Nicholas Morris
Highway 79 leading to Caddo Peak looked the same as it always had-towns with one gas station and four churches, pine trees as far as the eye can see, deer crossing and brakes screeching. And then Prince Hill, a dive down from the Ouachita Mountains and into the valley where Hernando De Soto recorded facing the fiercest Indians he'd ever seen-"fought like demons" was the phrase on the historical marker overlooking the town.
John had often felt fierce in the Peak, and hadn't been back since his mother's funeral seven years earlier. If there had been a closer relative to bury his father, he would have never returned.
There was a sheriff's cruiser waiting when he pulled into his father's driveway. His heart skipped a beat.
The sheriff stepped out of his father's house, shielded his eyes, and grinned.
"John D. Custy! How the hell you been?"
John shut the car door. His father's dog bolted past the sheriff and started barking at his car.
"I've been better." He kicked at the dog, but the mutt jumped back, growling at him. "Can't you just put this one down or something?"
"Yore daddy loved that dawg. Be a shame to kill him."
John stuck out his hand. "It's good to see you Brad."
Brad pulled John into an embrace. "Been a long time, bud."
"Sure has. They done made you sheriff?"
"Elected me last November, when ole Evans retired." He removed his shades. "How are you takin it, John? You doin okay?"
"I'm fine, Brad. Cancer gives a hell of a warning, and we were never that close anyway. Shouldn't you be out makin a bust or kissin a baby somewhere?"
Brad handed him a card. "My home number's on the back. Call me if you need me." He climbed into his cruiser and backed out of the driveway.
The dog was barking at him. He threw a rock at it and missed.
"Why don't you just run off to the cemetery, get started on the old man's grave?"
Almost three thousand people lived in Caddo Peak, and John guessed that most of them were at his father's funeral. They passed on their respects, regards, regrets, and condolences. They asked if he was making it okay. They asked if he was going to stay in town for long. They told him stories about his father selling them their car, the very one they drove to the church today. Faces he barely remembered. Seven years or more since he'd seen any of them. Long enough to be considered dead.
The day after the burial, John went to see his father's lawyer.
"David was a good man," the lawyer said. "Pillar of this community. The Peak won't be the same without him."
"I'm sure it won't," John said.
"So I figure this ain't no social call. You want to know what the old man left."
John didn't say anything.
"Well, the house of course. And the property it's on." The lawyer leaned back in his overstuffed chair, tugging on his red suspenders.
"You in the market for a dog?"
"Got three already."
"So that's it? House, an acre of land, and a mutt?"
"Well, the car dealership's yours too, of course. And the cars, naturally."
"So no money? No bank accounts?"
"What was left covered his funeral expenses, and after my fees everything's supposed to go to Living Rock Methodist."
John blew out a long breath.
"Course, the way I see it," the lawyer continued, "you could make a pretty penny sellin his place and the dealership."
John and the lawyer talked for a little while longer, and the lawyer agreed to buy the house and the property, but had no interest in the lot or the cars. As part of the deal, John would live in the house rent free until he sold the dealership.
Geneva Trout, his father's loyal secretary, had been in the office since 7:30. The coffee was already cold when he arrived.
"Anybody stop by to look?"
She looked up from whatever she was typing. "Look for what, Mr. Custy?"
"At. Has anyone looked at the cars?"
"No, Mr. Custy." Back to her typing.
"You know I plan on selling this place."
She paused only long enough to push the typewriter carriage back.
"I assume whoever buys it will keep you on. Did David provide you with a retirement of any kind?"
The bell on the front door jingled.
"You'd better go see what they want, Mr. Custy."
For lunch, John went to the Lux Café, a greasyspoon diner off of Highway 79. He sat on one of the green vinyl barstools at the counter.
Michelle Crenshaw, who'd been in the grade above him in high school, brought him a menu and a glass of water.
"Howya been, John?"
"Pretty good, I guess. You don't know of anyone who wants to buy a car lot?"
Michelle shrugged. "Nobody in The Peak could afford it even if they wanted it. The guy down at the other end of the counter ain't from around here. He might be interested."
John turned and looked at the man. "Say mister, you wouldn't be interested in buying a used car dealership, would you?"
