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finetuned his ear. He didn't have to listen very hard. More branches popped, more leaves shuffled, as whatever it was got closer.
With every passing second the sky reddened, and he could now see the faint outline of the trail. Like a difficult chess match, his mind whirled as he tried to figure out his next move. Stand there? Walk forward? Turn and run? In the half a second it took to process all of that, a dark figure appeared at the top of the hill, coming down the trail at a brisk pace. Clifton finally made a decision and turned to run. As he did so, the figure apparently saw him because a distant voice said, "Hey, come here."
But Clifton wasn't about to stop. All he had to do was get across the road and he'd be back at Swamper's in no time. The paranoia and panic ate at him. Aren't you being a little ridiculous? It's probably nothing to worry about. Yeah, but what if it is? He's right behind me. He couldn't be sure if the man was running after him or not--his hearing was a bit muffled as the wind from his own strides filled his ears. The stubby nose of the gun barrel dug into his pelvis with every step he took. He knew he shouldn't turn his head, but he couldn't help it. He had to look. So when the gray of the road appeared before him at the end of the wooded gauntlet, he turned to see. Sure enough, the figure was still behind him and appeared to be gaining. He nearly choked on his own heart as he widened his strides and gave it everything he had.
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Just before he reached the road, something grabbed at his ankles. A second later he found himself hurtling through the air as a sinking feeling squeezed the hollow of his stomach. It was the same feeling he'd once had when he'd lost control of a bicycle on a steep hill and knew there was nothing he could do about it. He was about to slam hard. As he made contact with the road, he ducked his head and crossed his right arm against his chest. Small rocks and pieces of gravel tore into his shoulder and then his back as he log-rolled twice across the hardpack. The tip of the gun's barrel had scraped away a layer of skin near his crotch. But he didn't even feel it. He popped up as quickly as he could, his knees bleeding and his T-shirt ripped, mentally cursing the rusty barbed wire that had tripped him.
He now saw the vague form of a car parked off the side of the road about forty feet from the trailhead--which he swore hadn't been there earlier--its right tires in the weeds, its left ones on the gravel. It looked like a yellow Lincoln. Clifton's chest heaved, and adrenaline pumped through his body. A prickling fear ran across his skin like the soft furry legs of a scurrying spider. Through an opening in the trees, a beam of sunlight popped out and shined directly on the man as he exited the woods. It was like some sort of weird religious phenomenon. The beam seemed to track his movements, as if God was spotlighting him. Clifton didn't know what was
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happening, but the man was well lit as he slowly walked across the road, now taking his time, a maniacal smile on his face. He opened and closed his hand like he was trying to squeeze juice from a lemon, causing the blue tattoos on his right arm to dance. Clifton discerned one that said wes in block letters across his biceps, but everything else was a blur.
"I remember you," said the man. The gap in his teeth stared at Clifton like a dark eye from the hollow of a tree. "You remember me?"
Clifton's mind raced, but unfortunately he couldn't get his feet to do the same. He was frozen. The whole thing reminded him of one of those showdowns on a TV Western, where each cowboy walks toward the other in the center of town, their guns at the ready. Except this was real. Clifton felt a throbbing in his shoulder. He felt blood pulsing from a wound on his knee. But he didn't feel any pain. For some reason, as desperate as the situation was, he couldn't erase the high-noon shootout scenario that kept flashing across the screen of his mind. But suddenly it all made sense. He reached into the front of his shorts and pulled out the gun. His hand shook badly, but despite the shaking, the ice cream man halted in the middle of the road. He put his hands up and out in front of him as if pushing against an imaginary wall. "Whoa, take it easy," he said.
"I'll shoot you. I swear to God I will." Clifton's eye was
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trained on the beaded sight at the tip of the barrel. The bead was focused directly between the man's two upraised hands and pointing at the center of his chest like a football through a set of goalposts.
"Hey, just take it easy. I'm going to go back to my car over there," he said, motioning with his head toward the vehicle. "And you can go on to wherever it was you were going." He took a slow and careful step backwards, as if trying to avoid the strike of a rattlesnake he'd nearly stepped on.
Clifton put his other hand on the butt of the gun, just as Swamper had instructed, and tried to stanch the shaking. It didn't do much good. "Where's Maria?" he said. His voice sounded weak and scared to him, which is exactly what it was. "What did you do with her?"
The man took another step backwards, his hands still up in the air at shoulder-height. "Hey, dude, I don't have any idea what you're talking about. I don't know any Maria."
"That's the girl you--"
But he didn't have time to finish because the man wheeled and made a break for the car, weaving a bit as he went. Clifton followed the man's broad back with the tip of the barrel, but he couldn't bring himself to fire. The man opened the heavy door of the Lincoln and quickly slipped inside. A second later the taillights sent a red glow through the dawn as the engine revved to life. Shoot him, goddamnit. Pull the trigger. I can't. Do
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it. Hurry up. But she might be in the car. I might hit her. Aim at a tire. Do something.
The rear-wheel drive spun the tires into motion, sending a spray of gravel across the road. A few pebbles landed at Clifton's feet as the blood-red of the taillights disappeared in a heavy cloud of dust and blue exhaust. The lights zigzagged as the hind end fishtailed before righting itself and speeding off down the lane toward Crocket's Mill.
Clifton jumped on to the trail and ran down the hill, both of his hands still white-knuckling the cross-grid of the grip. He bolted up the steps two at a time and pulled the screen door open so hard that he nearly ripped it off its hinges.
