The Halcyon Times & Rural Avenger
a novel by John Boston chapter one On Cannibalism & The Media "I guess one can chalk it up to simple revenge. You know. Dad dying. Boilerplate evil mother and a string of drunken boyfriends pounding on you. For a reward, they send you off for tests and bingo. You score 29 out of a possible 28 for intelligence and deviant behavior. I'm not looking for sympathy, mind you, but whom are we kidding? It all boils down to silly self-indulgence." Cooper Wayne Wilson had a contagious smile and boyish enthusiasm. He looked like an athletic Ron Howard, only with an angel's head of thick blond hair. "The thing is, I just don't like Victor Kray. It's wrong. It's small of me. I know I should be bigger than that." Wilson shook his head. "An editorial once called Victor 'the dasypygal king of a mutant race of latte-slurping yuppies.' Isn't that a hoot? Me, a writer, I had to look that up - dasypygal. Isn't it nice to live in a world where you can accuse a billionaire of having hairy buttocks?" Wilson sighed. "I hate to drop you off, Mervin, but tomorrow is the ribbon cutting for Encinos de los Gatos and I'm going to be on 'Nightline.' Well. It's not any big deal. I'm just a panelist. Still. So many mixed feelings." His passenger was quiet. "There's the 15-seconds of fame aspect but, if they call on me, what am I supposed to say? 'Thanks, Mr. Kray. Who, in their right mind, names a housing project the size of New Jersey Oaks of the Cats?'" Wilson's elbow hung out the window and he sighed. "Truly-really, Mervin. You should see this. You just want to reach your arms out and hug it all." The drive to Halcyon always calmed Wilson. It was a steady climb, back from the unknown to the known, two hours or so northeast of Bakersfield. Freeways narrowed to highways. Highways shrunk to back roads. Wilson's restored avocado green Volkswagen van rolled along a stretch of aging patchwork asphalt. Miles of pasture, grazing cattle and majestic oak groves lined the narrow county road. Finally, Wilson felt he had permission to breathe. Home. "You sure have been quiet back there, Mervin. Why..." He glanced into the rear view mirror and smiled. His shoulders raised in sheepish apology. "Sorry," he whispered. "Forgot." Wilson counted things. Waiting were the 1,834 weathered wood posts leaning on both sides of the road, laced together by blackberry brambles and rusting barbed wire. Sometimes there were surprises. A decade earlier and along this same stretch, when he was returning home sick and disgusted after No. 246, Wilson had spotted a golden eagle. Wings spread, it bounced along with a live rattlesnake in its beak. The reptile was so heavy the muscular predator couldn't take off. Ravens dive-bombed the hapless bird of prey, so he couldn't eat his meal in peace. No rest for the wicked. The road dipped and rose. CalTrans maintained it more for winter driving and the coarseness of the asphalt made insistent molar-grinding sounds that Wilson found oddly soothing. Around a bend and waves of air flooded the van with freshness. "Whoa!" Wilson hit the brakes as five deer sprinted boldly in front of his VW. "Mervin!" he whispered. "Wake up and check this out!" He quickly killed the engine and marveled. The deer grazed on the grassy shoulder. The five regarded him, then effortlessly hurdled the fence, high-stepping in a haughty gait toward wilderness. Take me with you, Wilson thought. He didn't want to start the van and spoil the quiet. With not much horsepower, the bus obediently meandered in and out of the sunlight through tunnels and curves. A few miles further, the rustic signs he used to love began. WELCOME!
YOU ARE ENTERING
THE PACO VASSOS
NATIONAL PARK AND
WILDERNESS AREA in smaller type below: HOME OF THE EMPEROR - THE WORLD'S
ALLEGED OLDEST OAK TREE
& BIG STINKY NATIONAL MONUMENT. Next to the aged federal preserve greeting, a garish billboard announced the arrival of the impending housing übertract. SOON TO BE THE SITE OF
ENCINOS DE LOS GATOS.