"No thanks," he said. "I'm just passing through."
"Yeah, I'm trying to just pass through myself. I kind of got stuck with the place."
"How do you get stuck with a car dealership?"
He introduced himself to the man, whose name was Thomas Wheeler. After explaining his situation, he asked where Wheeler was headed, what business he was in, if he wanted to buy a car here so he could avoid state taxes. Wheeler asked John about growing up in Caddo Peak, what the dotcom boom had been like, what he planned on doing with his car lot. They shook hands as they were leaving, and John waved to Wheeler as he pulled his gray 2004 Tahoe onto the highway.
His lunch seemed like a long forgotten dream by dinner.
John held a flashlight about two feet long. He tried to turn it on, but nothing happened. He opened the back and saw that the flashlight's chamber was empty. His father was standing next to him.
"John, the batteries."
David pulled the batteries for the flashlight from his ear, each making a buzzing sound as he removed them.
Sunlight poured through his window. He shut off his alarm clock and got dressed to go to the car lot.
When he arrived at Custy's Used Auto, a gray 2004 Tahoe was sitting on the lot. The door was unlocked and the title was sitting next to the keys in the passenger's seat. John questioned Geneva about the Tahoe, but she only shrugged.
"Your father handled the cars. I just take care of the books. Probably some old distributor didn't realize he died and sent an old order."
That afternoon, someone came in and asked about the Tahoe.
"I just got it on the lot today, so I don't really have a price yet. Give me about twenty minutes and I'll get back to you."
John looked up the Blue Book value of the Tahoe and added 15 percent.
After the man signed the paperwork, John treated him to a chicken-fried steak at the Lux.
His father's mutt was barking at the door. John let him out and saw Brad Partain pulling into the driveway.
"What's the trouble?" John asked.
"Did you talk to a fella from out of town yesterday? At the Lux?"
"Yeah. Umm…Wheeler. Tom Wheeler."
"He say where he was goin?"
"I don't really remember. Why? What's wrong?"
"One of my deputies found a body down toward Lake Clarence. Turns out to be the fella you had lunch with. You mind if I ask you some questions?"
"Go ahead."
"Do you know what he was drivin?"
"A gray 2004 Tahoe. I sold one just like it this afternoon."
The sheriff's eyes lit up. "To who?"
"Some guy. I didn't know him, but he really wanted to buy it."
"You got records on the guy?"
"Back at the office."
Brad spit, nodded toward his car. "Feel like takin a ride?"
The local paper carried the story of a Caddo County resident, a pig farmer, who was arrested for the brutal murder of a businessman passing through the area. John got a thrill seeing himself quoted in all the articles, pinning Wendell Jackson, the man who had bought the Tahoe, to the crime. Sheriff Partain and the county prosecutor believed that Jackson had parked the Tahoe at Custy Used Auto, then returned that afternoon to "buy it" before the body was discovered and the Tahoe seized as evidence.
A few days before he was to appear before the grand jury, John drove up on the lot to discover another new vehicle, this one a jeep. Again, the keys and title were lying in the passenger's seat.
He called Sheriff Partain.
"So it was just sittin here, like the Tahoe." Partain rubbed at his chin.
"Same setup. Same spot even."
Partain looked at Geneva. "You didn't see nothin?"
"I just keep the books, Sheriff. I don't pay any attention to the lot."
Partain shrugged. "Well, I'll tell the boys to keep an eye out. If somebody shows up wantin to buy it real quick, be sure and let me know."
The temperature dropped when the sun went down, but the humidity hung in the air like a wet blanket. John barely moved as he sat under the fans-his father hadn't believed in paying a higher electric bill for air-conditioning. He tossed and turned until he kicked off the sheets and lay directly under the fan, trying to fall asleep.
The dog started to bark somewhere near the woodline.
"Shut up!"
The barking got louder. The dog started to growl.
"Shut the fuck up!" John covered his head with the pillow.
The dog was still barking.
He got out of bed, stomped to his front door, turned on the light and stepped onto the porch. "Hey mutt! If you don't quiet down, you're gonna get a permanent worm treatment!"
The dog finally stopped barking and trotted back to the porch. John got back in bed and tried to sleep, but instead stared out the window and watched the sky grow lighter.
