Joe Lansdale - Lost Echoes

Harry’s mind raced, thought, oh, yeah, she mentioned him on the phone when she called. But, she didn’t say who he was. Or did she? Does he know? Is he just jacking with me? He took a flier.

“My dog,” Harry said.

“Your dog?”

“Yeah. Shepherd.”

“You don’t have a dog,” the chief said. “We been to your place, remember? It’s where the unfortunate Mr. Barnhouse, instead of you, met his fate. No dog.”

“My mother has him. That’s where I was when Kayla called. With her and Tad.”

“It could be checked, you know.”

“I’m sure.”

“A dog?”

“Yep.”

“You believe that, Pale?” the chief said. “We talked to his mother. Remember a dog?”

“He was with me then,” Harry said.

“Sounds like some shit to me,” the chief said.

“Hell, why not?” Pale said. “I’ll buy it. Who the fuck names a person Tad? Hey…guess we don’t need to call each other code names, do we? They know who we are.”

“Of course not,” the chief said. “Are you fucking high? Of course not.” Then he turned his attention back to Harry. “Bottom line, my young man, is you aren’t going to get but just a few hours older. The two of you, you’re going to meet a nasty fate. Tell ’em, Sergeant, a nasty fate.”

“He’s right,” said Sergeant Pale, coming up behind Harry, striking him hard with the side of his hand on the back of the neck, causing him to drop to his knees. “Nasty. Old Testament–style nasty.”

Tad waited in the trunk awhile. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Kayla, he just didn’t trust circumstances. His wife, Dorothy, always said he spent so much time trying to figure what people were really thinking, instead of just going with the flow. She was probably right. But part of martial arts was going with the flow, and part of it was being prepared for what might happen inside the flow. Even smooth-looking water can have a fast-churning undercurrent. Way he saw it, way he looked at things, he was doing the Boy Scout motto: Be prepared.

He started to lift the trunk, but decided against it. Better to listen and wait. He’d give it two, maybe three more minutes. He could stand that much. Then he was going to start snooping around the house, see that things were okay. Worst that would probably happen was that he would end up seeing a movie at the dollar rerun show.

What the fuck was showing anyway?

There was a sudden rushing noise and a thump and the trunk went shut and everything was completely dark. Tad heard something walking up the trunk, and then the noise was a bit more distant, as if it were on top of the car.

Yep. That was it. The top of the car.

Then the noise returned to the trunk, and finally he could hear just outside the trunk a sniffing noise.

A goddamn dog. That fucking big idiot Winston.

“Shit,” Tad said.

Winston, with cat turds on his breath, stood with his front paws on the trunk and sniffed the air, turned his head and bent his body so he could smell where trunk and car came together. Winston knew someone was inside the trunk, but it was nothing to him. They weren’t going to let him ride, he could tell that.

But you never knew.

Sometimes they might.

It could happen.

The dog lifted his head, his nose pointing up. He twitched it.

More cat shit. One block down, partially buried, pretty fresh. Near that was the smell of some other dog that left urine messages.

Winston’s tongue came out and rolled along his snout, then he dropped down on all fours and went off at a trot.

“What we’re gonna do,” the chief said, “is we’re going to take a little ride, gonna go in your car, and Pale here, he’s gonna follow in our car. Now, he’s gonna walk down the block, get it out of the church parking lot, drive up out back, and you guys, you’re gonna go out the back door and get in your car without giving me any trouble. And Mr. Wilkes, you’re gonna drive. Me, I’m gonna sit in the back with a pistol to the back of her head, because she’s gonna sit by you. That way you get to smell this sweet thing all the way out to the cliff. Course, all that perfume, I’d smell her too, even if I was following in the other car.”

“Cliff?” Harry said.

“Humper’s Hill. And we’re gonna have a companion with us. Someone you know well.”

All right, Tad thought. How the hell do I get out of this motherfucker? It’s no use pushing at the trunk, but, what the hell, I’ve got to give it a try.

He did.

He was right. No use in that.

He checked to see if the trunk was connected to the backseat, to see if he could push the seat down from inside the trunk, get out that way.

He used the light on his cell phone to look. Nope. A metal wall between him and the seat.

He was fucked.

He took a deep breath, considered.

Okay, now. Don’t panic.

How much air have I got?

Quite a bit. As long as I don’t breathe.

Maybe I can roll on my back, put my feet against the trunk, and push until the lock breaks. And that would be a good plan if I had the legs of a goddamn bull elephant. Otherwise, not so smart.

Maybe Harry will come back and check on me, and I can feel like a big idiot, and Kayla will get mad, think I didn’t trust her, and…well, it beats smothering.

Shit. I can call Harry on the phone. What the hell am I thinking? I can call him and he can come and get me.

I’ll give it a minute, see if he shows up, then I’ll call. In the meantime, I’ll just lay here and feel like shit with my goddamn side lying on a tire iron and my ass pushed up against a spare tire. How the fuck old is this car anyway? Didn’t they stop making these about the time of the Flintstones?

Flintstones?

How did the theme song go?

“…huh, huh, huh, something in history.”

Damn. That’s some shit. Can’t remember the theme song. I used to watch that when I was a kid.

I’m sure it sucked.

But I watched it.

What time is it anyway?

What the fuck does it matter? I’m not taking medicine.

I was on that Atkins diet plan, some kind of goddamn diet plan, I might not be so uncomfortable in this goddamn trunk, because there might not be so much of me. I ought to try that. Eat all the bacon and eggs and steak and fat I want. Sounds pretty good.

Except for the heart part. Bound to bad for your heart, all that grease. How can that be good for you?

Shit, I was on the Atkins plan or not, it still wouldn’t be comfortable in this goddamn trunk. What the fuck am I thinking? Stay here long enough, I’ll get thin, all right. From dying and rotting.

What the hell is that?

Something was prodding him in the side, and it wasn’t the tire tool. It was something sharp. He shifted, put his hand in his coat pocket, got poked.

Damn. Those darts. Forgot about those dudes. They had been there since Kayla gave them him.

Tad put his hand to his mouth, sucked on the puncture.

All right, he thought. That’s enough. Time to call…

Nah. I’ll give it another minute. He might come out and check on me.

But why would he?

He’s not going to do that. That wasn’t the plan. Shit, I set the plan up. I ought to know that. I’m getting dingy. Wonder if that fucking Atkins diet helps with the memory?

I’ll call. Now.

“He’s got a phone in his pocket,” Sergeant Pale said.

Harry had been pulled up from the floor and pushed against the wall, and the sergeant was giving him a search.

“Get rid of it,” the chief said.

Sergeant Pale dropped it on the floor, lifted his foot up with deliberation and placed it on the phone, and put all his weight on it. It snapped.

Tad, lying in the trunk, holding his phone, got a photo sent to him—photo of a guy’s big foot coming down. And he could see a face too, leaning over, looking down. Just a glimpse of it. Scarred. Photo deal must have been activated when the phone was dropped or thrown.