THE LARGEST PLANNED URBAN DEVELOPMENT IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD! VICTOR KRAY, BUILDER.
GROUND BREAKING CEREMONIES START... The word, "TOMORROW!" was hastily tacked on the end, along with the project's slogan: PEOPLE SERVING NATURE.
NATURE SERVING PEOPLE. "How does cutting down the oldest and largest oak tree serve nature, answer me that, Mervin." Wilson's stomach tightened and he was filled with the familiar and profound loss. "Truth be known, I'm more at home in the woods than around people," he said softly more to himself than to his quiet passenger. "You ever wish everybody would just - go away?" Mervin the Shaved Head Guy had no reply. While a full day remained until the nationally televised ribbon cutting, an advanced circus was setting up at the old park's entrance. As he drove past the bulldozers, parked cars and balloons, Wilson's eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. Lots of things tried to distract him. God. Pleas for mercy. The possibility of being caught. But, that sign, "Encinos de los Gatos," wiggled through his defenses, past radar, into bone, irritating him. "I hear Kray's wife came up with it and everyone is so terrified of Kray no one said, 'Hey, you bug-eyed non-Spanish-speaking knucklehead. Why don't you just call it 'Monkeys of the Bananas?'" Wilson paused. "I wonder how you say, 'Monkeys of the Bananas' in Spanish?" Changas de los Platanas. "You going to sleep all day or you want to get something to eat?" Wilson thought he heard wiggling, but there was no answer. The town of Halcyon melted into view. Never wanting to draw suspicion, Wilson braked to that perfect speed below the posted limit. He drove with the window open. All the familiar sights and smells of his boyhood home were intact. "I am so happy," Wilson said. Serial killers do have to live somewhere. The Los Doughnuts Bakery was in the same spot from three weeks earlier. Wilson eased his vintage minivan to the curb. That he had a doting family waiting for him on the small farm he was peripherally aware. Wife. Three daughters. Two grandmothers. Five aunts, two sisters-in-law and two grandaunts. Fifteen women. One house. Wilson was more interested in touching the smooth, sterile, white aluminum patio table outside the bakery, of tasting sugar and feeling the vapors of coffee rise heavenward than he was in going home. He turned toward the back seat and addressed the body stuffed inside a thick blue tarp and duct tape like a human burrito. Mervin was in Wilson's custom icebox, hidden under the false floor. "Mervin. Darn you - you. You slugged me," Wilson gently scolded, rubbing his nose. "After I asked you - no. PLEADED with you not to. Now, I am sad. Possibly mad. I've got to dump your darn dead body and worse, I find myself without a moral compass." Wilson had driven all night. He had no idea The Halcyon Times & Rural Avenger had printed his letter to the editor in that very day's paper. Two sheriff's deputies would remind him. • • • • • • • • • The morning was warm in the Sierras. Wilson laid out his neat picnic of coffee, two maple cake doughnuts, a little pitcher of cream and a worn diary with no entries dating back a decade. While Wilson devoured psychology books and attended symposiums for mental health, there were no Wednesday night Serial Killers Anonymous programs nor any on the other six days of the week although sometimes, Wilson would sit outside the window of a self-help meeting, crying and taking notes in the bushes. Up until his trip to Denver two days ago, he had gone 10 years without murdering anyone. In dreams and waking hours, apparitions of his victims visited. Wilson would summon a genuine smile and offer a sincere: "Sorry." Both ghost and killer knew that didn't quite cut it. Wilson never actually wrote in his diary. He would hold pen above paper, not letting it touch. There were days when he would vent, feverishly covering pages with pretend inscription. He memorized every invisible entry. In recent years, as recollections of carnage dimmed, his life was simpler and Wilson would compose in a language only he could see: "I Will Not Kill Anyone Today." For days drifting into the thousands, it was his mantra. This morning, at the doughnut shop, he invisibly re-printed his daily reminder, followed by a gentle, cursive: "Whoops!" Posture perfect, Wilson paused in his deliberate chewing of pastry to nod and wave at neighbors. A familiar face asked: "Haven't seen ya, Coop. So. Whereya been!?" Wilson tilted his head. He had such a charming smile. