Chapter Seven

A bitter burp almost had Marnie asking Chuck to pull over. Her insides still felt as raw as they had the night Dunwoody raped her. For once, the pain was welcome. It reminded her why she had agreed to Mick’s plan and it also kept any sympathy for the sniveling bastard at bay. She worried that if she didn’t feel so broken, she might have called the whole thing off, especially once he’d crapped his pants.

He’d stopped carping about his broken nose, though each wet, ragged, whistling inhalation was proof that Mick had busted it good.

Don’t look back there.

Marnie had never seen a dead person. Her extended family was just as poor as her own. When someone kicked the bucket, usually an old aunt or uncle she’d rarely seen, there was just enough money to plant them. A wake with a viewing of the body was outside the budget. Harold Dunwoody might still be breathing (rather crudely at the moment), but he was as good as dead.

She bet he wouldn’t laugh at her now.

Chuck’s knuckles were white little mushroom caps. He hadn’t said a word. Just kept driving, not even bothering to look in the rearview mirror. She touched his arm and he looked at her, some of the anger and trepidation melting from his gaze.

When she gave his arm a squeeze, she hoped it wordlessly conveyed we’re doing the right thing. It didn’t look as if he was getting the message. His eyes swiveled back to the road, his jaw flexing.

He didn’t believe in the Melon Heads and she couldn’t blame him. She didn’t either, at least until last year.

“Go up there,” Mick said.

“I know where to go,” Chuck replied sharply.

The bent sign for Wainscott Road loomed ahead of them. Holes had been poked out of the metal by people taking potshots with their rifles during hunting season. It was as far as they would dare travel on Dracula Drive, taking their frustrations out on the puny sign. It was funny how all the adults in Milbury laughed at the Melon Heads legend, yet none of them dared go into these woods to hunt.

The old shocks creaked and groaned as the Skylark took to the road left to rot and ruin. Each shimmy and shake birthed a fresh hell of pain in Marnie’s abdomen. She bit back her tears, telling herself to keep it together. The pain was a necessary thing now. Just a little bit more suffering until things could be set right. For once, Chuck was wrong and Mick was right.

Her grandfather was the only one she knew who took the Melon Heads seriously. At the time, he was, as her mother would say, starting to slip. Marnie was nine and had no idea what that meant. He walked just fine. But he did forget a lot of things, like where he’d put his glasses or even her name, calling her Maggie, which was her aunt’s name. She once watched him pour a glass of juice, start to walk out to the porch, stop and put the glass in the oven. Seconds later he noticed her standing by the pantry and said he sure was thirsty. Slipping wasn’t his problem. Thinking was his real issue, as far as Marnie was concerned.

During hunting season that year, there had been a lot of fighting between Marnie’s mother and grandfather. He wanted to ‘pop a son of a buck’ but she’d hidden his guns. It was a standoff that lasted for weeks. When there was a lull in the fighting, Marnie asked her grandfather why no one ever hunted in the woods along Dracula Drive. Were they afraid of the Melon Heads?

With his wiry white hair and pale blue eyes getting paler by the day, he’d pulled her onto his lap and said, “Nah, ain’t nobody scared of them Melon Heads when they got a gun on ’em. The Melon Heads may be dumb, but they ain’t stupid. They know what a gun can do. It’s a good thing they don’t have any of their own, though.”

“So how come nobody goes there?”

He looked around to make sure her mother wasn’t around to overhear him. She knew he was going to share a secret with her. There were no greater secrets than the ones shared between Marnie and her grandpa.

“I’ll tell ya, there’s no sense hunting there because there’s no deer.”

“Where did they all go?”

“In the bellies of them Melon Heads. They gotta eat, too, and they don’t have a Shopwell to bring their list and coupons.”

“If they don’t have guns, how do they kill the deer?”

He hugged her and she rested her head against his chest. He smelled like Old Spice and root beer. He always had one of those root beer barrel candies in his mouth.