"You look rough. Are you feeling okay?" Geneva asked the instant he walked in the door.
"Damn dog kept me up all night."
"Sheriff Partain called. Said to remind you about your testimony this afternoon."
"Shit. Take care of the office, I've got to go home and change."
"But I only…"
"Then take the day off."
When he got home, he put on his suit quickly, looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and no matter how many times he ran a brush through his hair it looked like he'd just woke up.
He fixed himself a sandwich and ate it in his father's recliner, looking up at the clock every few minutes. The sandwich was resting half-eaten on his stomach when the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Where're you at?" It was Brad Partain.
"I'm at home. I must have dozed off."
"Well get down here. You've got to testify if we're gonna make a case on this guy."
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
The judge called John to the stand. A lawyer approached him.
"Mr. Custy, are you aware that the accused blew a goldfish through the mail slot of the senior senator from Idaho?"
"Excuse me?"
"Answer the question please, Mr. Cuntstain," the judge said from under his orange tophat.
"I was not aware." He looked around the room for Partain, but couldn't find him. "Am I done here, your honor?"
"You are excused."
When he opened the door of the courtroom, the hallway was dark and musty. He walked toward the nearest opening.
"John! Over here!"
Wheeler was calling to him from the bathroom door.
"I need to talk to you John."
Where the urinals would normally be was the lunch counter they'd ate at the day they met, complete with Michelle Crenshaw.
"Pull out your hair and help me weave a blanket," Wheeler said to him when Michelle set down their food. "I need to fight off the flu like a bullfighter."
John looked down in his plate. There was a cellphone surrounded by parsley. It started to ring but when he tried to pick it up it fell to the floor and shattered into slivers of glass. He stood, looked into the mirror, and saw the woodline beside his father's house. Two red beams of light burned out of the black and moved closer. Blackness began to fill the room like smoke. Outside his father's dog was barking and snarling. John looked at the red digits of his alarm clock-4:13. He got out of his bed, went into the living room, and turned on the TV. He had to know that he was back in the real world again.
When he got to the lot, there was a new truck sitting next to the jeep. Geneva was bouncing in her seat when he walked in.
"Have you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"They let that Wendell Jackson feller go. Said the evidence wasn't strong enough to keep him."
"Did you see anybody out here this morning? Putting that new truck on the lot?"
She shook her head. "Do you still plan on sellin this place, Mr. Custy? I need to know if I should be lookin for another job."
"As soon as I find someone to buy it." He walked into his office and shut the door.
A few minutes later, she knocked on his door. "Mr. Custy? A man's come to see you about buyin a truck for his son. He really likes the new one."
Partain's cruiser pulled up to his porch, the dog barking in the driveway.
"Howya doin, John?"
"Pretty good, Brad. Yourself?"
Partain took a deep breath, exhaled. "I've had better days."
"What's on your mind?"
"One of my deputies found another body down 79. Might be the guy that owned that jeep somebody left on your lot."
"What happened with Jackson?"
"Well, this, among other things. What was wrong with you in court?"
"I haven't been sleeping well. When I do sleep, I have very strange dreams."
Partain rubbed his chin.
"Am I a suspect, Brad?"
"We don't have any suspects at the moment," Partain said, "but I'd keep my nose clean if I was you."
John sat in his recliner, trying to find something interesting enough on TV to keep him awake. He didn't care if he had another dream for years. He stopped on Law and Order. They usually got the right suspect in the end. John thought about being a suspect, and suddenly wasn't in the mood for Law and Order.
Local news. Report about the man killed off of Highway 79. John watched for half a minute before he changed the station.
Cops. Next.
Sitcom. Sitcom. Church channel. Sitcom. Twenty-four hour news channel. 70s sitcom. An old black and white movie. John stopped. Charlie Chaplin in The Great Dictator. A good laugh would keep him up.
Charlie Chaplin removed his mask to reveal his true identity: Brad Partain. He stepped out of the TV and into the living room. "If you fart on the geese," he said, "you must also juggle the overhead fan or the alarm will go off."
Geneva Trout's head peeked in from the kitchen. "Someone on the phone for you, Mr. Custy."