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you." The greeter laughed. Wilson laughed. No. Truly. I would. The Halcyon Valley resident was a student of murder. While most psychotic killers filled the mold of being loners, Wilson was friendly, even enthusiastic. He worked hard at not letting compartments collide and besides. These little snippets of conversation were such a blessed relief from the internal screaming that hurt his ears and heart. Blood. Bulging eyes. Memories of someone begging for their life. Someone asking for that Annoying One Last Request. Sometimes, Wilson would stare into that other dimension, sigh and answer the spirits. "Why does it have to always be about you?" Frightened, they would fly away. Ten years. Despite a hunger that would make most people evaporate, through will and an occasional outreach call to his brother, Wilson hadn't bothered a soul. Up until Mervin Parrish, The Shaved Head Guy. "Ohhh, this is such a good..." Wilson didn't get a chance to say, "donut." He heard banging. His Volkswagen was parked a few feet away. There was a sound, as if his traveling companion, No. 247, was weakly kicking a side panel from inside. As a bowling score, 247 is varsity. It's nearly unattainable as an IQ and a positively unholy round for 72 holes of golf. There had never been a serial killer with a higher body count (Wilson felt Henry David Lucas confessed total of 325 was mularky). Long ago, Wilson would have been perfectly happy to stop at 246. Of all his victims, he found Mervin the Shaved Head Guy, the most willful, the most reprehensible and certainly the most deserving to float from this parenthesis of existence in slow, horrific fashion. "Wilson! Sit right there and don't move," barked one of the deputies. Wilson multi-tasked. While pretending to read the paper he scanned for the source of that banging. He also measured the footsteps in the gravel of the two lawmen walking towards him. Shaved Head is not quite dead, Wilson thought. He smiled. Coldly. An odd war cry and unintentional rhyme. It almost sounded like a high school cheer and deep in his mind, he heard the yangy chant of song queens: Shaved Head. Not Quite Dead. Shaved Head. Not Quite Dead. Yaaaaaaaay - TEAM! Drawn by the banging sound, the deputies peered into Wilson's van. Nooo. Tony. Ernie. One a friend. One a neighbor. Hate to have to kill you. Would though. Truly. "We're going to need to question you, Wilson," said the older one, Ernie. Ten years ago, Wilson had an intervention. No bolt had parted the heavens. His brother sat on his chest, shook him and admonished: "Cooper. Look at me. Focus. Dial it down a notch. A big notch. No. Better. Today, you quit and walk away. Now. And forever. Say 'amen.'" Fearing all of heaven would collapse on him, Wilson could not mouth the close of all prayers. But, short of that, he stopped killing people and that was something. Daily, Wilson ached, more than the most-afflicted alcoholic or tormented drug addict. Months and years brought the same promise: bursts of light radiating off a clerk in a video store, pastor, hitchhiker or old friends. They begged Wilson to meld them into what he called T.B.M. - The Beautiful Mystery. Every day, he'd walk by people, estimating how many Coleman ice chests or tripled-up leaf bags (broken bones can cut through single plastic) it would take to store their body parts or how he'd separate someone from the herd without notice. The urges were there. Wilson no longer acted on them. A rarity, Wilson was a successful freelance writer and noted travel author. Two days ago - two lousy days ago - he was at the Denver Marriott, researching a book on a history of mountain biking and writing a magazine piece on the 5-star hotel at Cherry Creek. Waking in his hotel room, something was not wrong, but - different. He physically frisked himself. Gone. It was gone. The hunger. The torment. The guilt. Something had washed over him. Jubilant, he called his brother and