The Hum and the Shiver

17

Dwayne popped open a fresh beer and took a long swallow. He closed his eyes to savor it, then heard the rippling buzz that meant he’d drifted onto the warning ridges at the shoulder of the highway. He overcompensated and swerved into the other lane. Luckily there was no traffic, and he managed to get back on his side of the road. The yellow and white lines in his headlights grew hazy and split into multiples the farther they were from his truck.

He had an erection that ached. All he could think about were the times he’d had Bronwyn Hyatt. In the two years she’d been gone, no other girl had come close to turning him on the way the Bronwynator did. He needed to fuck her again, to muscle and slam that wiry, strong little body until he found release as deep within her as he could manage. He needed to hear her scream and moan, to feel her retaliatory blows as he hurt her.

Seeing her had been awful. He shouldn’t have gotten stoned first, he realized as he inhaled the smoke from the joint. That was his mistake. It always dulled the edge of his charm. He should’ve watched patiently until her family departed, then maybe taken a few tokes for luck. He definitely shouldn’t have smoked a joint and a half, as well as shotgunned three beers, as he waited for the Hyatts to leave.

Yes, if he’d been straight, she would’ve dropped to her knees and sucked him off before even saying hello. He was certain of that. He recalled the many times he’d looked down at the top of her head, her wide bare shoulders visible below her tangled black hair as she willingly serviced him, and the ache only intensified. God, he had to fuck her again, and soon. His balls would explode if he didn’t.

He almost missed the curve where the road turned toward Needsville. Low branches slapped his windshield as he came close to the ditch.

He took another drink and tried to form a plan. If he could get Bronwyn alone, he could have her; there was no way she could physically overpower him, and he wasn’t above tying her down if she gave him any trouble. In fact, he remembered times when she’d enjoyed that. But the opportunity to do that was twenty minutes ago, when he’d stood outside her door. Just a simple yank to open the screen, then a few slaps to show her how much he needed it. He’d make it up to her later, after his urges had been sated. Her cast might be a problem, since it meant she couldn’t wrap those thighs around him. He could always turn her facedown, he supposed, and take her that way. He was sure Chloe Hyatt kept some Crisco in the kitchen that would do in a pinch to ease things along.

But she’s a First Daughter, the seldom-heard voice of his conscience managed to say. Just like her mom.

He was so lost in the sudden fantasy of a threesome with Bronwyn and her mother that he didn’t notice the blue lights pull out of the roadside darkness and onto the blacktop behind him. By the time he spotted them, the state trooper was almost on his bumper.

“Fuck!” he yelled, tossed the roach into the open beer, and threw the can out the window. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

Bob Pafford didn’t need to run the license plate of the truck in his headlights, especially when he saw the beer can fly out the window and bounce into the dark. He knew it at once, and he smiled grimly at the thought of who was inside. Would he be lucky enough to catch Bronwyn Hyatt as well as Dwayne Gitterman? Or would it just be the redneck thug alone? Perhaps some other girl was with him, one willing to do anything to keep from getting a police record….

He thanked whatever urge sent him off the interstate and onto the Cloud County secondary roads. Normally there would be so little traffic on a Sunday night that he might not see another car at all, let alone one he could pull over and ticket. But on this night, the Cop God had smiled on him.

Suddenly Gitterman’s truck leaped away like a spooked frog. Pafford floored it, and the big Crown Victoria’s rumble rose to a solid, intimidating whine. The hash marks between the lanes blurred into a single line.

At the last second, Dwayne saw the road that led past the fire station. His truck skidded wide as he tried to turn, and both tires on the passenger side left the pavement. He cut ruts into the grass bank and felt the rear bumper slam into the side of the ditch before the tires got traction and shot the truck up, its front end now off the ground. It slammed down onto the blacktop, and Dwayne winced as he bounced up into the cab’s roof. But he was back on the road, and he both floored it and switched off his lights.

The cloud of dust where Dwayne’s truck skidded off the road was momentarily lit red by the truck’s brake lights. Then it vanished. The Interceptor shot through the dust and for a moment Pafford saw no sign of the truck. Then he spotted the reflection from a distant license plate.

