Night Runners
The peaceful silence of the dark neighborhood was briefly pierced by the pounding of rubber soles on pavement. It had started a few weeks ago when Peter first moved back home after graduating college. While everyone else on the block was sitting down for dinner or watching television, he would run. As time went on, the heaviness of both his feet and breathing had subsided, allowing him to glide through the rows of identical houses unseen. Peter slowly increased his distance, expanding his route beyond his neighborhood and into the surrounding town. His neck bent to see inside windows as he slipped through the quiet night, catching snippets of people’s lives as he went.
He knew that the Matthews family had pasta on Tuesday’s, the Warwick’s had pizza on Friday, that John Peters smoked pot in his backyard every night after his wife went to bed, and that it wasn’t deer eating Ms. Hendricks flowers at night but her neighbors Jack Russell terrier. He never thought much of it because after all, the purpose of his endeavor was to run he reminded himself. Whatever he witnessed was simply an unintended consequence of his new workout routine.
Peter felt himself growing stronger and the windows of the new houses in unfamiliar neighborhoods served as distraction from the added distance and long hills. One night, he noticed something odd on Gilbert Lane, a quiet street on the edge of town, that made him slow down. It was a street with only a few houses on one side and nothing but woods on the other. He noticed a driveway on the wooded side of the road that led to a chain link gate. Beyond the gate was a large, concrete structure with a metal garage door. Most nights he ran right by, noticing a light on inside but continuing on without suspicion. He thought it was a municipal building, maybe for water or power or any number of other things. Storage for snow plows perhaps?
One night, back on Gilbert Lane, Peter felt the presence of a car from behind. The glow of the headlights illuminate the sand on the pavement ahead as it approached. He slowed down and moved to the right, allowing the car to pass. When it did he noticed it wasn’t the normal suburban car, a minivan or mid-priced sedan, but a hearse. Why was a hearse out so late on a weeknight? And why was it slowing down? And why was it pulling up to the gate in front of that now suspicious concrete building? He took note of the time on his watch, 9:26 PM, and continued running until he reached the end of the gravel driveway that lead to his house.
The next night, Peter decided he would head back to where he saw the hearse. WHY? He ran quicker than usual and arrived by 9:15. He made his way up the block just beyond the driveway and hid in the pines that lined the road. From where he sat in the cover of the trees he could see the street on one side and the concrete building on the other. A chain link fence surrounded the whole compound. The building was painted white and had several windows on the side, all which had yellow light shining through them. He checked his watch and peered down the street. He saw headlights round the corner and waited to see the hearse. It slowed as it approached the driveway but rolled just passed it. It began rolling to a stop right near where Peter was hiding. He tried to creep back deeper into the shadows as the vehicle got closer. Just as it reached him it turned into the driveway across the street. It was a silver minivan. A man got out carrying a half-gallon of milk.
He didn’t know exactly what he was afraid of but his heart was racing. Moments later another set of headlights appeared at the end of the road. Again, the vehicle slowed as it approached the area near Peter. It was the hearse. It sat for a moment at the gate and Peter tried to be still. Eventually someone walked out of the building towards the gate and dragged it open. The car entered, the gate closed, and the garage door opened. He squinted to see what was inside the building. He could see a few men inside standing in an open bay, but couldn’t make out their faces. The driver got out and looked up to greet the waiting men as the garage door rattled shut. Peter remained there a while longer, not knowing what to expect, but hoping to see something happen. After about 30 minutes nothing did so he headed home.
The next day at work Peter took lunch at his desk. He pulled up Google and began to search for funeral homes in the local area. He collected several phone numbers and peered over the edge of his cubicle to make sure that his coworkers were out. He dialed the first number on his list and it rang:
“Dalton Family Funeral Home,” An elderly female voice answered.
“Hello, I’m…ughh…conducting some research for a college assignment. I was wondering if I could ask a few questions?” Peter blurted out before he even realized what he had said.
“What kinda’ research are you doing hon?”
“I am looking at the effect of local business on the, um, environment,” he answered while looking out at the office again. Still clear.
“Look. I can only answer questions about funerals.”
“Well, Um. I just have one question then. Where do you store your hearses? And uh, Do you own them? What do they do at night?”
“That’s three questions. But the short answer is: We own them so we keep them on our property, and the only thing they do is go to funerals and hospitals. That’s it.
“Okay, well thank you, that’s all I needed to know,” he responded quickly and hung up as he noticed his coworker, Mike, walking in with a brown, grease-stained bag of food in his hand. He clicked the calendar icon on his desktop to cover the screen. Mike came over and talked to Peter about how his fantasy football team performed over the weekend but Peter was too busy thinking about the hearse to concentrate.