asked: Could it be possible? Am I forgiven? "Well Coopie-poopie. Let's not get carried away," his sibling cautioned. That same morning, a happy Cooper Wayne Wilson bumped into Mervin, The Shaved Head Guy. Actually, Mervin bumped into him, in a mall parking lot in the Rocky Mountain State. Mervin was backing into a cramped spot in his immensely wide 4-by-4 truck when he scraped his mirror against Wilson's box-like VW. Shaved Head vaulted out, so enraged his words flew out as spittle. Six small steps - Wilson counted. The man slammed his door into Wilson's passive little green minivan over and over. The noise hurt Wilson's ears. And excited him like a bad old habit. No. Not the Light. Tiny explosions of energy emanated from Shaved Head, calling out in a unique language only Wilson understood: I am liquid inside. I am for you. The man was thick, 5-11, around 240 pounds, mostly blue-collar muscle. Shaved Head had a Fu-Manchu moustache and Marine Corps tattoos, even though he had never served in the armed forces. Though it wasn't his fault, Wilson apologized. He offered to write him a check. Shaved Head wouldn't take it. He shouted and flailed with thick arms. Wilson stood passively, allowing himself to be pushed. Muscle. Meat. Whatever. A small crowd gathered. Wilson stared with curiosity at the man's family, sitting rigidly in the ridiculously jacked-up 4-door pickup. They had the gaunt look of the abused. "I'm going to kick your ass, Harpo." Shaved Head shoved Wilson again and asked: "Mister, why are you smiling at me like that - you got some kinda mental problem?" Using just an extension cord, I once strangled a 270-pound man who competed in those no rules caged ultimate fighting matches on cable all because I didn't like the way he smelled. "Mental problem? I suppose." Wilson looked away. "I try to please people. Mostly women. It makes me resentful." He shrugged. "That's just sort of the tip of the iceberg though." Wilson again apologized and tried to pay the man. Shaved Head shoved Wilson again. The serial killer excused himself and walked to the mall. Shaved Head followed. Past See's. Past Staples. Past Sear's. Past a designer Western store where Wilson bought gifts for his daughters. And back outside again. Wilson turned. "Again, I'm so sorry we got off to a wrong start. Gosh please believe me. I'm the last person on the planet you want to stalk." He was dizzy. He smiled. Alcohol, junk food, murder - that first swallow after falling off the wagon always tastes best. It was the attack of the enraged, the out-of-control. Wilson saw it coming. He could have ducked the arcing fist easily. More out of curiosity, he let the blow land. Not fully. Wilson was not a masochist. He timed his backward tilt perfectly, so the punch had maybe 10 percent of its force. It grazed his nose. The curious shoppers looked on, some amused, some horrified as the man who had killed over 200 people in 33 states sat on his butt, on the damp asphalt, legs angled out and blood dripping from his nostrils. Wilson laughed and shook his head. Feeling victorious, Shaved Head followed by trying to kick him in the ribs but several shoppers had jumped in to push him away. Cursing, threatening, Shaved Head broke off Wilson's passenger side mirror, threw it at Wilson, got in his truck and drove off, nearly running over the retired serial killer. Wilson was still sitting on the ground, his head jerking each time he mouthed the words: "I Will Not Kill Anyone Today. I Will Not Kill Anyone Today. I Will Not Kill Anyone Today." Another voice added: Unless They Are Really, Really, Truly, Really, Really, Really, Really, REALLY In Compelling Fashion Asking For It. Then, he memorized the license plate as the big, muddy white Dodge truck screeched out of the shopping center parking lot. Good Samaritans helped Wilson get to his feet and someone offered the rhetorical question: "What gets into people these days?" Wilson had the correct answer: "Oh. You know. The devil." That night, Wilson did what he did best. He visited. He visited Mr. Shaved Head, Mrs. Shaved Head and the three little Shaved Head children. He bound them in their living room. He covered their eyes, mouths and ears. For Shaved Head, Wilson taped closed only the man's mouth. Wilson wanted