John snapped awake. The Great Dictator had given way to The Manchurian Candidate. He walked into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.
He went to the car lot the next morning with heavy eyes and his stomach in knots from the coffee he'd drunk all night. Geneva said something to him when he walked in, but he didn't really hear it.
"I'll be in my office," he mumbled, shutting the door behind him.
John looked up the numbers of other car dealers in the region to see if they would be interested in taking over Custy's Used Auto. He was ready to get back to the semi-retired life of an exdotcommer, rather than sitting in an old office building in Caddo Peak, Arkansas, trying to sell used cars. But his eyes would barely stay open, so he laid his head down on his desk to rest them.
When he awoke, it was dark outside. He wondered how he could have slept all day. He stood and stretched, stiff from sleeping at his desk. He opened the door to his office and walked into the front part of the building. There was a commotion outside.
When he opened the door, he saw no one, but there was a 1999 Impala on the lot where there hadn't been before.
John ran out, looking in all directions. He scanned the dark, but could find nothing. He turned to go back inside, but caught a movement out of his peripheral vision. He turned to see what it was and his vision filled with blackness.
He awoke again somewhere in the woods, but there was a dirt road beneath him and a car nearby. He looked down at himself and saw that he was covered in blood. John checked himself quickly to see if he was injured, but nothing seemed to be wrong. All he found was a set of keys and a car title. As he was standing he brushed his hand against something. It was a human body, mutilated beyond recognition.
John turned and vomited, as much from the rancid smell as the sight. He stood and got into the car. In the distance, he could hear sirens approaching.
As the door of his cell slammed shut, Partain spit on him.
"Brad, you know I couldn't do something like this."
"Don't call me Brad, you sonofabitch." Partain turned on his heel and disappeared.
John sat down on the bunk. He must be guilty. They had found him next to a body, covered in blood. If this was the old days, they'd probably have already hung him from the tree casting a shadow on the floor through the cell window. The shadow shifted, moving across the wall before it disappeared altogether.
John stood up on his bunk and looked through the barred window. He caught a glimpse of something fading into the darkness along the trees. He stood at the window screaming his innocence until fire hoses pinned him to the wall.
John had often felt fierce in the Peak, and hadn't been back since his mother's funeral seven years earlier. If there had been a closer relative to bury his father, he would have never returned.
There was a sheriff's cruiser waiting when he pulled into his father's driveway. His heart skipped a beat.
The sheriff stepped out of his father's house, shielded his eyes, and grinned.
"John D. Custy! How the hell you been?"
John shut the car door. His father's dog bolted past the sheriff and started barking at his car.
"I've been better." He kicked at the dog, but the mutt jumped back, growling at him. "Can't you just put this one down or something?"
"Yore daddy loved that dawg. Be a shame to kill him."
John stuck out his hand. "It's good to see you Brad."
Brad pulled John into an embrace. "Been a long time, bud."
"Sure has. They done made you sheriff?"
"Elected me last November, when ole Evans retired." He removed his shades. "How are you takin it, John? You doin okay?"
"I'm fine, Brad. Cancer gives a hell of a warning, and we were never that close anyway. Shouldn't you be out makin a bust or kissin a baby somewhere?"
Brad handed him a card. "My home number's on the back. Call me if you need me." He climbed into his cruiser and backed out of the driveway.
The dog was barking at him. He threw a rock at it and missed.
"Why don't you just run off to the cemetery, get started on the old man's grave?"
Almost three thousand people lived in Caddo Peak, and John guessed that most of them were at his father's funeral. They passed on their respects, regards, regrets, and condolences. They asked if he was making it okay. They asked if he was going to stay in town for long. They told him stories about his father selling them their car, the very one they drove to the church today. Faces he barely remembered. Seven years or more since he'd seen any of them. Long enough to be considered dead.
The day after the burial, John went to see his father's lawyer.
"David was a good man," the lawyer said. "Pillar of this community. The Peak won't be the same without him."
"I'm sure it won't," John said.
"So I figure this ain't no social call. You want to know what the old man left."
John didn't say anything.
"Well, the house of course. And the property it's on." The lawyer leaned back in his overstuffed chair, tugging on his red suspenders.