Peter kept close watch over the building on Gilbert and each night the same vehicle showed up at around the same time. He continued to make calls to the area funeral homes, all of which owned their hearses and kept them in their parking lots. On his drive to work in the morning he would take detours to drive past the funeral homes to look at the hearses. Most were new, black Cadillacs. Some had older models or Lincolns but they all looked the same. The one he saw each night must have belonged to one of the nearby homes, but if he wanted to know for sure he would have to see the plate number. On his next run he brought his phone with him so he could take a picture of the plate.
When the car turned down the street he let it pass by before walking out onto the road. As it approached the gate he began a slow jog and got his phone’s camera ready to shoot. He approached the back of the car and snapped a picture. A flash! He could hear someone yelling from the driver’s window as he bolted down the street. He glanced back to see the hearse driving towards him. He made a quick left onto Sun Hill Court and sprinted up the inclined street as the car rounded the corner with screeching tires. He darted into the woods behind the Dead End sign and continued until he reached the baseball fields behind the public library. He looked back into the dark woods. He was sure whoever was in the car probably hadn’t continued pursuing him. Still, he ran with a sense of urgency towards the nearby fence and hopped a few more before ending up in his own backyard.
He walked through the back door, sweating and out of breath. His father was sitting at the dining room table, watching the evening news on a small television in the corner. They both stood in silence for a moment.
“…the jobless rate continues to rise as does the price of oil…” The news report announced.
Peter attempted to say something but it came out as an inaudible gurgle. He tried again.
“I was over on Sun Hill when I saw something in the woods. Think it was a dog or a fox or something. So I cut through the park.”
“Huh?” he responded with a blank look on his face. His eyes remain fixed to the television set.
Peter walked past him quickly, patted his father’s back, and headed up the stairs. He shut the door to his room and shook the mouse to wake his sleeping computer. The sound of the news report could still be heard from downstairs. To Peter, the only thing that changed on the news was the anchors suit; everything he said was always the same.
After sitting for a while, Peter’s heart rate finally slowed but the sweat continued to drop down his forehead. He nearly forgot about the picture he took. He opened the phone and looked to see if he got anything. It was blurry but when he zoomed in on it he could make out the letters on the metal plate. If he wasn’t so shaken up he probably would have laughed at the irony of the vanity plate, but under the current circumstances he found it rather disturbing.
The following night it rained too hard to go running. Peter decided to try out the free pass to the local gym he had sitting on his desk for the past month. It could be a nice break from my normal routine, he thought and it was probably a good idea to stay away from Gilbert Lane for a while.
The clean, well-lit gym was an enormous, mirrored palace dedicated to fitness for the sake of fitness. At first, Peter missed the solitude and silence of night running but soon learned that with his headphones in he could isolate himself even in the crowded gym. He saw many familiar faces, some that he pretended not to recognize. It was as if his whole town had started working out, but everyone still looked the same as they did before the gym was built. For them, it was a place to be seen but for Peter it was a place to disappear. That was until one night after work, he pulled into the gym parking lot during the evening rush. He found a spot near the back of the lot and pulled in. The only other empty was a few spaces over from his. He got out with his canvas bag in hand as another car pulled in and drove towards him. The lights were blinding, preventing him from determining the model. When it slowed down he began to feel uneasy. It was a hearse.
It came to complete stop and Peter stood there frozen. Does he recognize me? Is it the same hearse? The standoff lasted for what felt like minutes. Finally, the driver signaled and turned into the empty space. It looked exactly like the one he saw the other night, but then again, most hearses look alike. He thought of running but didn’t want to draw attention to himself. The hearse driver works out? Wait…the hearse driver drives his hearse to the gym? Before he had time to answer these questions he was walking swiftly across the parking lot towards the entrance. He figured he could disappear somewhere in the labyrinth of the gym.
Peter found a treadmill in the back that faced a wall of mirrors. He put in his headphones and skipped the warm up. If he approached me I would just pretend I was “in the zone,” he told himself. He couldn’t help but look at the entrance through the reflection of the mirrors. The first person that entered was a short, balding man dressed in black. He knew him from somewhere, but where? Whoever he was, he had a similar build to the man he saw get out of the driver seat on Gilbert Lane. He must be the driver; he just needed to check the license plate to be sure.
Peter waited to see him disappear into the men’s locker room before slowing down his treadmill. Beep. Beep. Beep. He did a quick warm down and waited until the driver walked back out in his gym cloths. When he did, Peter cleaned off the machine and headed for the locker room. He heard someone call his name.
“Peter. Peter Parker?” a female voice shouted.
Yes, he had the same name as Spider-Man; his parents weren’t big comic book readers so they didn’t know at the time of his birth they were naming after an awkward nerd. It wasn’t such a bad name though and the two did share some similarities. Peter liked photography and worked for the student newspaper in college. He wore black-rimmed glasses. He was nerdy, but handsome. At least he thought so. His friends often reminded him of the other similarity. Peter didn’t get the girls…ever. But who was this girl who seemed to recognize him now? He turned around to see Gina Blake looking back at him. They were both covered in sweat but she came over and hugged him anyway.