the bully to see and hear him. The house was dark. Alone with the bound family, Wilson became entranced with a Thomas Kincaid knock-off on the living room wall. Wilson hummed, using his ax as an imaginary paintbrush, making small strokes in the air an inch away from the canvas. "What is the fascination with Thomas Kincaid?" Wilson asked. He started to say it aloud. Always careful lest he leave a clue, he mumbled to himself: "I read an editorial about him once in my town newspaper. They called him '...the dollhouse Walter Keene of the 21st century.'" In a louder voice, he asked: "Why do you like him - this artist?" Shaved Head cast an accusatory glance toward his blindfolded wife, as if her choice in faux suburbia at the doorstep of wilderness artwork were responsible for this. Wilson could hear threats and boasts from behind the duct tape. Wilson looked at the bruises on the underweight wife, the matching ones on her daughters. He guessed they didn't get them from falling off swings. It was an unpleasant home, Wal-Mart tacky, claustrophobic for Wilson, who liked the great outdoors. Wilson wore surgical gloves and a black cotton ski mask he had knitted himself. Wool itched. Silk was too soothing. He pulled a kitchen chair close to the man. He turned the chair backwards and straddled it. Shaved Head was rocking back and forth violently. Wilson placed the highly sharpened stainless steel ax under his own neck, feeling the blade's welcome cold. He fell into a deep sleep. It lasted nearly a minute. He woke with an enthusiastic observation. "Mervin. You and me. We're not people persons, are we?" Shaved Head was screaming under the tape in ego and anger. Wilson placed the tip of the ax against the man's knee and gently admonished, "Talk-talk-talk. Shoosh-shoosh-shoosh..." The calm silenced Mervin. Wilson stood. He walked over to the Thomas Kincaid wannabe's portrait of cozy houses set next to a mountain meadow and shook his head in disappointed criticism. It reminded him of the posters for Encinos de los Gatos. The latex-gloved hands of the serial killer then turned the painting so it faced the wall. He knelt next to Shaved Head's wife, placing his head on the woman's damp, concave chest. He listened to her heart. Wilson slowly moved his head up her body, his face close to her ear. He pulled out her Kleenex earplug and quietly whispered: "May I ask you something?" She trembled and nodded. "You sure you don't mind?" The woman shook her head, no. "Is it possible to change?" he asked. "I'm not talking stages of improvement. I mean a complete metamorphosis. A grabbing of the brass ring." The question startled the blindfolded woman, pulled her out of her terror for a moment as if from behind the mask she were seeing some beautiful vista for the first time. "So do you think it's possible to change?" She nodded, thoughtfully. Yes. She did. • • • • • • • • • "What IS that pounding?" asked the Halcyon deputy. He wiggled a leg, adjusting skin sticking in his tall leather boot. "Look at this dent," noted the other patrolman. "Holy criminy, Coop. Look at your poor van. What happened to your side view mirror? "Drag racing your girlfriend state police in Nevada," said Wilson. He smiled. Cupping their hands over their eyes as they peered into his van, the cops laughed. In Cooper's eyes, they glowed. Numbers 248 and 249 appeared cleanly stenciled on the side of their car. In red. One of Wilson's voices announced: I am back. And you are dead. Another voice tried explaining: I didn't mean to fall off the wagon. I am so sorry and if I could change places with the body in the van, I truly would. Still another voice, this one from a child, begged: Don't hurt them. Please. I like them both. We play softball together and I have so much fun. You never let me have fun. Wilson's thigh muscles tightened for the pounce. He was counting how many steps to reach delicate vertebrae when the first officer said, "Uh-oh. Will you look at this..." A blue Honda minivan sat next to Wilson's Volkswagen. Inside, an oversized yellow Labrador retriever puppy climbed to the front shaded window, frantically trying to stick his nose and tongue out the crack, all the while beating the inside of the door and seat with an overactive tail. "Look what's