Soul Source: Back and There Again Read online

  The old, white van finally rattled up and lurched to a stop in the empty space next to Clive's Volkswagen. They all closed their eyes and waited for the cloud of black smoke that followed it everywhere to pass.

  "Watch it," Clive coughed as the brother pushed open the driver's door with a squeal of rusty hinges. Clive stepped sideways into the narrow space between the vehicles and peered at his paint. He followed the brother back, muttering and shaking his head. He stopped and glared at them, at least at the boy and the brothers, and they stepped back to give him room to open the rear door of his van. One of the brothers grasped the handle of their own van and yanked it open with a screech of metal as Clive's swung silently up.

  Clive shot a last look around the lot then leaned into the van. He passed the weapons and ammunition from the trunk of his car to the boy, who handed them to one of the brothers, who put them into the trunk of the van, a bucket brigade of death, while the other brother looked anxiously around the lot and the killer stared longingly at the passing implements of destruction. Clive interrupted his low-voiced running commentary on their purchase to curse the boy when one of the boxes of ammunition dropped to the dirt. It was small but heavy, as if it carried the burden of death. Clive snatched it up and passed it to the brother. Seconds later he gently closed his door, jumped into his van without a word or a backward glance and roared off. They stared after him for a few seconds then climbed into the van and followed the trail of dust that was still settling.

  "Slow down," one of the brothers shouted from the back when the hangar'd disappeared behind them.

  The boy lifted his foot slightly from the pedal. He hadn't realized how fast the country road was disappearing into the bottom of the van's windshield, a pock marked gray tongue sticking out in front of them. Like driving into a huge mouth. A one way trip to being chewed and swallowed. It was a plumbing van, ancient and filled with parts and tools that clanked as they bounced down the road. His hands gripped the wheel at the end of his extended arms, as if the volcano rumbling at the pit of his stomach were pushing out into his limbs as well as into his throat, where it threatened to erupt out of his mouth.

  "Sorry," he mumbled, probably not loud enough for anyone to hear over the whine of the engine and clanging plumbing supplies. The boy felt a hand grab his shoulder and one of the brothers was breathing garlic onto his ear. Which one? Who knew and it didn't matter. The two of them were as identical as any two humans could be. They even thought the same, if they thought at all. The killer'd claimed the passenger seat where he dozed. No one'd argued with him. The brothers didn't know how to drive.

  "Chrissake," the brother sputtered, leaving a wet spot on the boy's neck. "You're throwing us around like a washing machine."

  "Sorry," the boy muttered again. He pried a hand loose from the wheel to wipe his neck.

  "Watch what..." The brother's hand gripped his shoulder but it was too late. The boy caught the movement at the same instant that his ears made out the words, but his taut limbs couldn't've begun to react fast enough. The man staggered out of the woods right in front of him. He raised a hand as if to protect himself but the hand was only at his chin by the time the boy faced him through the windshield, a couple of feet apart, their eyes locked. For a fraction of a second that stretched into an eternity they stared at each other through the glass. The boy'd never had a sensation like it, as if time'd stopped. As if the face'd strolled up to a plate glass window and stared through it at the boy.

  Then suddenly the plate glass window was moving sixty miles an hour. How could he've been going so fast again? He'd just slowed down. The boy's hands and feet acted without any instructions from his shocked brain, still trying to process the face that'd stared back at him before disappearing with a sickening thump. The van slued right, tilted, seemed suspended in the air as the tires fought to grip the road and slow their momentum. They'd spun completely around and faced where they'd come from by the time they'd skidded to a stop. The boy sat behind the wheel with his mouth open, heart pounding, trying to make sense of the face that'd stared at him through the window. The limp form he was staring at on the road. How could it be? It couldn't be. It wasn't possible.

  "GO. MOVE," the brother shouted over his shoulder. The other brother cursed in the back. The killer's eyes'd popped open and he stared at the crumpled form on the road in front of them.

  "Did you see him?" the boy asked in wonder, his jaw still hanging slack.

