by Pat McKee
“Goin’ fishin’?”
“Yep.”
“Where ‘bout?”
“Close in.”
“What for?”
“Speckled trout. Maybe some redfish.”
“Damn, boy, you ain’t gonna catch any reds on those rigs you got. Them reels no good, and the line looks ten years old. A bull red’ll snap that rod in half.” He leaned in hard. “You sure as hell ain’t goin’ fishin’, least ways not with that junk.”
I swallowed before I responded. My thin attempt at cover was now a liability. “Gonna pick up some new tackle ‘fore I go out.”
The cop shook his head.
“You got any shells for that fancy shotgun of yours?”
I pointed. “In the glove compartment.”
“You keep your hands on the steering wheel.”
“Yes sir.”
“I got you on the radar gun going 80 in a 70.”
I put my head down and held the steering wheel. I could tell this guy was looking for an excuse to handcuff me in the back of his patrol car, and I wasn’t going to give it to him. I didn’t respond.
The officer went back to his cruiser without another word. The next few minutes I struggled to remain outwardly calm as my stomach knotted and sweat poured down my chest. I left my window rolled down so the perspiration that beaded on my forehead looked more of a response to the tropical air rather than the heat of suspicion.
In the side mirror I saw him step out of the car, pop the strap on his holster, and radio something back to his dispatcher. He watched my hands as he approached the truck, his hand on his revolver.
This was it. In moments the shoulder would be swarming with heavily armed law-enforcement officers, I’d be hand cuffed, stuffed into the back of a patrol car, and hauled off to jail. A week ago I’d been speeding down this same highway in my shiny new Porsche on top of the world. Now the world was soon to be on top of me. I put my head down, held the steering wheel, and took in a deep breath.
“Agent Grey, I’m sorry about the delay. My radar gun read 60 not 80. My mistake. You are free to go.” I managed a nod and a faint smile. He walked away.
Agent Grey. So he figured out who I was supposed to be. My story checked out. I sure as hell wasn’t going 60. He was giving me a pass. I let out a long breath, tried to steady my nerves as a great rush of relief washed over me. I reached down to crank the truck, hand trembling. I looked up to check the traffic.
The officer was standing right at my window. I couldn’t help but flinch.
“Sorry to startle you, Agent Grey. I meant to tell you that was some work you did on the Derrick Randolph case. I’m a great admirer. You should’ve told me who you were when I pulled you over. But I have a question for you. Since the case is over, I hope you won’t mind telling me.”
I kept my hands on the steering wheel to keep them from shaking. I’d almost made it, but now my cover was blown. The cop suspected me, and he was going to ask me some highly technical procedural question that I wouldn’t even understand. I braced.
“Say, how long was ‘at boy eatin’ outa that dumpster?”
I almost laughed out loud, but I contained my elation. No technical question here, just basic human curiosity.
“From the looks of him it’d been quite a while. But he was eatin’ better out of that dumpster than he ever had during the two years he was in the woods.”
“Hell, I thought he was more of a country boy than that. I figured once he was in the woods he’d never come out.”
I just smiled.
“Well, you have a good day. An’ good luck fishin’. If you’re ever headed down to Live Oak Island, you can get your gear at Beer-N-Bugs Bait Shack. ‘At’s my brother’s place.”
“I’ll make it a point. Thanks.”
Before the officer could get back to his cruiser, my truck was in the flow of traffic. I hadn’t even gotten out of Georgia, and I’d already been stopped. While I had met that challenge, I knew every cop in the nation could now access the information that “Agent Grey” and his pickup truck were spotted heading south on I-95 at Georgia mile marker 2 on Tuesday evening. I’d soon cross the Georgia-Florida line. If the real Agent Grey didn’t give me more lead time, then the noose could be tightened around the north end of the Florida peninsula, and I would have nowhere to go. At least I now knew he hadn’t turned me in. Not yet.
