The Regulators Page 6

  What jerked her out of her reverie was seeing Brad and Belinda Josephson out in front of their house. Johnny Marinville was with them. Farther down the block she saw more people: David Carver, wearing a bathing suit that looked almost obscenely tight, standing on his walk, hands planted on his meaty hips . . . the Reed twins . . . Cammie, their mother . . . Susie Geller and a friend on their lawn with Kim Geller standing behind them . . .

  A wild thought came to her: they knew. All of them knew. They were waiting for her, they were going to help Peter hang her from a sour apple tree or perhaps stone her the way the townspeople had stoned the woman in that Shirley Jackson story she’d read back in high school.

  Don’t be stupid, the part of her that still belonged to her said. That part was dismayingly small these days, but it was still there. It’s not all about you, Mare; no matter what shit you’ve been rolling in, the world still doesn’t revolve just around you, so why don’t you just lighten up a little? You probably wouldn’t be half so paranoid if you weren’t riding around with no—

  Oh shit. Was that Peter down at the end of the block? She couldn’t tell for sure, but she thought so. Peter and Old Doc from next door. They seemed to be covering something on the lawn of the house across from the little store.

  Thunder bammed this time hard enough to make her jump and gasp. The first drops of rain spattered onto the glass of the windshield, sounding like flecks of metal. She realized she had been sitting here at the corner with the engine idling for . . . well, she didn’t know just how long, but for quite awhile. The Josephsons and Johnny Marinville must have thought she’d lost her wits. Except the world really didn’t revolve just around her; they weren’t paying her any attention at all, she saw as she turned the corner. Belinda had given her that one little glance, and now she and the rest of them were looking back down the street again, at whatever her husband and old Billingsley were doing. At whatever they were covering.

  Trying to see for herself, groping for the windshield-wiper knob as more raindrops—big ones—began to spatter the glass, she didn’t have any idea that the yellow space-age van had followed her onto Poplar Street until it rear-ended her.

  From Playthings, The International Merchandising Magazine of the Toy Industry, January 1994 (Vol. 94, No. 2), p. 96. Excerpted from “Licensing ’94: An Overview” by John P. Mutter:

  Although the selling year has barely begun, one post-Christmas winner has already been crowned by acclamation. Retail response in the usually torpid late-winter months suggests that even such blockbuster licensing deals as those associated with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers may pale beside the newest craze, which any parent of a 2-8 year-old (girls as well as boys in this case) could tell you is the MotoKops 2200 crew and their racy, spacey vans.

  NBC’s Saturday-morning cartoon epic began manufacturing in all major product categories about three weeks too late to catch the major Christmas wave of buying. John Kleist, senior V.P. at Good Palz, Inc., which licenses the MotoKop products, acknowledges that such a miss (in this case occasioned by labor problems, now solved, in the Palz Toledo plant) is usually the smooch of death, but says the late-selling push for the MotoKops may have actually worked in the company’s favor. “Sometimes the market sees you more clearly when you show up for the first time outside of Santa’s workshop,” Kleist opined with a smile.

  Whatever the reason, it seems clear that MotoKops Colonel Henry, Snake Hunter, Bounty, Major Pike, Rooty the Robot, and the tough-but-all-girl Cassandra Styles are going to be the hot action figures this summer, along with arch-enemies No Face and Countess Lili Marsh.

  Chief delight for Palz marketers and manufacturers is the immediate success of the pricey MotoKop vehicles, the so-called Power Wagons, futuristic vans which come with fold-up wheels and stubby extendable wings. Colonel Henry’s yellow Justice Wagon, Snake Hunter’s red Tracker Arrow, Rooty’s silver Rooty-Toot, and Cassie Syles’s Mary Kay-pink Dream Floater are all selling well despite hefty pricetags. Overall best-seller of the eight currently on the market is the dead black Meat-wagon, piloted by the sinister No Face. This doesn’t surprise veepjohn Kleist at all. “Kids love the bad guys,” he laughs.