It took Pafford a moment to realize what had happened; the drunken fool was running blind on a moonless night. This could only end one way.

That made Pafford smile.

Dwayne leaned so far forward, his forehead touched the windshield. He knew the road ran straight for about three miles before it began to weave with the rising terrain. He had to put as much distance as possible between him and the asshole cop before the curves started, because there was no way he could navigate them without headlights.

“Come on, cocksucker,” he whispered. “Come on….” Thoughts of fucking Bronwyn had been replaced by the chest-wrenching memories of the time he’d spent in jail. He’d rather end up wrapped around a tree than endure that again.

Pafford gritted his teeth in rage. The truck was slowly pulling away, the license plate now a dim glow at the far end of his headlights. “You’re not getting away from me, Gitterman,” he said aloud. “It’s not happening.”

Then the truck was gone. Ahead he saw only empty road.

His roar of rage made his own ears ring.

As if in response, the license plate reappeared. Now it rushed toward him, and he realized the vehicle ahead was traveling much more slowly than his car. He stood on the brakes, his shoulders straining back against the seat, hands fighting to hold the wheel steady. He stopped barely a car’s length behind the other vehicle.

The old tan Chevrolet station wagon put on its right turn signal and pulled off the road. It sat there with its emergency flashers blinking in the night.

Pafford gasped for air. He smelled the skid-scorched tires and the fresh sweat from his own body. He waited until the blood no longer thundered in his ears before he took his foot off the brake pedal. The cruiser crept forward, and he eased it to a stop, almost touching the station wagon’s bumper. He got out, adjusted his hat and belt, then strode with practiced arrogance to the driver’s window. His legs felt wobbly; he hoped it didn’t show. He shone the flashlight inside the vehicle.

Rockhouse Hicks squinted into the light. “Problem there, Officer Pafford? I got out of your way quick as I could, but you come up on me awful fast. Surely I wasn’t speeding, this ol’ heap barely cracks fifty going downhill.”

Pafford clenched his teeth again. He knew Hicks carried some weight among the Cloud County Tufa population, but there was something indefinable about this old man that always gave him the creeps and, although he’d never admit it, scared him. “Mr. Hicks,” he said, “I was in pursuit of a pickup truck running with its lights out. Did you see it?”

Hicks cleared his throat and spit phlegm past Pafford into the night. “Dwayne Gitterman’s truck?”

“That’s the one.”

Hicks’s expression didn’t change, but somehow he conveyed mockery with his eyes. “No, ’fraid not. Only other car I’ve seen is yours.”

Pafford’s free hand automatically went for his gun, as it always did when faced with an uppity motorist. But he caught himself. Calmly he asked, “Are you absolutely sure about that, Mr. Hicks? There’s no place along here he could turn off. He had to pass you.”

“Maybe he flew over me, then,” Hicks said. “You mind getting that light out of my eyes? Makes ’em water.”

Pafford switched off the light. For a moment afterwards, Hicks’s eyes seemed to glow red with some inner illumination, and their surfaces looked compound, like those of an insect. Then it faded, and the old man said, “Unless you’re going to give me a ticket for not knowing where Dwayne Gitterman is, I reckon I’ll be heading on home. Good night, Officer.”

Hicks started the engine, put on the left turn signal, and pulled out onto the empty highway. His taillights slowly faded into the distance.

At the first curve, Dwayne had pulled his truck into a tractor path and hidden it behind a stand of trees. He killed the engine, so the only light came from the starry, moonless sky. He guzzled another beer and watched the road for any sign of the trooper. He heard no approaching engine, only the insects in the trees and the pops of his own cooling motor.

Then he jumped and shrieked when someone knocked on the window.

He scooted across the seat to the passenger door, holding the beer can out in front of him like a weapon. He saw a shadow beside the truck taller than the cab. His first thought was It’s fucking Bigfoot! and he started to reach for the pistol he kept under the seat. Then a voice muffled by the glass said, “Don’t be such a pussy, man.”