making the noise," said Ernie. "Boo-boo puppy." "They are simply the cutest," said Wilson, mimicking the deputy's tone. A few seconds later, the van's owner returned. She was a local, and the two police playfully admonished her about leaving a puppy in the car. Holding a pink box of pastry, she pointed to her watch, laughed and said: "I know. I know, Tony. I called ahead. I only ran in and out, 18 seconds!" In small town politeness, they stopped traffic to let her back out. The Los Doughnuts was a full-service bakery and the owners charged two prices for their coffee: $2.95 for tourists and the secret 75 cents for locals. The officers returned with the surprisingly good roadside roast, its secret ingredient the water from the town's artesian wells and real dairy cream from an actual cow. With pomp, they carried out an extra bear claw, especially generous with maple frosting, to share with Wilson. "Cooper. You're a celebrity!" said Tony. He was in his early 20s and was in the early stages of a rock-a-billy haircut. "Well. More of a celebrity," corrected Ernie. "Mr. Famous Writer. Now you made the big time. They printed your Letter To The Editor!" "Really?" beamed Wilson. His voice cracked. Under the shade of a black cottonwood the three men studiously perused various sections of their hometown newspaper, losing themselves for a lazy half-hour. They read of new neighbors being born and dying, petty larcenies, 2-for-1 sales and an overabundance of pithy, 'aw shucks' local columnists trying to be Mark Twain and failing miserably. Wilson felt a little uncomfortable, not so much sitting shoulder to shoulder with two armed deputies but rather with them making him read his letter out loud three times. Tony noted Wilson had a soothing voice. Ernie added: "It's a gift." Wilson let out a deep sigh. A deputy asked: "What's wrong?" and Wilson smiled. Nothing. We all get to live another day. "I'm just glad to be back home. That's all," said Wilson. His letter carried a small headline: PROUD TO BE A NIMBY NIMBY. Not In My Back Yard. Wilson had library shelves filled with his books and articles. Though he adored The Halcyon Times & Rural Avenger and read it cover to cover three times a week, he had never written a Letter To The Editor. He never felt worthy to have his work next to the editor's. Mostly though, Wilson didn't want to uncork the demons. But his feelings about the Encinos de los Gatos project had been bottling up. Dear Sirs and Madams of the Editorial Board: There have been many heinous black marks on this nation's history but perhaps none so galling and reprehensible as the complete selling out of this community by all levels of government, from federal to local representatives. How Victor Kray and his special interests can get away with trading cash and some worthless desert land in Nevada for our very own American national park simply mystifies me. That we can allow such beauty as The Paco Vassos National Park & Wilderness Area to be turned into essentially a very large eyesore condo project is an abomination. We have sold our cherished heritage for 30 pieces of Chicken McNuggets and six Costcos and it doesn't seem to matter which party we vote in because they all seem to be on the take. And did the Kray Corporation have to rub it in our faces with this ridiculous 'Encinos de los Gatos' handle for his project? It is insulting. I agree with this paper's policy - that to be anything BUT a NIMBY (a disciple of Not In My Back Yard) is insanity. Very truly yours,
Cooper Wayne Wilson
Lifetime Halcyon Resident
& fervent Times/Avenger Subscriber "Nice. But it just hit me. Something's wrong, Coop," said Ernie. Wilson's eyes narrowed. "The signature," said Tony, pointing. "What?" "You need to cut loose sometimes." A time-honored tradition - almost a requirement - was for Halcyon Times letter writers to invent sophomoric literary identities, like Moe Gnay or Sarah Tonin. "I'm Lew Goubrious," said Ernie. "Lew - Goubrious. Get it?" "Yes," said Wilson. "Lugubrious. Exceptionally mournful. Most appropriate for these trying times." "I don't write," said Tony. "But if I did, I thought about it. I'd be Austin Tachious or Holly Peño." Wilson paid no attention to civil servant's dialogue. Who could I be? Mort L. Reeper? Wilson