Zwylliger

A brief second of realization came to her just before Paul severed her head from her shoulders.

"Wow, man, that's not cool, man," the brunette said, trying to focus on him.

"Uh huh, here, why don't you play with this?" Paul said and handed the knife to her.

He then left the apartment, walked briskly to his motel room and cleaned himself up.

The murders of the two weigh heavily on Paul Zwylliger's mind, but not heavily enough for him to turn himself in. After a restless night, Paul ate breakfast at a different greasy spoon diner, getting basically the same unfriendly service, and then boarded an airplane bound for New Orleans, Louisiana.

A five hour Greyhound bus trip followed, and Paul Zwylliger got out of the bus at the DeGarde Inn, the Greyhound Bus Terminal for DeGarde, Louisiana.

Chapter 5

"That Zwylliger boy's back, asking all kind of questions," Judge Dan Robertson said.

"Uh huh, seen him," Graham Johnson agreed.

"Really thought he'd been killed by now, little hot-head punk," Dan said, sipping his inevitable cup of coffee.

"Hell, don't say that," Graham complained. "Man, my brother's over there! Jinx them, talking like that."

"Yeah, heard from Jesse lately?" Dan asked in what he hoped was a compassionate voice.

"Yeah, get letters from him about every other week," Graham said, face tight. "Said it's a fucking mess over there; we ain't got no reason be there, ain't shit to be gained out of it."

"Yeah, fucking Nixon said he'd get our boys home in time for Christmas; shit, Christmas done come and gone, where are they?" Sheriff Herman Vidou agreed.

"But back to the Zwylliger boy," Dan said, getting to his feet to refill his coffee.

"That little n*gger you got living in the Zwylliger house? She got any sisters?" Graham asked.

"Don't know and don't call her n*gger; she don't like that word," Dan said.

"How about that girl of hers?" Graham asked.

"Delilah? Yeah, she's eighteen or nineteen," Dan shrugged. "Why? You thinking you might like a little...?"

"Hey, it's all pink on the inside, huh?" Herman snickered.

"Uh huh, and how you think Sally would like it, you playing around with a little j*ggaboo?" Dan asked.

"J*ggaboo? What? I can't call your girl there a n*gger, but you8 can call them j*ggaboos?" Graham laughed out loud.

"But getting back to the Zwylliger boy..." Dan said, taking a sip of the too-hot coffee.

"I'll take care of him," Herman promised. "Been hanging out with that retard Carl."

X.X.X

Paul shook his head at the sight of his boyhood home. Pamela had painted the door a garish maroon color. His mother would have hated the color immediately.

He bore no rancor; the woman did not kill his mother and father. The three girls that lived there, presumably sleeping in his old bedroom had nothing to do with his parents death.

Still, his mother would have taken won look at that door and screamed for Sam to march himself right down to the Pointe Coupee Hardware in Lafayette and pick up a five gallon bucket of white and make damned sure that hideous color ever came back again.

"Ever seen such an ugly color before?" Mrs. Hilda snapped, coming to stand next to the boy.

"No, ma'am can't say that I have," Paul agreed.

"Alice and Sam wasn't even cold in the ground and they was just moving on in," Mrs. Hilda went on.

"Any idea what they did with my momma's stuff?" Paul asked.

"Far as I know, they still got it all in there; did see them throw out a couple of boxes, hardly big enough hold anything in them," the woman said.

"DeGarde National Bank had the mortgage on it," Mr. Schnauder, Hilda's husband grumbled. "Told that snake Gimelli, as disgraceful they treated them He could whistle Dixie he's getting any more of my business, that's for sure."

"You eat yet?" Mrs. Hilda asked, putting a matronly hand on the boy's arm.

"No ma'am," Paul admitted.

"You come on; I got me a couple of them stuffed peppers," Mrs. Hilda said. "Ain't going to be as good as your momma's but..."

"Hilda, after eating nothing but Army food? It'll be a feast fit for a king, I promise," Mr. Schnauder said, putting a fatherly arm over the boy's shoulders. "Come on, boy, you don't eat them, I'll have to and you can just look at me and tell I don't need to be eating on them."

"Yes ma'am, thank you," Paul said and let the older couple lead him across the street.

X.X.X

Stan smirked as he zipped his pants up. The prostitute took a tissue from her purse and spit into it, then dropped the tissue out of the car window.

"Now, Mabel, don't let me catch you out there again," Stan said.

"Shit, wasn't even doing nothing," Mabel complained as she got out of the police car.

"They let that piece of shit mother fucker run around with a badge and a gun, huh?" Paul said to himself, and then burped loudly.