From Amelia Island, marking the far-north point, to Biscayne Bay, framing the sparkling skyline of Miami, the state of Florida is one long, boring drive: flat as a road-kill squirrel, straight as a jungle runway, with few turns in any direction. If I weren’t scared out of my mind, I might’ve fallen asleep at the wheel. Even when I managed to settle my nerves a bit, I was in no danger of dozing off. I was too attuned to the shaking of the steering wheel, vibrating to the tune of the misaligned wheels and unbalanced tires, and the coughing and wheezing of the engine, sick from some semitropical disease contracted while lying months untouched in Agent Grey’s shed. I feared each gasp would be the truck’s last, leaving me stranded and conspicuous on the side of the highway. No, I wasn’t likely to fall asleep at the wheel. So the Florida landscape stretched on interminably, mile after mile, the waters of the Atlantic, wave upon wave, the Florida Interstate Torture. At times I felt it would’ve been better had the cop seen through my cover and hauled me off to jail.
Thirteen
Florida’s flat terrain presented at least one advantage as the truck and I labored down the interstate: I could see trouble coming a long way off, and with vigilance I might be able to avoid it. I slowed as I approached the infrequent exits and searched the distance for blue lights. Past an exit I’d be boxed in unless I could cut across the median, bringing even more unwanted attention to myself.
After about a hundred and fifty miles or so of this monotony, the interstate took a jog toward the coast a few miles past Exit 244, and then the roadway straightened, and an overpass blocked my view. On the other side of the overpass I saw a blaze of blue and red flashing lights in the distance. I looked for a cut-through to the northbound lane, but the median narrowed, and a steel guardrail had replaced the dense growths of pine and live oak that had forested the center for hundreds of miles. I was still far enough away that it was unlikely the cops would notice my bolting through the median, but the guardrail extended unbroken to the next exit. I found my heart pounding, my options fading. As I closed on the tangle of official vehicles ahead, my fear grew to panic. The highway was shut down, cops diverting traffic from the interstate. It was a road block.
My disguise satisfied the last cop who stopped Agent Grey miles north on I-95. If this was a road block to catch me, it meant only one thing: Grey had ratted me out. The choke point miles ahead; I pulled to the shoulder to slow my slamming heart and consider my options.
The right side of the southbound lane was enveloped in woods. A swampy ditch and a farm fence, which looked too stout for my truck to take on, blocked any attempt to pull off in hopes of finding a track through the forest. There were often paths cut by deer hunters on four-wheelers or by cops hiding in the trees stalking their own prey, but for the last couple miles none appeared, and there weren’t any close by.
Unless I wanted to drive into the teeth of the road block and risk certain capture, I’d have to leave the truck behind and set out on foot. I could circle back to the right and walk the entire way, or I could cross the median and hitchhike. Either way, I had to get back up the highway to the previous exit, where I’d try to catch a ride heading cross country and around the roadblock. I figured I’d still have plenty of time to meet up with Placido, but if I were delayed I didn’t know how long he’d wait for me. It was light still, so I decided to walk through the woods and attract as little attention as possible.
I grabbed my backpack and swung from the cab. The shotgun was lying on the floorboard. If I were going to head through the woods,
a shotgun would be handy. I climbed back in the truck, grabbed the gun and broke it down. The stock was a snug fit inside the backpack along with a box of shells, but the barrel stuck out the top.
I left the cab again and tossed my pack on my shoulder. I was surveying my route just as a car traveling in my direction pulled from the interstate and came to a stop right behind my truck. It was a 1950s black stretch Cadillac, the name of a funeral home not completely scratched off a rear window, long hood, tall fins, slab doors, shock absorbers gone, it bounced on its springs several seconds before coming to rest. The driver’s side door squeaked open, and a pomaded gentleman unwound from behind the wheel.
“Reverend Barnabus Duffle of the Cow Creek Full Bible Baptist Church of Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior. Saw you had some trouble, friend, and thought I’d might stop. Truck broke down?”
“Engine cut out. Wouldn’t crank back up.”
“Well, maybe I can help. What you say your name is?”
“Bill Grey.”
“What you think’s the problem?”
“Can’t say as I know. I was going to leave it here to find help.”