  "I saw him now go." But he couldn't have seen him. Not who he was. The boy couldn't've seen him either. It wasn't possible.

  "But did you see who it was?" the words were on the boy's lips, but the brother hanging over him grabbed him by the shoulder so hard he winced. No one else on the country road but that wouldn't last all day. In a daze the boy twisted the key. The grinding told him the engine hadn't stopped running. He put his hand on the shifter lever but it was already in gear. They lurched forward almost into a tree before he jammed the brake, sending the brother tumbling head first into the space between him and the killer. The boy took a deep breath, slowly shifted into reverse, backed up, shifted into drive, turned around and drove carefully down the road, shooting one last glance in the mirror at the form on the road behind them. It wasn't. It couldn't be.

  They drove in silence, passing from farms through geological layers of suburbs into the city. The boy drove mechanically, his mind wrestling with what he'd seen, no hadn't seen, because it wasn't possible. The killer's hulking form snored gently beside him, but the boy couldn't look at him.

  "Watch out." The voice jolted the boy back into the present. "That was a red light." The boy nodded tightly. Shook himself awake. Had to pay attention. He hit his brakes and lurched to a stop as the traffic backed up in front of them. A car was parked in the middle of the road.

  "Shit." The killer's eyes popped open as if his alarm'd gone off. "A cop," the brother's hoarse whisper was laced with panic. Why was he whispering? The boy caught the burst of color in his rearview mirror. "He's turning on his lights."

  *

  Mike turned his cruiser onto Franklin, the radio mercifully quiet as he tried to think through the hash his life'd become. Tried to rationalize what he was doing. What he was about to do. To his wife, to his son. He shook his head as the buildings rolled past. The same buildings he'd passed a few minutes ago. He was driving in circles. Not even doing his job now. He waited at a red light and turned onto East Huron behind a decrepit wreck of a van spewing black smoke from its tail pipe. Daydreaming.

  "What the hell?" The damn thing ran the red light. Right in front of a marked police cruiser. "Unbelievable," he muttered as he looked both ways and followed it through the intersection. He'd just flipped on his lights when the van's brake lights flashed red and it jolted to a stop. Mike heard the blaring of horns up ahead.

  "So much for a quiet day." He eased around the van, shooting a meaningful look at the kid behind the wheel, who at least had the consideration to look scared to death. He nosed his car through the oncoming traffic trying to edge out of his way. A car stopped in the middle of the street. It lurched forward. Stalled. Mike shook his head. "What now?" He pulled up behind it. Got out. The car's horn honked as walked to the driver's window, trying not to get himself run over for his trouble. He tapped on the window. Pulled the door open. "You alright miss?"

  *

  "How can you have them here Agnes?"

  Agnes stared back. She didn't have a good answer. Didn't have any answer. It was all spinning out of control. Agnes had always been self-possessed, a leader, not a follower. She knew there was something wrong, very wrong, about this. About what they were doing. But there was something about Pruitt that sucked her in. He'd explained away her fears. It was only a sociological experiment. Something that had to be secret until it was finished. Something harmless.

  "Just this time," Agnes said, the answer lame even to her own ears. "You're going out anyway."

  "That isn't the point," Ruth said,
"...and you know it. What's all this about? What're they up to?"

  "It's field work..."

  "Field work," Ruth snorted with a shake of her head. She walked over to the windows and glanced out. Stiffened. Well what'd she expected to see? What was she looking for? She felt like a criminal in her own apartment. "I'm worried about you," she said without turning.

  "You don't need to worry about me," Agnes said, wishing she at least sounded as if she believed it.

  "It's him," Ruth said at the knock on the door. She turned. "I saw him come in the front door." Agnes stared at the door. What was wrong with her? Ruth shook her head and walked to the door, grabbing her purse and the overnight bag she'd packed as she passed the counter that divided the tiny living room from the tiny kitchen. She opened the door. Pruitt stared at her with those pale blue eyes, eyes that could mesmerize you if you gave into them, but she walked past him without acknowledging he was there, then down the two flights to the front door. She opened it and stood on the stoop. Looked around. All normal. Whatever that creep was up to the world was still turning around them. She stood there looking up and down the street. An ancient white van pulled up in front of the building trailing black smoke as the door opened behind her and Agnes came out.

