by H. Turnip Smith
The Man in the Black Corvette
Traffic outside the broiling stadium had developed cardiac arrest, and the twins were bouncing off the roof. A football game was nice, Laurie thought, but not if there was going to be a hassle, and with Charlie's temper she knew there would be. Well maybe she could get the boys settled down.
"C'mon, guys, let's stop pinching each other and calm down. Just a few more minutes and we'll be in the stadium," she said.
Ignoring her completely, Michael whined, "He hit me first, Mom. I was just sitting there."
"No way, Dad. I was looking at my magazine;" Mark kicked Michael in the ankle, causing him to stick out his tongue.
Charlie whirled around. "Hey, hey, you heard your mom. Cut it out you two, or I'll turn this thing around and head straight for home."
Suddenly Mark roared as though a testicle had been clawed off.
"Just wait until we get parked," Laurie said, beginning to lose it. "You guys are going to get it. And I'm not kidding this time."
"It's not our fault," the twins whined in unison.
"You know what?" Charlie said as traffic inched along again. "I may be stupid, but I just can't figure it out. All year you jokers beg to go to the game; then we get a chance and you act like couple of squirrels on speed. I ought to make you both sit in the car during the game "
"Charlie, that's a little much!" Laurie said.
"Much nothing. If you'd give these kids some rules, they wouldn't be acting like baboons."
"I do have rules," Laurie said, feeling wounded and wishing they'd just stayed home.
Traffic snarled again and a black Corvette tried to bull its way into their lane.
"Hey, Stupid, take it easy!" Charlie shouted as a dozen cars honked, and the Corvette slid back into its place.
"Hey, Dad, that Corvette guy's staring at you mean," Mike said. "You ought to punch his nose."
"Sure I'll punch his nose, Mike. Well let the turkey look," Charlie said. "He can't go busting into other people's lanes like he owns the road."
Laurie glanced uneasily at the Corvette, avoiding looking at the driver.
"You know what?" Mark said. "He's an ugly red-headed dude, Dad, and he's giving you the finger. He looks real mean."
"Oh just let him in, Charlie," Laurie said. " People are so unpredictable these days with road rage and all; you just don't know what he might do."
"So he's upset," Charlie said. "I played a little linebacker myself. I don't care if some red-necked joker with an attitude gets his nose bent out of shape over who owns the road."
"Well you just can't be so belligerent," Laurie said as the logjam broke, and traffic jerked forward.
It was two hours later in the fourth quarter with the game tied and the Steelers finally moving the ball that Laurie could sense Charlie getting excited again. Bettis pounded up the middle for nine yards, and Stewart hit a pass to move the Steelers into scoring position.
"C'mon, you guys, knock that sucker in for a score. Block! Now block!" Charlie shouted, and Laurie felt the rhythmic surge of the black and gold breaking their huddle, the stadium rocking as Mansfield squatted over the ball, the quarterback crouching behind him barking signals.
The Steelers pounded down to the five yard line as Charlie leaned forward intently; then Michael suddenly asked, "Dad, can we get a hot-dog?"
"A hot dog? Now? You're crazy, Mike. Hell no!" Charlie growled
"Charlie!" Laurie said.
"C'mon, Dad, let us get a hot dog," Mark echoed.
"Oh let him get a hot dog, Charlie," Laurie said. "Don't be so hard to get along with."
"Hard to get along with hell. It's the timing. Shit!" Charlie punched his arm in the air as the Steelers jumped offside. "2nd and 15. Ahh. I can't believe you two kids, I thought you were football fans, but you suddenly have to feed your faces at the big moment in the game. Remind me the next time you beg me to come along."
"It's not our fault, Dad. We just got hungry," Mark said like he'd been accused of murder.
"He's right, Dad," Mike said. "We couldn't help it."
"Just give them some money, Charlie," Laurie said. "I'll go with them."
"OK. OK. Here! Just shut up!" Charlie stared at the field and absently stuffed a five in Michael's hand as the Steelers exploded from the huddle. The next play was a rollout. Stewart located a wide-open receiver downfield and sighted in.
Afterwards Laurie could only imagine what happened next. Somewhere in row 60 green, the cheap seats, a faceless man, perhaps with shoulder length red hair and a scarred left cheek slid out of his seat and descended the concrete steps to the barrier wall separating the concession area from the spectators. Fading back into the passageway, he lifted field glasses, scanning a row of seats on the opposite side of the stadium. Suddenly the glasses halted and zoomed in on their box.