“Well, I guess help just found you. I try to stop for folks broke down on the highway. Meet some mighty interesting people. Guess I just met another one.” The Reverend pointed at the shotgun barrel sticking out of my pack. “You a hunter?”
“Do a little bird hunting.”
“My day job is taxidermy, case you ever need it. You kill ‘em, I fill ‘em.” He handed me a crumpled card with his tag line over the name Barney Duffle. “Got some samples of my work in the back of the hearse. On my way to drop off a buck head, if you’d like to take a look. Hearse sure comes in handy for both jobs. One time, when I had an eight-foot gator in the back that my brother-in-law tagged, I got a call to pick up one of my church members who had just died at a nursing home. Both fit just fine.”
My mind was spinning, thinking how I might use Reverend Duffle to get through the road block. So far, the best I could come up with was to play dead and lie in the back. I asked to see his work to buy time to think this through.
“Now this’s what I call a six-and-a-half-point buck.”
He showed me a mouse-colored deer head with one complete antler and the stub of another.
“Woulda been a twelve-pointer, had someone not blow’d half his rack off.” He pushed the deer head out of the way. “Since you’re a bird hunter, I bet you’ll really like this.” Reverend Duffle pulled out something that looked like a rooster on a stick. “A red-tailed hawk—now I know you’re gonna tell me ya can’t shoot a hawk. This one’s road kill. One of my deacons brought it to me. Turned out real nice.”
“Ah, yeah.”
I saw several largemouth bass that looked like freeze-dried catfish, and a rattlesnake that was so emaciated that there wasn’t enough of him to make a good belt. After showing me all the examples of his work, Reverend Duffle closed the mile-wide tailgate of the hearse. I was stuck with a part-time preacher and wild-animal embalmer on the side of the road, and I was afraid I was about to have hands laid on me. I decided to take the offensive.
“So, Reverend, what you think’s going on up the road?”
“I heard there’s been a bad accident. Chemical spill. They’ve closed the south-bound lane of the interstate ‘tween Oak Hill and Mims. You gotta take Exit 231, go to Oak Hill and pick up US 1 to Mims, there you can get back on the interstate heading south.”
Reverend Duffle announced the chemical spill like it was bad news, and I suppose it was for just about everyone else, but while the Reverend didn’t know it, he had done just what he’d set out to do. He saved me right there on the side of the road.
“I can take ya back to the Church. We got some fried chicken left over from prayer meetin’ if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks, but I need to be getting on the road. I’m gonna try to crank the truck one more time. Maybe it just needed to cool down a bit. If it doesn’t start this time, you think you could drop me off at a service station?”
“Sure thing. If you can get it started you probably oughta get it checked out in Oak Hill before you head back on the interstate. There’s a couple service stations there. If it won’t crank, I can take you to the next exit. You oughta carry that backpack with you, but you don’t need to worry about those rods you got in the back. I don’t think anyone’ll try to steal those.”
What was it with my fishing gear? I thought the ruse was pretty clever. So far no one thought I was really going fishing. Maybe I ought to toss those rods and tackle box and try to avoid further derision. They seemed only to attract unwanted attention.
Grey’s truck cooperated in the charade, making it difficult to crank back up, so difficult that I began to worry that I might actually have to hitch a ride to the service station, but just then the engine caught and turned over, blue smoke engulfing the hearse adding to the effect. I stepped out of the cab, threw my backpack in the seat, jumped back in, and waived to the preacher, still perched on the side of the road.
Through the detour, I crossed over the interstate toward Oak Hill, and in five miles pulled into the only restaurant that seemed to be open. Buddy’s Burgers was a local hamburger joint that from the outside appeared unable to pass an honest sanitation inspection, and upon entering removed all doubt. But this was Buddy’s lucky day. Most of the travelers inconvenienced by the detour seemed to have the same idea I had: regroup, figure out the shortest way to get back on the interstate, and grab some food in the process. I tossed my backpack on the bench at a booth. Buddy was at the grill flipping burgers as fast as he could, dispensing travel advice in the process.