He switched on the dome light. It revealed the handsome, blank face of Stoney Hicks outside the door. “What the hell are you doing out here?” Dwayne said, his voice high.

Stoney laughed. He was physically very similar to Dwayne, except writ large: taller, broader, and if possible, even smoother with the ladies. He’d left a trail of broken hearts and lovelorn suicides among the non-Tufa population all around Needsville starting when he hit puberty. His voice always sounded sleepy and bored. “Watching you piss your pants, I reckon. What’s wrong with you?”

Dwayne scooted across the seat and out the driver’s door. “That asshole Bob Pafford was after me. I barely got away.”

“Guess it’s your lucky night, then,” Stoney said.

Headlights appeared through the trees as a vehicle approached on the highway. “Shit,” Dwayne said, and started to jump back in the truck.

Stoney grabbed his arm. “Just relax. That’s Uncle Rockhouse. He probably wants to talk to you, seeing as how he saved your ass and all.”

The station wagon pulled in behind Dwayne’s truck and stopped. The headlight beams stayed on as Hicks emerged. He hitched his pants, spit into the dark, and walked over to Dwayne. “Ain’t you a piece of work. Running from the law with no lights on a moonless night. How drunk are you?”

Dwayne swallowed hard, looking from uncle to nephew. Stoney Hicks intimidated him as few men his own age did, and Rockhouse terrified him. The stories whispered about the old man would not have been out of place in a Saw movie. “I dunno… I’ve had a few.”

“You been out to see your old girlfriend?”

Dwayne’s mouth went dry. “Yeah.”

“Yes, sir,” Stoney corrected, and painfully squeezed Dwayne’s right biceps for emphasis.

Dwayne repeated, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. You be sure you keep after her, now. Don’t want her running off with somebody from outside the county.” He stepped close. “Ain’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Hate to think what might’ve happened to you if I hadn’t been here tonight. Come on, Stoney.”

Stoney released Dwayne’s arm, muttered, “Pussy,” and smacked him lightly on the back of the head.

Dwayne watched the two Hicks men depart. He stood there for a long time trying to sort through the evening’s events, and it was quite a while before the two strangest things registered on him.

What the hell had Stoney Hicks been doing out here? And why did Rockhouse care about him and Bronwyn?

Stoney watched Dwayne’s taillights recede, then turned to his uncle. “That boy’s dumb as a damn snail shell. He’s been smoking dope so long, he ain’t got but three brain cells left, and they don’t all work at the same time.”

“That’s okay,” Rockhouse said, and spit into the night. “All he’s got to do is get Bronwyn Hyatt back under his thumb.”

“Why don’t you let me do it?” Stoney said. “Hell, ain’t a girl out there I can’t get on her back.” He wasn’t bragging; in his entire life, he’d never had a girl refuse him. Most Tufa girls knew not to go anywhere near him, but there were plenty of others around.

Rockhouse glared at him. “Yeah, you can git ’em, but you leave ’em useless, so eat up with love for you that they wither up and die.”

He shrugged. “Ain’t my fault.”

“That ain’t what I mean. I want everyone to see the little Hyatt whore bring herself down, not have her be took down by one of us. I ain’t making no martyrs.” He spit again, then shook his head. “She shoulda died in that damn desert. She left here, she took herself and her song away from us, she shoulda fucking gotten her brains blown out. Instead she comes back a hero.”

Stoney said nothing. Now he understood why Rockhouse hated the Hyatt girl so much. Like Rockhouse himself, she’d gone away and found disaster, but unlike his uncle, she’d come back a hero. Even if she’d been part of their clan and not Mandalay’s, the old man would’ve hated her.

“She’s home now,” Stoney said at last. “She’ll be back to her old habits soon enough.”

“Damn well better be,” the old man muttered, and slapped his keys into Stoney’s hand. Then there was a rustle of large age-battered wings, and Stoney stood alone in the dark. He hummed as he walked to his uncle’s station wagon.