“They’re expert hunters who don’t need a gun. And that’s why I don’t ever want you to go out there, even if your friends try to bully you to do something stupid. You got that?”

“Got it.”

“There’s an old man out there who watches out for them. You stay away from him, too. He’s not right in the head. What kind of a person would help those freaks? You ever hear somebody say they want to go see a fella named Fennerman, you run the other way.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She was going to ask him more about this Fennerman, the guardian of the freaks, when he suddenly got up and went into the living room. She heard him ask her mom, “Where’s that little Marnie?”

He died the next year. Marnie stayed true to her word for the next six years. Mick hadn’t bullied her into going down Dracula Drive. He said the guy he bought weed from actually lived out there and she was curious. As far as she knew, no one lived in those woods. Word had it that even Fennerman, if there ever was a Fennerman, was long gone.

So she went with him, and everything changed in a matter of hours.

Everything.

The thup of a lock being undone made her whip around to look at the back seat. Dunwoody was trying to open the car door. Mick pounced on him. The door flew open. Chuck yelled, “What the hell is going on back there?” He hit the brakes just as Mick slammed the door. It thumped against the top of Dunwoody’s head. The man howled in pain.

“That’s what you get for trying to escape,” Mick said, breathing heavily. He straddled Dunwoody, his fists at his sides, waiting for him to make another attempt to get out.

Marnie had seen enough. She turned back around, keeping her gaze fixed on what passed for a road.

“We okay now?” Chuck asked.

“Yeah. We’re good.” Mick flicked Harold Dunwoody’s ear. “Right?”

Dunwoody said something that was hard to understand thanks to his broken nose. It sounded like, “I’ll fucking kill you,” but there was no menace behind it.

Chuck took the road cautiously, the frame of his old car practically shouting that it wanted to be anywhere else but here. Marnie had to grab the dashboard a couple of times when one of the front tires dipped into a deep rut. They’d gone a quarter of a mile in when Mick popped his head between them and pointed to the right. “You see that path over there?”

Chuck grumbled. “Yeah. So?”

It wasn’t much of a path. It looked just wide enough to accommodate a motorcycle. Heavy brush was on either side of the entrance. The trees were thick and ancient here and blotted out the sun entirely.

“Go down there.”

“I’m not getting my car stuck out here.”

“Just trust me,” Mick said.

“You keep saying that,” Chuck said.

“Because you keep doubting me.”

“Fine.”

Chuck turned into the path like an old lady pulling into a parking space. The brush moved aside as soon as the fender nudged it. It had been put there to make it look like you couldn’t go down the path. In fact, the little off-road was smooth sailing. There were well-worn tire tracks in the ground.

Seconds later, the path, which was actually a driveway, stopped before a cabin. The front porch had an Adirondack chair and small table with a can of Budweiser atop it. Firewood was stacked seven feet high in one corner of the porch.

“What the hell is this place?” Chuck asked. “And please don’t tell me it’s a Melon Head clubhouse.”

Mick slapped the back of the seat twice. “That’s Dredd’s house. Sweet, huh?”

A thin wisp of smoke trailed from the chimney. The cabin looked old but well cared for.

“Who’s Dredd?”

“He’s cool,” Marnie assured him. She’d only met Dredd the one time. He was out there, like way out there, but that one meeting had blown her mind. Or maybe not. She still wasn’t sure. Dredd and Mick had sworn her to secrecy, which wasn’t easy, especially whenever she and Heidi had had a couple of beers. Dredd sold very powerful weed, but as far as Marnie knew, it was only to Mick. Who else would venture out this way, even to get high? Only Mick. And Marnie, on that one day. Without that day, they wouldn’t have this moment. The jury was out on whether or not that was one for the pro or con column.

A niggle of doubt wormed into her brain. How would Dredd react when he saw that they had broken his trust?

“You know him?” Chuck asked incredulously.

