by John Evans
“Locked,” one of the men muttered. “What the hell?”
Dusty and I crowded against the house, blending into the shadows between two tall shrubs. Just around the corner, the men were probably peering through the beveled glass door like we had when we saw the hand.
“Holy Jesus Christ! He’s on the floor!” Shotgun barked.
“Is he . . .” Billy cut himself off. I could picture him with his face to the window as his eyes told him the story.
“Kick it in!”
A resounding thud bounced off the barn across the lawn as a boot hit the door. Another followed it. On the third kick, the door banged open with the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass. We paused for only a second or two, allowing the men to rush into the house, and then we ran. Our feet hit the planks of the bridge and I glanced over my shoulder. Jonah’s house stood silently as it had before—a warm glow pouring out of the rectangle of the open doorway. I pictured the men inside, attending to Jonah, calling the police, wondering what he had been shooting at and whether it was still in the house with them.
We ran as fast as we could but slowed as the pitch of the lane increased and fatigue set in. By the time we reached the break in the stone row, we were barely jogging.
“The fucker . . . better . . . start,” Dusty managed to say between gasps.
I was thinking the same thing, but kept my mouth shut, concentrating on getting there first. There were seven piles of brush in the field, but from the lane their shadowy outlines were lost and they blended in with the trees in the background. As we neared them, they became humps ten feet tall and looked like squat trees growing in the field. My car was parked behind them.
I opened the door, and the interior lights came on. At least the battery was OK. When we both were seated, I paused and looked at Dusty before inserting the key in the ignition. I gave it a twist. The engine strained and turned over once, twice, and then the starter solenoid clicked. We were dead. I closed my eyes and planted my forehead against the steering wheel.
Dusty opened his door. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He stepped into the night.
“No!” I shouted. “Get back in here.”
He slid back into his seat, keeping his right foot on the ground.
“Close the door.”
“But . . .”
“Close the fucking door,” I said, and he closed it—if for no other reason than to keep my voice from being heard in the valley.
“We got to get out of here,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “The cops will be here any second.”
He reached for the door handle and I slapped his chest, grabbing a fistful of shirt. I jerked him toward me. “I’m not leaving my car here.” He was propped up on an elbow looking up at me.
“All right. All right,” he pushed himself upright. “What do you want me to do—run into town and buy a battery? Call a tow truck? Listen, the car won’t start. We have to leave it.”
“It’ll start,” I said firmly. “You push. I’ll pop the clutch. It’ll start.”
“What if it don’t? What if we run into a SWAT team halfway up the lane?”
I paused for a moment.
“We can beat them,” I said. “It will take them at least fifteen minutes to get here. We’ll be gone by then.”
I threw off the emergency brake and turned the ignition on. Dusty blew out a breath and got out and pushed, his rear end against the trunk. The car started moving—slowly. Each row of corn stubble became a speed bump to be climbed, followed by a grudging descent. Dusty had to strain to keep the car moving at a lumbering roll. I jumped out and pushed against the doorpost, and with my help and the increasing downward pitch of the field, the car started to accelerate. When we hit a steady five miles per hour, I jumped back into the car and dropped it into second gear. I popped the clutch. The car lurched and jerked and then stopped.
Dusty came around to me. “Jesus H. Christ,” he growled and ran his fingers through his hair. “Now what?”
I stepped out of the car and wind rustled through the cornfield and bit through our clothing. Off in the distance, a siren worked its way through the countryside.
Dusty looked at me. “Fifteen minutes, huh?”
CHAPTER 6
The sound of the siren grew louder and then stopped. We could see headlights sweep above the trees to our right as the police car swung onto Jonah’s lane. Red, white, and blue lights flashed through the trees as the car rolled by. Another car entered the lane, but this one was in no hurry. A searchlight beam cut through the trees and swung erratically across the night. They were looking for someone—making sure no one slipped away from the scene.
“Oh, Jesus,” I whispered and we ran into the cornfield, stopping several rows deep.
“If they see the car, we’re fucked,” Dusty whispered.
He was right. If the police spotted my car in the field, they would run a check on the owner, discover that it was mine, and send a patrol car to my apartment. My absence would send up a red flag, and they would look for me—wait for me, and I would show up in the morning looking like I had spent the night bashing through the woods.
The field above us was also planted with corn, and whoever was operating the light soon discovered that the beam, though as bright as the headlight on a locomotive, couldn’t penetrate beyond the first row of waxy leaves. He concentrated on the orchard on the other side, sweeping the light back and forth from tree to tree. For a few seconds, the patrol car disappeared behind the brush piles and reappeared farther down the lane.
We watched the light swing and cut through the darkness until it was well at the bottom of the hill. “Let’s go,” I said, and we stepped out into the open. As we raced to my car I kept my eye on the cruiser, its spotlight sweeping across empty fields and the woodland near the farmhouse. Brake lights came on as the car approached the wooden bridge. We watched it lurch over the bridge and stop next to the first patrol car, light bars flashing. Then I turned my attention to our new dilemma.
