F. Paul Wilson - Gateways

What was wrong with Detroit—or Japan or Germany, for that matter? Why the hell didn’t they make cars like this anymore?

He hung around the DeSoto, studying it from every angle for what seemed like forever before Weldon showed up. He wore a pale beige silk suit today, so pale it was almost white.

“Another beauty, Mr. Weldon,” he said.

Weldon grinned. “Tom’s son, right? Jack?”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

“And you’ve got excellent taste in cars. How’s your father?”

“Doing great. He came home yesterday.”

Weldon’s cheek twitched. “Really? I had no idea. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“I don’t think anyone else knows.” Jack ran his fingers lightly along the DeSoto’s right front fender. “Say, would you mind giving me a little ride in this baby?”

Weldon shook his head. “I’d love to, but I’ve got to get straight home.”

Jack opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat. “That’s okay. Just drive me to the front gate and I’ll walk back. I need the exercise.”

Weldon didn’t look happy about it, but Jack hadn’t left him much choice.

The interior was like a furnace. Jack cranked down his window as Weldon fired her up and backed out of his space.

“Smooth ride,” Jack said once they were rolling.

“Torsion-Air suspension.”

Jack watched him closely as he asked the next question. “You ever hear of a woman named Semelee?”

Weldon’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, whitening the knuckles. His right cheek twitched as it had before.

“No, can’t say as I have. Is she one of our residents?”

“Nope. Too young for Gateways. Lives out in the Glades with a bunch of funny looking guys. She’s got this snow white hair. You’d remember her if you ever met her. Yousure you don’t know her?”

Weldon looked ready to jump out of his skin and his forehead was beaded with sweat. It was hot in the car, but not that hot.

“Quite sure,” he said.

“You’re sure you’re sure?”

“Yes! How many times do I have to tell you that?” He began to brake. “Well, here’s the gate. I hope you enjoyed—”

“Keep driving.”

“I told you. I have to—”

Jack pulled out the Glock and held it in his lap, pointed in the general direction of Weldon’s gut.

“You’ll be in a world of gut-shot hurt if this happens to go off. ThinkReservoir Dogs . So keep driving. We haven’t finished our chat. Smile and wave to the nice guard. That’s right. Now…let’s head out to where my father had his accident.”

“Where’s that?” Now Weldon was really sweating.

“You don’t know? Pemberton and South Road.”

“But there’s nothing out there.”

“I know.”

“This is illegal, this is carjacking, it’s kidnapping, it’s—”

“It’s happening. Relax. Don’t fight it and we’ll have a nice ride.”

“If you want the car, take it.”

“I don’t want the car.”

“Then…then why are you doing this?”

Jack let him stew in his juices for a while before responding.

“Just wanted to ask you what you know about people who’ve been dying at Gateways South.” Weldon opened his mouth to reply but Jack held up a hand to stop him. “I don’t want to hear any bullshit about them being elderly and what can you expect. I’m talking about three spouseless people in excellent health—your own doctor said so—who’ve suffered death by mishap over the past nine months. At a rate of one every three months. I’m sure you know their names: Adele Borger, Joseph Leo, and Edward Neusner.”

Weldon had turned pale. He looked as if he might be getting sick.

“Of course I know their names. Those were terrible tragedies.”

“My father would have made number four, and right on schedule. Know anything about that, Mr. Weldon?”

“No, of course not. How could I?”

That did it. Jack looked around, saw no other cars in sight. This was as good a place as any.

He made Weldon pull over, then he got out and made him slide to the passenger side—easy with the bench seat.

“Now, put your hands behind your back.”

“W-w-what are you going to do?”

“I’m g-g-gonna tape your wrists together.”

“No!”

Jack grabbed a handful of Weldon’s longish dark hair. “Look. We can do this the easy way—which is you doing what I tell you—or the hard way, which means I have to shoot you in the hip or through the thigh or something equally messy and bloody and keep on doing that until you cooperate. Me, I don’t like getting splattered with blood. The stains are almost impossible to get out. So I prefer neat and easy to messy and bloody. How about you?”

Weldon sobbed and put his hands behind his back.

Jack duct taped his wrists together, then his knees, then his ankles. That done, he took over the driver seat and put the DeSoto back in motion. He pointed it toward town and kept hammering at Weldon about the three dead folks, his father, and Semelee. Weldon kept stonewalling him. Finally Jack pulled up before the locked gates to the limestone quarry.

“So,” he said. “You don’t know nuttin’ ’bout nuttin’, is that it?”

“Please. I don’t. Really. You’ve got to believe me.”

Jack didn’t.

“This is going to hurt me almost as much as it hurts you.”

With that he gunned the DeSoto and rammed it against the gates. Weldon cried out as the chain snapped and the gates flew back.

“The bumpers! The chrome!”

Jack turned the car left onto the steep grade of the narrow road that ran down into the pit. A rough limestone wall loomed to his left. He didn’t want to do it—he hated himself for doing it—but forced his hands to turn the steering wheel and drag the left side of the car against the stone.

“My God, no!” Weldon cried.

“Sorry.” And he was.

As they reached the bottom of the quarry Jack didn’t quite make the turn, ramming the front end into an outcropping of stone. The impact stopped the car short, hurling Weldon off the seat and into the dashboard. Without a seat belt or his hands to protect him, he hit hard, then flopped back against the seat.

“Whoa,” Jack said. “That must have hurt. But probably just a fraction of what my father felt when that truck clocked his car out on South Road.” He looked around. “Let’s see. We’ve remodeled the left side, let’s see what we can do with the right.”

Between getting a taste of what his dad had gone through that night and realizing what he was doing to this beautiful, classic, innocent car, Jack was having trouble keeping his tone light.

“No, please!” Weldon screamed.

Jack accelerated and rammed the right front end against another outcropping. Once again Weldon went flying forward, this time hard enough to catch his chest on the dashboard and his head against the windshield. He wound up on the floor instead of the seat.

Weldon was sobbing now. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you about it, but you’re not going to believe it.”

“Try me.” Jack threw the on-the-column automatic shift into neutral and set the emergency brake. “You’d be amazed at what I can believe.”

Weldon struggled back into his seat. A blue-black goose egg was swelling under the hair that hung over on his forehead. He held his back-tied hands toward Jack.

“Please?”

Jack pulled out his Spyderco folder and slit the tape. He left the knife open and in hand.

“Don’t get any ideas. Now talk.”

Weldon sagged back. His neck bowed against the top of the backrest as he looked at the ceiling.

“It was just about this time last year that the white-haired woman you mentioned, Semelee, called me with this crazy story, a demand that Gateways make sacrifices to the Everglades. Figuring this was some clumsy sort of local shakedown I asked her what kind of sacrifices. She said…human.”