November 19 - 4:37 pm

Sheath of Overdeveloped Contractile Tissue

Big Ed remembered three things from his last visit to Mount Tabor: pulling the trigger, falling to the ground with his arm flapping like a roadhouse skank’s tongue, and seeing the girl run off through the trees with the baby. Somewhere in there he lost the gun. Somewhere in there the skate punk picked it up and then— Christ in a Cheeto—shot him like some kinda of vermin.

Grasping his numb throat, he’d staggered off, somehow convinced he could still finish the assignment. Along the hillside through the rain-soaked trees. Then he heard shouting, saw the flashing lights. Fucking cops arrived before anyone could even know what went down. His bearings lost, he climbed as best he could until he came out at the road that circled the summit. The light was viscous and grey, but he could make out the form of the cop and the kid on the ground in front of the patrol car. The boy sat silent and staring at the girl on the ground in front of the statue, face down and unmoving. Big Ed’s gun, who knew where the fuck.

Only two pieces of good news in the whole goddamn mess. He was still alive and the gun couldn’t be traced to him. Maybe it shot one person, maybe it shot two. Maybe it shot a dozen before Big Ed took it off that toothless lemon dropper. Didn’t matter. No longer his problem. He stumbled back into the trees until he found a path down to the parking area. Soaked to the skin by the time he reached his car, but that was all right. Rain meant no one had seen him shoot the girl, and no one would see him when he got into his car, drove straight to the highway, and set his compass south. He could tell any story he wanted.

Once behind the wheel, he turned the rearview mirror to check out his neck. Blood and jagged flaps of skin, a sucking sound he hadn’t noticed over the rat-a-tat of falling rain. He probed the damage with his bloody fingertips. The punk had hurt him bad. But it would be days before he’d learn he would never speak with his own voice again.

Three years ago.

Some things don’t change, some change a lot. Hawthorne Avenue looked much the same as he remembered it. There were small differences, places gone he couldn’t quite remember, places new he didn’t recognize. But the obvious landmarks were still there. The movie theatre with the pub, the tchotchke stores and granolamuncher restaurants. The Ship Shop was a UPS Store now, but the coffee house was still there, joined by a new one just a few blocks up the street. First thing when he got to town he stopped in, ordered himself a latte. Hiram would give him shit if he knew, but the soreness had never left his throat, and warm milk soothed on the way down. Wasn’t like Westbank didn’t have its own espresso shop. He’d enjoyed his latte, then found the Bronsteins, right where Myra said they’d be.

Big Ed no longer worked out like he had back in his playing days. Been a long time since he’d hit the gym five days a week, run every morning, and played pick-up basketball in between—good for agility, basketball, especially for a big man. But if those days were long past, Big Ed still deserved the name. If Hiram needed you to throw hay, you threw hay. If he needed you to beat down some puffed-up beaner who thought he could organize the day laborers, you beat down a beaner. He hadn’t run in years, but between Hiram’s business and the free weights in his apartment, Ed had maintained most of his bulk and all of his strength. Layers of muscle protected his cervical spine. When the blue-clad man appeared from among the tree and pulled him to the ground, he’d failed to crack Big Ed’s neck by dint of a sheath of overdeveloped contractile tissue. A smaller man, a weaker man, a man more soft fat than dense muscle might be paralyzed now. Or dead.

He wasn’t dead, but he almost wished he was. He awoke face down in a river of mud. For a moment he thought nothing was wrong. He felt no pain, just a chill in his hands and feet and a wet itch up and down his legs. A good itch. He knew where the man’s knee had struck and he knew what such a blow could do. The itch and the chill meant he still had intact nerve fibers between his brain and limbs.

Then he tried to lift his head. Pain speared up his back and reached around to grab him by the jaw. He tried to scream, but managed only a huff, hardly a sound at all. His head dropped back into the muck. Silty fluid flowed over his teeth and into his nose and he spluttered. He couldn’t close his mouth, something fucked about his jaw.

When the pain receded, fire to molten earth, he tried rolling rather than pushing. Got onto his side, watched the rain flow past as he gathered his strength for another attempt. He pressed his hand into the mud, gulped sodden air as the spear pierced his back once more. Somewhere behind him he heard a clatter of stones like running footsteps. Fear of his attacker fueled a surge onto his hands and knees, then to his feet. He turned in a slow circle. He saw the Caddy above on the spur, doors standing open and interior lights on, no sign of Myra or the babysitter. No sign of the leverage. No sign of the man in blue.

How did he get here, four hundred miles from a lock-down ward in a zombie asylum? Near as anyone could tell the bastard didn’t even think actual thoughts. All he did was hiss, drool, and piss himself. And yet, somehow, he’d strolled out of the woods here on Mount Tabor and all but killed Big Ed in his tracks.

