Stagecoach Road Read online

  At 9:10 p.m. that evening, Benny parked his car on the side of the road about two hundred yards from the corner of Grand Boulevard and Hickory, approximately two blocks from Murphy’s house. This particular spot was void of any street lights, with scant traffic. Benny had already loaded a potent dart. Much more potent than the ones before. He didn’t care if it killed Murphy, but hoped it wouldn’t. At 9:17 p.m. Benny saw a set of headlights in his rearview mirror. He put his car in drive, with his foot still on the brake and waited quietly. The headlights got closer. He could see it was a Ford pickup truck. Murphy’s Ford pickup truck. Murphy was on his way to the mill. It was him. There was no mistake about that. Even from fifty feet Benny recognized the shape of that scum’s skull and the way he smoked a cigarette. The truck was almost even with Benny’s car, then passed as Benny lifted his foot off the brake and put his foot to the gas pedal, gunning the motor. He quickly caught up with the truck and bumped it hard from behind. BOOM! It was a solid jolt, but not enough to cause any real damage on Benny’s bumper--just a scratch. Murphy was pissed as hell and started yelling even before he got out of his truck. Murphy mashed on his brakes, with plans of beating the shit out of the driver who hit him. Benny was ready.

  “GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE CAR!” Murphy yelled as he got out of his truck and slammed the door behind him, running briskly towards Benny, like a charging rhinoceros. “You did that on purpose!” Murphy exclaimed with venom in his voice.

  Murphy was about fifteen feet away when Benny suddenly bolted from his car and pointed the tranquilizer gun directly at Murphy’s head. Murphy froze for a second, then Benny, knowing bigger muscles absorbed drugs better, lowered the gun and fired the dart, point blank into Murphy’s left thigh. Murphy hit the ground but didn’t have enough breath to scream. The drug took effect immediately. Benny quickly dragged Murphy’s limp body along the pavement and hoisted him onto the back seat of his car, then bound his hands and legs with rope, already cut to size. He made three loops and five knots around each limb. Benny sped off, admiring his catch in the rearview mirror and watching Murphy’s truck, sitting there with the headlights still glowing as it disappeared in the distance.

  Not wanting to attract attention, Benny slowed as he drove down Grand Boulevard. He then made a soft left onto Pine Street, then Oak Street, then County Line Road, snaking his way to Stagecoach Road. He could hear Murphy struggling to breathe. For a moment it sounded like he stopped. But then Benny heard a long, labored inhalation and knew he captured his prize alive. Satisfied, Benny pushed a cassette tape into his player. American Pie, again, and set to his favorite lyric.

  Don McClean was in rare form that night, as he was every night. Benny turned up the volume and sang along.

  “Don’t you want to sing along too?” Benny asked as he smiled back at Murphy, who was starting to recover by now and was able to make short guttural sounds but no words.

  Benny turned left onto Stagecoach Road and drove leisurely down the dark street. He kept looking in his rearview mirror to monitor Murphy’s recovery, then stopped about a block from the tree, parking at the side of the road. He grabbed his tranquilizer gun from the front seat, leaning it against the car while he pulled out his thick black marker and a sheet of yellow card stock from the sun visor. He opened the back door and saw Murphy, fully awake, and screaming for help.

  “HEEEEEYYYY,” shouted Murphy. “ANYONE! HELP! HEEEEEEELLLLLLLP!

  No one heard him. Benny knew no one could.

  “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

  Benny shook his head, yellow card stock in hand.

  “I’m deeply, deeply, deeply, offended,” Benny said while carefully snapping the head of the cap in the back of the marker. “Deeply, deeply, deeply offended.”

  “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?”

  Benny sniffed the head of the marker. “Hmmm,” he said. “I just love that smell!”

  “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Spevacek,” Benny said patronizingly, “this won’t take but a minute,” as he scribbled something on the card.

  “THAT’S TWO!” Benny wrote in big letters, then grabbing his terrified and helpless victim by the scruff of his neck, forced his eyes to read it. “Now all I have to do is keep my promise,” Benny said while raising his tranquilizer rifle and shooting another dose of Sucostrin into Murphy. Phooooooot! That shut him up. Murphy was paralyzed within seconds.

