Gary Brandner - The Brain Eaters

Ruby Williamson put a hand to one plump cheek and let her eyes rove off to a corner of the ceiling. “Nothing so strange as to cause any notice. He was a little bit sick the first part of the week when we come back from our vacation, but he got over that.”

“Sick,” Corey repeated, making rapid notes. “Like a cold or the flu?”

“Kind of, except it only lasted about two days. We thought maybe he was allergic to the bee sting. Some people are.”

“Bee sting?” Corey looked up at her.

“Mm-hmm. We was drivin’ along the road there, and Dubois, he stop the car to go pick some strawberries. They grow right by the road out there. Well, a big ol’ bee stung him on the neck, and it swole up kinda ugly till we put some ice on it next day. We thought maybe that was the cause of him bein’ sick.”

“Where did this happen, Mrs. Williamson?”

“Now that’s a funny thing. It was out there where you live. We was just on our way into Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”

Corey tried to keep the excitement out of his voice as he went on. “Was there anything different about the way your husband acted on that last morning?”

“Different?”

“Did he do anything or say anything that seemed strange to you?”

“He didn’t finish his breakfast is one thing. DuBois was a man liked his bacon and eggs, sunny side up, each and every day of the year. Hardly ate a mouthful that morning. Said he had a headache.”

“Headache,” Corey repeated.

“He wasn’t no crazy man, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Anthony put in.

“Lord, no,” said his mother. “DuBois was the most even-tempered, easygoing man you’d ever want to meet. Wouldn’t step on a bug if he could walk around it.” For the first time there was a tremor in her voice. “That’s why it just don’t make no sense, what happened. No sense at all.”

“He didn’t do any dope, either, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Anthony added.

Corey ran over in his mind the best way to phrase his next request. “I wonder, Mrs. Williamson, have you made arrangements for the funeral?”

“That’s all been took care of.”

“What do you mean?” He spoke more sharply than he intended to.

“She means it ain’t any of your business,” Anthony said.

“I’m not trying to pry into your personal affairs,” Corey said, “but this could be important.”

“It’s been took care of,” Ruby Williamson said again. “The men said — ”

“Momma, it ain’t any of this man’s business,” Anthony said.

Before Corey could respond, they were startled by the doorbell. Anthony glanced at Corey and his mother, then walked out into the hallway. The front door opened. The sound of muffled voices came to the living room. Corey strained but could not make out what was being said.

After a moment Anthony returned, followed by two men in business suits. The men were in their middle thirties, both neat, clean-shaven, and expressionless. They might have been twins, had not one of them been blond, the other dark. Their eyes flicked over Corey, missing nothing.

“Ready to go, Mrs. Williamson?” one of them said.

“Yes, I–I suppose so.”

Corey stood up. “Excuse me,” he began, “I’m with the Milwaukee Herald — ”

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re on a very tight schedule,” said the blond man.

“You’re taking Mrs. Williamson somewhere?”

“Excuse me, sir.” The dark man moved past Corey and took the widow’s arm, assisting her gently to her feet.

“Do you mind telling me where you’re going?”

The blond man stepped in front of Corey, blocking him, while his partner led Ruby Williamson toward the hall.

“May I have your name, sir?”

“Macklin. Corey Macklin.”

“Please excuse us, Mr. Macklin. We really are in a hurry. Ready, Anthony?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Anthony Williamson looked for a moment as though he might say something more, then turned and walked out of the house.

Corey accompanied them as far as the sidewalk. The two men hustled Ruby and her son into a Cadillac. The side windows were tinted dark enough to obscure the inside of the car. As Corey stood watching, the two men got into the front seat, and the Cadillac drove off.

“Banker types,” Corey said to himself, remembering the description given by Hank Stransky’s neighbor. The peculiar similarities between the two stories were beginning to add up. There was another missing body. Another caddy whisking away the survivors. Something was going on. Corey hiked two blocks to a busier street. There he hailed a cab and asked to be taken to Bellevue Hospital.

He found Norman Hastings sitting up in bed apathetically watching a television soap opera. There were bandages covering his left shoulder, hip, and leg.

“Mr. Hastings?”

“It is unless they slipped somebody else into my bed during the night.”

Corey introduced himself. Hastings switched off the tinny speaker that lay next to his pillow and gestured Corey into a chair.

“I thought you guys were all through with me,” he said. “Couldn’t find word one in the paper today. Not even the Post . But hell, what’s a few more violent deaths in this shithole of a city, right? You got newer and bloodier stuff to write about, I’m sure.”

“I’m working on a different angle,” Corey told him.

“I hope you’re not one of those bleeding-heart liberals going to blame the whole thing on society, the cabdriver being black and all.”

“No, Mr. Hastings, I’m not one of those.”

“In that case, call me Norm. What can I do for you, Corey?”

“I’d like you to go over one more time exactly what happened on the street Friday.”

Hastings shrugged, wincing as he did so and lightly touching his bandaged shoulder. “Hell, why not. I’ve damn near got it memorized.

“I was out in the street waving down this cab. The guy had an Out of Service sign in the window, but that doesn’t mean anything in New York. Anyway, I finally get the cabbie’s attention, and he steers over in my direction. I’m getting set to get in when I see the look on that black face. I’ll never forget that look. His lips were pulled back like this, showing all his teeth. I’m talking ugly , Corey. His eyes were rolling around like marbles in two cups. And it got worse.”

Hastings paused for a moment and seemed to be watching the silent soap opera on the television screen as he gathered his thoughts.

“What do you mean ‘worse’?” Corey prompted.

“The skin on the guy’s face started to push out in little bumps and pimples. They swelled up and popped right while I was looking at him. Must have all happened in a matter of seconds. I was sort of frozen there in the street, and I tell myself, ‘Hey, that crazy black s.o.b. is trying to run over you.’ Well, I took a headfirst dive for the curb, but he caught me a glancing blow with one headlight. Sent me sliding along the concrete, leaving about a square yard of my hide behind, not to mention most of a three-hundred-dollar suit.” He gestured at the bandages that covered the left side of his body.

“At that, I guess I was lucky. Laying there in the street, I could hear thumpy-bump and the screams when he plowed into the people on the sidewalk. Killed four of them, hurt a dozen more. Then the son of a bitch jumped out of the cab and went after anybody he could reach with his hands. If he hadn’t slipped down and been run over by that panel truck, there’s no telling how many people he would have killed. Naturally, there wasn’t a cop in sight. Never is when you need ‘em.” Hastings shook his head. “I tell you, this town is the pits. The absolute pits.”