made a small face. Nah. Too obvious. The deputies jostled the serial killer playfully and said good-bye. Alone, Wilson looked at his letter for the tenth time. Then, he glanced across the page. A headline grabbed his attention: CALLING ALL THE FINE LOCAL CANNIBALS Next to his correspondence was the morning's editorial. Wilson quickly read it. His eyes scanned to the top to read it again. Palms sweating, the text seemed to be physically pulling him into the paper. He realized he had been reading out loud and a retired couple the next table over was staring at him. Wilson smiled and apologized. "Sorry. I was just thinking and self-chastising. I need to get more involved in my community." The couple smiled approvingly. Wilson mumbled "Truman, Truman, Truman," while he circled passages from the opinion piece in red. Hurriedly, he cradled the pink boxes of pastry and headed toward his family's 320-acre spread on the outskirts of Halcyon. He drove through the sequoia groves, past lakes and meadows and thought how beautiful it would be just to melt into them. He thought how quickly they would be gone with this new planned city. Or would they? Wilson affectionately patted the headline on the seat next to him. "Mer-vin. Oh Mr. Shaved Head -Fellow. Knock-knock. Who's there? Are you still with us? Yes? No? Barely so? Twelve hundred miles and you haven't answered my question yet," said Wilson. "Is it possible to change?" Wilson turned onto the dirt road that led to his tidy gentleman's farm nestled in the foothills. He inhaled an enormous amount of air, summoning the resources to be with all those women. "I think it is possible to change, Merv," Wilson addressed the cold body. "But, sadly, in your case, your timing patently sucks. • • • • • • • • • He helped clean dinner's dishes and put his family to bed. When they were asleep, Wilson drove the van and body to the higher altitudes of the former Paco Vassos National Park. He cruised, searching for potential witnesses. No parked lovers. No overnight campers, transients or patrol cars. Almost effortlessly Wilson hauled the large man's cold corpse and lugged it over his shoulder up the well-worn pathway to The Big Stinky National Monument. The Big Stinky was an ancient volcanic vent 10-feet across but estimated to be more than three miles deep. The Forest Service had built a stone wall four feet high encircling the pit. The Big Stinky hadn't erupted in centuries, but occasionally belched out the rotten egg smell of sulfur. Unwanted mattresses, good luck pennies, trash and many of Wilson's victims and the victims of the editorial board of The Halcyon Times & Rural Avenger rested at the bottom. Wilson pried one of the loose wooden guardrails and balanced The Shaved Head Guy on the rocky ledge. "You are a most reprehensible fellow and quite the conundrum," said Wilson. "How do I count you - Number 247 or just an asterisk?" This was a first for Wilson. He had not bashed in Parrish's head, plucked off appendages and added them to his collection or administered several thousand paper cuts, an old Chinese torture that had caught his attention years earlier on a History Channel special. Wilson hadn't planned to transport a dead body wrapped in blue plastic for 1,200 miles. He was somewhat surprised his refrigerator still worked. Two days earlier, Wilson had written invisibly in his diary: "I will not kill anyone today" but that didn't mean he couldn't just scare the crap out of some troglodyte who had punched him in the nose and dented his meticulously-kept VW van. Wilson had drugged the wife beater. He had tied him up, gagged and blindfolded him. It was his intention to drive a half-continent away, pull off the road in some desolate spot and let Mervin go with cash and stern walking orders about carrying around all that anger. After all. If Wilson could at least manage his multi-colored urges, so could Mervin. In his mind, Wilson had worked it all out. He would remind Mervin that "It's nice to be important but it's more important to be nice" and if he couldn't actually feel nice, he could assume the virtue, and, while he was at it, to not even think about calling the authorities less worse things call upon him. No good deed goes unpunished. A few hours into the