“So you turn out the parking lot to the right, go to the next intersection—that’s US 1—take a right, and in about ten miles you’ll run into the town of Mims. Hit State Road 46, go right again, that’ll take you to the interstate in about a mile.”
I ordered what I thought would be the safest thing on the menu: burger, fries, and sweet tea. I figured he sold enough burgers for the meat to be fresh and enough fries for the grease not to be rancid, and no one in the South messes up sweet tea. Before my order arrived, I unzipped my backpack and pulled out my laptop, just to check out Buddy’s directions. When I looked up, someone had slid into my booth in front of me even before I had a chance to open my computer.
She looked mid-twenties, skinny, long wavy blond hair that hadn’t been washed in a while, sunken cheeks, too much eye makeup, long fake nails that she skittered across the Formica top of the table.
“So, you just get off the interstate?”
I didn’t want to be rude to one of the locals, but this encounter had all the indications of a hustle. Why else would a young girl come up to a strange old man in a burger joint? Instead of speaking I nodded. I tried very hard not to look encouraging. I hoped she might go away on her own.
“You want some company?”
“No. My wife wouldn’t like that.”
“I didn’t see any wife in that truck of yours.”
“She’s lying down. Not feeling good.”
“Ain’t nobody in there. I looked.”
“So, what you want?”
“I’m looking to make some money.”
“Sorry. Can’t help. Don’t have enough for myself.” I hoped my scruffy appearance would be all the convincing she needed that I was a waste of her time and she might move on.
“You don’t understand. I need money bad.” She tapped her nails faster and flipped her hair from one side of her head and back, glanced over at Buddy dispensing more advice, for now oblivious to the freelancer shaking down his customers. I shoved my laptop into my backpack and pushed to the edge of the booth. She grabbed my arm.
“Look. I ain’t had nothing to eat for two days.”
“If I get you a burger, will that help?”
She looked away, nodded.
> I went up to Buddy, ordered her the same thing I had, and paid. When I turned to go back to the booth, she was gone. So was my backpack.
I flew out the front door, saw no one in either direction, heard steps sprinting toward the rear, turned the corner and saw her toss the backpack over a wooden fence and scale it with a grab and a kick. It took me a second longer to get over, and by then she’d turned the corner into a neighborhood. If I didn’t catch her, she’d disappear in a few seconds. From where I stood, I could see across two back lots to the fronting street. If I cut through the back lots, I could get to the road a hundred yards ahead of where she turned, and I took a chance that her flight would take her there. I sprinted through privet hedges, under clothes lines, past swing sets, and broke onto the street. There was no one to be seen in any direction.
I tracked back toward the house where she’d made her turn, looking down driveways and over fences. No sign. There were dozens of bungalows on the street, with small fenced lots, an infinite number of hiding places. I kept to the street, moving toward where I’d last seen her.
She saw me first, broke, and dashed through the adjoining yard, backpack still in hand, over the fence and through the next yard. I ran the street, keeping her in sight through side yards and walkways, looking for a point to cut her off.
She sprinted behind a garage, through an open gate, and into the next lot when luck turned in my direction, and she got cornered by a pit bull doing guard duty. She tossed the pack again, climbed the fence, but before she could get over, the dog caught the leg of her jeans. By the time she pulled free, I was on the other side. We both dove for the backpack. She got her hand on a shoulder strap, jerked it from me, and bounded in the direction of the road. I tackled her before she was out of the yard, the pack tumbling free. I jumped for it.
She rolled and swiped a box cutter from her jeans, sprang to her feet, lunged and slashed. I shoved the backpack in front of me. She missed twice, then launched again, and ripped across the nylon, cutting across my left hand. The pain shooting through my arm, I could no longer hold on, and I dropped the backpack at my feet. I yanked the gun barrel from the pack and swung it at her. She ducked and slashed at my chest. I brought the barrel down, knocking the knife from her hand, and it fell at my feet. I stomped the box cutter under Grey’s boot. She kicked my shin to get my foot off the knife. I pressed down harder with one foot and swung the barrel at her head. She fell back. I snatched up the box cutter, the blade still open, moved toward her.