“I didn’t know you worked out here Peter, that’s awesome!” she said.
“Yeah, I got this free membership thing in the mail. Thought I would check it out. Not sure if I-“
“We should hang out! What are you doing this weekend?” she quickly fired at him before he could finish.
This is what always happened with Gina when Peter was home from school. They never hung out even though he always said they would. In fact, despite going to school together their whole lives, Peter and Gina never hung out ever.
“We definitely should. I will be around this weekend…I think.”
This time he couldn’t hide behind the excuse of going back to college because he had just graduated. He was home now, and had very little to do. He was going to continue the conversation when he noticed the driver walking in their direction. He briefly made eye contact with the short, bald man.
“I’ll call you,” Peter said as he turned around and ran for the locker room. He grabbed his canvas bag from his locker and hurried outside. He could see his breath as he headed for the car. He recognized the distinct license plate on the hearse from a distance, so he went directly to his car and drove off.
Harvey Hickle lifted the heavy dumbbells over his head as he took a deep breath, unaware he had just seen the person who photographed his hearse last night on Gilbert Lane. He knew the license plate was humorous, but he still wondered why someone decided to take a picture at that time, in that location. It didn’t feel like a coincidence to Harvey. Ever since he returned home after serving time in an upstate prison, he told himself he would do more for the community and his family. However, despite his best efforts, the community didn’t seem ready to take him back. He exhaled as he slowly lowered the weights. In time, he thought to himself, they will discover that Harvey Hickle is a changed man.
Just down the road, a group of men were working tirelessly in the morgue at Hawthorne Family Funeral Home. The dark skinned men spoke Spanish in hushed tones as they moved bodies from the refrigerated holding tank to the main level. Not far from Hawthorne, at Gallow Funeral Parlor, a similar scene was occurring. In fact, if you were to peer into the basements of any of the funeral homes in the area, you would see groups of men, mostly Guatemalans, preparing bodies to be moved.
Peering into those basements was exactly what Melissa Manning had been trying to do for the past six months. Tonight, she sat in her car at the 7-11 across the street from one of the funeral homes. She drank a Big Gulp as she watched the back doors of the home swing open. The whole process had been going on for about an hour at this point. The men would roll out a cart and load a long, black bag into a truck in the parking lot. Then they would head back inside, returning moments later with another load.She looked at her watch and jotted down the time on a notepad. Whatever they were doing, they weren’t concerned with being seen.
Melissa took her job very seriously; the problem was that no one else did. She wrote for The Patch, an online news website that covered local news. Every town on Long Island had their own Patch. She mostly wrote about small time events, like middle school soccer games, PTA meetings, and short restaurant reviews. She knew once this story broke, whatever the story was, it was going to be big. Interviews would soon follow, and book deals, she would get more Twitter followers and then, after she accepted the Pulitzer, she would leave The Patch and join the staff of The New York Times. This was how she was pictured it at the moment, as she slurped the last of her Diet Coke and pulled out of the 7-11.
Harvey was nearly finished with his workout routine when his phone began to ring. He looked to see who it was and immediately headed to the locker room. Being a funeral director had become a 24/7 job since production began a few months ago. In the locker room he picked up the phone.
“Mr. Harvey…we need your help,” a man said in a thick accent.
“I told you not to call me when I am at the gym.”
“We know sir, but we are being followed.”
Moments later he was behind the wheel of the hearse, his eyes filled with anger.
Melissa trailed the black, unmarked van for about fifteen minutes before it turned off Rt. 347 and into a residential neighborhood. A few minutes later she watched from the end of a dark, sleepy lane as it pulled through a gate, followed shortly by the sound of a motor lifting a heavy door. She got out of her car and walked swiftly across the street with a camera in hand. Standing at the gate she could see the building. A large cement box with an industrial garage door. No marking of any kind on the building and only a two small windows on the side. She snapped a few pictures before heading back to her car.
Harvey slowed down as he approached the gate. Through the trees he could see the lights were on inside the facility. Just down the road, a car was coming towards him. As it passed he made brief eye contact with the woman behind the wheel, a bookish looking young woman with a familiar face.
Inside the building, several men sat at a table near the window. Aside from the unmarked van parked in the middle of the space, the room was stark and undecorated. The sound of industrial machinery came from below. The men stood when Harvey entered through the side door. Harvey didn’t acknowledge them, instead he locked his focus on the group of men working near the van. He pointed to one in particular and waved him over.
“Mr. Harvey, my apologies for calling you during your private time. I did not know what to do,” the short man said over the sound of machinery.
“It’s fine. You did the right thing coming here. It is important that we continue with the operation.”
“I don’t know. Whoever they are, don’t let them get to you. Remain cautious and in time, they will show themselves.”