“I’ve been here before. I wouldn’t say I know Dredd, but—”

The cabin’s front door opened. A man sheathed in darkness emerged, pointing a very big rifle at Chuck’s car.

* * *

Mick stopped Chuck from putting the car in reverse and motoring out of the driveway. He pulled the keys out of the ignition and stuffed them in his pocket.

“Chill out, man. I got this.” He grabbed Dunwoody by the collar and said, “Try to run for it and my friend out there will blow your balls off. You got me?”

Dunwoody looked over the seat, saw the gun, and nodded vigorously.

“Marnie, come out with me.”

As soon as Mick stepped out of the car, he was met with, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Yo, Dredd, it’s me, Mick.”

“Who?”

The normal first instinct when a gun was pointed directly at you was to put your hands in the air to show you surrendered and meant no harm. Mick wasn’t going to look like a pussy, so he jammed his hands in his pockets and approached the porch slowly but steadily. There was a good chance Dredd was riding a weird high and wouldn’t know Mick from Ronald Reagan. With only ten feet separating them, it was too late to turn back now. “Dude, it’s Mick. You sell me weed from time to time. Remember me?”

Dredd racked the shotgun. “Get on the ground now!”

Mick’s heart fluttered. Dredd was wearing sunglasses, his lip curled, showing a yellow eyetooth.

“You in the car. Get the fuck out and hit the ground!”

Mick looked over his shoulder. Chuck was out of the car with his hands up, getting to his knees. Marnie was already on her stomach, her arms crossed and her head resting on them, not daring to look up. Dunwoody stumbled from the car and said, “Call the police. You have to help me. They beat and kidnapped me.”

The gun swung toward Dunwoody’s direction. “Shut up and eat dirt.”

“You don’t understand….”

Dunwoody started running toward the porch. A shotgun blast roared. Mick swore he felt the displaced wind by his face as buckshot just missed him. Dunwoody and Marnie screamed. The man dropped as if he’d been hit, which was a real possibility.

“Now you,” Dredd said flatly.

Mick realized he was the only one still standing. He took a knee. “Remember the time I brought you that dirt bike some kid had left by my place? We fixed it and tore the hell out of the trail over in Kittsfield. I tried to jump it and the damn thing lost its front tire the second I hit the air.”

Dredd came up on him fast as a cheetah. Mick jumped back, falling flat on his ass. The hot muzzle of the shotgun touched Mick’s chest. Even through his two layers of shirts, it felt like it was going to brand him if Dredd didn’t pull it away immediately. Mick couldn’t control his breathing. He got lightheaded, which made it even harder to come up with a clear way to cut through whatever shit Dredd was on and convince him they knew each other.

“This is my property. I don’t like people trespassing on my property. Best part is, there’s no one around for miles to see how I handle trespassers.” He gave a low chuckle and Mick felt the alien sting of tears in his eyes.

“Please, we didn’t mean to come onto your property,” Chuck pleaded. “We’re lost and just need some directions.”

“Bullshit you’re lost,” Dredd spat. “This pile of shit knows my name, so you’re not here because you took a wrong goddamn turn.”

Mick shrank away from the shotgun, affording him a couple more inches of space before the ground stopped him cold. “Come on, Dredd, you know me. Don’t do anything stupid.”

The muzzle jerked up to his face. “You calling me stupid?”

“No! No! I’m not. Please don’t shoot us!”

“You should have thought of that before you waltzed on up here. Hope it was worth it.”

Mick shielded his face with trembling hands. He shouted an incoherent string of entreaties.

“Bang!”

Mick’s entire body flinched.

Dredd started laughing. The shotgun was mercifully pointed at the ground. He took off his sunglasses, sliding an arm between the buttons of his shirt. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You all might want to check your underpants, because I’m pretty sure there might be a little pee…or worse.” He looked over at Dunwoody, who had propped himself onto his hands and knees, appearing dazed and on the verge of passing out. “Especially you, big guy.”

