“Now fix it,” she said. “Before someone else comes.”
I fixed it. It was a slipshod job, but I knew that was all we needed. A little more time.
After that it wouldn’t matter. We would be safe.
The kid’s body was light. I picked him up in both arms, carried him across the road, and threw him into the gully beyond the guardrails. His body tumbled loosely all the way to the bottom, head over heels, like the ragbag man Mr. Hollis had me put out in the cornfield every
July. I went back to get Blanchette.
He was heavier, and bleeding like a stuck pig. I tried to pick him up, staggered three steps backward, and then he slipped out of my arms and fell onto the road. I turned him over. The new snow had stuck to his face, turning it into a skier’s mask.
I bent over, grabbed him under the arms, and dragged him to the gully. His feet left trailing grooves behind him. I threw him over and watched him slide down the embankment on his back, his arms up over his head. His eyes were wide open, staring raptly at the snowflakes falling into them. If the snow kept coming, they would both be just two vague humps by the time the plows came by.
I went back across the road. Nona had already climbed into the pickup truck without having to be told which vehicle we would use. I could see the pallid smear of her face, the dark holes of her eyes, but that was all. I got into Blanchette’s car, sitting in the streaks of his blood that had gathered on the nubby vinyl seat cover, and drove it onto the shoulder. I turned off the headlights, put on the four-way flashers, and got out. To anyone passing by, it would look like a motorist who had engine trouble and then walked into town to find a garage. I was very pleased with my improvisation. It was as if I had been murdering people all my life. I trotted back to the idling truck, got in behind the wheel, and pointed it toward the turnpike entrance ramp.
She sat next to me, not touching but close. When she moved I could sometimes feel a strand of her hair on my neck. It was like being touched with a tiny electrode. Once I had to put my hand out and feel her leg, to make sure she was real. She laughed quietly. It was all real. The wind howled around the windows, driving snow in great, flapping gusts.
We ran south.
Just across the bridge from Harlow as you go up I26 toward Castle Heights, you come up on a huge renovated farm that goes under the laughable title of the Castle Rock Youth League.
They have twelve lanes of candlepin bowling with cranky automatic pinsetters that usually take the last three days of the week off, a few ancient pinball machines, a juke featuring the greatest hits of I957, three Brunswick pool tables, and a Coke-and-chips counter where you also rent bowling shoes that look like they might have just come off the feet of dead winos. The name of the place is laughable because most of the Castle Rock youth head up to the drive-in at Jay Hill at night or go to the stock-car races at Oxford Plains. The people who do hang out there are mostly toughies from Gretna, Harlow, and the Rock itself. The average is one fight per evening in the parking lot.
I started hanging out there when I was a high-school sophomore. One of my
acquaintances, Bill Kennedy, was working there three nights a week and if there was nobody waiting for a table he’d let me shoot some pool for free. It wasn’t much, but it was better than going back to the Hollises’ house.
That’s where I met Ace Merrill. Nobody much doubted that he was the toughest guy in three towns. He drove a chopped and channeled ’52 Ford, and it was rumored that he could push it all the way to I30 if he had to. He’d come in like a king, his hair greased back and glistening in a perfect duck’s-ass pompadour, shoot a few games of double-bank for a dime a ball (Was he good? You guess.), buy Betsy a Coke when she came in, and then they’d leave. You could almost hear a reluctant sigh of relief from those present when the scarred front door wheezed shut.