The Indestructible Man Read online

  “It’s the truth,” Bobby said.

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened. “But you could go to jail.”

  “Probably.”

  “Then why do it? Why not just let it go?”

  Bobby shrugged. “I can’t.”

  Cindy curled up beside him and yawned. “Doesn’t seem worth it.”

  Bobby held her until she fell asleep, hoping she was too drunk to remember any of it. He wished he could call it off, forget his revenge, and be with her. Happiness was sleeping next to him, its face buried in the pillow. It was almost enough to make him change his mind.

  Cindy worked half-days every Saturday and had run home to shower and change so she wouldn’t feel disgusting all afternoon. He watched her dress, memorizing every detail about her: the way her clothes fit, the smudge of purple lipstick under her bottom lip, the way her hair was flattened on one side from the pillow. It might be the last he ever saw of her, and he wanted the memory to stay vivid.

  “See you later,” she said, leaning over to kiss him. Smiling, she rubbed his bare shoulder once, then gathered her purse from the bedside table. She stopped at the door, looked back, and the smile left her face. “You were kidding about that Romulus guy, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course,” he said, angry at himself for telling her, and angrier still for lying.

  “Just blowing off steam.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. “I’ll call you.”

  He spent the rest of the day in bed, his pillow wrapped around his head to blot out the light and sound, trying to stop himself from phoning Brooks to call the whole thing off.

  6

  Brooks’ minibus jerked and sputtered, and clanked alarmingly every time he pressed down on the gas, but it had room enough for them to sleep in case Romulus and Abigail did not arrive right away. The day before Thanksgiving they headed for the Colonel’s house, passing the old junior high on the way. Bobby asked Brooks to stop.

  “You sure that’s such a good idea?”

  “Just stop, okay?” Bobby said. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  School had let out for Thanksgiving break, and the parking lot and playground were empty. While Brooks waited, Bobby wheeled himself across the courtyard and through the grass. The hedges lining the building seemed a recent addition, but the high reddish-brown walls were the same as he remembered. He looked up at the roof, eighty feet above the brown sod, and saw himself at thirteen, in his last moment as a fully-functioning being, standing at the edge and launching his body into the air. He wished he could call out, warn his younger self of what would come of his stupidity. But nothing would have changed.

  He found a slight dip in the sod, decided that was where he’d hit the ground, and gazed out at the courtyard until he heard Brooks’ black cowboy boots clomping on the sidewalk.

  “You okay?” Brooks asked.

  Brooks’ thin, raspy voice intruded into Bobby’s trance, and for a moment he was caught between two worlds. Brooks leaned in close to check on him, his thin whiskery face finally jolting him back into the present. “I’m all right,” he finally said, blinking rapidly to refocus. “Give me a minute.”

  “Come on,” Brooks said. “It’s getting cold.” Brooks gripped the handles behind him and pushed him back across the courtyard.

  Brooks parked along the curb in the middle of Winter Street, two houses separating them on either side from the Wheats’ blue tri-level and Jackson Wayne’s brick ranch. From the minibus they could see both driveways, so they each took a side and peered from behind the thin red curtains over the windows. Brooks left the ignition off and they buried themselves under layers of heavy moving blankets to keep warm.

  After a few hours of watching the Colonel’s undisturbed front door, Brooks fell asleep in the driver’s seat. His scanner randomly scrolled through frequencies until it picked up a cordless or cellular phone call; Bobby listened carefully for the Colonel or Abigail’s parents on the line. Brooks’ plan was to wait until they left the house, then follow them to their destination and do their business. The “kill” was Bobby’s, no matter what.

  At about nine the scanner settled on a phone conversation. Bobby immediately recognized the Colonel’s humbling baritone.

  “Hi, Lilian,” the Colonel said. “I’m calling to let you know you can have tomorrow off. The kids are passing through Chicago and want me to meet up with them in some fancy restaurant.”

  “Really?” a woman’s voice crackled through the interference. “Now where you gonna go that’s better than my cooking?”

  The Colonel laughed under the static. “Nothing’s better than your cooking, Lilian. They’re treating me to an early Thanksgiving dinner at Marley’s.”

  “Sounds nice. Give Romulus a hug for me, will you?”

  “I’ll tell him you said hello. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Hands trembling, Bobby turned off the scanner. Marley’s was a steakhouse just outside Chicago; he’d even been there once, on his parents’ fifteenth anniversary. He hated the food, charred outside, bloody inside. But it was a popular place, and would be packed with witnesses.

  He wheeled over to wake Brooks and tell him the news. Now all they had to do was sit and wait.

  They spent all night in the minibus, Brooks snoring like a chainsaw, sprawled across the bucket seats in front, Bobby propped against the side door in his wheelchair, his head resting on the frigid window. When he woke it was almost noon; he was cold and needed a bath. After an hour or so Bobby realized he should have brought a newspaper or some magazines. The monotony became almost unendurable, the intersecting lines of brick searing their pattern into his brain. He would have smashed his forehead through the window had Brooks not grunted himself awake.

