The Embalmer: A Steve Jobz Thriller Page 15

  He holds his free hand out as if to tell his officers to stand down, hold their fire. He makes his way slowly up the stairs, the service weapon poised at the ready, but the barrel aimed at the ground. His eyes seem to be focused entirely on the woman.

  “Here it comes,” Herman says, more for himself than me. “Here comes the part where Detective Miller sees what a beautiful job I’ve done creating Peg’s new life, and the magnificent amount of control I have over him, over the all the police. Over you too, Jobzy.”

  Miller cautiously makes the final few steps up to the city hall entry landing and reaches out to the dead woman. He places two fingers to her jugular and then removes them quickly. All he has to do is touch her skin to know she is so very dead. So I imagine. Or maybe her death seemed obvious to him all along. He shifts his free hand so that it touches something on her breast. It’s a piece of paper. He tears it off, reads it.

  “Now comes the most exciting part,” Herman says. “Because for certain, without any doubt at all in the policeman’s mind, he knows that I am responsible for Peg’s rebirth. Her man is responsible. They call me the mortician murderer. But they got it wrong, Jobzy. I’m not a murderer. I give people life. Eternal life.”

  He’s breathing more rapidly now, rocking in his seat, rubbing his hands together. It’s like his whole body is about to explode.

  Miller looks over one shoulder, then the other. He knows the killer is watching him, watching the scene. He can feel it in his old cop’s bones. I just know it. He peers over his right shoulder once more, and his body goes stiff like his eyes are laser targets locked onto a site.

  If I could smile, I would. Because it’s then that I know for certain, Miller has spotted the cargo van.

  “Oh shit,” Herman spits. He wraps his hand around the ignition, turns the key while pounding the gas pedal. “Shit, shit, shit . . .”

  The engine put-put-puts and strains. But it won’t turn over. He’s panicking, flooding the engine. I begin to laugh on the inside because he’s genuinely afraid and it’s a wonderful sight to see.

  Miller shouts out a series of orders to his men, all of whom turn, begin crossing the street on foot, double-time. But Miller goes for his cruiser, jumps behind the wheel, shuts the door.

  The cops are approaching the van, their pistols aimed for the van’s windshield and the creep behind the wheel.

  “Start up, start up! You piece of Lu Chin shit!” Herman cries, his right foot still pounding the gas. There comes a roar and the van comes to life. “Oh, thank you, God. Thank you, sweet Jesus, and fuck you, Lu!”

  Really, Herman, you have the balls to thank the good Lord?

  He throws the automatic, steering column-mounted transmission into drive, and pulls away from the curb. He puts the pedal to the floor and guns it straight for the cops. Shots are fired, and three bullet holes appear in the windshield.

  “Jesus they’re trying to kill me!” Herman screams. “Don’t they know I’m the man who gives life to the dead? Don’t they know that I’m a great man?”

  The van rocks and sways. I can hear the cops screaming from outside the van window. Then a collision. A collision followed by the van rolling over something that feels like a set of logs. Holy Christ, Herman has run down a cop. He gives the van the gas again and barrels up State Street in the direction of mid-town.

  More gunshots and the rear van windows blow out. Glass shards spray everywhere. It’s impossible for me to move my head or shield my eyes. I can only pray that I’m not hit by bullets or by the spray of glass.

  Herman is rocking back and forth. He’s rambling and ranting indiscernible words and curses aimed at the cops. He’s out of his mind. He turns the wheel abruptly to the right, and the van fishtails to my left, the g-forces push my face and head against the window. He motors into the heart of the combat zone, or what’s better known as the Arbor Hill ghetto. Cops rarely enter this section of the city since every one of their blue shirt-backs is painted with a bullseye.

  Where are you taking us, Herman? I want to say. But I still can’t work up the strength necessary to form words. But when he pulls into an alley and a gang of shirtless black youths approach us, I have a pretty good idea of what he’s up to.