He waved off the little man who went back to unloading the van. Harvey walked over to a large, metal door in the back of the room and walked through it, down into the basement. The sound of the machinery grew louder as Harvey stepped down into an enormous factory. Tall storage tanks lined the walls and stretched off into the distance and connected to a complex series of pipes and valves that filled the space. Men in matching jumpsuits scrambled across the factory floor making adjustments and monitoring progress as heavy black bags dropped into a machine near where Harvey now stood. The anger that had previously filled him faded away as a smile came to his face.
Melissa sat in her small office in the back room of her house. She set it up a few years ago with her husband when she first got a job at The Patch. She promised herself that no matter what, it would be a nice, clean space strictly for writing. Eventually the desk became covered in bills and lesson plans, the floor was covered in her children’s toys, and her dream of being a professional writer slowly started to fade. That all changed recently though. Now, the floor was clean, the desk empty but for research regarding the current story, and the children were forbidden from entering the room.
She was there now, uploading her photos and adding the notes from her pad onto the computer. When she was done she remained in her chair a while before heading up to bed. She knew that in order to figure out what was going on with the funeral homes and hearses, she needed to see what was going on in those concrete storehouses. So far she knew of three that existed in the local area but had a feeling there were many more. Whatever was going on, it was big. She just didn’t know how big yet.
Peter missed running and despite the arrival of winter, knew he needed to get out of the gym and back onto the road soon. He had started hanging out with Gina after bumping into her that night and was surprised how much he enjoyed her company. He was even more surprised when the hearse driver came up to her one night when they were talking at the gym. His name was Harvey Hickle…Uncle Harvey to her. Peter tried to keep his eyes fixed on the floor as they spoke but when she introduced him he had to look up and shake his hand. The two locked eyes for an awkward moment. His next question proved, in Peter’s mind, that he must have recognized him as the person who took the picture.
Why the hell would he ask that? He thought about saying exactly that but instead he answered:
“From time to time. I ran cross country in college, so.”
“I can tell…you look like a runner.”
With that he gave his niece a sweaty hug and walked away. Peter was clearly in shock.
“Are you okay Pete? Have you guys met before?”
“Yeah. No. I mean yeah I’m fine, but we haven’t met. I’ve seen him around though. He drives a hearse?”
“He’s a funeral director. He drives the hearse home from work sometimes when it needs work.”
“Oh” Peter replies. “That’s cool.”
She walked off to her spin class and he went to the back room to hit a heavy bag for a while. It made him feel tough.
After he dropped Gina off at her house he took the long way home to pass by the building on Gilbert Lane. It was well after 11:00pm and the lights were still shining from the side windows. He parked the car on a side street and got out. He needed to know what was going on inside.
The chain link fence surrounding the perimeter was easy enough to climb. Whoever was in charge didn’t seem to care about security. That, or they didn’t want to appear suspicious. He scanned the area for cameras but didn’t see any signs so he approached the building.
When he was close enough to the window he heard the sound of men speaking Spanish and the hum of industrial machinery. He also noticed a strong, unpleasant odor that gave the whole atmosphere an unsettling vibe. His heart was racing and he thought of turning back. He was close enough to the window already so he figured he would take a quick look. Just as his eyes were lifting over the edge of the window frame, the men stopped speaking. The first thing he saw in the window was the face of a dark skinned man glaring back at him. He heard footsteps from behind and before he could turn around, his head was met immediately with a blow. Darkness. Silence.
Peter’s ears were ringing as he regained consciousness. He was in an empty room with dark, concrete walls. It smelt like a moldy basement. The odor of a dead animal lingered in the air. He ran his fingers across the back of his head and felt a large bump. Well, that’s certainly new, he thought.
After what felt like a half hour, the door in the corner of the room swung open and in walked Harvey, still wearing his gym cloths. The same ones he had been wearing since 1985. He was carrying a metal folding chair, which he placed down near Peter. He sat, with his arms folded over the back of the chair and looked at Peter in silence.
“I got a lot of questions to ask you kid but I am gonna’ start with the first and probably most obvious,” he said calmly and he scratched his chin.
“What the fuck were you doing here on my property? I just saw you at the gym with my niece…who you better not be messing around with by the way…and now you’re here?”
“I went for a run after the gym…I always go running after the gym. Like I told you, I used to run cross-country. I run everywhere,” Peter said, trying to keep his composure as Harvey kept his eyes locked on him.
“I get that you run and that’s fucking great. I applaud your discipline. But you weren’t running outside my window. My guys said you hopped the fence, and were sneaking up to the building when they saw you. Now, if you ask me that sounds a little suspicious right?”
“I guess. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. You don’t have any signs that say ‘No Trespassing’ anywhere,” Peter replied.
“You don’t look like a lawyer but you sure act like one,” he said, pausing. “Since you seem like your not going to give me a straight answer, I am going to assume this whole thing was an accident. We thought you were someone else and I have to admit I felt sorta’ bad when the guys upstairs called me down here and I saw it was you. We are sorry about the bump on your head.”