"You in the market for a dog?"
"Got three already."
"So that's it? House, an acre of land, and a mutt?"
"Well, the car dealership's yours too, of course. And the cars, naturally."
"So no money? No bank accounts?"
"What was left covered his funeral expenses, and after my fees everything's supposed to go to Living Rock Methodist."
John blew out a long breath.
"Course, the way I see it," the lawyer continued, "you could make a pretty penny sellin his place and the dealership."
John and the lawyer talked for a little while longer, and the lawyer agreed to buy the house and the property, but had no interest in the lot or the cars. As part of the deal, John would live in the house rent free until he sold the dealership.
Geneva Trout, his father's loyal secretary, had been in the office since 7:30. The coffee was already cold when he arrived.
"Anybody stop by to look?"
She looked up from whatever she was typing. "Look for what, Mr. Custy?"
"At. Has anyone looked at the cars?"
"No, Mr. Custy." Back to her typing.
"You know I plan on selling this place."
She paused only long enough to push the typewriter carriage back.
"I assume whoever buys it will keep you on. Did David provide you with a retirement of any kind?"
The bell on the front door jingled.
"You'd better go see what they want, Mr. Custy."
For lunch, John went to the Lux Café, a greasyspoon diner off of Highway 79. He sat on one of the green vinyl barstools at the counter.
Michelle Crenshaw, who'd been in the grade above him in high school, brought him a menu and a glass of water.
"Howya been, John?"
"Pretty good, I guess. You don't know of anyone who wants to buy a car lot?"
Michelle shrugged. "Nobody in The Peak could afford it even if they wanted it. The guy down at the other end of the counter ain't from around here. He might be interested."
John turned and looked at the man. "Say mister, you wouldn't be interested in buying a used car dealership, would you?"
"No thanks," he said. "I'm just passing through."
"Yeah, I'm trying to just pass through myself. I kind of got stuck with the place."
"How do you get stuck with a car dealership?"
He introduced himself to the man, whose name was Thomas Wheeler. After explaining his situation, he asked where Wheeler was headed, what business he was in, if he wanted to buy a car here so he could avoid state taxes. Wheeler asked John about growing up in Caddo Peak, what the dotcom boom had been like, what he planned on doing with his car lot. They shook hands as they were leaving, and John waved to Wheeler as he pulled his gray 2004 Tahoe onto the highway.
His lunch seemed like a long forgotten dream by dinner.
John held a flashlight about two feet long. He tried to turn it on, but nothing happened. He opened the back and saw that the flashlight's chamber was empty. His father was standing next to him.
"John, the batteries."
David pulled the batteries for the flashlight from his ear, each making a buzzing sound as he removed them.
Sunlight poured through his window. He shut off his alarm clock and got dressed to go to the car lot.
When he arrived at Custy's Used Auto, a gray 2004 Tahoe was sitting on the lot. The door was unlocked and the title was sitting next to the keys in the passenger's seat. John questioned Geneva about the Tahoe, but she only shrugged.
"Your father handled the cars. I just take care of the books. Probably some old distributor didn't realize he died and sent an old order."
That afternoon, someone came in and asked about the Tahoe.
"I just got it on the lot today, so I don't really have a price yet. Give me about twenty minutes and I'll get back to you."
John looked up the Blue Book value of the Tahoe and added 15 percent.
After the man signed the paperwork, John treated him to a chicken-fried steak at the Lux.
His father's mutt was barking at the door. John let him out and saw Brad Partain pulling into the driveway.
"What's the trouble?" John asked.
"Did you talk to a fella from out of town yesterday? At the Lux?"
"Yeah. Umm…Wheeler. Tom Wheeler."
"He say where he was goin?"
"I don't really remember. Why? What's wrong?"
"One of my deputies found a body down toward Lake Clarence. Turns out to be the fella you had lunch with. You mind if I ask you some questions?"
"Go ahead."
"Do you know what he was drivin?"
"A gray 2004 Tahoe. I sold one just like it this afternoon."
The sheriff's eyes lit up. "To who?"
"Some guy. I didn't know him, but he really wanted to buy it."
"You got records on the guy?"
"Back at the office."
