The Savage(12)

“Time ain’t something we got much of. But sooner you help me roll his dead ass up, I can mop his remains from the tile, toss his ass in your truck, have you and your boy follow me to my place, bury him deep.”

Holding the .45 down his side, Horace looked to Van Dorn and asked, “It’s your choice, Dorn. We help her get rid of this man, we’re seared for life. Or we walk out. Drive to Johnny Law’s, I turn myself in.”

Dorn swallowed the bitter taste of decision; his ears no longer rang. But his heart pounded. Arms ached as he hugged the lunch meat that sweat a cold spot through the cotton of his shirt. Glancing to the loss of life before him, then to the Widow, Dorn wanted out of this place. He thought about his father. He’d learned him of surviving life. Never abandoned him like his mother. Dorn stepped toward the counter. Dropped the food upon it, exhaled, and said, “Gonna need some gloves.”

Rushed, the Widow walked over to the shelves of food and supplies. Removed two sets of gloves from a chrome carousel. Handed them to Horace and Van Dorn.

Sliding the leather gloves on, Horace told Dorn, “Boy, sometimes life don’t care much for us, beginning to believe we should’ve never encroached back over the Ohio River.”

Horace and Van Dorn tried the best they could not to step their boots into the expanding pool of blood, and dropped groceries as they rolled the warm body onto the tarp. Taking in Gutt’s ripped-apart complexion.

Pulling a set of car keys from Gutt’s front pocket, the Widow placed them into her own, with a key chain dangling a Nazi swastika. Horace shook his head, told the Widow to get some tape. Grabbing a roll of gray duct tape from a shelf, she, Horace, and Van Dorn wrapped the body up like a burrito, taping and sealing the ends, snugging the canvas to the cadaver.

A sickness festered and bubbled within Dorn’s stomach. The insides of his mouth watered but he held back the bile. Horace eyed Van Dorn and told him, “Let’s get him to the Ranger.”

Dorn got the feet, Horace the head, lugged the heft of the deceased out the door. Darkness had saturated the land. No sound could be heard other than the hum of bugs swarming outdoor lights or vehicles traveling up and down old 64 off in the distance. Horace used one hand to lower the tailgate, support the body he half laid on it. Climbed into the bed. Situated his and Dorn’s gear, then maneuvered Gutt, placed him long ways, but had to bend his legs. Laid their wares atop of his body, camouflaged the lifeless passenger, and closed the bed.

Horace filled the Ranger with fuel. Backed it around to the side of the mart while the Widow sopped and bleached the blood from the floor.

Lights within the store disappeared. Out the front door came the Widow, who bolted the entrance behind her. Horace and Van Dorn sat without words in the Ranger with hunger rolling around their insides.

Through the rolled-down window, a set of keys dangled from the Widow’s left hand, then a carton of smokes released from her right, landed on Horace’s lap. “Camels is on the house. The food sweated too much. Can get new tomorrow. But now, someone’s gotta drive Gutt’s car.”

From the road behind the Widow, lights came slow with the crack and give of gravel as an old Dodge wheeled in. From inside a male voice hollered, “Widow? Guess you’s closed?”

The Widow turned, Horace jerked the keys from her reach, whispered to himself, “I’ll navigate.” He looked to Dorn. “You ride center behind her in the Ranger, I’ll follow behind you once this local gets his ass moving.”

“What if he don’t?” Van Dorn whispered back.

“Then we might need to help him find his route, he’s thieving our time.”

The Widow walked toward the man in the truck and spoke. “Yes I am, Elmer. You have to come back tomorrow around lunchtime or head to Marengo.”

Elmer rested an arm on his steering wheel, poked his head out the window, trying to get a closer look at whom the Widow was speaking with. “Who’s that you talking with back yonder?”

Van Dorn watched Horace slide the .45 from his waist. Keeping his eyes on the man as he mumbled through clenched teeth. “Don’t force my hand, old-timer. Go on and get.”

As he thumbed the safety on the .45, Dorn’s heart sped back up.

The Widow said, “Just some that has lost their direction.”

Elmer lowered his arm that rested on the idling truck’s steering. Reached for the latch of the door.

“Ain’t giving you any trouble, are they?”

Horace laid his left arm out the Ranger’s window, fingered the handle. Watched the Widow’s pace pick up and she told Elmer, “Lord no. They’s okay. But I gotta be getting along. It’s late. You need to do the same.”

“Don’t suppose you’d unlatch that door, maybe flip a light and grab me a pack of them Indian smokes so I don’t gotta hit a tavern?”

From the road another set of lights came. Sped on past, but slow. Horace pulled the latch of the Ford open. The interior light didn’t come on as they’d removed the bulb. Keeping the camouflage of night for when robbing homes. And Horace said, “Fucker can’t take an invitation, I give him a hint.”

“I can’t, Elmer, done told you I need to get.”

The Widow turned away, her face one part anger, the other worry. Meeting Horace’s eyes, she lipped no. Wanting Horace to stay in the truck. Gears in Elmer’s Dodge shifted. The suspension squeaked and he slowly twisted the steering, pulled back onto the road, drove on until his taillights disappeared. At the Ranger’s window the Widow said, “We take the back roads, shouldn’t be no concern for the law.”