Burn Scars, Eddie Generous [read full novel txt] 📗

until they’d thinned enough that only crime scene investigators might find them. At the lip where the bay dipped into the back of the truck, he nearly lost it on the bounce, but managed to keep the weight from going too far one way or another. He pressed the fridge in tight against the last item loaded and the cart flopped hard against the box once the weight shifted from the wheels. He leaned a minute, head clearing more and more by the second.

“Taking too—” he started, but stopped at the sound of a voice.

“Rusty?” Christine’s voice echoed into the warehouse—had he really only gotten one piece into the truck since she’d left? “Rusty?”

“Holy cow,” Cary said.

“Here,” Rusty said. He reefed as he pushed against the washer to get free and then rolled the dolly to the lip. He lifted and pushed it out, stepping up into the warehouse behind it. “How’s she going?”

“Heya,” Cary said, absently.

“I told you not to move,” Christine said and then drank in the mess anew. “We have to do something about this.” She said this part to Cary.

“Feeling strong?” Cary said to Rusty, ignoring Christine.

“No.”

“Too bad.”

“You go into Randy’s looking like that?” Rusty said to Christine as he started after Cary who headed for Dwayne. She was covered in blood.

“Not really,” she said.

Cary smiled with the left side of his mouth, eyes still tight on Dwayne’s corpse. “She rang the fire alarm and grabbed me outside. Real clever.” He then turned. “You look like somebody whooped your butt.”

“The fire alarm?” Rusty said, sniffing back a metallic trickle at the back of his throat.

“The one by the washrooms.” Christine stared at Dwayne’s corpse—he had all the attention of a fine Christmas tree. “You know.”

Cary side-eyed Rusty. “Dwayne got you a good one, eh?”

Rusty leaned a shoulder and his swollen forehead against an interior wall next to the roll-up bay door. “The one…yeah…washrooms.” He closed his eyes.

The bar entry led in two directions: one to the restaurant washrooms and the other to the bar itself. After eight, the door to the restaurant was locked, but the fire alarm was on the bar side of the door.

Cary stood over Dwayne for a few seconds, tapping the toe of his boot like he had a tune in his head. “He really, really did a number on ya, eh? Gonna be much help?”

“He kind of sat on me.” Rusty probed at his sore nose as he pushed upright. “I just need to catch my wind, or get a coffee or something.”

“Lucky you didn’t fall through the concrete. All right,” Cary looked at his watch, “we have time to do this, but not a ton of it.”

“Sure,” Rusty said.

“He has to go to the hospital,” Christine said.

“How’d you know to come here?” Cary asked her, again ignoring what she said.

Christine pointed at Rusty. “I was watching his ass. Sort of. I went to their house.”

“Dwayne and Linda’s?” Cary asked. “You saw Dwayne come in here?”

“Yeah, I was outside his house. He beat up Linda and then came here,” Christine said.

Cary turned on his heels. She finally had his full attention. “She okay?”

“She was sitting on a La-Z-Boy in her living room when I took off for my car. After, Dwayne brought the Van here,” Christine said.

Cary nodded. “Can’t risk going there. Can’t call,” he said this as if to himself. “Okay, we’ll grab that big Woods, put it by the door, dump Dwayne in, lock it up, load the truck, and get the money.”

Rusty started nodding. “Get rid of Dwayne somewhere?” With Cary there, they’d get it done. Together, they’d figure it out, they always did. Cary was calm and assertive, knew what had to happen. He saw the world so much bigger than Rusty ever had. That was good. Vital.

Cary ignored Rusty’s question this time. “And you, go get some good cleaning stuff, got anything like that at your house?”

Christine swallowed. “Not really. Dad hires a cleaning lady to come twice a week.”

Cary huffed. “Never could do anything on his own. All right, you ever drive the roads southeast of town?”

“Where?” Christine asked.

Rusty grabbed his cart and pushed out along the shadowy rows in search of a chest freezer—huge, sure, but hollow and light. While empty.

“You know the Matthews’ chicken barns?” Cary asked.

Christine squinted in thought. “That near the Conti’s? Like Stacy Conti, I don’t—”

“Exactly. Drive north three farms from the Conti’s. My mailbox’s on the right side of the road. White, has Watson in big black letters. Right across the road is my place. Quarter-mile lane, two grey silos, two barns, a shed, bungalow, there’s an old Freightliner transport rig parked next to the driveway. Go around back of the house; door doesn’t lock anymore. Laundry room is just off the kitchen, cupboards above the washer have what you’ll need. There’s a mop next to the big sink where the washer dumps.”

“Three farms north. Mailbox. Long lane. Big truck. Back door. Laundry room off the kitchen. Got it.” Christine broke away then, but stopped and spun around. “You’ll drop him off at the hospital after you load up?”

“I’m okay,” Rusty said.

Christine took a deep breath through her nose, accepting the situation. “Will you be here when I get back?”

“Doubt it,” Cary said, eying the mover’s carpet hanging on the wall.

“Rusty, I love you,” she called out.

Rusty paused, but returned the sentiment, and he did love her, but that poison stung afresh every time it crossed his mind. He latched onto the freezer and lifted from the knees, pitching it onto its end like a caber toss without all the air or revolutions, without any consideration paid to scratches or dents. He centered the cart and tipped it back to roll on.

Cary was already