by Chris Mattix
The route took him through darkened towns and down lightly traveled roads. Larcum used the flashlight to check the map from time to time. Turning with his left handcuffed to the wheel was awkward, even though the chain between the cuffs rotated, and soon his wrist was raw. He kept the window open and cool night air filled the cab.
Without the tension born from the fear of being pulled over, the ride would have almost been peaceful. It seemed that he was routed down roads that bypassed towns as much as possible. On a short stretch of four-lane highway he was approaching I-95 when the map directed him to turn. The two-lane road he got on curved through pine forests and the occasional subdivision entrance. He passed under I-95 and was into the coastal marsh, crossing several bridges, until he came to the last marked turn at 0335 in the morning. Larcum stopped at the sign and turned east onto the dark road. The map had a pencil line that stopped abruptly after the turn. This was the road where Larcum was supposed to slow to 40 mph and drive until he got a sign.
Headlights pulled out behind him as he passed through the last dark town, and stayed back. It was 0342 on an empty stretch of the road when the headlights closed on him rapidly in the side mirror, followed by flashing blue lights. Larcum’s heart started hammering. He slowed, pulled over, and hoped the deputy had no sense of smell; knowing it was hopeless.
The headlights and blue lights switched off, followed by a car door slamming behind him. The only other noise was the sound of crickets over the thrum of the two engines. A bright flashlight shined in his eyes. The door opened and threatened to yank Larcum out of the truck. A hand killed the headlights, then switched off the ignition. The flashlight never wavered.
"Don’t fucking move a muscle," a voice drawled.
The light moved to his wrist and the hand produced a slim handcuff key and released him from the cuffs.
"Okay," the deputy said. "Walk over to the side of the road there."
Larcum looked around. He saw nothing coming from either direction. His night vision was gone and it was darker than anyplace he had been, except for more gleaming stars than he ever remembered seeing before. Tall pine trees lined the road for at least two miles in the direction he came from and probably another two miles ahead, he guessed. He was beginning to get the idea that this road had been chosen for its isolation.
"You going to check the truck?" he said.
"I know what’s in the truck," the deputy said. "Now move the fuck over there."
A loud snap made Larcum glance over his shoulder in time to see the deputy remove his pistol from the holster and look around just as Larcum had seconds earlier. Larcum felt his legs almost buckle. He realized this was the delivery. Cop to cop. This prick would shoot him, sell the load, dispose of the truck, and be a hero for killing an escaped fugitive. He walked into the damp grass on the side of the road. The pine trees were about fifty feet ahead.
"Stop."
Larcum kept walking.
"Hey fucker, stop," the deputy yelled.
Larcum ran. After a delay, the deputy reacted. Larcum heard something metallic hit the road, followed by a curse. It must have been the flashlight because the deputy didn’t use it again.
Larcum heard a very loud shot behind him. He ran to his right and hoped it wasn’t going to be into the path of a bullet. Another shot echoed in the night. He couldn’t tell where the rounds were going. The deputy said nothing else. He wasn’t thinking about trying to get Larcum to stop on his own now, he was going to bring him down like a wild boar.
Larcum ran further to his right and hoped he wouldn’t trip on anything. He did a quick jog to his left. Another shot. This time something thunked into a tree ahead and to his right. He ran toward the sound, hoping the deputy thought he would run away from it. The pine trees were close now and Larcum dashed into their cover as two more shots sounded behind him. The thunks were closer this time and pine bark showered his head and shoulders.
Under the trees, the pine straw muffled his steps. Larcum ran straight and low under the branches, remembering the uniformity of the Sheriff’s pine forest. He started circling to his right, and slowed a little. His chest burned and he tried not to breathe heavily. He dropped to the ground and lay in the pine straw. The cruiser’s engine hummed on the road. Twice he heard a branch break near him. Then further away. Someone fell, followed by a muffled curse, even further away now.