  Benny closed the back door and drove to the tree, parking his car way off to the side, closer to the woods. He figured he already had enough fun torturing Tommy and just wanted Murphy dead--quickly. So he dragged Murphy out of the car, into the woods, bringing his lantern, a roll of duct tape, the tranquilizer rifle, the yellow card, one shot of epinephrine, his Rolleiflex camera, and the pictures of Tommy’s mutilated body.

  About forty feet into the woods, Benny stopped and raised the lantern to his own face. Murphy was on his back, unable to move, but had a full view of Benny’s face.

  “Take a good look,” demanded Benny, his vengeful eyes glowing like orange coals. “Take a good hard look. See anyone familiar?” Benny smiled widely.

  It was obvious from Murphy’s eyes that he recognized Benny. Then Benny showed him the ghastly pictures of Tommy’s throat cut to the core. Murphy knew it was the end for him. Benny pulled off a four-foot strip of duct tape then wrapped it around Murphy’s mouth and the back of his neck three times. Good and tight. Then he taped the yellow card reading “THAT’S TWO!” to the front of Murphy’s jacket.

  “My name is Benjamin Arnold Weinstein,” Benny said after inspecting the ropes binding Murphy’s hands and legs. “The Jew!” continued Benny. “The Jew! And the nigga lover! Yes, it’s me?” Benny said angrily as he swiftly kicked Murphy in the balls eight times, splitting Murphy’s scrotum, Benny’s favorite revenge act.

  Saliva dribbled through the tape as Benny prepared to assault him again.

  “Now I know it’s been a few years since last we met. I’d say about nineteen,” Benny continued. “And I’ll understand--oh, believe me I’ll understand if you don’t fully remember me. But as I recall, you were once a brave soldier with three other friends, one dead now. Did you see that word ‘TWO’ I wrote on that card? Well, that’s for you my good dead fellow. That’s for you.” Then Benny lifted up the lantern to illuminate Murphy’s face, then snapped a couple of black and whites with the 1940’s style camera. “Smile, you son of a bitch,” Benny commanded. Click. Click.

  Benny viciously kicked his helpless captive in the head once, and twice in his mouth, breaking his teeth, and then five more times in his balls until Murphy passed out. Benny took two more pictures from different angles-- like a professional newspaper photographer.

  Murphy regained consciousness but wasn’t as coherent as Benny liked. Benny walked back to his car and got a bottle of water and splashed Murphy’s eyes.

  “Oh no you don’t,” shouted Benny while putting the camera down and taking out the epinephrine shot, sticking the needle in Murphy’s left bicep. “I’ll decide when it’s time for you to die.”

  “Understand me now?” Benny tersely asked while capping the bottle. “I hope so because you know that pretty lady you have at home? You know who I mean--the one with the pointy tits. Yeah, that one. Even at a distance I can see how pointy her tits are. Did I mention she had pointy tits? Don’t know her name, but after I’m done with you I’m going back to fuck her then put her out of her misery along with that kid of yours. I think he’d like the feel of duct tape around his mouth, too! Slicing off his balls wouldn’t be bad either.”

  Benny had no intention of harming either one. He just wanted to see more drool dripping down Murphy’s chin through the duct tape. He wasn’t disappointed.

  It was now 10:12 p.m. Benny was through messing around. He shot Murphy with another dose of Sucostrin then dragged the Jon boat and trailer out from its hiding place in the woods. He hitched the boat to his bumper then slid Murphy across the brush and hoisted him to the ba
ck of the boat and covered his gangly body with the black tarp. He was just about to turn right onto County Line Road when he saw two cop cars, in full pursuit with their lights flashing, driving down County Line Road the opposite way. Benny hit his brakes and watched them pass to his left. Satisfied they were out of sight and not after him, he turned right onto County Line Road, driving the speed limit and nervously looking in his side view mirrors. As he reached the top of the hill before turning left onto Oak Street, he saw the cops again. This time it did look like they were coming after him--at full speed and strobe.

  “Holy fuck!” shouted Benny. “How could they know?”

  The cops were gaining on him, fast. Benny cut his lights and made a sharp right turn off the side street before Oak. But that street dead-ended a hundred yards down. He had no choice but to stop his car at the end and wait for the cops to pass. He turned off the engine and glanced back at Murphy, who was still inside the boat but beginning to stir. Benny got out of the car and knelt beside the boat.