The redheaded man adjusted the silencer on the long-barreled Mauser. Then as Johnson tumbled into the end zone with the pass, and the stadium erupted, the gunman squeezed the trigger and disappeared into the concession area.
Laurie had watched aghast, then screamed as Mark turned sidewise on the steps, clutching his head.
Michael said, "Quit, messing off, Mark. What're you doing?" Then Laurie registered the blood and watched in horror as her son dropped to the ground, an ugly smear of scarlet burbling from the back of his left ear. A part of her died that day along with Mark.
Like a crazy woman she tore at her hair in the ambulance, but nothing could bring Mark back. Then began the zombie stage as she walked through the funeral arrangements and the funeral itself. And to compound it all there was the criminal investigation.
The police had nothing. The trajectory of the murder bullet was traced with some certainty to section 56 K general admission, but a public appeal to come forward with anything that seemed suspicious went nowhere.
After the funeral Charlie couldn't stop cracking his knuckles, Michael refused to play outside anymore, and Laurie staggered through each day with a dull, numb weight suspended from her heart.
Why had it happened? She kept asking. There was no rational answer. Every day now she and Charlie tumbled into arguments about whose fault it was as if one of them had pulled the trigger. Then Laurie would just get in the Escort and find herself in some unfamiliar church, praying, and then before she knew it, exploding at God about injustice.
Meanwhile she couldn't sleep. She would waken at three a.m., thrash for an hour, and then get in the Escort and drive aimlessly.
On the sixth of November deep in the morning, fog blanketed the valley like a white shroud as the cool night strangled the lingering warmth of day. Laurie cruised along the river, listening for the mournful hoot of tugs driving barges blind on the water. Finally she headed up the hill towards the cemetery. She parked in the middle of a narrow lane.
Mark's fresh, little stone, the only one they could afford, rested on a bare scar of dried mud with a few pathetic plastic flowers scattered about. She stumbled through the fog up the knoll to the marker.
"We miss you so much, Mark," she murmured to the pathetic little grave. "I know we weren't the greatest parents ever, but we loved you, son. You got to believe that. We just never dreamed it could end so fast."
Tears streamed down Laurie's face. And then her murmuring stopped short, as she became aware of a car entering the silent graveyard, its yellow fog-lights buttery blurs in the soupy darkness.
She shivered. "Oh, it's Charlie in the other car," she thought, but the car was the wrong shape. She shivered again. Who in heaven's name was in a graveyard at two a.m.? She felt a spasm of unfamiliar fear as the other car parked directly behind the Escort, idling, lights still on. Then a spotlight suddenly swept across Mark's grave, framing Laurie in a yellow glare.
"What the hell was going on? Of course, it had to be the police! It was a black car wasn't it?" Uneasily, Laurie stumbled through the wet grass towards the blinding spotlight. When she was within a few yard of the car, a power window slid down. Someone nursed a cigarette in the dark void behind the spotlight.
"Would you mind getting that spotlight off me?" Laurie said uncertainly, the hair on the back of her neck standing up.
The light blinded her.
"Well what's the problem here?" she pleaded. "Am I blocking your way or something? I'll move my car."
"Sorry, baby," the smoker mumbled in a smooth, knowing voice, as the spotlight switched off. "Say, you don't know where Carol Denman is buried, do you?"
"Carol Denman? I don't know a Carol Denman." Laurie felt a surge of confusion.
"Well you should, baby, you should."
A nasty blast of electric fear shot up Laurie's spine as she finally realized the spotlight car was a black Corvette. Too frightened too move, she strained to get a look at the license plate, but they were taped over. "Oh my God," Laurie thought with trembling knees as the Corvette abruptly backed up, spewing gravel as it sped from the cemetery.
The next afternoon she got the report from Charlie. According to him, "The cops stood there with their fingers up their butts" when he went to the station ranting.
"O.K., Mr. Marshall, we'll try to trace it -- black Corvette sitting in a graveyard, no license plate." Yeah. Yeah.
"C'mon, calm down, Charlie," Laurie said. "It's probably nothing. "
"What do you mean it's nothing? The guy followed you with his plates covered. It's got something to do with Mark I know."
