The Last Tomorrow

FIFTY

1

Eugene carries Evelyn’s purse to Louis Lynch’s rented car, opens the door with a gloved hand, tosses the purse into the back seat. It falls to the floorboard, where its contents spill out across the carpet.

He slams shut the door.

2

He grabs his motorcycle by the handlebars and pushes it out to the street and along the sun-faded asphalt, rolling it away from the building silently. Once he’s put some distance between himself and the warehouse, he kicks the machine to life and rides north, feeling shaky now that the adrenalin within him has been spent. The front of his shirt is filthy from lying on top of the trailer. His face is grimy. He feels sticky with nervous sweat now dried. He doesn’t care. He managed to make it through the first part of this madness, and that’s something. He wasn’t sure he would, but he did, and without any trouble at all. It gives him hope he might actually pull it off. He’ll know for certain by tomorrow afternoon — if he’s still alive to know anything.

There’s more than a small chance it’ll turn out to be his last tomorrow.

For now, though, he must finish with today.

3

He pushes into Louis Lynch’s hotel room and closes the door behind him. He walks to the small leatherette hard-case on the dresser and opens it, squeezing the latch with thumb and index, flipping the body of the case up. He looks down at the black Royal typewriter revealed. Then, after a moment, he rolls a sheet of hotel stationery into the machine. He looks down at the blank cream-colored paper. His mouth goes dry. He licks his lips. He swallows. Finally he types:

2294 E. 37th St.

Vernon, CA.

1:30 p.m.

Come alone or she dies.

He stops typing, pulls his gloved fingers off the round keys. His hands hover over the typewriter. He reads the note and, satisfied, removes it from the machine. It says everything he needs it to say, and most of what he needs it to say has nothing to do with the words on the page or what order they’re in. He carefully folds the paper into thirds, making certain the creases are straight — Louis Lynch seems like a straight-crease kind of guy — then stuffs the folded paper into a hotel envelope and seals it. He types a name on the front of the envelope and with it in his hand steps out of the hotel room. He takes the elevator down to the lobby, slides the envelope across the front desk, tells the gentleman who picks it up it’s for Humphrey Smith, I understand he’s expected to check in late tonight or early tomorrow morning. He must receive it as soon as he arrives. The gentleman tells him yes, sir, not a problem. Eugene says thank you, then turns and walks out of the hotel. As he makes his way toward the street he asks himself what else he needs to do, what else he needs to take care of.

A few things yet.

4

He stops at a liquor store and buys himself a bottle of Old Grand-Dad. He knows there’s a good chance he’ll get sloppy if he works drunk, make mistakes that might kill him or put him in prison, but he doesn’t think he can remain sober and still do what needs to be done. He knows he can’t. Tomorrow will be a day filled with ugliness and he can’t face it straight. Every time he thinks about it he feels sick to his stomach. But it has to happen. If he’s going to walk away from this, it simply must happen, and that’s all there is to it. So he’ll do what he needs to do to make sure it does. He’ll try not to get drunk, he’ll try to consume only enough so he can face the day, but he needs his medicine.

With the bottle purchased he steps back into the daylight. As he does he throws Louis Lynch’s room key into a trash can by the door.

He won’t be needing it again and doesn’t want it on him.

5

He makes one last stop before heading back to the warehouse. He parks in front of a hamburger joint, steps inside, and walks to the cash register, behind which a pimple-faced young man in a white hat stands waiting. He orders six hamburgers for take-out. He pays and walks to a red vinyl stool. He sits down and leans forward with his arms on the counter and glances around the room, checking out the few other patrons. To his right a woman sips an ice-cream soda through a straw, and a teenage boy drags French fries through a smear of ketchup. Then he looks left. The detective he ran into at the Shenefield Hotel, the one who saw him drop the murder weapon, sits not twenty feet away in a booth in the corner. A greasy white take-out bag sits on the table to his left, presumably lunch for someone who couldn’t make it to the diner. Eugene turns quickly away, head snapping forward. He looks straight ahead at the wall behind the counter, at shelves of ketchup and mustard and various flavors of syrup for sodas and fresh fruit in baskets. He wants to glance over his shoulder again, to see if the detective noticed him, but doesn’t. He must simply sit here and look normal and wait for his food. He wants to leave immediately, but doesn’t do that either. If he leaves the counter boy might call after him, hey, mister, you forgot your food, and this would bring him attention he doesn’t want. No, he must sit and wait. He must not look around nervously. He must act normal. He closes his eyes and swallows. He opens his eyes and looks at the clock on the wall.

After what feels like an hour a white paper bag is set in front of him.

He says thanks, picks up the bag, turns around. He doesn’t glance toward the table at which the detective sits. Only an asshole would do that. He walks straight for the door. He feels stiff and awkward in his movements, as if he were drunk and trying not to reveal the fact. He pushes his way outside. He walks to his motorcycle.

No one tries to stop him. No one says a word.

6

He steps into the warehouse and walks to the tractor trailer parked at dock number three. He looks into it through a hole in one of the doors. Evelyn and Louis Lynch are sitting across from one another, silent and motionless. Evelyn’s arms and legs have been freed, the gag removed from her mouth. At this point it doesn’t matter. She’ll be locked in the trailer until it’s finished and it’ll be finished tomorrow afternoon.

Besides, she needs to eat.

‘I got you food.’

Neither Evelyn nor Louis Lynch says anything.

‘Stand up.’

They both get to their feet.

Louis Lynch glances toward him. ‘Do you really think you have any chance of walking away from this?’

‘Toss your gun toward the door.’

He removes a revolver from its holster and throws it toward Eugene. It thuds against the wood paneling and slides to the door, which brings it to a stop.

‘You’re already dead,’ Louis Lynch says, ‘you just don’t know it yet.’

‘Turn around and put your hands to the wall, both of you.’

They both turn their backs to him. They both walk to the opposite end of the trailer. They press their palms against the wall.

‘Don’t move.’

Eugene pulls up on the handle, the bolts retract, and the doors swing open. He removes two burgers wrapped in greasy white paper, then tosses the bag containing the four remaining hamburgers into the trailer. It lands with a heavy thud against the floor. He picks up Louis Lynch’s revolver and tucks it into the back of his pants. He shuts the trailer doors and brings the handle down, sliding the bolts back into their holds. He puts the padlock into place.

Then he walks to a stack of pallets in the middle of the floor and sits down. He takes off his gloves. He unwraps one of his burgers. The smell makes his stomach turn. He knows he should eat, but he isn’t at all hungry. He feels sick. He brings the burger to his mouth and takes a bite. It’s very salty. He chews slowly and forces himself to swallow.

This is it, then.

There’s nothing left to do until tomorrow — when it all happens.

THE CANNIBALS