Peter sensed something odd in his sudden change of tone. He was apologizing to me after I trespassed on his property? He was sure that there were signs that said ‘No Trespassing’ too. He wasn’t a lawyer but he was starting to think that if he got out of here that he should probably call one.
“Don’t worry about the bump. It’s not that bad anyway,” Peter said, not trying to prolong the conversation. “I’ll ice it when I get home and it will be fine.”
“Great. Now look, I am going to blind fold you and take you out to the street. I don’t know what you may have seen, but nothing is going on here. You forget about this place and that bump, I’ll forget that you trespassed and let you keep hanging out with Gina. Capisce?”
Peter nodded his head and stood up. He was unsure of what would happen next.
Melissa had only recently discovered the building on Gilbert Lane. It seemed to be getting deliveries from a few of the surrounding funeral homes and the lights remained on much later than the other buildings in the area. During her stake out of the building she discovered that a small oil truck would come by early in the morning. On the side of it, in big green lettering that read:
An Internet search gave her the location and the phone number of the company headquarters. After several calls went to the answering machine she decided to check the place out.
At the corner of the Bypass and Helen Ave. was a fading old building with black windows and rusted garage doors. Above one of those rusted doors were the faded words — Bennit Fuel Co. — that still bled through the single coat of white paint that covered it. It was a brisk November day when Melissa decided to pay her visit. Cell phone in hand, she dialed the company’s phone number. It went to the machine. She looked in all the windows, tried to open one of the garage doors, and eventually jumped a small fence into the back lot. She landed on her feet and looked around. Across the lot, parked next to the building, was a Mercedes-Benz and a beat up Chevy Chevelle.
As she approached the vehicles, the engine of the Chevelle sparked to life and began to back out of the spot. Melissa stopped dead in her tracks as the car turned and rolled up to her. She stood between the car and the gate she had just hopped and waited to see what would happen next. After a moment the driver of the dilapidated vehicle came out, looked at her with suspicion, and then walked on past her. He was a short man with dark skin and long, black hair. He wore jeans with heavy duty work boots and an old flannel shirt. As he passed Melissa she could smell a mixture of oil and sweat.
“Excuse me sir? I apologize for trespassing but I am looking for someone to answer some questions.”
The man used a key to open the lock and then pushed the rusty gate.
Still, he ignored her. He opened the gate fully and then turned to look at her. He motioned with his hand as to suggest that Melissa should leave. After a moment she slowly started to exit, keeping her eyes fixed on the man. He patiently waited for her to clear the gate before returning to his car and pulling through.
“Do you work for Bennit Fuel sir?
He got out again to lock the gate.
“Could you tell me who to call if I want home delivery?”
“No home delivery Miss,” he said.
He got back into the car and pulled away. Melissa listened as the loud engine faded into the distance.
Over the course of the next few weeks Melissa filled stacks of yellow legal pads with notes and observations. It was true, Bennit Fuel wasn’t making any home deliveries. Instead, trucks would fill up at one of the facilities, like the one Peter had discovered on Gilbert Lane, and then drop off loads of oil at gas stations or companies on the coastline. It appeared that they had discovered some source of oil beneath the island, and were sucking it up from underneath its unsuspecting citizens. How Harvey Hickle, the “reformed” criminal, was connected to all of this was what Melissa was determined to find out.
She tried to get interviews with people connected to Harvey but nobody wanted to speak. She spent countless hours in the library basement, scrolling through newspaper articles on microform. One day, while she scrolled through an old issue of a local paper, she found an article that caught her interest. Initially she read it because it was so bizarre but later realized something that changed her whole perspective. It wasn’t about Harvey either, it was about an obscure local scientist named George Rene, who was accused of killing his wife in a science experiment.
Eventually Melissa decided she had accumulated enough information to publish her first article regarding the strange happenings. The only thing she needed was a few high quality photos to give it the finishing touch.
That’s what brought her to the corner of Faraday Street and Buffalo Avenue that night. Armed with an enormous camera she borrowed from her son and dressed in all black she fiddled with the buttons and menus of the device. She looked up when she heard something near the building. Two people were walking towards the front gate. She quickly aimed the camera and pushed down what she thought was the shutter release. As she did a flash popped up and the camera fired off like a machine gun, illuminating the car interior and the asphalt outside. She panicked and so did one of the two men outside apparently because he ran off, back into the building, leaving the other standing by the gate. She quickly started her car and the headlights illuminated the previously dark figure. She knew his face. It was Peter Parker, a former student of hers. Dressed in gym cloths and visibly confused, he looked in her direction trying to make out who sat behind the wheel. The dark glass made it a one-way staring contest. He didn’t want to stick around to find out so he booked it.
Melissa sprung from her car and ran across dead, wintery lawns and fading gardens. She yelled out to Peter but he kept running. Then she realized a former student would only know her as,
“Ms. Fay!” she yelled, “It’s me Peter!”