My car was now fully exposed to view from the lane. Even in the dark, it could be seen without a spotlight, but the officer working the light still focused his beam on the trees opposite us. The ground was relatively flat from the car to the lane. The downward pitch of the field and the lane were about the same. A stone row with no breaks or gaps ran along the bottom edge of the field. There was not enough room to clutch start the car and no escape if we failed again. There was only one choice.
“Dusty, we have to roll it down the lane,” I said, trying not to let my fear show.
“Are you nuts?”
“We’ve got to chance it. We can’t leave the car here.”
Dusty shook his head. “Yeah, you’re right—we can’t leave the car here. That would be stupid. It’s better to roll the fucker right down to the cops. Save them the trouble of finding it.”
“They won’t hear us. We’re far enough away, and the wind is with us and they’re in the house.” I ran my fingers over my lips. “And if they do spot us, we’ll drive up to them and tell them that we’re here to see if Jonah found my wallet.”
“Right,” Dusty said, “You don’t look like some guy coming back for his wallet. You look like you was shot at and chased through the woods. You got stuff in your hair and all over.”
I looked down at my shirt. Even in the dark I could see the plaster dust and fluff from Jonah’s chairs. I tried to brush it away.
Dusty brushed his hair with his fingertips and plucked at chunks of batting. “We better make sure they don’t see us.”
Dusty went around to the passenger side and opened the door. Together, pushing against the doorposts, we got the car to the lane and angled down toward the waiting patrol cars.
“Well, this is it,” I said, and I gave it an extra push before jumping in and closing the door enough so it latched. Dusty hopped in right after me. Two hundred yards away, Jonah’s house was the center of a light show, the old stone casting off muddy hues from the police lights.
We weren’t close enough to see if anyone was standing on the porch or in the yard, but it looked as if everyone was in the house trying to figure out what made a man empty his gun and die.
The lane took a sharp drop at the stone row that marked the end of the brush field, and the car picked up speed fast. There was still plenty of room before we got near the bridge. I let my Saturn pick up more speed. The flashing patrol car lights gave me enough light to see the road and stay on it.
“Well . . .?” Dusty said.
I popped the clutch.
Once again, it lurched and jerked, but this time the engine turned over under its own power, and when I pushed in the clutch, it purred like it had just come off the assembly line.
As I brought the car to a halt, we stared down at Jonah’s house, now about one hundred yards away, and we could see that there was no one outside—everyone still inside with Jonah. I threw the car into reverse and my back-up lights lit the world around us like a beacon.
“Christ!” Dusty muttered. “Why don’t you just honk the fuckin’ horn.”
The car tossed some gravel as I backed up, and the transmission whined as I picked up speed—sounds that might well be heard if anyone happened to be outside listening. I backed into the tractor path, threw it into first, and turned up Jonah’s lane, the unpaved road a pale wash of gray amid the blackness ahead. Progress was painfully slow.
“If another patrol car comes we’re screwed,” Dusty said. “There’s no place to go.”
He was right. “No point trying to sneak out of here,” I said, turning on the headlights and stepping on the gas. I drove as fast as I could to the main road, throwing up a spray of gravel and a cloud of dust in my wake.
I didn’t fully appreciate the tension we had been under until I had driven about a mile down 212. My shoulders relaxed and I looked over at Dusty wearing his crooked grin. He winked and said, “Holy shitbird.” Then he started to giggle. I shook my head and started laughing myself. We cut it off short as another patrol car came streaming up from Fannett Meadow in the other direction, but after watching it go by and continue without so much as a blink of a break light, we started laughing again. We laughed almost all the way into town, and for the moment I felt more alive than I had since high school, and immeasurably grateful to be away from Jonah’s and the police and the danger of going to jail—for the moment.
CHAPTER 7
Dusty and I showed up at McDonald's at eight-thirty—late by an hour and a half. A high school kid working the drive-thru gave me a nod and gestured that I was to take over for him. I grabbed the headset, and Dexter left without a word. So far, I had not run into the boss, and that was good. Cash wouldn’t yell at me while I was busy and maybe he’d cool down a bit when the time came. He wouldn’t fire me, but I’d pay for being late. Cash Williams enjoyed making life miserable for his crew. And in my case, he reveled in it. I was special. A white boy from a wealthy family had, for some unfathomable reason, ended up working at McDonald’s—under him. He delighted in it. Strangely, so did I.
We were deadlocked in a fierce battle of wills. He couldn’t make me quit and I couldn’t make him fire me. In the past few weeks, our antagonism had settled into verbal sparring, which, to a casual observer, might be taken as good-natured ribbing between friends. It was not.
Cash came up to the drive-thru bay and looked all around, eyes sweeping by me—through me—without stopping. “Where’s Waldo?” he called. “Yo, Waldo!”
It took a moment for me to catch on. He was talking about me. He had been searching for me for an hour and a half. I got it.
“Where’s Waldo?” he repeated.
I ignored him.
“Oh, there you are, lost in thought,” he said, as if I had just appeared next to him. “Listen. Got a job for you. The garbage is overflowing. Get some new liners and take the full ones to the dumpster—and don’t be dragging them across the parking lot. They bust open and leave skid marks.”
