to be haunted, too. Bullshit, of course, but people had drowned there over the years and their bodies were never found.
The engine idled choppily. I turned around and checked the gauge on the propane bottle, wiping the rain away so I could read it. The tank was almost empty, but that didn’t matter. We’d reached our destination and would go no further. At least, not together. Not thinking clearly, I turned the key to the off position. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was just a combination of fear and shock and sheer exhaustion. The pain in my head returned again, throbbing in time with my pulse. The engine choked, sputtered, and then died. Silence descended. Even the thunder seemed to pause.
“End of the road, you fucker!”
Whitey didn’t respond. Didn’t move. His eyes remained closed. The blood that had been gushing from his mouth was starting to congeal.
“Hey, Whitey! Wake the hell up. We’re here. Don’t go to sleep on me now.”
Nothing.
“Shit…”
Could it be that he was finally dead, or was this just one more attempt at deceit? Unsure, I decided there was only one way to find out. I turned the key and the forklift stuttered to life again. The hydraulics squealed. The engine backfired. The chains rattled.
Whitey remained stationary—immobile.
Lifeless.
My shoulders sagged. The strength drained from my body and weariness seeped into my limbs. I closed my eyes. Rain streamed down my face. I felt robbed of my victory. Cheated out of my revenge. I thought of Darryl and Yul and how they’d died, and of Jesse, whose body, for all I knew, was lying in a ditch somewhere. I thought of the innocent cops that had been slaughtered, and the butchery at the lumber yard. I remembered Webster, and his plaintive howls during the gunfight at my apartment. And more than any of these, I thought of Sondra. Of what she’d been through. Her life. The terrors she’d faced just to come here in search of a dream, and how that dream had been trampled and pissed on instead.
So much cruelty. So much needless death. All because of one man.
The man on the end of my forklift.
Zakhar Putin, a.k.a. Whitey Putin.
And now he was dead and I felt nothing. Not vindication. Not peace. There was no solace in this death. No joy or exultation. No sense of justice or victory. All I felt was bitter resentment that he’d died before I had a chance to enjoy it. That his soul—if he even had a soul—had slipped away without me seeing it. I’d wanted him to suffer the way he’d made others suffer. The way Rasputin had suffered.
I opened my eyes, raised my head, stared out at the rain-drenched corpse dangling from the forklift, and decided that perhaps he’d suffered after all. Maybe he’d suffered more than any of us. He’d certainly felt pain. If he’d never felt it before this, then at least I’d changed that. He was fucking intimate with it now. I’d taught him all about pain—and about loss.