Larcum crouched and moved toward the road. The deputy was making enough noise back there that Larcum could tell where he was from the sound. He moved quicker when he reached the road and went straight for the cruiser. If the deputy had an accomplice and the noise in the pine forest was a ploy, Larcum was walking into a trap.
He checked the door on the cruiser. Locked, but running. The deputy had an extra key. He crept up to the truck. The keys were still in the ignition. A mistake. He took the machete from behind the seat. Back at the cruiser he used both hands to drive the blade of the machete as hard as he could through the driver’s window. The deputy would have heard it if he wasn’t busy breaking too many branches. The punctured glass spidered and remained attached to the window tint. He punched through the hole and unlocked the door. The interior light had been disabled. Larcum switched the ignition off.
It was pitch black and silent except for the frogs croaking mercilessly in the ditch on the other side of the road. He left the key in and pounded it with the machete handle until it snapped, blocking the ignition. Larcum ran for the truck, hoping he had enough time. The truck started and Larcum did a u-turn, almost tipping over into the ditch. In the side mirror, he saw muzzle flash at the tree line. He was protected from behind by the bales and heard nothing over the protesting truck engine.
Larcum pulled into a gas station on the outskirts of Savannah and parked away from the pumps. He grabbed the envelope from the glove compartment and walked toward a Honda with Virginia plates. A kid in a George Mason University shirt was slumped back against the car pumping gas. He looked at Larcum.
"Buy you a tank of gas if I can use your cell phone for a minute," Larcum said.
The kid looked at the pump, the price getting close to $20.00. He dug a phone out of his pocket.
"Can you block the caller ID?"
The kid looked skeptical. Larcum gave him $40.00. He punched three buttons and handed the phone over. Larcum walked a few feet away and dialed a number from memory.
"Mooney," said a sleep fogged voice.
"It didn’t go exactly as planned," Larcum said.
The voice became alert. "I never told you to escape. You were supposed to see if they would solicit a bribe to release you."
"And I wasn't ready to eat a bullet so you could ask the judge to shave a few months off my sentence."
"It’s the best we can do, you know that. The bureau doesn’t decide, we simply recommend."
"I took matters into my own hands," Larcum said.
"Where are you?" Mooney asked. Larcum could hear him rustling around on the other end. "I think we can still fix this with the judge if I can get you in front of him today."
"I don’t think that’s going to work," Larcum said.
The rustling stopped. The voice was weary now. "If you take off you better hide well because you’re adding a few years to your sentence."
"I know," Larcum said. "Sorry for the blemish on your record."
"Is there anything I can say to-"
"I don’t think so," Larcum said. "I’ll take the chance."
"That’s what got you into this situation."
"I know."
"Wait," Mooney said. "Anything to report?"
Larcum laughed. "Always collecting intelligence."
"I take what I can get."
"Just lax jail standards," Larcum said. "No one tried to hit me up for money, but they liked my car a lot."
"They don’t see many Maseratis down that way."
"I’ll miss that car," Larcum said. "The whole thing seems a little small-time for you, Mooney. Crooked jail guards in backwoods counties."
"It’s the iceberg theory," Mooney said. "I thought we could trust you enough to help us see what was under the surface."
"Sorry." Larcum ended the call. The kid was leaning on his car and watching him. Larcum handed him the phone and walked to the truck.
It was still before dawn when Larcum pulled the truck into Thunderbolt. The restaurant was where he remembered it—a shack-like seafood place surrounded by a crushed shell parking lot. It looked like it hadn’t been open for a while. He left the truck in the dark lot and walked around behind the restaurant. The house was dark. Larcum was relieved to see Maynard’s pick-up in the driveway. He knocked on the door.
It took Maynard a while. Larcum stood on the porch and felt heavy footsteps through the floorboards. Maynard cracked the door open. He wore a wrinkled pair of cut-offs and looked soft and bloated. He looked at Larcum, and then around and past him before speaking.
"Heard you were going away for a while."
"I skipped," Larcum said.
"I’m on probation. This probably isn’t the best place for you."
"I’ve got something you might be interested in."