  He gets out, puts up his hands in surrender, and approaches the youths. That’s when I lose sight of him because of the angle of the window. But a moment later, one of the shirtless youths hops into the van’s driver’s seat. He’s wearing a wide-brimmed New York Yankees cap with the gold label still stuck to it. His muscles are ripping out of his too tight skin. He’s holding a 9mm semi-automatic in his right hand. He turns the engine over, revs it a few times, nods.

  He goes to get out, but before he does, he senses my presence and jams the barrel of the pistol against my forehead.

  “Who the fuck are you, motherfucker?” he shouts. “You wanna kill me, motherfucker?”

  I try to speak, but the only sound I can make is a moan. The anger, hatred, and ferocity that oozes from his steely gray eyes is palpable. I can almost taste its rottenness. It’s foulness. But then something happens. He begins to smile. Reaching out, he touches the duct tape that binds me to the seatback.

  “Looks like that white fruitcake got himself a hostage,” he says while pulling out a switchblade, triggering the eight-inch blade. “But I ain’t taken you with me, bitch.”

  He cuts me free, slides open the door, shoves me out.

  I drop down hard onto my side, my eyeglasses falling off. I nearly lose my breath once more. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t broken a rib or two.

  Herman turns quick, sees me on the ground.

  “Hey,” he says, “be careful. He’s with me.”

  Yankees Ball Cap raises his gun, points it at Herman point blank.

  “Don’t you ever tell me to be careful. You don’t tell me nothin’, Jim Crow motherfucker.” Reaching into his baggy jeans pocket, coming back out with a set of keys, he tosses them at Herman.

  “Even trade, bitch. Now go.”

  Herman’s eyes light up. “Sir, if you’ll pardon me, that van is worth at least twice what your car is worth. I was hoping for a little more than an even trade. One thousand at least. You must see my position in all this.”

  It’s not even Herman’s van to sell.

  Yankees Ball Cap laughs. It’s a laugh locked and loaded with mock and derision. The half dozen members of his shirtless gang who surround Herman all laugh. Ball Cap pulls back the hammer on his gun.

  “It be an even trade. You listening to me . . . bitch?”

  Herman’s already pale face turns a dramatic shade of white.

  “Yes, I see,” he says.

  Ball Cap waves the pistol in the direction of a car. Far as I can make out, it’s an old Honda four door that’s cratered with rust and dents. Color black. Windows tinted. The windshield cracked. Wheels with stainless hubcaps. Without the hubcaps, the car is worth next to nothing.

  “Go,” he says. “And take yo’ crippled little boy with you.”

  Herman comes to me, hastily puts my glasses back on my face, slips his arms under my arms, lifts. My feet drag on the blacktop, he pulls me through the back alley to the car. Managing to open the rear door with his left hand, he shoves me inside, closes the door behind me. The car smells like old tuna, and the plastic seat is burning hot. Herman gets behind the wheel as the sound of sirens fills the atmosphere. He turns over the engine and pulls around the van.

  “Jerks,” I overhear him say as he hooks a left out of the alley. “Savage jerks.”

  We drive for another ten minutes, weaving in and out of traffic, stopping for traffic lights and stop signs like nothing’s wrong until we slow down to a crawl and pull into what I’m guessing is a driveway and come to a sudden stop.

  Herman kills the engine, gets out. He goes around to the rear door, opens it, grabs hold of my feet, drags me out so that I fall flat on my chest, belly, and face. If I live through this, I’ll bear the scars to prove it.

  Suddenly, I make
out the voice of a third man.

  “Hey, you, Herman,” the man says. “What you doin’ with that poor fella?”

  If I roll my eyes into their corners, I can barely make the man out. He’s tall. Taller than Herman. Older too. He’s wearing jeans and T-shirt. His hair is gray, and he sports a matching goatee on his long face.

  Herman drops my feet. Hard enough to break a bone, and I can’t even manage a wince.

  “Mind your own business, Gene,” Herman says. “This hasn’t got anything to do with you.”

  “You and I share the same driveway,” an obviously irritated Gene points out. “It most certainly does have something to do with me.”

  “Gene,” Herman says. “Go inside now. Mind your own bees wax.”