semi-kidnapping, The Shaved Head Guy awoke in the back of the van. He struggled, panicked when Wilson tried to calm him and died of a heart attack in Wilson's arms. Sourly, Wilson noted: "Dumb darn luck." Wilson didn't like to swear. During a late afternoon thunderstorm, somewhere in the middle of the Utah badlands, Wilson sat and asked questions normal people don't ask themselves. Like: "A heart attack - should that be included in the body count?" Wilson steadied the body against the banister of The Big Stinky and pulled out a copy of the paper. The Times/Avenger opinion piece carried a large headline normally reserved for larger news items, like "Asteroids Level Wyoming." Wilson held the paper up to the drooping body, then read: CALLING ALL THE FINE LOCAL CANNIBALS It was an editorial about how Morris Poontanjian, Halcyon's annoying butterball of a mayor, was about to be indicted for bribery. The real estate billionaire Kray generously granted Poontanjian's request for tribute: 20 snow tires for his four cars -including spares - plus a $2,500 campaign contribution in exchange for his vote overturning a century-old zoning ordinance. The Times/Avenger editorial was pretty much against such behavior. For Wilson, the type calling for flesh-eating humans wasn't a headline. It was a help-wanted ad. Hardened by rigor mortis, Parrish's cold body didn't bother him. Wilson assimilated information differently than most. Holding a pen light on the eclectic tri-weekly, Wilson read aloud. The op/ed piece suggested that as fitting punishment, the bribe-taking Poontanjian (D): "should be, without ceremony, sandpapered,
lightly salted and fed to cannibals." It was meant to be a metaphor but we each live in our own perceptual universe. A breeze, warm and gentle, blew across the mountain. Wilson's head tilted full back as he looked up at the sky filled with stars. "For years, I face an hourly dilemma," Wilson said, corpse leaning against his shoulder. "I'm a killer and it's not right to kill. It struck me back at the bakery that the issue is not so much about killing, but, rather, that some people are so despicable, they deserve killing. Premise accepted, one must ask - 'Who then?'" Wilson smiled. Raising an index finger, he placed it against Mervin Parrish's forehead and pushed. "You then," said Wilson. The beam from his tiny flashlight followed Shaved Head's body as it bounced against the sides and plummeted. "Sorry," said Wilson, pursing his lips. Soon the corpse was gone from sight. "Sort of." Several seconds after that, the mortal remains of Mervin Parrish would be buried three miles deeper than the traditional six feet. Wilson brushed off his hands on his jeans and thought of his disgraced mayor and his hometown newspaper's call for cannibals. Literally. Metaphorically. Life is about persuasion. Though a grown man, Wilson's voice was high and still cracked. He said to himself, out loud: "I announce, to the cosmos, my intention. Tomorrow, I'm going to kill Morris the Mayor." Then Wilson winced. Encinos de los Gatos. I've got to start saying no to these stupid public speaking engagements. On an 12,000-foot mountaintop in the former national forest, The harvester took inventory. He didn't feel like he had been dragged back into a wretched past. No. Wilson was merely a person of impossibly high standards. He had been given the gift of long-term direction. With duct tape, Wilson wrapped the bloody tarp in a large rock, along with cleaning rags and chucked them into The Big Stinky. He slid a CD of The Doors into the VW stereo and undressed. In the dark, he danced languidly like a werewolf in heat. The body was untraceable. The song, "Soul Kitchen" took him over. Wilson faced the breeze and the air felt good on his face. I now know who I am - a shaper of policy. A toppler of empires, large, small, real or imagined. And, I'm going to be on "Nightline." How cool is that? Knowing, with clarity, those who deserved to be killed was a comfort. For that, Cooper Wayne Wilson had his community newspaper, The Halcyon Times & Rural Avenger to thank. And its chief editorial writer, owner and publisher for at least a few more days, Cooper's hero -- the white-haired madman -- Truman Book.
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