Cash grabbed the headset, and I went off to play in the dumpster. His reaction to my being late was uncharacteristically soft, and I knew that this was merely the start. He was convinced that one day I would quit and take a job at Cameron Industries, and to fulfill that prophecy, he pushed me every chance he could. I pushed back—passively, taking all his crap with a shrug of indifference. I did not want to work for my father, and at this point in my life, McDonald’s was my choice. This job was special. The son of the richest man in the county, and maybe all of Pennsylvania, had a job at McDonald’s. It was perfect—something a father could be ashamed of.
When I showed up at the drive-thru bay after my run to the dumpster, Cash lifted himself slowly off the battered stool. “Well,” he said, “here’s Waldo,” as if he’d been waiting for me all night. His teeth, strong and white, sparkled with a predatory gleam. Against his skin, the color of Hershey’s Special Dark, his teeth were almost fluorescent. And as I stared back at him, I became aware that the predatory nature of his smile came not from his teeth, but from his eyes—devoid of compassion, the unblinking eyes of a shark.
“You finished with the garbage?”
“Yup.”
“What, already?”
“In record time.”
“You wash your hands?”
“Why? I haven’t touched any food yet.”
He smiled—then peeled off the headset and handed it to me. We traded places. I checked the monitor. No cars were coming through.
“So,” Cash started, his tone now more casual, almost friendly. “You and Dusty have a meeting with your stock broker?”
I laughed uneasily. “Yeah. We’re thinking of buying out McDonald’s—getting rid of all the riffraff.”
“Riffraff. That’s good. Puts Dusty out of a job.”
He gave me a toothy grin and held it, waiting for my response. I think Cash was beginning to enjoy our little sparring matches, and when I brought this one to a close with silence, he stood awkwardly for a moment—another little victory.
“Seriously,” he said as the smile faded, “where the fuck were you guys?”
I did not have a plausible answer. “We had a few things to take care of.”
His lips pursed. “That’s what I thought,” he said and then continued, “But there are things to take care of, and ‘things to take care of.’ So, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I lied badly. “We had to move a few things.” I was thinking of the day we moved Jonah’s farm equipment into the field for his auction.
“Move a few things?” he said doubtfully. “You’re so full of shit.”
“What’s the big deal?” I asked. “We ran late.”
“The big deal is,” he planted his hands on his hips, “I want to know.”
“Why? What business is it of yours?”
“Because I risked my whole career to do you guys a favor. Least I should know is why.”
“Your career?” I repeated, and caught myself short of laughing. It was common knowledge that working at McDonald’s was part of his parole agreement after serving some time for armed robbery and assault. He had worked his way up to night manager, but everyone knew what was just below the surface. He had a nose for sniffing out action, and if money was to be made he wanted a cut. It was an instinct that kept him on the edge, wheeling and dealing, weaving his way through life, collecting little “fees” along the way—biding his time until something big came his way.
Dusty appeared behind Cash and froze within hearing distance of our conversation.
“Look,” Cash continued. “I’ll spell it out for you. I punched you in at seven. Phil and Dexter punched out and stayed to cover for you guys. Dusty’s paying them . . . so you could move a few things?” he added incredulously.
“I didn’t know that,” I said. That explained why Cash wasn’t upset with us being late.
“Didn’t know what?” Dusty asked, making his presence known.
“Didn’t know you’re paying Phil and Dexter to cover for us,” I said staring
at him, wondering what he was thinking when he made those arrangements.
Dusty looked uneasy for a second, but covered it up with that grin of his. “We—we’re paying. Phil and Dex ain’t going to work for nothing and McDonald’s ain’t paying overtime, so we’ll pay them under the table. It all evens out.”
I turned to Cash. “What do you get out of it—for risking your whole career?”
“You owe me. Just remember that.”
A car pulled up to the speaker outside, and I slipped back into the bay to take the order. Dusty moved on, leaving Cash standing there. I adjusted my headset and checked the monitor. A patrol car was waiting at the menu display. Damn.
“May I take your order?”
“Hamburger and a small Coke.”
The voice was familiar, and I winced as I tapped in the order.
“Anything else?”
“Come on . . . ask me the fries thing.”
I closed my eyes. “Do you want fries with that?”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Lenny laughed and pulled forward.
Most of Fannett Meadow’s police force had to be at Jonah’s by now, buzzing around looking for clues. They left DiNuccio back in town to protect and to serve. Did he know I worked for Jonah? I doubted it. I put the lid on the Coke, and Dusty dropped off the hamburger.
When I turned to the window, Officer DiNuccio was looking past me.
“Your brother . . . Stanley . . . he works here, too?”
“Yeah, we’re joined at the hip.”
I gave him his order and watched as he made a pretense of looking for money, waiting for a free ride because he was a cop.
“Forgot your wallet?”
He stopped patting himself down and glared at me. I smiled.
“Tell you what. This one’s on me.”
CHAPTER 8
I caught Dusty in the parking lot after work before he could slip away. I spun him around.
“We need to talk,” I said. “No bullshit.”
I released his arm and stared into his eyes, daring him to try to disarm me with that smile of his. When he didn’t, I continued, “DiNuccio came through and got me thinking a whole lot of bad things.”
