Part 28 (2/2)
The driver and the other one set a stretcher on the tailgate. On the litter was a long, crumpled shape, sheeted and encased in a plastic bag. They sloughed it inside and started to secure the doors.
”You got the pacemaker back, I hope.” ”Stunt director said it's in the body bag.” ”It better be. Or it's our a.s.s in a sling. Your a.s.s. How'd he get so racked up, anyway?” ”Ran him over a cliff in a sports car. Or no, maybe this one was the head-on they staged for, you know, that new cop series. That's what they want now, realism. Good thing he's a cremation-ain't no way Kelly or Dee's gonna get this one pretty again by tomorrow.” ”That's why, man. That's why they picked him. Ashes don't need makeup.”
The van started up.
”Going home,” someone said weakly.
”Yes . . .”
Macklin was awake now. Crouching by the bag, he scanned the faces, Juano's and the others'. The eyes were staring, fixed on a point as untouchable as the thinnest of plasma membranes, and quite unreadable.
He crawled over next to the one from the self-service gas station. The s.h.i.+rt hung open like folds of skin. He saw the silver box strapped to the flabby chest, directly over the heart. Pacemaker? he thought wildly.
He knelt and put his ear to the box.
He heard a humming, like an electric wrist.w.a.tch.
What for? To keep the blood pumping just enough so the tissues don't rigor mortis and decay? For G.o.d's sake, for how much longer?
He remembered Whitey and the nurse. ”What happens? Between the time they become 'remains' and the services? How long is that? A couple of days? Three?” ”What happens? Between the time they become 'remains' and the services? How long is that? A couple of days? Three?”
A wave of nausea broke inside him. When he gazed at them again the faces were wavering, because his eyes were filled with tears.
”Where are we?” he asked.
”I wish you could be here,” said the gas station attendant.
”And where is that?”
”We have all been here before,” said another voice.
”Going home,” said another.
Yes, he thought, understanding. Soon you will have your rest; soon you will no longer be objects, commodities. You will be honored and grieved for and your personhood given back, and then you will at last rest in peace. It is not for nothing that you have labored so long and so patiently. You will see, all of you. Soon.
He wanted to tell them, but he couldn't. He hoped they already knew.
The van lurched and slowed. The hand brake ratcheted.
He lay down and closed his eyes.
He heard the door creak back.
”Let's go.”
The driver began to herd the bodies out. There was the sound of heavy, dragging feet, and from outside the smell of fresh-cut gra.s.s and roses.
”What about this one?” said the driver, kicking Macklin's shoe.
”Oh, he'll do his forty-eight-hours' service, don't worry. It's called utilizing your resources.”
”Tell me about it. When do we get the Indian?”
”Soon as St. John's certificates him. He's overdue. The crash was sloppy.”
”This one won't be. But first Dee'll want him to talk, what he knows and who he told. Two doggers in two days is too much. Then we'll probably run him back to his car and do it. And phone it in, so St. John's gets him. Even if it's DOA. Clean as hammered s.h.i.+t. Grab the other end.”
He felt the body bag sliding against his leg. Grunting, they hauled it out and hefted it toward-where?
He opened his eyes. He hesitated only a second, to take a deep breath.
Then he was out of the van and running.
Gravel kicked up under his feet. He heard curses and metal slamming. He just kept his head down and his legs pumping. Once he twisted around and saw a man scurrying after him. The driver paused by the mortuary building and shouted. But Macklin kept moving.
He stayed on the path as long as he dared. It led him past mossy trees and bird-stained statues. Then he jumped and cut across a carpet of matted leaves and into a glade. He pa.s.sed a gate that spelled DRY LAWN CEMETERY in old iron, kept running until he spotted a break in the fence where it sloped by the edge of the grounds. He tore through huge, dusty ivy and skidded down, down. And then he was on a sidewalk.
Cars revved at a wide intersection, impatient to get to work. He heard coughing and footsteps, but it was only a bus stop at the middle of the block. The air brakes of a commuter special hissed and squealed. A clutch of grim people rose from the bench and filed aboard like sleepwalkers.
He ran for it, but the doors flapped shut and the bus roared on.
More people at the corner, stepping blindly between each other. He hurried and merged with them.
Dry cleaners, laundromat, hamburger stand, parking lot, gas station, all closed. But there was a telephone at the gas station.
He ran against the light. He sealed the booth behind him and nearly collapsed against the gla.s.s.
He rattled money into the phone, dialed Operator and called for the police.
The air was close in the booth. He smelled hair tonic. Sweat swelled out of his pores and glazed his skin. Somewhere a radio was playing.
A sergeant punched onto the line. Macklin yelled for them to come and get him. Where was he? He looked around frantically, but there were no street signs. Only a newspaper rack chained to a post. NONE OF THE DEAD HAS BEEN IDENTIFIED, read the headline.
His throat tightened, his voice racing. ”None of the dead has been identified,” he said, practically babbling.
Silence.
So he went ahead, pouring it out about a van and a hospital and a man in rumpled clothes who shot guys up with some kind of super-adrenaline and electric pacemakers and night-clerks and crash tests. He struggled to get it all out before it was too late. A part of him heard what he was saying and wondered if he had lost his mind.
”Who will bury them?” he cried. ”What kind of monsters-”
The line clicked off.
He hung onto the phone. His eyes were swimming with sweat. He was aware of his heart and counted the beats, while the moisture from his breath condensed on the gla.s.s.
He dropped another coin into the box.
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