  “Hold still you motherfucker,” Benny whispered to Murphy. “Hold the fuck still.”

  Benny grabbed the tranquilizer rifle and quickly loaded another dart. He pointed the rifle at the back end of the tarp, guessing he would hit some part of Murphy’s leg. He didn’t fire. He waited another five seconds then he saw both squad cars rush by, turning left onto Oak Street. OK, he thought. They didn’t see me.

  Benny couldn’t chance missing Murphy with the dart. So he climbed into the boat and took off the tarp. He saw Murphy lying there--dead.

  Holy shit, thought Benny. He must have had a heart attack from all the drugs.

  But he didn’t have a heart attack. And he wasn’t dead. Benny bent down to listen to Murphy’s heart. When his ear touched his chest, Murphy woke up with a surge and wrapped his bound wrists around Benny’s neck, squeezing as hard as he could, with Benny lying face up. Benny started choking and couldn’t get away. Murphy was too strong, and kept squeezing as Benny tried to pry Murphy’s wrist away. Benny had only one chance: He let go of Murphy’s wrists, and with his right thumb Benny reached back and found Murphy’s right eye and viciously pushed it in until it burst out of the socket, blood spurting everywhere. Murphy, disabled by the pain, loosened his grip and Benny was able to free himself. Benny grabbed the rifle and quickly shot Murphy with a dose, then loaded again and shot him with another until he succumbed. That ought to keep the piece of shit quiet for a while, he thought.

  Benny got back into his car, swung around, and doubled back to County Line Road. Do I go back down Oak? he thought to himself. After contemplating for a few seconds, he saw a number of squad cars blinking in the distance, about five blocks down Oak Street. They weren’t after me, he deduced. I think they got their man.

  Benny turned right onto County Line Road, then a few feet later, left onto Oak Street. He guardedly drove down Oak towards the cops and saw they did in fact pull over not one but three cars. Four guys were already handcuffed with their hands behind their backs being booked for something. Who knows what. Benny decided to turn around and wait at the dead end road until the cops left.

  At about 10:45 p.m., the cops dispersed and drove away in a convoy. Benny had given Murphy three more doses of Sucostrin during this time. It was very dark, a comfortable 50 degrees, but the wind was kicking up. The Great Lake to his right looked menacing with roaring three-foot waves crashing onto the shore every few seconds. The tarp hiding Murphy almost flew off. Benny started the car then got out to check on his passenger in the boat. He picked up the spool of twine next to the oar and cut off a long piece to secure the tarp to the oar slot. He lifted up the tarp to get more slack and noticed Murphy wasn’t moving--at all. Not this time, Benny thought to himself. Fool me once. Instead of listening to Murphy’s heart, Benny took his epinephrine syringe and poked Murphy everywhere, about ten times. No response. Benny grabbed Murphy’s left wrist and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He then got his lantern and cautiously approached the tethered former high school bully, lifted up his already half opened left eyelid then tested his remaining pupil for a reaction. There was none. Murphy was dead. He was really dead this time. The cause of death, suffocation. His lungs just couldn’t expand due to his paralyzed diaphragm. OK, OK, thought Benny while covering up the corpse in the howling wind. Let’s just do this thing.

  Benny got into his car and drove down Oak Street to the Pavilion. It was about 11:00 p.m. There was no one in sight. He parked in his usual spot as close as possible to the water, and slid the boat down from the trailer without first removing Murphy, who weighed almost 200 pounds. THUD! The boat landed hard on the pavement, but Benny was in a hurry. He pushed the boat down to the water as fast as he could, then went back to his car and got a twenty-foot length of rope, and his knife. He got in the boat and checked the gas supply in the motor, which was about half full. He had second thoughts. He wasn’t going to start the motor. As quiet as the motor was, it still made some noise. Instead, he mounted both oars and rowed in the other direction, away from the Lake Street Bridge towards the fifty-foot Chinese bridge, a wooden walkway with oriental motifs connecting the two shallow ends of the lagoon to the east.