Mrs. Hilda's stuffed peppers were killing him; she put an obscene amount of tomato sauce on them. He suspected it wasn't really even tomato sauce; suspected Mrs. Hilda 'cheated' and used ketchup instead.

"Hey, Soldier boy," Mabel smiled.

"Hey there," Paul agreed and prepared to enter the Dead End bar.

"You ain't going to see nothing in there," Mabel said. "I can show you a whole lot more then them girls."

"Yeah, but can you pour me a beer?" Paul countered.

"Get your beer, then come and see old Mabel, huh?" the prostitute offered.

"How much for around the world?" Paul asked.

"Around the... a hundred," Mabel said. "Plus the room. Room's twenty."

Paul drank three beers, effectively drowning Mrs. Hilda's attempt of cooking, then found Mabel still standing in front of the bar.

"Already got a room at the DeGarde Inn," Paul smiled. "Eighteen a night; you can forget about me paying you twenty for your room."

He found out from Mabel that Stan liked to 'arrest' her at least once a week, usually on Thursday nights. In exchange for not taking her in, he would insist on a blow job.

"Right out front, right where you was tonight, huh?" Paul asked.

"Uh huh," Mabel grunted.

X.X.X

Alphonse Marcoloni backed the large dump truck up, and then flipped the bed, pouring the gravel out.

Again, he looked around. All day long he'd had that uneasy feeling that someone was watching him. Again, there was no one watching him.

The crew was already loading the gravel onto their wheelbarrows; others were waiting to start spreading it out. The foreman waved him on and he lowered the bed of the truck and drove away again.

The Dead End Bar served an excellent hot lunch and scantily clad women. Alphonse took his seat, ordered the plate lunch special of the day and a sweet tea. Again, he felt someone's eyes boring into his head and looked around nervously. Most of the patrons were idly watching the emaciated blonde dance to 'Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves' or were arguing with the bartender about a recent football game.

"If Joe had thrown that ball it would have been intercepted, sure as I'm sitting here! He had no one around to catch it!" one man loudly protested.

"Yeah, but to just take a sack like that? Pushed them back nine yards, way out of field goal range!" the other man responded.

Al whirled around just in time to see someone exiting the bar. He couldn't tell much, the glare of the mid-day sun blotted out the image.

X.X.X

Sam Bordelon locked the door to his office, looked around carefully, and then pulled the small vial out of his jacket pocket.

Carefully, he tapped the white powder out onto the glass top of his desk, formed it into a line with a business card a hopeful vender had left on his desk, and then snorted it.

He held a finger over his nostril and waited for the mild burning and the urge to sneeze dissipated.

"Drugs are bad for you, you of all people should know that," Paul said from behind him.

"Fuck!" Sam screamed, nerves already writhing and twisting from the cocaine.

"Hi Sammy," Paul smiled.

"Fuck man, thought you died!" Sam sputtered, reaching for his .38 snub nose.

"Nope," Paul said.

"Well, my uncle Herman will be happy to know where to find you," Sam said, still feeling around for his pistol.

"Oh, I plan on telling him 'Hi,'" Paul said. "Plan on telling all y'all mother fuckers 'hi.'"

Unable to find his pistol, Sam decided he didn't need it. He was an up and coming middle weight boxer and the owner slash manager of Sam's Gym.

He swung at Paul but Paul side-stepped the punch.

Another swing met air and Paul smiled.

Cocaine, fear and adrenaline converted into rage and Sam charged Paul. In the cramped office, there was very little room to navigate, but Paul managed to step to the side of Sam's onrush, managed to place the palm of his hand under Sam's chin and his heel behind Sam's knee. A vicious shove and Sam crashed through the thick glass top of his desk.

"Bye bye, Sammy," Paul said and toppled the remaining shards of the glass top into Sam's chest.

None of the patrons of the gym noticed Paul as he left through the rear door of the gym.

Chapter 6

Alphonse sat in the rear of his parent's car. Next to him, Joey, his younger brother, was playing with his Hot Wheels cars, spreading them out over the seat.

"Oh, but that girl sings like an angel," his mother was going on and on about Elizabeth Bernard.

"Damn shame's she's about the ugliest kid I've ever seen," his father agreed. "Momma and Daddy tied a pork chop around her neck so the dogs would play with her."

Joey bumped him with one of his cars and Alphonse swept all of the eleven year old boy's cars onto the floor of the car.

"Hey!" Joey cried and clambered down to retrieve them.

The Dump truck Smashed into the side of the automobile, tilting it onto its side, then toppled it onto its roof.