"Now you don't know that for sure," Laurie said. "Mark's murder could have just been one of these random thrill slayings. We can't get carried away."
"Well it pisses me off, Laurie, really pisses me off. This guy could be Mark's murderer, but the cops won't do anything about it."
"No, they will, Charlie. It'll all work out. I've got faith."
"Well listen, Laurie, faith isn't going to solve Mark's murder."
Now Laurie couldn't stop praying because when she did, the ache in her heart became a physical pain. Mark's death had destroyed everything she and Charlie had had. There was something wrong with Charlie now, something beyond losing a son, but she couldn't put her finger on it. What was it? It was all such a muddle. But whatever it was, was eating her heart out because when Charlie wasn't right, she wasn't right either.
Unfortunately the phone calls started the day after the incident in the cemetery. Laurie was home alone, watching "Days of Our Lives." The calls were all the same.
The stranger's voice had an oily, familiar, sickening quality she couldn't place. "This is Laurie with the sweet little can, isn't it?"
"Who is this?"
"Hey, don't worry, Tits, I got information about the death of your son." The voice -- where had she heard that voice?
"What information do you have? Who is this?" Her hand was slick on the receiver. Whoever it was had caller-ID-blocking.
"Hey, that don't matter. How bout you and me get together some time, Baby? You're a real good looking woman, you know, and we could enjoy talking to each other."
Laurie put her hand over the receiver. She could hear the man breathing, slowly, insidious, unafraid. Keep him on the line; be calm, she thought. Maybe he'll slip up. Reveal something.
"I don't understand," she said. " Why can't you just tell me what you know?"
"Because I can't touch your tits over the phone, that's why. You understand what I'm saying, don't you, Sweetheart? You could meet me some place."
She slammed down the phone. Vile, disgusting lowlife! She called the number the police had left.
Detective Shibinsky at Pittsburgh Metro listened patiently, "We'll put a tracer on the call, M'am."
But the tracers only led to a variety of isolated pay phones.
Slowly the long, horrible, snow-less winter gave way to warm weather. However, Laurie still felt buried under the winter's gloom. Shades drawn. Doors and windows always locked despite a broken air-conditioner. Every sound a portent of something evil, she had begun to feel the stranger, stalking, always lurking outside in the dark. She'd have Charlie check outside, or they'd dial the number of skeptical police officers. Unfortunately there was never anything to be found beyond some trampled grass or a flowerpot tipped over, maybe just the work of eager squirrels.
However, the phone rang incessantly deep in the night.
"You get it Charlie, please," Laurie said.
Charlie would pick it up, "Yeah."
Dial tone. Laurie began to lose weight. Charlie was more irritable than usual, working longer and longer hours. Meanwhile, because of the gloomy fear, Michael had taken to sleeping in their bedroom again like an infant.
Finally August arrived; outside the cicadas fiddled insanely. Despite the dank humidity, the house was sealed like a coffin against the menacing stranger, the frantic buzz of insects like the interior of Laurie's over-heated brain.
And then one night the phone didn't ring. Relieved they went to bed early. For once Laurie was soundly asleep, but she awakened later to Michael's cries.
He was standing by their bed in his pajamas. He looked panic-stricken. "I just talked to Mark!"
"What do you mean you talked to Mark." Laurie's nails gouged her palm.
"I saw him standing there in the corner. He said he was all right now, but he knew why he got murdered?"
"What? What did he say?" Laurie clutched Michael to her hysterically.
"He said it was revenge."
"What are you talking about, Mike," Charlie said, grabbing his son roughly by the shoulder as suddenly Laurie registered flames down the hall. The house was on fire! Frantically the three of them rushed to safety only to watch in dread as the flames licked through the pale August darkness.
Laurie couldn't stop crying as the fire department rumbled up the street, but the damage was done; the kitchen had been destroyed, and the house was nearly in ruins.
"It was him. It was him. I know it was," Laurie kept repeating.
"No," Charlie said, soothingly, "it was an accident, a coincidence."
"This was no coincidence, Charlie. I'm scared. I want to get out of here. Let's buy out in the country or in the suburbs. Go some place where he can't find us."
"Who can't?"
"The guy, Charlie. The caller. The stalker. The Corvette guy!"