  Some parental groups have protested what they term “the high violence quotient” of the MotoKops 2200 toon but according to Kleist, new MotoKops episodes (which begin on NBC in March) will emphasize “family values and peaceful solutions,” Whatever values end up being conveyed to the MotoKops’ fans, one can certainly feel the euphoria in the offices of Good Palz. This tiny company seems to have found itself holding a very large winning ticket.

  Playthings, Vol. 94, No. 2

  25

  CHAPTER 4

  Poplar Street/4:09 P.M./July 15, 1996

  He sees everything.

  That has been both his blessing and his curse in all his years—the world still falls on his eye as it falls upon the eye of a child, evenly, unchosen, as impartial as the weight of light.

  He sees Mary’s Lumina at the corner and knows she is trying to puzzle out what she’s seeing—too many people standing in stiff, watching attitudes which don’t jibe with a lazy late afternoon in July. When she starts to roll again, he sees the yellow van which is now behind her also starting to roll, hears another vicious crack of thunder, and feels the first cold splashes of rain on his hot forearms. As she starts down the street, he sees the yellow van suddenly speed up and knows what’s going to happen, but he still can’t believe it.

  Watch out, old boy, he thinks. You get too busy watching her and you’re apt to get run down like a squirrel in the road.

  He steps back, up on the sidewalk in front of the Josephsons’ house, head still turned to the left, eyes wide. He sees Mary behind the wheel of her Lumina, but she isn’t looking at him—she’s looking down the street. Probably recognized her husband, the distance wasn’t too far to do that, probably wondering what he’s doing, and she isn’t seeing Johnny Marinville, isn’t seeing the weird yellow van with the polarized glass windows looming behind her, either.

  “Mary look out!” he yells. Brad and Belinda, now mounting their front steps, wheel around. At the same moment, the van’s high, blunt front end crashes into the rear of the Lumina, splintering the taillights, snapping the bumper and crimping the trunk. He sees Mary’s head snap back and then forward, like the head of a flower on a long stalk pushed back and forth by a high wind. The Lumina’s tires scream, and there is a loud dry bang as the right front blows out. The car veers left, the flat tire flapping, the hubcap running off the rim and streaking down the street like the Reed kids’ Frisbee.

  Johnny sees everything, hears everything, feels everything; input floods him and his mind insists on lining up each crazy increment, as if something coherent were happening here, something which could actually be narrated.

  The stormy sky is coming apart, starting to release its cold reservoir. He sees spots darkening all over the sidewalk, feels drops hitting the back of his neck in an increasing tempo as Brad Josephson shouts “What the Christ!” behind him.

  The van is still on the Lumina’s ass, bulldozing it, digging into its flimsy New Age back deck; there is a hideous metallic squall and then a thunk! as the trunk latch lets go and the lid flies up, disclosing a spare tire, some old newspapers, and an orange styrofoam cooler. The Lumina’s front end bounces up over the curb. The car crosses the sidewalk and comes to rest with its bumper against the fence between Billingsley’s house and the next one down the hill, Mary’s own.

  Lightning—it’s close, very close—paints the street a momentary lurid violet, thunder follows like a mortar barrage, the wind begins to pick up, hissing in the trees, and the rain starts coming in sheets. Visibility is closing down fast, but there’s enough for him to see the yellow van picking up speed, racing away into the rain, and to see the Lumina’s driver’s-side door open. A leg sticks out and then Mary Jackson emerges, looking as if she has absolutely no idea of where she is.

  Brad is g
ripping his arm now with a very large and very wet hand, he’s asking if Johnny saw that, if he saw it, that yellow van deliberately rammed her, but Johnny barely hears him. Johnny can now see another van, this one with scooped sides and metal-flake blue paint. It comes looming out of the storm like the snout of a prehistoric beast, the rain running in rivers down a steep polarized windshield on which no wipers move. And suddenly he knows what is going to happen.

  “Mary!” he screams at the dazed woman staggering away from her car on high heels, but another brazen cannonade of thunder drowns out his cry. She doesn’t even look his way. Rain is running down her face like extravagant tears in a South American soap opera.

  “MARY, GET DOWN!” screaming so loud this time he thinks his vocal cords may rupture, “GET UNDER THE CAR!”