He stopped in his tracks. The questions were already firing out of his mouth by the time she reached him but she needed a moment to catch her breath.
“What the fu-…what the hell are you doing! You scared the crap out me! Why are you here?” he grunted through deep inhales.
“Calm down Peter. Calm down. I’m covering a story. I’m a reporter now. I’ve been watching this place and a few others like it for a while. I know what’s going on. Or at least maybe I will, now that I know you’ve been inside.”
“Hardly. I was outside for a moment. Then someone snuck up and knocked me out from behind.” He showed her the bump on his head.
“Yeah. I woke up in the basement of the place, not knowing where I was. Then Harvey came in.”
“Yeah, Harvey Hickle. I’m not sure this a great spot to talk about this stuff though.”
“Your right. Want to go up to the diner?”
Peter looked at his watch, shocked by how late it was. He shook his head in agreement though. It was an opportunity to get some answers.
Traffic was light on the road outside the Millennium Diner. Peter and Melissa sat across from each other and picked at a plate of fries. The waiter came by, a pot of coffee in each hand, and filled their cups. When she walked away, Melissa spoke up.
“So you how long have you known Harvey Hickle?”
“I wouldn’t really say I know him, just that I see him around town occasionally. He happens to be a friend of mines uncle, but I only found that out recently.”
“Who is your friend?” she asked.
“Ohh,” Melissa smiled. “I haven’t seen her in a long time now. How is she?”
“She’s fine.” Peter said as he grabbed a handful of fries.
“Are you guys finally dating?”
“What? No.” Peter responded with a mouth full of food. “Why would you even think that? Me and Gina are just hanging out.”
“Okay, Okay.” Melissa laughed. “It just remember you guys always had some chemistry when you were in my class.”
“Yeah, well. Who knows right?” he said as he took a sip of coffee. “I don’t know what to think right now. This Harvey guy is really freaking me out. I think he is going to kill me; he has that look in his eyes. Like a guy who would just…kill. You know?”
“I would love to say no, but I think you’re right. I mean aside from being in the death business, he is obviously up to some odd activity outside of his work. I don’t know if he is going to kill you necessarily, but you’re involved with some dangerous people.”
“That is really comforting, thanks for that.”
“Pete, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come off like that. If we can work together we can figure this whole situation out. We just need proof that what he is doing is illegal, then we can get him behind bars where he won’t be able to do harm to anyone.”
“I can’t get involved. This is Gina’s uncle, and we don’t know for sure he is doing anything illegal. Not everything that appears strange is against the law.”
“So why would they do that to you?” Melissa said, pointing to the bump on Peter’s head. “They are obviously protecting some type of secret. Maybe you could ask Gina?”
“Why? She must know something about her uncle.”
“Because I like Gina, and I’m not going to risk anything with her so you can write some stupid article.”
“Oh. Okay.” Melissa said, clearly upset.
They both sat there awkwardly for a few moments. Melissa sipped her coffee and when a waitress passed by she stopped her and asked for the check.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t get you involved in this. You have been helpful,” she said.
“I didn’t mean to call the article stupid. I just don’t feel comfortable asking Gina something like that right now. I am pissed about getting hit in the back of the head, and I think Harvey is up to some sketchy business too. But I was trespassing.”
Melissa took a business card from her pocket and slid it across the table to Peter. He picked it up and read it to himself:
“I Keep My Eye On Long Island”
“Call me if you want to talk about what happened in there,” she said as the waitress dropped the check down between them.
Melissa grabbed it and stood up, “Have a good night Pete. Tell Gina I say hi.”
She walked to the front counter and paid. Peter sat there for a long time while the waitress continued to fill his mug. He looked out at the passing traffic on Main Street until he was finally asked to leave.
“I can’t believe you would even ask me that!” Gina said as she opened the car door, got in, and quickly slammed it shut. Peter stood by his door for a moment outside the 7-11 as cars shuffled in and out of the spaces around him. It was Friday night and the cars were filled with young people, music seeping through their windows. Peter held a translucent plastic bag full of candy, popcorn, and soda. He took a deep breath before opening the door and facing Gina.
They drove in complete silence for a while before Gina, clearly frustrated with Peter’s lack of an explanation, tried to start up the argument again.
“It is just like super insensitive that’s all and mean. I didn’t really take you as the judgmental type.”
“I’m not. I just think your Uncle Henry’s car is a little fancy for a guy who works at a funeral parlor. I mean, I guess it is a good business…steady…and all, but-”
“But he must be involved with some type of illegal activity to afford such nice things? Is every Italian guy in America in the Mafia? Is that what you think? Do you think I am in the Mafia?
“No! That’s not what I’m saying Gina!
“Maybe I am in the Mafia, huh? Maybe I’m gonna’ have someone wack you for talking about my family. Ever think of that?” she said, trying not to laugh.
Peter didn’t respond, he just looked over at her and smiled.