Maynard stepped outside onto the porch. He looked around again, then reached gently for Larcum’s shirt and lifted it up to his armpits. He stepped closer and ran his hand over Larcum’s back down to his waist.
"What is it?" he said.
"Follow me around back."
Maynard followed Larcum through the parking lot to the front of the restaurant. He stopped when he saw the truck. He sniffed the air like a dog, and stood stock-still.
"Remember your last payment to me?" Larcum said.
Maynard nodded.
"I’m returning the favor."
"How much is in there?"
"I think the truck is almost full."
"Is anyone looking for it?"
"Not here."
"What do you want for it?"
"I’ll let you have it on consignment. Give me half of what you sell it for. I need cash to get out of here."
"Done," Maynard said. "Now get it the fuck out of here before it turns light and people start moving around and smell this shit."
"Where do I take it?"
"Remember the warehouse across from the docks where I kept nets and gear off season?"
Larcum nodded.
"It’s empty now," Maynard said. "I’m waiting until I can sell the property to some asshole condo developer. Wait with the load until I get someone over there to pick it up. It might take a day or two. I can’t touch this myself right now."
Larcum waited while Maynard got the key. He eased the truck the three blocks to the warehouse and got it inside before dawn broke. He found the old cot Maynard told him would be in the office and slept most of the day despite the building heat.
The next morning he awoke to a knocking sound coming from the front of the warehouse. Larcum looked through a dirty window at a young woman that looked like she would be more comfortable on a tennis court than on a shrimp boat, or warehouse full of pot.
"Maynard sent me."
Larcum unlocked the door and she stepped inside. "Who-ee it smells like pot in here," she said. She walked over to the truck and examined it. "You got a load all right. I’m gonna have to get another truck. I can’t be driving this thing around town. I’m surprised you got it this far without every drug dog in Georgia chasing you down the road."
Larcum shrugged. "Lucky. I guess."
"Sometimes that’s all you need," she said. "Maynard wanted me to see if you need anything."
"I could use a change of clothes," Larcum said. "I’ve been in these a few days."
"Will you be able to help me move this load to the other truck?"
Larcum nodded.
"Good. That way I won’t have to bring anyone else. I’ll be back tonight."
After dark Larcum opened the warehouse door when he heard a truck idling out front. The same girl backed a rental truck into the space behind the stake truck. She stepped out of the cab as Larcum pulled the doors closed. Larcum had a moment of fear when she raised her hand toward him. She tossed a bag of hamburgers at him.
"Thought you might be hungry," she said.
"Thanks."
She untied the tarp from the truck while Larcum gulped two burgers. Then she got into the rental truck and waited for Larcum to start tossing bales across the gap between the trucks. Both were sweating when they were done. The girl stood outside and looked up and down the empty street until she was satisfied. As she drove out of the warehouse she told Larcum that Maynard would be by the next day.
It was two days. Larcum was asleep when he heard a door open and Maynard walked into the warehouse. Larcum watched him from the cracked door of the darkened office and was happy to see a canvas bag in one hand. Maynard stood in the center of the warehouse and waited until Larcum stepped out. He handed over the bag and watched while Larcum fingered through the bills.
"There’s a shopping center where you can ditch this truck," Maynard said. "I can’t touch it."
Larcum wanted to be done with the truck but knew he’d have to be the one to get rid of it.
"You can buy a used car up near the army base. You know how to ride a bike?"
Larcum nodded.
"Even cheaper and faster. The soldiers are always selling them before they deploy."
"Thanks," Larcum said, holding up the bag. "Who’s the girl?"
Maynard grinned. "Cute, huh? My cousin, the college girl. I can trust her though. Listen," Maynard said. "I’m gonna call my probation officer tomorrow and tell her that you came to see me and tried to sell me some pot. She’ll pass it on to the DEA and when they find the truck they’ll see I wasn’t bullshitting. You’ll be out of here by then."
"Probation cramping your style?"
"I need to get out from under that shit," Maynard said. "Can’t make a decent living. If I toss ‘em a bone I might get some time off."