Brad spit, nodded toward his car. "Feel like takin a ride?"
The local paper carried the story of a Caddo County resident, a pig farmer, who was arrested for the brutal murder of a businessman passing through the area. John got a thrill seeing himself quoted in all the articles, pinning Wendell Jackson, the man who had bought the Tahoe, to the crime. Sheriff Partain and the county prosecutor believed that Jackson had parked the Tahoe at Custy Used Auto, then returned that afternoon to "buy it" before the body was discovered and the Tahoe seized as evidence.
A few days before he was to appear before the grand jury, John drove up on the lot to discover another new vehicle, this one a jeep. Again, the keys and title were lying in the passenger's seat.
He called Sheriff Partain.
"So it was just sittin here, like the Tahoe." Partain rubbed at his chin.
"Same setup. Same spot even."
Partain looked at Geneva. "You didn't see nothin?"
"I just keep the books, Sheriff. I don't pay any attention to the lot."
Partain shrugged. "Well, I'll tell the boys to keep an eye out. If somebody shows up wantin to buy it real quick, be sure and let me know."
The temperature dropped when the sun went down, but the humidity hung in the air like a wet blanket. John barely moved as he sat under the fans-his father hadn't believed in paying a higher electric bill for air-conditioning. He tossed and turned until he kicked off the sheets and lay directly under the fan, trying to fall asleep.
The dog started to bark somewhere near the woodline.
"Shut up!"
The barking got louder. The dog started to growl.
"Shut the fuck up!" John covered his head with the pillow.
The dog was still barking.
He got out of bed, stomped to his front door, turned on the light and stepped onto the porch. "Hey mutt! If you don't quiet down, you're gonna get a permanent worm treatment!"
The dog finally stopped barking and trotted back to the porch. John got back in bed and tried to sleep, but instead stared out the window and watched the sky grow lighter.
"You look rough. Are you feeling okay?" Geneva asked the instant he walked in the door.
"Damn dog kept me up all night."
"Sheriff Partain called. Said to remind you about your testimony this afternoon."
"Shit. Take care of the office, I've got to go home and change."
"But I only…"
"Then take the day off."
When he got home, he put on his suit quickly, looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and no matter how many times he ran a brush through his hair it looked like he'd just woke up.
He fixed himself a sandwich and ate it in his father's recliner, looking up at the clock every few minutes. The sandwich was resting half-eaten on his stomach when the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Where're you at?" It was Brad Partain.
"I'm at home. I must have dozed off."
"Well get down here. You've got to testify if we're gonna make a case on this guy."
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
The judge called John to the stand. A lawyer approached him.
"Mr. Custy, are you aware that the accused blew a goldfish through the mail slot of the senior senator from Idaho?"
"Excuse me?"
"Answer the question please, Mr. Cuntstain," the judge said from under his orange tophat.
"I was not aware." He looked around the room for Partain, but couldn't find him. "Am I done here, your honor?"
"You are excused."
When he opened the door of the courtroom, the hallway was dark and musty. He walked toward the nearest opening.
"John! Over here!"
Wheeler was calling to him from the bathroom door.
"I need to talk to you John."
Where the urinals would normally be was the lunch counter they'd ate at the day they met, complete with Michelle Crenshaw.
"Pull out your hair and help me weave a blanket," Wheeler said to him when Michelle set down their food. "I need to fight off the flu like a bullfighter."
John looked down in his plate. There was a cellphone surrounded by parsley. It started to ring but when he tried to pick it up it fell to the floor and shattered into slivers of glass. He stood, looked into the mirror, and saw the woodline beside his father's house. Two red beams of light burned out of the black and moved closer. Blackness began to fill the room like smoke. Outside his father's dog was barking and snarling. John looked at the red digits of his alarm clock-4:13. He got out of his bed, went into the living room, and turned on the TV. He had to know that he was back in the real world again.
When he got to the lot, there was a new truck sitting next to the jeep. Geneva was bouncing in her seat when he walked in.
"Have you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"They let that Wendell Jackson feller go. Said the evidence wasn't strong enough to keep him."
"Did you see anybody out here this morning? Putting that new truck on the lot?"