  Gene takes a few steps forward. He might not have his hands on me, but I can almost feel the tension bleeding off Herman right about now. Like the sudden appearance of this nosy neighbor is his worst nightmare. He does something then. I can’t quite see what he’s doing, but I see him open up the driver’s side door on the Honda, see him pull his toy gun out of the interior pocket on his jacket, see him loading it with something. Another dart.

  A dart tipped with poison.

  I want to shout out to Gene, warn him. I want to tell him to call the police. Dial 911. But I can’t do a damn thing.

  “You been doing bad things inside that house, Herman,” Gene says. “I just know it. I’ve been watching. Watching from the window. You been feeding that poor woman till she can’t get out of bed no more. You been getting strange packages from some big man in a black suit, drives a big black Cadillac hearse, looks like he’s in the mafia. Big packages. Medical equipment and chemicals. You got some kind of strange laboratory setup down inside that basement. I see through the window. You’re making bio waste. Dangerous bio waste. You . . .”

  I hear a distinct plunk like the arrow from a bow, and Gene drops like a heavy sack of rags and bones behind the back screened-in porch of his bungalow. Out the corner of my eye, I see Herman head into the house. He comes back out a few seconds later. This time, he’s carrying a hammer. A framing hammer.

  Herman takes a knee before Gene, who is down on his back, his eyes wide open. His eyes pleading for Herman not to do anything bad. Anything that will hurt him. I know the feeling. I also know that in a matter of seconds, Gene won’t be able to speak at all.

  But Herman won’t have any of it. He extends the index finger on his free hand, brings it to his lips, issues a “Shush.” Then, raising the heavy hammer high, he brings it down onto Gene’s forehead.

  Here’s what I can see from down on the macadam: Gene’s eyes remain wide open while little bits of blood spray into them. Raising the hammer high once more, Herman brings it down onto Gene’s head and face, again, and again, and again. Until Gene’s eyes are gone altogether along with the raw hamburger that is his face.

  The blood in my veins might be tainted with a drug that causes me paralysis while having no effect on my cognizance, but my heart is pounding in my chest. It feels like it’s about to burst right through my rib cage. I’ve always known Herman was out there, was borderline psycho. But never did I realize the extent of his psychosis, and his desire for blood.

  The hammer in hand, he about-faces and comes to me. Tossing the blood, bone, and hair-stained tool into the car’s front seat, he then bends at the knees, once again grabs hold of my feet, begins dragging me to the back door of what I assume is the kitchen of his house. Using all his strength, he pulls me up the short flight of wood stairs, my head slapping the edge of every tread on the way up. He then drags me across the short mudroom floor, opens the wood door into the kitchen.

  My head, shoulders, and back are dragged along old yellow linoleum, I am immediately struck by the disgusting odor that permeates the house. The combination of excrement, rotten food, and death is like nothing I’ve experienced in my lifetime.

  “Pumpkin!” a woman shouts. The voice takes me by as much surprise as the horrible aroma. “Pumpkin, where the hell have you been?” It’s obvious whoever is shouting is not only distressed, but she is crying, her voice trembling. It’s got to be Herman’s sick wife. “I have been lying here in my own filth for hours and hours. How could you leave me like this? You cruel, cruel man.”

  “I’m coming, Wendy,” he says. “My apologies. I got caught up at work.”

  “You worked all night, Herman? No state worker works all night. You’re nothing but a liar, liar, pants on fire, bumpkin pumpkin! That’s what you are.”

  “I work hard, honey. I’m the exception to the rule. I’ve always been the gifted exception. Now give me one moment.”

  I recall Herman talking about his wife being sick. But I never gave the situation much thought. I guess that would explain the smell. Or, the smells that come from her would make up a part of what truly is rotten about this house.

  He pulls me all the way across the floor until we come to a door located in the space between the kitchen and the bungalow’s living room. When he opens the door and turns me around so that my feet face the opening, I catch a glimpse of the living room. A hospital bed takes up almost the entire floor space, a wall-mounted LED television is broadcasting the Today Show, a blue medical waste bin is so full of soiled adult diapers that a few of them have spilled out onto the floor.