He ran a hand over his bristly hair, wincing. There was only one thing for it now—they had to get away. Leave Portland, return to Givern Valley and ride out whatever storm happened to chase them south. Everything had gone wrong. Same as always. Big Ed had been given a simple task, had nearly blown it when the leverage escaped the car this morning. He’d redeemed himself, he thought, when he followed the babysitter into the man’s back yard. All fucking day he followed him, Myra bitching the whole time, but he found the boy. Then this, right out of the woods. And now Myra was gone, their leverage fled. If he were another man, Big Ed might attempt to flee himself. Follow Myra’s lead and run like hell. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but the failing light told him the leverage had plenty of time to get away. Which left him with the choice of facing Hiram’s wrath or going to ground, all six-foot-scarred-throat-robot-talking-five of him. Yeah, that would work. Big Ed would be lucky to live out the week.

Still.

What else could he do? He’d been Hiram’s man for so long he didn’t know how to be anything else. And maybe he could make the old man understand one more time.

For fuck’s sake, Hiram, has the goddamn party started yet?

His legs didn’t want to cooperate, but somehow he picked up one foot, then the other. The rain followed him downslope. At the loop drive, he stopped and gazed across the derby track to the reservoir. The water reflected the mustard glow of the lampposts and light from houses along the edge of the park. The little boy might be in any one of those houses by now, awaiting the arrival of cops. He wandered out of the park, Officer, wet and alone. Big Ed would never escape Hiram so easily.

He crossed the road and climbed, winding up the hill as darkness thickened around him. The forested slopes chattered with falling rain. He flinched at every movement, the sway of a branch, the glint of city glow on rainwater tumbling through the undergrowth. His neck and back were a lattice of pain, his feet throbbed and his thighs raged against every step. The hillside seemed to groan around him, or perhaps he heard only his own nerves strained to their tensile limits inside his head. He shuddered and pushed on, only realized he was nearing the top when he spied the gleam of a lamppost ahead. He topped a rocky shoulder and found himself on a broad natural terrace sloping up to a steep, grassy bank. At the top, he could see a concrete curb illuminated by the lamppost. A short flight of steps, a dozen or fewer, climbed from the muddy terrace to the road bounding the summit. Hiram would be just beyond, waiting near the statue. Expecting his leverage.

Big Ed paused. His tongue felt swollen in his hanging jaw. How could he face the old man, having failed yet again? How could he tell Hiram of the one who’d appeared like a ghost from the trees to unravel all their plans?

A voice cried out above, the girl—had to be. Stuart’s bitch. A deeper voice answered, gravelly and edged with menace. Hiram. Big Ed could only imagine the conversation, the pleading and the threats. Ed knew they were waiting for him, anger and fear thickening in the air around them like soup. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to take the last few steps. He hung poised on a blade’s edge, unable to fall to either side, wanting to be cut in half. Then he heard a grunt and turned his head.

The ugly ex-cop was moving along the bank in the shadows midway between two lampposts. Big Ed inhaled through his gaping mouth, felt his chest and neck swell. The old guy paused, his head level with the curb. He cocked his head, listening maybe, a hesitation long enough for Big Ed to close the distance. At the last moment, he seemed to sense the approaching presence and turned. Too late. Big Ed drove a fist between his shoulder blades. The force of the blow sent a stab of pain through Ed’s back and neck. The ex-cop dropped, groaning, and tried to crawl away. Big Ed hit him again, this time aiming for the kidney. Then Ed grasped him below the collar and tossed him up the bank. The old man flopped over, no heavier than a wet towel. Lift, slam, lift, slam. Each time the bastard’s body struck the bank, wind rushed out of him. Despite his own snarling agony, Big Ed wanted to laugh. Felt so damn good to whale on the mouthy fucker.

When the cop finally stopped wriggling around, Ed pawed though his clothes. Found .357 revolver, almost familiar in its heft. The gun surprised him, but also filled him with a crazy euphoria. A gun, now, after everything. Where the fucker found it between the Cadillac and this hilltop Ed had no idea. But it only added to the sudden power he felt. He tucked the gun into his belt and grabbed the old man’s collar again. He was gonna enjoy explaining to Mister You-Don’t-Have-To-Do-This the way the world really worked. Hiram Spaneker awaited his due. Ex-pork belly didn’t want to tell them where to look for the kid, the no-bodies rule was out the fucking door.

He dragged the old man up the bank and across the curb, digging for the larynx in his belt pouch, then each coat pocket. He felt the gun, felt Myra’s car keys. He stopped on the edge of the pavement, patting himself like a man trying to put out a fire. Across the summit drive he saw the statue, recognized the trio gathered in its shadow. His steely glee deflated. The electrolarynx was gone. George the Flea wasn’t.