The driver ignored the screams of the people that were leaving St. Richard's parking lot; just pushed the crushed automobile out of its way and drove away.

X.X.X

"What a fucking mess; kid's only one survived," Herman sighed as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Yeah, pinned down underneath the seat like that," Dan agreed.

"Any of y'all look at where this happened?" Stan asked, looking at the grisly photographs on Sheriff Herman Vidou's desk.

"Yeah, in front of the church," Herman shrugged.

"Uh huh, right where the Zwylligers got hit," Stan said.

"Exactly where they got..." Dan murmured, looking at the photographs again.

"I mean, I believe in coincidences just like anyone else, but..." Stan said.

"And Al had been the one driving that..." Herman mused, and then clammed up when Judge Dan Robertson shot him a warning look.

"I do believe I need to have me a little talk with Mr. Paul Zwylliger," Herman said, putting the cup of coffee down.

"You ain't seen him around, huh?" Dan asked Stan.

"No, no, been keeping my eyes peeled," Stan said.

"How's your sister holding up?" Dan asked Herman.

"Still pretty upset about her boy's accident there, Herman grunted.

"Wonder if it really was an accident," Stan mused aloud.

"Had to be," Herman sneered. "No one else in the room with him; all wired up on coke, what else could it be?"

Herman rapped his knuckles on his heavy wooden desk.

"Give me a good old solid American wooden desk; not one of them fancy ass Eyetalian jobbies," Herman said. "Any idea what he paid for that glass thing? And all it was was four legs and a piece of glass."

"Swedish," Dan said.

"Huh?" Herman asked.

"The desk was Swedish, not Italian," Dan said.

"Hey, Officer Monroe, you out on patrol?" Herman asked, nudging the young man.

Herman hated when anyone knew something he didn't, hated to be corrected, especially hated being corrected in front of a subordinate.

X.X.X

Paul paid for his stay at the DeGarde Inn and left. He didn't have a destination in mind but he did know that sooner or later, Sheriff Herman Vidou was going to put two and two together. He had no home; the bank had seized his parents' home and sold it. He had no living relatives. Paul didn't want to be at the DeGarde Inn when Herman finally figured out to look for him there.

Mr. Carl, the retarded handyman had offered Paul the use of his couch, but Paul didn't want the Sheriff causing any trouble for the gentle man.

Marlon Huvall, his former boss did have a cot in a back room of the gas station. So Paul decided to pay the old man a visit.

"Vidou been by looking for you," Marlon greeted the young man.

"Oh yeah?" Paul asked.

"Yeah, said some crap about you doing drugs; knows I got a thing about that," Marlon said and pointed to the sixty four Ford Fairlane he was working on.

"Hose is busted," Paul commented, looking at the engine.

"Know that, damn, boy I can see," Marlon lied. "What you going to do about it?"

"Give me the wrench," Paul said.

"Seriously," Marlon said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Stay out of sight, huh? Cot in the back, okay?"

"Still got that boat?" Paul asked, realizing that the garage, one of his old hangouts, was not a secure location.

Sooner or later, Sheriff Vidou would have to double back around, asking questions again.

And, he could tell that Marlon would expect him to work and work twice as hard as the people he was paying to work for him.

"Yeah, just finished tuning the inboard," Marlon said and nodded his approval as Paul managed to change out the hose and not get any grease on himself, or the exterior of the automobile. "Mosquitoes eat you alive out there, though."

"What they make spray for," Paul said, nodding to the rack of bug repellant the gas station sold.

"Okay, boy, you make a mess you clean it up; no leaving the boat looking like a n*gger been on it, huh?" Marlon said.

X.X.X

Graham Johnson studied the photographs of the Marcoloni accident and came to the same conclusion that Stan had. He also studied the photographs of the accident at Sam's gymnasium.

"Hey Dan," he said into the telephone. "Need you to put out a warrant for Paul Zwylliger."

He listened for a moment, shaking his head, as if Dan could see him.

"Fuck, what we need to keep a lid on this for?" he finally interrupted. "Herman's already on it; if we could get everybody looking for him..."

"Trial?" he laughed. "What trial?""

"Oh, yeah, forgot about that," Graham agreed when Judge Dan Robertson reminded him that there was already an inquiry lodged with the State Attorney's office and a second inquiry would possibly raise red flags.

"Why I'm a judge and you're just an ass-kissing D.A.," Dan muttered when he hung up the telephone.

Chapter 7

The slap, slap, slap of the water on the side of the boat woke Paul out of a fitful sleep.

He was back in the cage, barely able to keep his head above the rising river.

He could hear the insects buzzing around him.