  “Jesus,” Brooks said, rubbing his head. “What time is it?”

  “Almost one.”

  “You been watching?”

  “Yeah. He hasn’t left yet.”

  They ate stale, crumbly granola bars and played cards to pass the time, bundled in Brooks’ scratchy blankets, casting an eye toward the Colonel’s front door every few minutes. Brooks won five hands in a row, and as he scooped the last of Bobby’s nickels and dimes into an old coffee can, Bobby saw Jackson Wayne emerging from the house.

  “He’s going,” Bobby said, gnashing his teeth.

  Brooks turned around as the Colonel’s Buick rumbled. “Oh,” he said, and started to get up. “Better get ready.” Halfway to the driver’s seat he stopped and looked Bobby in the eye. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, really sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Bobby said, throwing off the heavy blanket.

  “It ain’t too late to go back, if you don’t have the heart.”

  For an instant Bobby considered telling Brooks to drive to Roscoe’s to down a few beers. Then he thought of Romulus waking next to Abigail every morning, her long red hair falling across his chest. “Follow him,” he said, and locked down his wheels.

  To avoid suspicion, Brooks waited to start the ignition until the Buick was a few blocks away. The engine whinnied angrily and chugged to a start. Bobby squeezed his eyes shut as they sputtered onto the highway, hugging the rough metal bar to stay upright.

  As Brooks wove in and out of traffic, leaving a few car lengths between themselves and the Buick, Bobby mulled over all the ways they could fail. He might miss completely; Romulus might duck; the Colonel or some other bystander might intercept them. Worst of all, the other diners might think Romulus had brought his act into Marley’s to promote the show. He was beginning to panic, so he tried not to think at all.

  He opened his eyes when the minibus came to a dead stop. “We’re here,” Brooks announced, killing the engine. The Buick pulled into a space two rows up; they waited until the Colonel was safely inside. Bobby peered through the enormous picture windows, looking for a glimpse of Romulus or Abigail, but saw nothing. Brooks opened the side door, pulled out the makeshift ramp, helped Bobby down. They gathered up the a
ntique double barrel shotgun, hidden in a duffel bag, and stared at the front entrance.

  “Well,” Brooks said. “Here we go.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said.

  “You ready?”

  “You bet I am.” Bobby thought for a minute. “At the first shot, get out of here, quick as you can.”

  “I said I’d—”

  Bobby cut him off. “I want you to get in the van and drive away. I’ll say I was the only one involved. Don’t argue.”

  “All right,” Brooks said. “If you’re sure.” He patted Bobby’s shoulder and slowly wheeled him toward the front doors.

  Once inside Bobby peeked over the bar and spotted Jackson Wayne, dead-center in the dining room with Romulus and Abigail, arms folded over his enormous barrel chest. The hostess was busy seating a large group, leaving their view unobstructed, but a couple of customers on their way to the restroom raised eyebrows at them. Compared to the other diners they were a bit underdressed, Bobby in his black sweatshirt and vest, Brooks in leather and frayed jeans.

  “Oh, come on,” Bobby whispered as a young man in a brown dinner jacket approached Romulus, shook his hand, and passed him a palm-sized spiral notepad, which Romulus quickly signed. He huddled behind the bar and quietly cocked the shotgun’s first hammer in the duffel bag to muffle the sound. He had never actually fired a gun, but Brooks had coached him beforehand with this simple one, so in theory he knew what he was doing.

  With Brooks close behind, Bobby zigzagged around occupied tables to avoid notice. He allowed himself momentary glances at Romulus, the Colonel, and Abigail; none looked up from their salads. When he was within five or six feet, his will gave out and his eyes fell on Abigail. She had taken off her coat, revealing a tight, long-sleeved peach top with a dipping neckline. Her hair had grown longer since that night in the theater and glistened in the restaurant’s soft light. He gazed at the gentle curves of her breasts, her elegant neck and shoulders that bounced when she laughed. He was about to look away when she raised her head and saw him.

  For a few seconds he could not move or speak. She squinted at him, then her lips parted in a wide smile. “Bobby!” She got up, and before he could back away she hugged him. “What a small world! It’s good to see you again.”

  Romulus raised his head, and Bobby found himself looking into the eyes of the man he had despised for over half his life.

  Romulus stood. “Bobby Mercer?” He smiled wide and extended his hand; Bobby was too shocked to do anything but shake it.

  “I’m sorry we missed you after the Rockford show,” Abigail said. “What are you doing out here?”

  Before he could answer two teenage boys from a nearby table approached Romulus, each carrying a bright green Marley’s napkin, asking for his autograph.

  Romulus’ smile seemed strained, as if he’d been bothered once too often. Before he signed the boys’ napkins, he glanced at Bobby. “Stick around if you’ve got a minute,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long time, and I’m not letting you get away.”

  With the attention off Bobby, Brooks walked up behind Jackson Wayne and tapped his shoulder. “Hey man, is that your Buick out there? I just backed into it.”

  “Dammit,” the Colonel said, and followed him toward the door.