The two sat next to each other in the middle of the crowded movie theater. Gina pulled out a seemingly endless supply of snacks and soda from her bag. She never understood why anyone would pay for snacks at the movie theater, especially with ticket prices so high these days. She refused to pay for 3D because she saw it as a gimmick. Peter on the other hand, thought that if you were going to go to the movies, you should really go…meaning 3D, big screens, explosions, the works. They met in the middle. Peter agreed to see regular movies and the money they saved would go into the snack fund. So they say sat there with half of the 7-11 in their laps and watched the previews before the previews.
“It’s just that,” Peter said with a mouth full of popcorn, “Well, you’re uncle seems a little sketchy.”
Gina slowly turned her head, Twizzlers in hand. “You need to stop imagining things. This is the suburbs Peter, organized crime and secret societies don’t exist here. That is city stuff.”
Just as she said that, the sound of microphone feedback pierced through the auditorium. A young man, about Peters age, is standing in the front of the theater with a microphone and small amplifier. He introduced himself as Mikey Mitchell and asked how everyone was, “doin.” The half full theater didn’t respond, instead they continued to talk amongst themselves or play Angry Birds on their phones. He started into what seemed like an attempt at a comedy routine.
“What the hell is he doing?” Peter says to Melissa.
“Yeah, you don’t? He went to grade school with us. He used to be really fat.”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t know any Mikey Mitchell’s, I guess he looks sorta’ familiar though.”
“His last name isn’t Mitchell, its Greenberg. He must have changed it because everyone used to call him…”
“Greenturd! I remember him now. He took a shit in Ms. Henson’s class.”
“And now he’s a movie theater comedian” she giggled.
As the two laughed, theater attendants walked in, armed with their flashlights and told Mike it was time to go.
As Mikey was escorted out he thanked the audience and told them how great they were. He informs them if they like what they heard they could check him out on MySpace or before the 9:20 showing of the latest Transformers movie.
Later, outside the theater, Peter and Gina heard a voice yelling something from the only other car in the enormous parking lot. They ignored it at first, assuming it was a group of high school students with nothing better to do. Peter realized that whoever it was, they were yelling his name. Still he pretended not to notice and instead took Gina’s hand and quickened their pace towards his car. He heard the engine start behind him and was immediately reminded of the night he was chased by the hearse. The car came towards them from behind but Peter tried to remain calm as to not panic Gina. The yelling continued as he reached the passenger door and opened it for Gina.
“Your being quite the gentlemen all the sudden, it is actually kind of cu-,” she said as Peter slamed the door shut.
“Petey P! Petey P. It’s me! Mikey,” the now recognizable voice yelled from the nearby car. Peter was somewhat relieved to realize it’s Mikey Green-Turd. He looked at Gina through the passenger window and made a face. She wasn’t pleased.
Mikey got out of the car and gave Pete an awkward handshake and half hug.
“Damn dude, good to see you man,” said Mikey, sounding incredibly stoned.
“Yeah, same…man. How are you doing?”
“Good dude, really really good. I’m doin’ construction and trying to get my comedy thing going.”
“Yeah, I caught some of your act in there before, it was funny. You were always a funny guy.”
“Thanks man. Yeah, I mean, I always wondered why no one started doin’ stand up in a movie theater. All those people are just sittin’ there watching those dumb previews-before-the-previews. There is even a little stage type area. It was built for a performance, so I started bringing my own amp and microphone and just doin’ my act at different theaters. I’m actually writing a movie kinda’ based on my experience. Trying to sell it some investors or on Craigslist or whatever. I have a few leads.”
Gina popped open the door and stepped outside.
“Hey Mikey,” she said, giving him a small wave. “Pete the car is freezing, give me the keys.”
“Is that Gina? You guys are finally dating?”
“Um, not really no. I just got back home so I’m still figuring stuff out, not trying to commit to anything like that.”
“Cool man cool. Well, maybe I will see you around, at the bars or something.”
He jumped back into his car and zoomed away and Peter turned around. He started up his and headed toward home. Gina asked why he was so afraid of the car and why he slammed the door and why he was so jumpy and why he didn’t treat her nicer and if he liked the movie. But Peter didn’t say much because he wasn’t hearing her. He was lost in his own thoughts. Thoughts about why he was afraid. Thoughts about what he was doing with his life. Thoughts about what to do next. Thoughts about what the hearse and what was happening on Gilbert Lane and about Harvey Hickle.
Traffic was light on the L.I.E. as his car hummed towards Exit 58. He dropped Gina off and pulled into his driveway a few minutes later. He sat there for a while with the radio crackling in the background. The thoughts continued to race through his mind. He pulled out the business card from his pocket and examined it. He punched the number in on his phone; it rang once before Melissa picked up.
“Have you decided you want to talk?”
He got off at the next exit and listened to Melissa as she gave him directions.