She shook her head. "Do you still plan on sellin this place, Mr. Custy? I need to know if I should be lookin for another job."
"As soon as I find someone to buy it." He walked into his office and shut the door.
A few minutes later, she knocked on his door. "Mr. Custy? A man's come to see you about buyin a truck for his son. He really likes the new one."
Partain's cruiser pulled up to his porch, the dog barking in the driveway.
"Howya doin, John?"
"Pretty good, Brad. Yourself?"
Partain took a deep breath, exhaled. "I've had better days."
"What's on your mind?"
"One of my deputies found another body down 79. Might be the guy that owned that jeep somebody left on your lot."
"What happened with Jackson?"
"Well, this, among other things. What was wrong with you in court?"
"I haven't been sleeping well. When I do sleep, I have very strange dreams."
Partain rubbed his chin.
"Am I a suspect, Brad?"
"We don't have any suspects at the moment," Partain said, "but I'd keep my nose clean if I was you."
John sat in his recliner, trying to find something interesting enough on TV to keep him awake. He didn't care if he had another dream for years. He stopped on Law and Order. They usually got the right suspect in the end. John thought about being a suspect, and suddenly wasn't in the mood for Law and Order.
Local news. Report about the man killed off of Highway 79. John watched for half a minute before he changed the station.
Cops. Next.
Sitcom. Sitcom. Church channel. Sitcom. Twenty-four hour news channel. 70s sitcom. An old black and white movie. John stopped. Charlie Chaplin in The Great Dictator. A good laugh would keep him up.
Charlie Chaplin removed his mask to reveal his true identity: Brad Partain. He stepped out of the TV and into the living room. "If you fart on the geese," he said, "you must also juggle the overhead fan or the alarm will go off."
Geneva Trout's head peeked in from the kitchen. "Someone on the phone for you, Mr. Custy."
John snapped awake. The Great Dictator had given way to The Manchurian Candidate. He walked into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.
He went to the car lot the next morning with heavy eyes and his stomach in knots from the coffee he'd drunk all night. Geneva said something to him when he walked in, but he didn't really hear it.
"I'll be in my office," he mumbled, shutting the door behind him.
John looked up the numbers of other car dealers in the region to see if they would be interested in taking over Custy's Used Auto. He was ready to get back to the semi-retired life of an exdotcommer, rather than sitting in an old office building in Caddo Peak, Arkansas, trying to sell used cars. But his eyes would barely stay open, so he laid his head down on his desk to rest them.
When he awoke, it was dark outside. He wondered how he could have slept all day. He stood and stretched, stiff from sleeping at his desk. He opened the door to his office and walked into the front part of the building. There was a commotion outside.
When he opened the door, he saw no one, but there was a 1999 Impala on the lot where there hadn't been before.
John ran out, looking in all directions. He scanned the dark, but could find nothing. He turned to go back inside, but caught a movement out of his peripheral vision. He turned to see what it was and his vision filled with blackness.
He awoke again somewhere in the woods, but there was a dirt road beneath him and a car nearby. He looked down at himself and saw that he was covered in blood. John checked himself quickly to see if he was injured, but nothing seemed to be wrong. All he found was a set of keys and a car title. As he was standing he brushed his hand against something. It was a human body, mutilated beyond recognition.
John turned and vomited, as much from the rancid smell as the sight. He stood and got into the car. In the distance, he could hear sirens approaching.
As the door of his cell slammed shut, Partain spit on him.
"Brad, you know I couldn't do something like this."
"Don't call me Brad, you sonofabitch." Partain turned on his heel and disappeared.
John sat down on the bunk. He must be guilty. They had found him next to a body, covered in blood. If this was the old days, they'd probably have already hung him from the tree casting a shadow on the floor through the cell window. The shadow shifted, moving across the wall before it disappeared altogether.
John stood up on his bunk and looked through the barred window. He caught a glimpse of something fading into the darkness along the trees. He stood at the window screaming his innocence until fire hoses pinned him to the wall.
copyright 2007 Fear Knocks
for Caleb Hicks
Nick Morris is a recent graduate of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado. He enjoys long walks by Boulder Creek, Colorado sunsets, and top shelf tequila. He aspires to be the next Irving Berlin.