  How could she do it? Ruth wondered for the thousandth time. How could she be involved with, with those people? Ruth took Agnes's hand and squeezed. She studiously ignored the van. She'd never seen Pruitt's friends before but somehow she could tell from the way the driver stared at them that's who they were. She gave Agnes's hand a final squeeze, went down the front walk, turned without looking at the people in the van and walked down the street. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a police car pull in front of the diner across the street. Could he be watching the van? Didn't look like it. He got out and walked into the diner. She frowned and stared back down at the sidewalk as the cop's passenger door opened. Nothing to do with her. Her mind wandered back to Agnes. What were they up to? What was Agnes getting herself involved with? She shook off the thought as she turned the corner.

  *

  It was the second time he'd seen her. The boy'd pulled the van to the curb, still shaking. First the accident. Then the close encounter with the cop. He'd had to pull over for a few minutes after it'd happened to calm down, waited with his heart pounding while the brothers ran into a convenience store and wolfed down greasy hot dogs and the killer snored gently in the seat beside him. When they'd finally started again he'd driven slowly and carefully, drawing a few frustrated honks from other cars when he slammed the brakes on as lights turned yellow in front of him. There was a young woman he didn't recognize standing in front of the building when he pulled up. He gently pushed the shift lever up to park when the door of the building opened and there she was. The boy couldn't stop himself staring at her as the first woman gave her hand a squeeze then walked up and passed the boy in the van without a glance before disappearing down the sidewalk.

  The boy stared at her until he heard the screeching symphony of rusted hinges that signaled the other doors opening. He pushed his own door open and followed the others already piling out. Leaving the keys behind him as he'd been told he slammed the door.

  She still hadn't moved when he reached her. He passed right next to her. Almost touching her. So close he could smell her. A clean smell. It filled his body with a sensation, something that reached into what felt like his distant past but wasn't even a year old. He felt himself shake. He smiled weakly but she didn't notice, just slid past him and walked up to the van. The boy stared at her profile through the van window until one of the brothers grabbed his arm and pulled him into the door of the apartment building.

  *

  Agnes felt a tiny comfort as Ruth gave her hand a squeeze before walking away. One of the creeps that got out of the van just stood there next to her, staring. She ignored him, got into the van. Pushed at the feelings of guilt like a log she was trying to move off the road in front of her. Guilt? What's there to feel guilty about? They, she, hadn't done anything. She refused to look at the 'not yet' hiding around the corner of her psyche, glanced at the police car parked across the street. Just some argument inside the diner. That kind of neighborhood. A young man slipped out of the diner door and hurried along the sidewalk as she climbed into the van.

  A tinny quiet settled over her once the van's door'd creaked closed. Ruth was right. What were they doing? What was she doing? Fieldwork for a dissertation? Who was she kidding? Those weren't graduate students going up to the apartment, her apartment. What were they up to?

  Agnes sat with the key clasped between her fingers. She could hide the van somewhere. Better yet, walk over and hand the keys to the cop. Sure. And say what? What if he searched it and there wasn't anything in it but plumbing tools? Worse yet, what if he searched it and there was? Was it already too late? Wasn't she already an accessory to whatever it was? The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Her scholarship gone. Jail. What then? Spend the rest of her life in places like this? If only someone would intervene. A guardian angel who'd get in the van next to her and tell her what to do.

  How long did she sit there like the donkey that starved to death because he couldn't decide between two identical bales of hay? A sudden movement at the door of the diner caught her eye as the cop came out. She twisted the key, slipped the shifter into drive, checked the mirror and moved off down the street.

  *

  Ruth saw them as soon as she lifted her eyes down the street.

