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Chicago
1968
Cliff was scratching and
pawing at a parked car, wiping at the coat of snow on the windshield.
"Goddamn," Taylor said.
"It's Dan's car."
The driver door wasn't
locked. Some loose coins and an empty cigarette pack were on the floor
in front; a few old newspapers, candy wrappers, a tire iron, and a
dented thermos on the backseat.
"Try the trunk," I said.
Taylor worked at the lock
with one of bobby pins, but he couldn't manage to spring it. We searched
for a sharp instrument to try jimmying the lid, but the snow hid all the
usual street detritus. Finally Cliff took the tire iron and hacked at
the trunk until the lock popped.
Taylor's voice was
agonized: "Jesus! No!" he cried, and let the tire iron fall at his feet.
Rank air shot out at us
like a hand from the grave. Jordan tried to step closer, but Cliff
prevented him. I saw him scoop the boy up roughly and send him running.
Inside the trunk, Barry
was folded into himself like one of those trick collapsible cups. He was
blue-gray with death. His lips were horror-show black, and so was the
hole under his ear. I fell away from the sight of him, screaming. Cliff
held me fast in his arms. The tighter the better, I thought, because
otherwise I just might break apart.
Sim was rushing toward us
then.
"Never mind!" I shouted
at him. "Get Woody! Just go!" |