He could smell the rotted stench of the river, could smell the fires of the village as they prepared their evening meals.

He could feel the cords around his wrists, cutting into his tender flesh.

A possum scurried away as it heard the man's agonized screams. An alligator grunted and slipped into the brackish waters.

Paul finally woke up from the nightmare, but was unable to get back to sleep.

X.X.X

Mabel sighed and got out of the patrol car.

"You know, wish you'd give lessons to my wife," Stan chuckled. "Bitch wouldn't know what end of my dick to put in her mouth."

"Uh huh," the prostitute groused and lighted a cigarette.

Stan jerked slightly when there was a rapping on his cruiser's window. Looking up, he could not see the face of the man; a streetlight was directly behind the figure. He rolled down the window, glaring up at the dark figure.

"Hey Stan, still afraid of snakes?" Paul asked and dropped two water moccasins and a rattlesnake into his lap.

"Hi girl, how's it going?" Paul asked and sauntered into the Dead End bar.

Mabel stood, frozen and watched the screaming man flailing wildly at the three snakes. The three snakes did what comes naturally to them when something or someone flails at them; they bit.

X.X.X

Paul smiled as he walked out of the bar; there were two more police cars parked on the street. One of the Deputies had Stan Monroe on the ground and was trying to comfort him as the man lay dying.

"Hey!" Herman called out to the man he spotted walking out of the bar.

"Yes?" Paul smiled.

Herman's eyes got large as his quarry stood right in front of him. Because of Deputy Charles Villeaux's presence, he could not do anything, though.

"You know anything about this?" Herman asked, indicating Stan.

"No, you?" Paul asked.

"Don't get smart with me, boy," Herman growled.

"You asked a question, I answered, and now I'm going back to St. Richard's. Father Benny's letting me stay in the shed behind the school," Paul snapped and walked briskly away.

"I didn't tell them nothing," Mabel whispered as Paul walked past her.

"Thanks," Paul smiled.

"Hey, um, you still got that room at the..." Mabel asked.

"No, still got that room for twenty?" Paul asked.

He didn't want sex; he wanted sleep. If Mabel offered sex, Paul wouldn't refuse it, though. She wasn't a beauty, but she wasn't too hard on the eyes.

"No, got a room for one hundred and twenty; I remember, you like it around the world," Mable smiled tightly.

"Okay," Paul smiled.

X.X.X

It was Good Friday so St. Richard's was closed.

Sheriff Herman got out of the car and ambled to the shed. It stood behind the cafeteria of the school, door facing the back door of the school structure.

He was out of his jurisdiction, but Herman wasn't worried about the legalities of his presence; he wasn't there on legal business.

The door to the metal shed was slightly ajar as he approached it and he put his hand on the butt of his service revolver.

He nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe and quickly peered in then stepped out of the open doorway again.

There was no one visible in the dark shed, just various tools and gasoline cans and propane tanks visible. There was also a fairly new lawn tractor.

Herman stepped into the structure, looking around for any signs that someone had been sleeping there. There were no signs that anyone had been in the shed recently.

He heard hissing and tried to locate the source of the sound.

Suddenly the door slammed shut and Herman heard the unmistakable sound of the outside lock being snapped shut.

"Open this door right now," he ordered.

Silence.

He banged on the door with his fist.

"Damn it, open this door, boy; this ain't no fucking game," he bellowed.

There was no room to take a run at the door but he did try to force it open with his shoulder. The door did not budge.

"God damn piss ant..." Herman thundered, pulling his service revolver out.

He took aim of where the letch for the lock was.

Paul laughed when the shed exploded in a ball of flame, hurling sheets of Tim upward and outward.

"Fuck, might have wanted to turn off them propane tanks first, dumb ass," Paul laughed and walked away.

Chapter 8

He could hear the 'whump' as the bombs struck the earth.

He could hear the screams of the dying. He could smell the stench of death all around him.

Paul sat up, wide-eyed.

In the distance, he heard an owl's scream and a reply from another owl.

Water slapped against the side of the boat. The boat rocked gently but it was not soothing to the man as he tried to get back to sleep.

X.X.X

Dan Roberts sat, staring at the glass of whiskey. His wife ignored him; Ethel was very good at ignoring him.

Ethel laughed at something the television show blared and Dan looked at her.

She was a stunning beauty, standing six feet tall, with white blonde hair and ice blue eyes. She still had the physique of an Olympic swimmer, which is what she had been before defecting to the United States.

At the 1964 Olympic Games, Ethel Sarnokova had stumbled when the starter gun was fired. That half stumble prevented her from getting a good push-off and she lost, coming in fifth place.