"C'mon, get it together, Laurie. Moving will cost a bundle we haven't got. We can't let some asshole run us out. We can't just pull up and leave because we're scared and let some crazy bastard dictate what we do."
"That doesn't matter, Charlie. I don't care who makes us do what. I don't care about the money. I'm scared. I want to get out of here. We can start over with the insurance money. Go someplace miles from here. I can't stand living in fear."
"We've gotta talk about it in daylight, Laurie. You have to get a hold of yourself! You're acting like a weak woman. This is no time to decide. "
However, Laurie wouldn't let it drop. She kept pleading and cajoling. The debate ended on 4 September, the first anniversary of Mark's murder. The insurance settlement arrived on 9 September, and within two more weeks they had relocated in suburban Freedom Township. On moving day the brisk, bright promise of autumn blew in off the nearby hills.
For the first time in months, Laurie felt herself breathing without the lead weight crushing her chest.
The little brick Cape Cod with its rose trellis and blue shutters was perfect. Charlie didn't mind the drive into the city, and Michael was happy in the new school. One day in early October Laurie baked oatmeal cookies and drove them down to the elementary school. It was a spotless, white-brick building that shimmered hopefully in the translucent sunlight
She introduced herself to the new principal, an ordinary, kid-brother of a man, who assured her that everyone who came to Freedom Township loved it. That same afternoon, feeling almost cheerful inside about their new life, she was in the basement, doing the wash, humming to herself as she removed stains from Michael's football uniform when the phone rang.
She rushed upstairs; instantly she recognized the oily, familiar voice. "That you, Laurie tits? I'm on my cell phone and I can see you right now through the window. I been missing you since the fire, Baby. Why'd you and Charlie want to cause me all that trouble and go and leave Pittsburgh? You ought to ask Charlie about Carol some time?"
"Carol who? What are you talking about? Where are you?"
"Don't worry about it, Baby. Just relax."
Laurie braced herself so as not to sink to her knees, but the phone crashed to the floor. Somewhere in the distance a shadow moved. Driving her nails into her own palms, she slowly got a grip on herself. What was the bastard talking about? Carol? Carol who?
OK, Charlie wanted her to be strong. She wouldn't burden him this time. Hadn't he already done everything he could? She'd just have to deal with it. The telephone bastard had to be confronted. Some day she'd get her chance.
However now the monster seemed to be everywhere. In the grocery store parking lot, she could feel his eyes on her. At the dentist's she could feel someone watching from across the street. Why didn't he work? What did the creep want? One day after she was sure the black Corvette tailed her home from the beauty parlor, she called the police on her own.
"We'll look into that, m'am, but we just plain don't have the manpower to assign someone full time to your case."
"You don't believe me, do you? You think because I'm a woman I'm imagining things."
"No, not at all Mrs. Marshall. But you see until a crime has actually been committed, we just can't commit the manpower."
Laurie hung up in anger. There was a message on the answering machine from some woman "Call Carol." Who the hell was Carol? Before she could worry about it, however, she sensed someone studying her through the back windows. She ran to the patio window. The back yard was deserted. What good was a lot of bluff about being strong? Hating herself and her weak-kneed panic, she called Charlie.
"Laurie, what's the deal. You sound all upset."
"I'm OK, Charlie, just lonely this afternoon. I've got to talk to you about this Carol. You couldn't come home early today, could you? I'm afraid."
"What the hell's Carol? C'mon, Laurie, get a grip. We've got heavy bills to deal with now; I'm with a customer. I can't just take off any old time I feel like it."
"I know, Charlie. I know. I'm just a scared. I'll be all right."
"You sure you'll be all right, Laurie?"
"Yeah, I'm sure, Charlie."
She hung up before he could hear her crying. Maybe she should just drive around. Michael wouldn't be home for another hour. She drove to McDonald's and sat near some old men playing checkers and drinking coffee. She ordered an orange drink and sipped it slowly. She never wanted to leave McDonald's, the safest place in the world.
A week later Halloween dawned in foggy drizzle that made the nearby hills look like shrouded cadavers in the distance. The phone had not rung for a week. Laurie felt a hopeful sense of relief. Maybe the madman had given up his harassment scheme. Maybe he'd been arrested for some other crime. Maybe he'd had enough of his nasty game.