Larcum gave it an hour before he pulled out of the warehouse and drove past the shopping center Maynard had directed him to. He trusted Maynard to a point, but didn’t want to take a chance that he had already made the call to get even more time off his probation. He left the truck in a motel parking lot with the keys inside and started walking to a used car lot. He could be back in Atlanta late tonight. Mooney would be surprised to see him.
Or he could head south. He hefted the bag in his hand. Either way, he’d be somewhere soon.
Jerry’s Dead Wife
By Chris Mattix
Sunday, September 16, 2012: 7:03 a.m.
Sometimes watching the sunrise stirs things like a flash flood. Memories, regrets, and bits of undigested food all come flowing up as if the world were trying to siphon them out. Sitting on the open bed of his pickup truck, Jerry couldn’t help but curse the encroaching rays of warm morning light, silently hating them for illuminating the harsh reality of the night before. A slow but powerful wind tousled his graying hair and sent strands dancing into his periphery. The same wind rustled a cheap blue tarp bunched up where the cab met the truck bed, uncovering a small patch of bright glossy red. Through the twisting tendrils of gray, Jerry saw the little red beacon. For a moment he couldn’t remember what it was. Was it his SnapOn toolbox? A billowing gust reminded him by twisting the tarp just enough to allow his wife’s hand to fall out and ring an accusatory thud in his direction. Jerry Morgan had had a shit night and, from the look of it, was going to have a shit day.
9:50am
"Usual?"
"Huh?"
"You havin the usual today Jer?"
"Oh…uh, yeah. Thanks, Marg."
The Phoenix Café has always been a hidden gem. If you don’t know it’s there you are sure to miss it, but for those in the know it offers the best damn breakfast in Helena, Montana. Lying just outside the city on Highway 15, The Phoenix is little more than a truck stop consisting of a diner and a casino. Jerry sat in a tattered booth, shifting in his seat because of the ruined red plastic upholstery.
No matter where he moved, one rough little bastard of a spring kept digging into the meat of his ass.
His muscles ached from digging into the hard soil at Blue Cloud, his hands raw and blistered. He’d forgotten his gloves in the haste of his morning. Jerry sat in the familiar booth and stared into his coffee cup. He alternated thoughts between Greta, his departed wife, and nothing at all, as if she were the single light in his mind and he was playing with the light switch. He forced another thought in through the darkness. He thought about the burial.
7:33am
He raced northeast toward Blue Cloud around 7:30 a.m. The sun was nagging him to slow down but his foot kept finding the pedal, mashing it into the mud-caked floor of his ancient Ford F-150. His speed was excessive, seeing as the road to Blue Cloud was little more than a dirt trail carved into grass from years of camping trips and high school kids looking for a place for late-night make-out sessions. But those were distant thoughts.
"To hell with it," he thought, "let’s get this over with."
As he climbed the ever-steepening slopes of Blue Cloud’s rolling hills, Jerry couldn’t help but think of the first time he and Greta had been there. She was wearing her blue floral dress, the same dress that had sent him home with un-Christian thoughts the first night they’d met. That goddamn dress. It was still hanging in their closet. He’d have to get rid of it now. Or maybe not. Maybe it could serve as a reminder of better times. Times when things were good and life was sweet and it was still that Friday afternoon in July when they spent the morning swimming out at Canyon Ferry and decided to spend the remains of the day on the sun-baked rocks in the rolling hills of Blue Cloud. But those days were too far-gone, as dead as Greta.
The soil at Blue Cloud was rocky and dense. It took Jerry over two hours to dig the three feet. He collapsed against a hulking boulder, panting. Squinting from the dust in his eyes, Jerry looked over at his old truck. The truck that had once held so many memories now only held death, regret. In this tired moment, he thought about the choices he’d made. What dumped him at this brutal conclusion? He wiped the beads of sweat cascading from his brow, leaving a mud trail behind to mark his exertion. Gathering the remainder of his strength, Jerry walked up the trail to finish what he’d started.