The outside of the house was dark when Peter pulled up. Melissa told him to go through the back yard and look for the light on in her office. He got out and walked carefully across the front lawn as leaves crunched quietly beneath him. He fumbled to find the string and loop to open the back gate. When he got into the yard he saw the yellow lamp illuminating the screened in porch. Melissa was at a desk typing as he approached the storm door and gave it a light tap. Melissa’s head shook out of what she was writing and looked over.
Her desk was covered in newspaper articles and all sorts of pads filled with notes and sketches. She had a voice recorder attached to her computer and a digital camera. Next to the camera was a big round microphone on a short stand with headphones around the base.
Peter’s eyes wandered around the room as Melissa cleared some junk off a chair and placed it next to the desk.
“Sorry for the mess, I don’t usually have visitors in my office. Sit down,” she said, pointing to the chair.
“No problem. Are you working on an article about Harvey?”
“Uh, no actually. I was taking a break from it to finish an article about this new restaurant opening on Main Street.”
“Oh, that’s cool. I didn’t know you did restaurant reviews.”
“Yeah, well, that’s all I do right now. This article about Harvey is going to be my first try at investigative journalism. I’m hoping it will get me noticed. This restaurant stuff is how I keep my writing muscles exercised.”
Peter was beginning to wonder why he was here, at the house of a part time teacher and small time restaurant reviewer. At her age, if she wasn’t a journalist yet, it wasn’t likely she was going to be one anytime soon. He was here though, and he couldn’t sleep anyway.
“So how can I help with the article…I don’t know that much but I’ll tell you everything,” he said.
“Ok, great,” she replied while she turned to new page on a legal pad and clicked her pen. “Let’s start with how you first discovered the hearse that went to the building on Gilbert Lane and then discuss what happened the night you were captured.”
Peter explained everything, every detail of how he started running. What he saw on Gilbert Lane. How the inside of the facility had a terrible smell of formaldehyde and oil. How the awful stench of it all that stuck to his cloths for days. He told her how he knew Harvey Hickle and what he thought of him. He spoke of his dilemma with dating Gina and the ridiculous, but very real, feeling that Harvey was going to kill him. The bump on his head still throbbed.
The sun was beginning to rise when Melissa thought she had enough material. She asked if she could use the information in an upcoming article. Peter agreed as long as she changed his name. He figured it was never going to be read anyway. As he stood to leave, Melissa opened her desk drawer and pulled out a file. She handed it to Peter.
Melissa motioned with her hands to open it and he did. Inside there were several articles from science journals. They contained diagrams and equations that Peter didn’t understand. All the titles mentioned a man named George Rene who, apparently, had invented a technology that could convert almost any carbon based material into oil.
He skimmed through all of them and when he reached the last one he looked up at Melissa. The title read: George Rene Arrested for Murder of Wife.
“It works on humans.” Melissa said.
Peter didn’t know how to respond. He felt the bump on the back of his head throb. The smell from the basement filled his nose again.
“This is all true?” Peter said with his eyes locked on the article.
“It is. Not only that, but George Rene was up at Attica. Where…”
“Where Harvey served his time?”
Melissa was smiling now, happy to be sharing her discovery.
“I think it is possible. It would explain a lot.”
Peter didn’t say anything. He had suspicions that Harvey was up to something strange, but this way beyond strange.
“Well, goodnight,” he said quietly. He turned and left in a daze.
That morning, as Peter drove back home, Melissa made a call to her editor from The Patch and pitched her the story. She said it didn’t quite fit in with the stories they liked to tell and suggested she stick to her normal beat. Melissa politely agreed and hung up, knowing that she didn’t believe her. She dialed the number to The Long Island Press. They were interested.
A few weeks later Peter came downstairs in the morning to see his father sitting at the dining room table. He had the new issue of The Long Island Press held up in front of him, his nose buried in it.
“Morning,” his father said, his face covered by the paper.
Peter didn’t reply. He stood in the doorway looking at the cover of the paper. It was a picture of Harvey Hickle with huge words over it:
SMALL TIME CROOK OR BIG TIME OIL MAN?
“You’re not going to believe this story.”
Again, the grotesque smell of oil and chemicals filled his nose. The sound of machinery pounding overhead. The sinister face of Harvey. He was transported back into that cold basement. He had already begun to connect the dots. The funeral homes, the hearse, the smell.
He walked towards his father and saw who had written the article. Melissa had told him she wrote for The Patch, not the Press. People actually read the Press. Before he could process the situation his phone began to ring. It was Gina.
Months passed and so did the buzz around Melissa’s story. It wasn’t that people didn’t read it, it was that they refused to believe it. They questioned Melissa’s credentials, or lack of credentials. Her dream of being a New York Times reporter never came true, instead she returned to the little desk in the back of her house. She sat there each night and wrote coverage of town events, restaurant reviews, and the occasional crime. Each night, as she sat there at work she could hear her children watching television in the other room, her husband in the kitchen preparing dinner, and at around 9:30 she could look out at the street and see Peter as he ran by.
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