  Then the windshield of the blue van goes down. Slides down. Yes. That steep windshield slides into the front of the van like the front of a glass elevator, and behind it is darkness, and in the darkness there are ghosts. Ghosts. Yes. Two of them. Surely they must be ghosts; they are beings as brightly gray as a fog-shrouded landscape just before the sun burns its way through. The one behind the wheel is wearing a Confederate States of America uniform—Johnny is almost sure of this—but it is not human. Beneath its pinned-back cavalry hat is a bulging forehead, weird almond-shaped eyes, and a mouth that pulses out from its face like a fleshy horn. Its companion, although also a bright and illusory gray, at least looks human. He wears a buckskin trapper’s shirt with a bandolier belt across it. His face is stubbled with what might be a week’s growth of beard; the bristles look very black against the unnatural silver of his skin. He is standing, this fellow, and in his hands is a heavy double-barrelled shotgun. Trapper John raises it as Johnny watches, leaning out into a teeming, streaming world full of colors he does not in the slightest share, and he is grinning, lips drawing back to reveal a mouthful of tangled teeth which have clearly never known a dentist’s ministrations. This dreamlike creature looks like something from a horror movie about inbred cretins living far back in some swamp.

  No he doesn’t, Johnny thinks. He looks like something from a movie, all right, but not that one.

  “MARY!” he screams, and beside him, Brad joins in: “YO, MARY, LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU!”

  But she never sees. The guy in the buckskin shirt opens up, firing three times, pumping his weapon rapidly after each shot and then reshouldering it. The first round goes wild, as far as Johnny can see. The second erases the Lumina’s radio aerial. The third blows off the left side of Mary Jackson’s head. She staggers away from her car and toward Old Doc’s house nevertheless, blood pouring down her neck and soaking the left side of her blouse, her hair briefly burning in the rain (he sees this, he sees everything), and then for a moment she turns in Johnny’s direction and looks at him with her one remaining eye and the lightning flashes, filling that eye with fire; in the last second or two of her life she is empty of everything but electricity, it seems. Then she stumbles out of one of her high heels and falls backward, swandives into the sound of thunder, the brief low flames in her hair going out, her head still smoking like the tip of an indifferently butted cigarette. She sprawls near the ceramic German shepherd on Billingsley’s lawn, the one with his name and the number of his house on it, and as her legs relax apart Johnny sees something which is terrible and sad and inexplicable, all at the same time: a dark shadow that can only be one thing. Grotesquely, the punchline of an old joke goes on for a moment in his head like a neon sign: I don’t know about the other two, but the guy in the middle looks like Willie Nelson. He laughs out loud in the rain. Peter Jackson’s accountant wife has just been killed by a ghost, shot from a van piloted by another ghost (this one the ghost of an alien in a Sesech uniform), and the lady has died drawerless. None of this is funny, but he laughs just the same. Maybe to keep himself from screaming. He’s afraid that if he starts doing that, he won’t be able to stop.

  Now the shining creature behind the wheel of the blue van turns toward him and for just a moment Johnny sees it looking at him, marking him with its huge almond eyes, and he has a sense of having seen this thing before, insanity, of course, but the feeling is nevertheless very strong. It is only for a moment and then the van is past.

  But he saw me, all right, Johnny thinks. That thing in the mask (it must have been a mask) saw me, and it marked me, the way you might turn down the corner of a book-page for later reference.

  The shotgun goes off twice more, and at first Johnny can’t see what this is about, because the blue van is in the way—he thinks he can hear shattering glass over the roar of the storm, but that’s all. Then the van is retreating into the teeming, driving rain and he sees David Carver lying dead in his driveway in a litter of glass from the blown-in picture window. There’s a huge red puddle in the center of Carver’s stomach, it is surrounded by gobbets of torn white flesh that looks like suet, and Johnny reckons that Carver’s days as a postal worker—not to mention his days as a suburban car-washer—are over.

  The blue van rolls rapidly up to the corner. By the time it gets there and turns right on Bear Street, it looks to Johnny like the mirage it should by all rights have been.

  “Christ, lookit him!” Brad screams, and runs into the street.

  “Bradley, no!” His wife grabs for him, but she’s too late. Down the street, angling toward them, are the Reed twins.