  The waves were choppy in the usually tranquil lagoon which made the boat rock. Benny did all he could to keep the boat steady as he neared the Chinese bridge. As he approached the small structure, he lifted up one oar then stuck it into the three-foot deep water until he felt bottom. The boat came to an abrupt stop. He grabbed a wooden pole near the side of the bridge and tied a loose knot, temporarily securing the boat. Benny then pulled the tarp off Murphy, his cold body already stiffened with rigor mortis and his gray, lifeless remaining left eye wide open, like a dead carp. Benny lifted Murphy’s rigid body, preparing to dump it into the water. Suddenly he saw a light across the water, about a football field away. A car pulled over and a couple of teens got out and threw something at the pier. Probably beer cans. Benny didn’t move, clutching Murphy’s unyielding torso, just staring at the kids. One of the young men pulled his pants down and urinated in the water. The other one got out and joined him. They were laughing loudly and yelling profanities. Then another car pulled up next to them. More teens. This time four of them. They all got out of the car to join the fracas. A few seconds later Benny heard a siren coming down Oak Street. The teens scrambled to their cars and sped off. The cops saw the two cars and went after them, leaving the area.

  I don’t fucking need this, Benny thought to himself as he watched the cops speed away while he tied a hangman’s noose around Murphy’s neck, making three loops. What was I thinking? The cops might have this place staked out. I’ve got to finish this quick and get out.

  Benny lifted Murphy’s heavy remains and pushed him off the side, making a huge splash, wobbling the boat. Benny couldn’t control it and he fell into the water with the corpse. Luckily, the boat didn’t capsize which would have spilled all of his personal items. Drenched and cold, Benny reached up and looped the other end of the rope over a jutting slat under the bridge, about four feet from the water. He took out his knife and stabbed the dead jerk in the belly nineteen times, one for each year after the attack. Benny swished the knife off in the water then brought the blade up to Murphy’s throat and slashed it until his head fell to the side. “Take that, fucker!” he said. Most of Murphy’s body was in full view, about two feet from shore. A curious duck glided down from the sky, landing a few feet from the floating body. “You’re the first witness,” Benny joked to himself, and got back into the boat and paddled back to his car. He saw the muddy waves roll over Murphy’s motionless flesh, receding briefly to expose the yellow card, “THAT’S TWO!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Benny had to get out of there. He knew he took quite a chance bringing the second corpse to the lagoon.

  Back on shore, and soaking wet, Benny pulled his Jon boat up the hill. The cloak of night hid him from passing cars as he hitched the boat back on. He took inventory, painstakingly inspecting the boat and surroundings
, making sure nothing was left behind. “Let’s see, knife, excess rope, good. Nothing around the car. Nothing fell out on the way down the hill. I have my wallet here,” patting his back pocket. “OK. Let’s go and clean up.”

  It was approaching midnight. Benny was supposed to be home from chess club. Not that it mattered much anymore--after learning the truth about his “devoted” wife. Nonetheless, he was determined to sleep in his own bed next to her.

  At 12:04 p.m. Benny switched on his motor, pulled out of the Pavilion parking lot and turned right onto Oak Street, heading towards Grand Boulevard. He just had to take a peek. He passed his always reliable friend, the tall bronze statue of Father Pere Marquette, standing proudly and high atop blocks of Roman granite while majestically raising a gold cross with his right arm. Benny faithfully saluted the dark monument and continued down Oak Street, then turned left onto Grand Boulevard. Curious or not, it didn’t take long to realize he’d better peddle back. Just up ahead he saw flashing police lights near Murphy’s house. They know he’s missing, he thought. They found his empty truck. Benny abruptly turned left onto Juniper, on his way back to Stagecoach Road. He had to ditch his boat there fast and go home.

  A feeling of invincibility fell over Benny as he turned onto Stagecoach Road with boat in tow. Who’s afraid now? he thought. I can’t wait to see the headlines tomorrow after they find his body. And right under their noses in the same lagoon! Benny hid the boat near the tree, a little deeper in the woods this time, changed his clothes, stuffed the wet ones in a black trash bag after scouring the pockets, and drove back to County Line Road. He pushed a tape into his cassette player and treated himself to his favorite victory tune, that creepy instrumental version of Family Affair. “Good night Buffy. Good night Jody. See ya, Mr. French.”