It was just after a can of tuna for lunch, she heard the noise in the basement. Heart thumping, she cautiously tiptoed down the stairs to investigate.
"Somebody here?"
The basement echoed hollow with her own voice, mocking. Something seemed to move in the utility room.
"Who's there?" she said, edging back towards the telephone.
No answer. She ran back up the steps and fixed herself a cup of tea. "Got to calm down," she told herself." This is getting out of hand. You're getting paranoid, Laurie. Settle down. There's nobody here. This crackpot caller has nothing to do with Mark's death. People can imagine things. It's like Charlie said. You can't let fear control your life.
She brewed chamomile tea and spent the afternoon hovering by the front door. Finally Charlie pulled in the drive, and Michael came clomping in from football practice. She poured out her story, bursting into tears despite herself. "Charlie, you think this guy will ever leave us alone? It's getting out of control. I can feel it coming to a climax."
"C'mon, Laurie. You got to bow your neck and be tough."
"Bow your neck? What's that mean, Charlie?"
"It's football talk; it means we've let this guy push us around too damn much already. We've got to get on with our lives."
"Dad's right, Mom," Michael interrupted, peeling off his Peewee League gear. "We've blown this guy up into too big a deal. Mark told me he was all right. Let's chill. I've got to get ready for beggars night."
Laurie grabbed Michael by the collar. "I can't let you do that, Michael. It's dangerous out there."
Michael twisted away. "I'm tired of everybody being scared, Mom!"
"Mike's right. We got to relax, Laurie," Charlie's tone was so reasonable. "Nothing's going to happen to
Mike. He'll be with his friends."
"I'm scared, Charlie. The guy's nuts."
Charlie took Laurie aside. "Look, I'll follow Mike out and shadow his gang. Nothing's going to happen."
Weak-kneed, Laurie nodded her head, too exhausted emotionally to resist. At 6:30 a noisy gang of sixth graders dressed in cheap Halloween masks stood in the alcove. Excitedly, Michael came downstairs, yanking on a rubbery slab of Frankenstein mask.
"You kids, stay right on the street," Laurie warned.
"No, Mom, we're going over to Josh's neighborhood. It'll be fine," Michael said.
"We'll take good care of him; don't worry, Missus Marshall," the gang of kids chorused.
A minute later Laurie stood in the doorway watching her son and a band of friends dissolve into the warm, drizzly darkness; she was trembling.
"Charlie," she said, "Something's wrong. I can feel it. I don't want them to go."
Charlie took her in his arms and kissed her eyes. "Come on, Laurie. Guts! I'll follow them. I won't let them out of my sight."
"Charlie, I'm scared. I just don't feel right about it."
"C'mon, Laurie, bow your neck."
By the glow of the porch light Laurie watched Charlie disappear in the darkness. A strange warm wind blew out of the south and a partially-obscured, gibbous moon threw faint shadows across the wan, October sky. Sighing, Laurie trudged upstairs to the den to piddle on the computer.
The phone rang two minutes later. Trembling, she picked it up.
"I'm watching you, Tits. I'm on my cell phone."
"Oh go die!" she slammed down the receiver and opened up her E-mail. Her fingers were cold on the keyboard when the house lights flickered. As the lights dimmed, she jumped up and stared out the window. There was no lightning storm. What was it? Before she could reach a coherent conclusion, the house was plunged into smothering darkness. Feeling her way along the wall with damp fingers, she suddenly smelled something. Garlic? Alcohol? A sick male odor? Where was it? Who was it?
"Charlie?" she whispered. "Charlie?"
A figure moved on the stairs. The steps squeaked. Breathing -- Laurie could hear breathing. She flattened herself against the wall of the den. Her fingers groped for the letter opener beside her on the desk.
"Your mine this time, Baby," an oily male voice whispered from the hall.
Heart hammering, pressing herself to the wall, she tried to breathe shallowly as the intruder inched forward.
"Don't be hiding, Sweetheart. You're going to like what I've got for you," he said. She could smell the alcohol now, see his dark outline. He was standing in the doorway, looking about, trying to adjust his eyes to the dark. Finally he sensed where she was hidden and entered the den.
"My husband will be right back," she burst out, her voice a feeble thread. "He's got a gun with him."
"Good, I got a gun too," the intruder said. "I'd like to blow your old man away."
"But why?" Why do you hate us?"