  What was it about them? Three young men. The neighborhood was full of them, most of them like these three, standing or sitting on the curb, killing time. Ruth was used to walking past them with her eyes straight ahead, one arm folded over her purse. But these three were different. She sensed it as soon as she saw them. Saw it in the way their eyes locked on her and froze. Not that they were doing much, but the one who'd been bouncing between the curb and street stood still with one foot on each, the one who'd been sitting on the curb stood. The one leaning on the hood of the car shoved his hands farther into his pockets. They weren't that old, teenagers, watching her walk down the street. Why was she still doing that? Walking down the street? The sinking feeling in the pit in her stomach told her to stop, turn back. It was the middle of the day, but she couldn't see anyone else the length of the street. She slowed and saw that they'd noticed from the tensing of their muscles. Her heart sank. She stopped and the one leaning on the car stood, the other two took a step forward. She turned and ran, or tried to, but her first step sent her flying into the arms of someone standing right behind her.

  Heroine addiction

  The boy hadn't eaten in two days so how could he throw up? He tried to bite it back but retched a small puddle onto the dirt by the open van door. He wiped a sleeve across his mouth then tried to scrape the thin, yellow stream off the sleeve with his other arm. The bile tasted sour in his throat.

  "Aw Christ," one of the brothers grunted in disgust. The brother shook his head as the boy wiped his mouth again and climbed into the van. The brothers'd both been particularly vicious to the boy that morning, the fear seeping through their pores and turning to anger as it hit the air. Even the leader seemed jumpy. His carefully constructed calm frayed around the edges as they settled into the van. Only the killer didn't seem fazed. A tiny smile played on his lips as he settled in the passenger seat like an overgrown schoolboy on his way to a long-promised field trip. The boy still couldn't look at him.

  The boy climbed in and glanced in the mirror. The leader stood, bent over, with a hand on a bar welded to the van's wall. He never sat. Who knew why. The two brothers sat on the floor on either side of him, their backs pressed against the hanging tools. One of them, the boy supposed he'd never learn to tell them apart now, held the barrel of an AK-47 in each hand like ski poles. None of them had mentioned the accident to the leader, although he'd noticed the dent on the front fender of the van. What would the boy've said if he'd been asked who they'd hit? He didn't know.
Couldn't imagine. Didn't even believe the truth himself. It showed, proved, that the whole thing was a bad dream. A nightmare.

  "Tell him not to drive too fast," one of the brothers whined as the van bounced down the rutted driveway on springs that were older than the boy. The van groaned in protest as they carefully rounded another turn. The van didn't deserve this. A lifetime faithfully hauling plumbing fixtures should've entitled it to a dignified deterioration into rust. Tools and pipes clanked and jangled against the walls. Jacob Marley shaking his chains in warning as they careened through streets that were still quiet before the morning rush hour got going.

  "Slow down," the brother shouted over the whine of the engine as he tried to balance himself, but they weren't speeding. In fact, the boy was already below the speed limit. The accident and policeman yesterday still vividly in his mind. Besides, why hurry somewhere you didn't want to go? But if he didn't want to go why'd he shown up? Why had the brothers? He caught the leader's blue eyes in the mirror. Something told the boy that he was asking himself the same question. That he hadn't expected anyone to actually show up. But here they were. What was it? Momentum? The only one he understood was the one he saw out of the corner of his eye, actually dozing on the short ride. How could anyone sleep so much?

  "Ow. Slow down. Every time this piece of shit bounces something hard hits the back of my head," the brother whined again. The other one clutched the two rifles in a death grip. What if one went off? Shot a hole in the roof of the van? They'd gone through it before leaving. Set all the safeties. They couldn't go off by accident. That was a fact. A fact the boy held on to in the swirl of emotion making his head spin. But guns scared him. He'd never even fired his. Not once. They'd take the safeties off in the elevator. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger. That's all. The bullets were in the thing at the bottom, what was it? One of those words that was a hole in the boy's English like the black squares in a crossword puzzle. Not the newspaper. The magazine. That was it. The magazine. It held thirty bullets. The guy with the yellow teeth, Clive, had called them rounds but they were shaped like tiny missiles, easy to imagine them singing through the air at something, and heavy, like the weight in his stomach growing and crawling up toward his throat as the van rocked down the street.