  Romulus was signing the second napkin when Bobby drew the shotgun from the duffel bag and pulled a trigger.

  The recoil was far stronger than he’d expected, almost knocking him out of his wheelchair. Romulus toppled backward and hit the floor with a gratifying thud, loud enough to hear over Abigail’s high-pitched shriek. The two boys screamed and ran toward the kitchen. Other screams echoed in the dining room as people dove for cover under their tables.

  Romulus rolled onto his side, the wind knocked out of him. Bobby wheeled closer and cocked the second hammer. As Romulus staggered to his feet, tiny holes and powder burns dotting his blue dress shirt, Bobby fired another round into his left shoulder; Romulus spun once and flopped across an empty table, knocking the place settings and centerpiece to the floor.

  Bobby slipped another shell into the shotgun, intending to blast Romulus once more, right between the eyes. It would do no more damage than the first two shots, but it would be still satisfying. But Abigail grabbed his arm and tried to point the shotgun away from Romulus.

  “Bobby!” she screamed. “Stop it!”

  “Let me go!” Bobby said through bared teeth, shoving her to the floor. For an instant he pointed the gun at Abigail; she shrieked once, turned her head and shielded her eyes. This was not part of the plan; married or not, he had never imagined her putting herself in harm’s way. His finger loosened around the trigger and he tilted the gun away from her. He remained frozen until he heard a loud crash behind him. Brooks was lying under an overturned bussing cart near the exit, in a soggy mess of spilled wine, leftover French fries, and steak gristle, the Colonel marching angrily across the dining room. Before Bobby could roll away Romulus snatched the shotgun by the barrel, twisting it out of his grasp with surprising strength. Bobby turned his head just as Romulus Wayne’s fist collided with his temple, so hard he tipped over in his wheelchair.

  He lay on his side, head throbbing, wanting to vomit. Gradually he rolled onto his belly and crawled free of his overturned chair, dragging his useless legs through soggy lettuce and broken glass. He looked up at Abigail, locked in Romulus’ arms. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, he never meant her any harm, but her face was pressed into Romulus’ powder-burned chest.

  It was Romulus who stared back. Bobby expected anger, maybe even a little fear—either would have made the whole thing worthwhile. But Romulus only shook his head and went on comforting Abigail. Bobby closed his eyes amid the screams and angry shouts, trying to block it all out until the police arrived.

  He spent that night and most of the next day in the city lock-up. Though Brooks was locked up with him—having refused to run as Bobby had instructed—they did not speak. Brooks lay on the bottom bunk, rapping his knuckles against the yellow plaster wall; Bobby sat in the corner for hours without moving, staring at his sneakered feet. His temple was bruised and swollen; the pain and nausea made it difficult to move. Perhaps to torture them, the on-duty officer left the portable black-and-white on the shopping channel, Muzak tunes echoing dully through the cell block as a cadaverous silver-haired old woman modeled costume jewelry.

  He had been in jail once before, for a few hours, after a drunken game of chicken with First Avenue traffic. Though they were furious, his parents came to bail him out without comment, his father nodding his approval as the judge chided him and imposed the heavy fines. But this was real trouble. Bobby tried to call home twice, but hung up before anyone answered; he considered waiving his right to a phone call, waiting in his cell until the police decided what to do with him. Finally his mother, having heard the news on TV, drove to the station. She hadn’t any time to put on make-up, and her face was deathly-white.

  “Bobby?”

  He wished he could hide his head like a turtle. “I got nothing to say, Mom.”

  “Your father and I talked to a lawyer.” She wrapped her fingers around the bars. “He thinks he might be able to get your sentence reduced. Mitigating circumstances—you knew you couldn’t hurt him.”

  “Thanks,” Bobby said.

  “Should I ask why?”

  “No.”

  She nodded. “All right. We’ll talk again when it’s taken care of.” She hesitated, then pursed her lips tightly and let the guard escort her out.

  “Tough break, man,” Brooks said when she had gone.

  “Not a word.”

  At shift rotation, a fat officer carrying a pair of hoagies in a plastic bag sat down behind the desk. He flipped through all the channels twice, said “Fuck it,” and settled on the news.

  At first Bobby took no interest in the program. He was just drifting off when Brooks snapped him awake.

  “Hey,” Brooks said. “Better look.”

  O
n the screen, dressed in a leather blazer and tie, Romulus Wayne was surrounded by a dozen microphones. He was pale, dark circles around his eyes, and his hair stood straight up in front. “Hey,” Bobby said to the guard. “Can you turn that up a notch?” The officer leaned forward and nudged the volume slightly. The sound was muffled, but Bobby could make out a woman’s shrill voice, shouting to be heard above the others.

  —Mr. Wayne, if you really are indestructible, shouldn’t you be using your abilities for the good of society?

  —I… I don’t know, Romulus said. I guess I never thought of it that way.

  —And how many people may already have died because you ‘never thought of it that way?’

  —I don’t know. Nobody, I hope.

  —What do you have to say about the two young boys in Florida who were seriously injured trying to imitate your stunts?