"Hate you? I'm crazy about you, Tits." She could feel his menace moving towards her in the dark.
"No," she said. "You wouldn't act like you do if you didn't hate us."
"Hate him! Love you, baby."
"I don't understand."
"Well check this out. Your old man's been running my old lady. You know -- Carol Denman. But you see
I don't mess around. He gets in my chicken coop, and I blow yours away."
The accusation hit Laurie like a punch to the stomach. She inhaled hard. "It's a lie. It's a lie. It's a damn sickening lie."
"Is it?" the intruder hissed, new menace in his tone. "I've got pictures of him and Carol."
Laurie's heart plummeted off the emotional trampoline it had been bouncing on. Those nights Charlie always claimed to have been working! Mark had died for his sordid affair! The bastard!
"So now, baby," the intruder's voice was soft and confident "I feel like you owe me one. Why don't you make nice with me?"
She shuddered; the intruder was directly in front of her now, lifting his hands out high to her as she clutched the smooth metal letter opener.
"Now this'll be real sweet because your old man will be gone for a long time with those kids, so you and me can be alone together. We'd like that wouldn't we, Tits?"
Suddenly Laurie sprang, lashing forward with the letter opener. Her forearms shivered at the impact of the knife burying itself in the intruder's thigh. Catlike, limbs on fire with adrenaline, she stumbled past as he roared with pain.
"Jesus Christ!" he cried, flailing after her as she scrambled down the steps, him thumping behind. Unfortunately he was too quick. He blocked the front door. Panicky, Laurie retreated, half stumbling down the cellar steps. Then she realized her mistake. There was no way out of the basement. The intruder inched his way down the steps in the dark.
"You're mine, this time, Baby." She could feel him coming despite the blackness. Flattening herself beside the water heater, she tried to will herself into invisibility. Meanwhile the intruder moved uncertainly, limping from the wound in his thigh.
Kneeling slightly, Laurie reached down. There were tools under the sink just beyond her reach. There was a long flathead screwdriver in there and she silently felt for it. Slowly, she grasped the wooden handle in her wet palm. Perhaps the intruder sensed her movement.
He sprang towards her just as she flung herself to her feet, flailing with the screwdriver. She felt it shiver against her palm as it drove straight to the eyeball. His scream raised the hair on her head. Regardless, she swung again, driving it into his cheek. He flailed at her feebly, but she was beyond stopping now. She struck again. Again. Again. Again. Ugly gasps wrenched from the intruder. Finally, he sank backwards with a sickening thud, cowering, moaning.
Laurie screamed and for a paralyzed moment couldn't move, locked in a horrible moment of compassion for the man she had stabbed, and then frantically she flung herself into motion, racing up the stairs, glad for what she'd done.
The intruder lurched up, and reeled up the stairs after her. At the top of the steps she tried to slam and lock the door, but he was too strong. He suddenly threw it open and was on her in a flash, driving her into the kitchen cabinets. Her screams exploded from her throat as he seized her neck, the blood from his face running down onto her just as Charlie burst through the front door.
There was a horrible moment of utter terror, and then the lights suddenly flashed on as Charlie hurled himself into the intruder, and Laurie broke free, crying, "Charlie! It’s him! You didn’t believe me you sick bastard"
As she flung herself out of the house, she heard the shots -- four of them in rapid sequence, and then it was deathly silent.
Standing somber, not sad, at graveside, Laurie felt Michael's damp hand clutching her own as the coffin waited on rollers, and the preacher's words trailed into oblivion. Her tears were finished. The important things now were that the man in the Corvette was dead and that Michael need not discover the whole story about his father.
If the boy believed his father was a hero who had given his life subduing an intruder, she could live with that. There had been too much trauma and tragedy already. Somehow she would have to help Michael reconstruct his life.
The sun abruptly slid behind the clouds, casting the mourners in deep shadows. Laurie's eyes rose from the mocking artificial grass that lined the grave as it accepted Charlie's coffin. No one had to tell her the identity of the strange woman in an inappropriate red suit and heels who stood alone at the edge of the mourning crowd.
J.A. Hitchcock is the author of six books about Japan, and a freelance writer for print and online pubs including Silicon Sorcery, Writer's Digest, NH Editions, Computer Gaming World, Link-UP, Computer News and Kidnaround