  There are also several multi-gallon containers shoved up against the couch near the door. The big, translucent plastic containers are filled with a pink, almost reddish liquid. It hits me as he begins pulling me down the stairs, the liquid is embalming fluid.

  Herman yanks me down the stairs, my back and skull bouncing off the wood treads, the pain so intense it takes my breath away. If I had the strength, I would cry real tears. Instead, all I can manage is to look at the poor pathetic son of a bitch as he pulls me up by the arms, hefts me over his shoulder, and throws me onto a stainless-steel table. He flicks on an overhead lamp, the kind they have in surgeries, and my eyes are blinded by the intense bright white light.

  He strips me of my shoes, pants, shirt, and jacket, but leaves my eyeglasses on. When I’m entirely naked, he straps me down tightly to the table. A move that tells me the drug will be wearing off soon and I’ll be able to once more move my muscles. Just the thought provides me with a ray of hope. If I can move my muscles and therefore my limbs, I just might be able to free myself from this hell hole. I just might be able to escape.

  “Listen, Jobzy,” Herman says along with a profound sigh. “I got some serious cleaning up to do, outside and in. So, you just lay here for a bit, and I’ll be down in a jiffy. Sound good?”

  What the hell does he expect me to say? “Oh sure, Herman. Take your time.”

  He’s completely out of his mind. But then, I already knew that.

  “Herman!” his wife shouts once more. “Pumpkin, please . . . Help me!”

  About-facing, he heads back across the basement floor and hops up the stairs toward the kitchen.

  “I’m coming, Wendy!” he shouts. “I’m coming, coming, coming already!”

  Grabbing hold of the plastic bucket under the sink, Herman pulls on his heavy-duty rubber gloves and carries the bucket and the disinfectant into the living room. Even he is taken aback by the rank smell his wife has produced.

  “It’s all my fault, Wendy,” he says, feeling genuine remorse. “I should have made it home earlier. But that doesn’t give you the right to yell at me. Your obesity weighs heavy on you, but it’s a terrible burden on me too.”

  Her face is swollen and red, both from the constant tears and the toxicity of her system.

  “Just clean me, please, please, please clean me for the love of God,” she begs.

  He goes around the bed, sets the cleaning tools on her table, pushes aside the wrappers from the now entirely consumed box of Pop Tarts. A phone rings. He pats his jacket pocket, pulls out his cell phone. It is most definitely not ringing. And Wendy doesn’t own a smartphone or any kind of phone for that matter. And there’s no landline eithe
r. He had it disconnected as soon as Wendy became bed-ridden.

  It comes to him then. The ringing phone . . . It must belong to Jobz. Why the hell didn’t he think of that sooner? And if he recalls the little bit he knows from police training he’s managed to pick up at the Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency, a cell phone can conceivably be tracked by the GPS signal it gives off.

  “Shit,” he says under his breath. “Wendy, I’ll be right back.”

  “Pumpkin, please, clean me.”

  “Just give me one minute more.”

  He heads back down the stairs into the basement, goes through Jobz’s jacket until he finds the phone. It’s a local number judging by the digital read out. He answers it.

  “Hello,” he says.

  “Jobz,” the man on the other end says. “It’s Miller. Thank God, you’re alive.”

  “Oh, hello. Is this Detective Miller?”

  “Yes, Jobz?”

  “Actually, Mr. Jobz is a little indisposed at the moment. And considering you can triangulate the position of this cell phone, I’m going to hang up now. But before I do, know this: if I see a police officer anywhere within sight of not only my house but my entire neighborhood, I will not only kill Mr. Jobz in the most horrific of ways, I will begin to set off all the bombs I’ve planted throughout the city. Do not test me on this. If you do not wish to be wiping pools of blood and shattered bone from the city streets, you will obey my command.”

  Herman kills the call and chuckles.

  “Bet that Miller dick didn’t expect that bit about the bombs,” he says aloud. “I couldn’t help myself. Seemed like the right thing to say. Like something that would have happened in a Dirty Harry movie back when I was a kid.”

  Looking into Jobz’s now wide eyes, he says, “You wanna see something really freakin’ cool, Jobzy? Watch this.”