  Johnny walks out into the street on numb, unsteady legs. He raises a hand, sees that the fingertips are already white and pruney (he sees it all, yes indeed, and how could a guy in a Close Encounters alien mask possibly look familiar), and swops his soaked hair out of his eyes. Lightning jags across the sky like a bright crack in a dark mirror; thunder chases it. His feet are squelching in his sneakers, and he can smell damp gunsmoke. It’ll be gone in another ten or fifteen seconds, he knows, driven to earth and then washed away by the pounding rain, but for the time being it’s still there, as if to keep him from even trying to believe it was all just a hallucination . . . what his ex-wife Terry called “a brain-cramp.”

  And yes, he can see Mary Jackson’s pussy, that highly sought-after part of the female anatomy that was known, in those dim old junior high school days, as “the bearded clam.” He doesn’t want to be thinking this—doesn’t want to be seeing what he’s seeing, for that matter—but he’s not in charge. All the barriers in his mind have fallen, the way they used to when he was writing (it was one of the reasons he had quit writing novels, not the only one, but a biggie), time’s passage slowing as perception grows, widening until it’s like being in a Sergio Leone movie where people die the way people swim in underwater ballets.

  Little bitty baby Smitty, he thought, again hearing the voice from the telephone. I seen you bite your mommy’s titty. Why should that voice remind him of the man in the bizarre costume and even more bizarre almond-eyed alien mask?

  “What in the name of Jesus H. Sodapop Christ happened?” a voice asks from beside him. The others have converged on David Carver, but Gary Soderson has come over here, onto Old Doc’s lawn. With his pale face and scrawny body, he looks like a man suffering from mid-stage cholera. “Holy shit, Johnny! I see Paris, I see France, but I don’t see her—”

  “Shut up, you drunken asshole,” Johnny says. He looks to his left and sees the Reed twins and their mother, Kim Geller and her daughter, plus a redhead he doesn’t know at all. They are gathered around David Carver’s body like ballplayers clustered around an injured teammate. Gary’s shrew of a wife is also there, but she’s spied Gary and is now drifting in the direction of chez Billingsley. Then she stops, fascinated, as the Carvers’ door smashes open and Kirstie comes flying out into the pelting rain like the governess in an old gothic novel, shrieking her husband’s name as the lightning flashes and the thunder rolls.

  Slowly, like a stupid child who has been called upon to recite, Gary says: “What did you call me?” He isn’t looking at Johnny, though, or even at the crowd on the Carvers’ lawn; he is looking at what th
e dead woman’s hiked-up skirt has revealed, storing it up for later reference (and, perhaps, conversation). Johnny suddenly feels an almost irresistible urge to punch the man in the nose.

  “Never mind, just keep your mouth shut. I mean it.” He looks to his right, down the street, and sees Collie Entragian running this way. He appears to be wearing pink plastic shower-sandals. Behind him is a longhaired guy Johnny has never seen before, and the new girl from the market—Cynthia, her name is.

  And behind them, quickly outdistancing old Tom Billingsley and closing in on Cynthia, wild-eyed, comes the street’s resident expert on James Dickey and the New Southerns.

  “Daddy!” A piercing, desolate little-girl shriek: Ellen Carver.

  “Get those kids out of here!” Brad Josephson, hard and commanding, God bless him, but Johnny doesn’t even look in that direction. Peter Jackson is coming, and there is something here he probably has even less business seeing than he and Gary Soderson, even though Peter has surely seen it before and they haven’t. An English teacher’s riddle if ever there was one, he thinks. Another crazy old punchline rockets through his head: Hey mister, your sign fell down! He can’t even remember the fucking joke it came from. He takes one more look around to make sure no one but Gary is paying attention to Mary, and no one is. This is surely a miracle that won’t last long. He bends down, turns Mary’s hip—how heavy she is now that she’s dead, how Christing heavy—and her legs fall together. Water runs down the side of one white thigh like rain on a tombstone. He yanks the hem of her skirt, deliberately turned so his action is blocked to the people coming up the hill. Already he can hear Peter bellowing “Mary? Mary?” He will have seen her car, of course, the Lumina with its nose against the stake fence.