James Swain - Shadow People

Munns pulled himself back in, and slammed the door.

“Hands on the wheel,” the officer commanded.

Munns placed his hands on the wheel. He wondered if was going to have to kill a police officer tonight. He couldn’t hide a dead cop the way he’d hidden his other victims, and would have to figure out a clever way to dump the body. Perhaps he’d cut it up first, and dispose of the pieces in Dumpsters behind different restaurants. The rotted food would hide the smell perfectly.

A flashlight’s beam touched the back of his head. Munns turned in his seat to glare at the officer.

“Look straight ahead,” the officer barked.

Munns turned around. The flashlight beam traveled to the passenger seat, and rested on Rachael’s slumping profile.

“Who’s that in the car with you?” the officer demanded.

Munns rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “Look, can’t we talk?”

“Answer the question!”

“My wife. She just got off work.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She fell asleep. She’s had a long day. May I ask what this is about?”

“Be quiet, and turn your head around.”

“But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Do it!”

Munns turned back around. Killing the police officer seemed a certainty. No other real choice. His gun was in his kill kit and not handy. He would have to use his hands, like he had with Clyde Jucko at the storage facility, and tear the officer apart limb from limb. Thinking about it brought a faint smile to his lips. Tonight was going to be a two-bagger.

He devised a plan. He’d let the officer come up to his window and ask for his ID. He would stick his driver’s license out the window. When the officer took it, he’d grab his arm, pull him into the car, and tear his head off. Easy as pie.

He tapped his fingers on the wheel. When the officer did not come, he glanced into his mirror. The officer was talking on his car radio to a dispatcher. He tried to lip-read what the officer was saying. He caught a couple of key words, and realized the officer was calling for backup like he’d just apprehended a dangerous criminal.

It was time to make his move. Opening the driver’s door, he hopped out, and marched toward the cruiser with his arms outstretched in a placating manner.

“Get back in your car!” roared the officer over the bullhorn.

Stopping, he struck a neutral pose. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Back up!”

“Have I broken any laws? Is my tag expired?”

“Do it!”

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

The officer reached for his gun. The look in his eyes bordered on pure panic. Pelham was a sleepy place, and the officer had probably never dealt with a situation like this before. Munns decided that was in his favor, and took a giant step forward.

“Son, you’re overreacting.”

“Listen to me!” the officer shouted.

Munns raised his arms in mock surrender. “What are you afraid of? Do I scare you?”

“Son of a bitch,” the officer swore.

Squealing rubber tore a hole in the still night air. A black van had entered the parking lot and was flying. Its headlights flashed and the driver mouthed the words, “Get out of the way!”

It was Ray.

Ray plowed into the back of the cruiser without hitting his brakes. The impact sounded like a bomb going off, and the officer flew through the windshield like a human cannonball, his body landing on the rear of the Volvo with a sickening thud.

Munns pulled himself off the pavement. He was covered with broken glass, but otherwise unharmed. Ray jumped out of the van and joined him. Together they stared at the officer’s crumpled body. The surprised look on his face said he’d never known what had hit him.

“Did you get Rachael?” the tattoo artist asked.

“She’s passed out in the car.”

“Get her out of here. I’ll deal with this guy.”

Ray pulled the dead cop off the trunk and dragged him to the van. For a skinny guy, Ray was strong, and Munns felt certain he would figure out a way to dispose of the body.

Munns drove away knowing he was in good hands.

Fight or flight.

Ray had never understood the meaning of the expression, until now.

He had murdered a cop. If that wasn’t bad enough, the cop’s broken body was lying on the floor of his van, bleeding on the carpet. He had to dispose of the body, and then he had to run. Ray didn’t know where he was going to go, and he supposed it really didn’t matter.

Just run.

Hanging around Pelham was a bad idea. The police would haul him and Munns in, and question them. Munns would squeal like a fat boy in a candy store, and point the finger at Ray. No fancy lawyer could save him. Ray would spend the rest of his life in the slammer.

Ray cursed the Order of Astrum. They had sent him down this path, and told him to make sure Munns got the girl no matter what. When Ray had driven past the train station and seen the cop about to arrest Munns, he’d lost his head, and crashed his van into the cruiser. Looking back, the smart thing would have been to let Munns take the fall, and not get involved. Ray knew that now, not that it was going to do him any good.

He navigated Pelham’s narrow roads while trying to keep to the speed limit. More criminals got busted speeding away from the scene of their crimes than just about anything else. So he kept it under thirty and fought to stay calm.

He thought about the places he might escape to. Canada seemed like a wise choice, or perhaps a remote town in Mexico. Let Munns take the heat for the dead cop.

He drove down a dead-end street on the outskirts of town. Pulled down a dirt road that was part of a wooded lot where nobody lived. Parked and got out to look around. Didn’t see a soul or hear anything that would suggest people nearby. A perfect spot to dump a corpse.

He lit a cigarette and filled his lungs with smoke. This whole damn thing was crazy. He’d let the elders kidnap his soul, and make him do things that he’d never dream of doing on his own. Before joining the Order of Astrum, he’d placed limits on the crimes he would commit. Not anymore. There were no limits to the depravity and suffering he’d been asked to be a part of.

He finished the cigarette and ground the butt into the dirt. Walked back to the van and saw a figure sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for him. Was it Munns? It was too dark to tell, and he fired up his lighter and held it with his arm outstretched.

It was the dead cop, come back to life.

Ray let out a savage yell.

The dead cop rolled down the passenger window and stuck his bloody head out. It was said that the eyes were the last thing to die. The dead cop’s eyes had died long ago, and all that was left now was the shell of the man inhabited by the most evil of spirits.

“Get in the van, Ray,” the dead cop said.

The dead cop’s voice had a British accent. One of the elders had inhabited his body.

“Nothing doing,” the tattoo artist stammered.

“Do as I say. There’s nowhere for you to run. Canada is terribly cold this time of year, Mexico is too far, and the police will eventually track you down. You need to stay here and finish the job. You made a promise, which we plan to hold you to. Get in the van.”

Ray thought he was going to lose it. Killing the cop had been bad enough. Talking to his dead corpse was worse. And he couldn’t imagine sitting next to it. Not on his life.

“I ain’t getting in that van with you,” he said.

The passenger door swung open and the dead cop piled out. His broken neck left his head sitting on his shoulder blade like a bowling ball, and Ray recoiled at the sight of him. He stood in front of Ray with his arms hanging limply at his sides.