Mick thought his heart was going to break free from his chest and fly away. He wanted to tell Dredd he was a fucking asshole for his little stunt, but he didn’t have the capacity to speak.

He did hear Chuck say, “Oh yeah, he’s real cool.”

“So, Mickster, who are your friends?” Dredd saw Marnie as she stood up and pointed. “I know you! You’re Marie, right?”

“Marnie,” she said, dusting herself off. Dredd’s smile faded when he really took notice of her face.

“What happened to you?”

Now Mick found his voice. “He happened.” He gestured with his head toward Dunwoody.

“No shit?”

Dunwoody was on his feet, eyes flitting around, searching for a way out.

“No shit,” Mick said.

The shotgun came up again. “You take one step and it’ll be your last,” Dredd said to Dunwoody. “And I’m not fooling around this time.”

Chuck and Marnie sidled up next to Mick, leaving Dunwoody by the car with his hands up, begging Dredd to call the cops, snot and blood running from his squashed nose. Dredd wasn’t taking his eyes off the man. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week of Sundays. He wore a full camouflage outfit, complete with black combat boots. Mick never saw him in anything else. Dredd once explained that clothes at the military surplus store were cheap and durable. Why bother going to J.C. Penney or Caldor to pay double for duds that would make him look like some Little League coaching douche of a dad?

“We need your help,” Mick said.

Dredd chuckled. “Looks like you’ve done pretty good on your own.” The aroma of weed clung to Dredd like a second skin. His eyes were twin pools of glass. The guy was high as the clouds. Mick realized how lucky they were that he still had enough coherence to joke with them and not blow them away for traipsing on his hideout.

“Kicking him around won’t be enough,” Mick said. “We wanna take him to the Melon Heads.”

Dredd looked them each in the eye while keeping the gun trained on Dunwoody. His expression had gone flat, his tone measured. He looked at Chuck when he said to Mick, “There’s no such thing as Melon Heads.”

“Come on, man,” Mick said.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, brother.”

Chuck groaned. “See? Let’s take this asshole back.”

Mick shook his head vigorously. “No going back, dude. You and I both know that.” To Dredd he said, “Tell him.”

“That you think a fairy tale is real?” Dredd replied, one eyebrow riding high. “Even I’m not that stoned.”

“Jesus,” Marnie mumbled. She looked like she was about to collapse. Mick couldn’t tell if it was from disappointment, fear, the pain, or all three.

“Now, if you came with some cash, I might have something that’ll chill you all right out,” Dredd said. He pointed at Dunwoody. “Even him.”

Was he still fucking with them? Mick started to get angry.

“Quit messing around,” he said. “This is serious shit.”

“Oh, it looks pretty serious, believe you me.” Dredd grinned.

“I told you this was a waste of time,” Chuck said. He leaned against the car and ran his hands through his hair, looking like he wanted to tear it out.

That’s when the first tears fell from Marnie’s bruised eyes.

Mick lowered his voice and said, “Look at her. See what that dirtbag did to her?”

To his surprise, Dredd did just that. All was silent for a moment that felt like weeks.

“You sure you want to do this?”

“Totally,” Mick replied.

Marnie nodded.

Chuck stared back at Dredd, uncommitted. “You’re still joking around, right?”

Dredd sucked on his teeth. “Afraid not, big man. I’m not too keen on Mickster opening his big mouth about it, but from what I can see, this can be considered a special exception. Plus, times have been tough lately. Summer was lean and things are getting restless. It’s hard to keep the natives calm when they’re starving.” His gaze danced again toward Marnie and he winced. “This isn’t going to be pretty, but it looks to me like your man over there earned it. I may look like a scumbag and, hell, I may be a scumbag, but you don’t hit women. Ever.” To Mick, he said, “Go inside and under the bench by the door you’ll find some rope. Bring it out here and let’s get to work.”