Swamper was in the kitchen wiping down the counters when the door slapped against the side of the house and then against the jamb. "Clifton, that you?"
"Yeah," he said as he approached the entryway.
"What're you doing back so soon? Get lost or something?" Swamper smiled as he looked up from the counter, holding a moist rag in his hands. His eyes immediately went from Clifton's panicked face to the gun hanging loosely at his side. His smile evaporated. "What the hell?"
"Come on. We gotta make another phone call."
***
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Clifton pulled furiously on the starter string as he stood in the back of the skiff, his torn shoulder now throbbing with pain. The aluminum hull rocked back and forth with his jerky movements and clanged against one of the dock's posts. Clumps of green slime peeled away from the wood like smeared paint each time the skiff smacked against it. "Come on, you piece of shit," he yelled. "Start already."
Swamper sat in the front of the skiff facing Clifton. He was quietly smoking a cigarette. "Did you remember to pull out the choke?"
"Yes!" he snapped as he looked at the choke button. Then he realized that in fact he hadn't. He pulled the knob out but made no attempt to apologize. He grabbed the starter handle again and this time the engine coughed to life. A blue smoke enveloped him as he revved the throttle with a turn of his wrist as if gassing a motorcycle. When he set her in motion, a muddy layer of tepid water sloshed along the flat bottom of the skiff, sending old cigarette butts and plastic cracker wrappers toward the soles of Swamper's boots.
He opened up the engine full bore as he raced toward Old Henry's. He kept his head on a swivel and his eyes at full attention as he peeked over Swamper's shoulders, on the lookout for the tips of rocks or submerged logs.
"You might want to slow her a notch or two," said Swamper as he continued to smoke, the smel
l of the tobacco hitting
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Clifton in the face as it traveled downwind. Swamper had to yell to be heard over the motor, the breeze, and the sound of the prow slapping against the surface. "Water's down a bit. The grass is nearly all the way to the top."
Clifton didn't pay any attention. I know what I'm doing. I gotta get to a phone. He continued to race down the channel, sending a flock of green-headed wood ducks scurrying for cover as he did so, the tips of their wings nipping the water as they hastily struggled to take flight. Only a minute after Swamper had spoken, the engine began to whine and labor. Clifton let off the accelerator and said, "What the hell? Shit. We gotta call the cops." He looked to Swamper for help, his eyes seeking advice though his stubborn mouth refused to ask for any. A moment later the only sound was water lapping off the aluminum hull as the boat sluiced through the river and slowed to an almost complete stop. "Why'd the engine die? What's going on?"
Swamper took a final drag and then flicked the dog-end into the water where it extinguished itself with a hiss and a trailing signal of smoke. "You're gonna need to pull the tail out. The prop's most likely bound up with weeds and grass. Bogged the engine down."
"Shit," said Clifton. Panic overwhelmed him. The quicker he got to a phone, the quicker the cops might be able to track the man down. And find Maria. The guy was close. He hadn't
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left town as most had suspected. Maybe he'd been hiding out in those woods somewhere. But somebody probably would've seen the car and reported it. Hell, I'd have probably seen it.
Clifton leaned on the handle with all of his weight until the propeller of the small outboard engine broke the surface. A throng of lily pads, watercress, and grass, like a knot of thick, uncombed hair, had wrapped around it. The weeds covered the shaft's cowling and dripped like the strands of a wet mop.
"I got a square of two-by-four tied to a string sitting down by your feet. Jam that underneath the pivot and it'll keep the engine up out of the water."
Clifton located the piece of wood and did as instructed. Then he got to work unraveling the mess as the boat drifted aimlessly. It reminded him of having to clean out the roller of his mother's vacuum after he'd inadvertently sucked up rug tassels, broom straws, and anything else that wasn't supposed to go up there. He found a flathead screwdriver rolling about on the bottom of the skiff, and he used that as a pry bar to help loosen the weeds.
Meanwhile, Swamper had grabbed a spare paddle and was using it as a keel to keep them pointed downriver. An oncoming train whistled as it approached along the bank, and a snapping turtle, its black carapace as big around as a hubcap, was already sunning itself on an exposed rock in the early
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morning sunshine. But Clifton paid no attention to either as he worked. All told, it took about five minutes to clear the debris, but to Clifton if felt like five hours. When he finished, he dropped the prop back into the water and restarted the warm engine, not needing to pull the choke this time.
"Might wanna take it a little slower," said Swamper.
Clifton tensed his jaw and grated his teeth as he tried to refrain from replying. He cranked down on the throttle to get moving, but once in motion, he eased off a bit.
Old Henry's dock was void of people when they approached. Clifton slid the skiff next to it, and Swamper reached up and tied off to a rusty cleat. Clifton immediately jumped out and ran to the telephone booth at the far end of the gravel parking lot. It took Swamper a bit longer. He hobbled up the metal pool ladder and then slowly walked toward the phone where Clifton waited impatiently, tapping his foot like a spoiled little girl exasperated with her mother.
He had already dug a handful of change out of his pocket and now held it loosely in his palm. When Swamper got there, Clifton extended his arm and said, "Come on, Swamper. Hurry up. We're wasting time."
Swamper eyed the money and then looked at Clifton. "Reckon you might oughta make the call this time. You saw everything, not me."
Clifton felt a heavy ball of lead sink into his stomach. He
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looked at Swamper in wide-eyed disbelief. "Me? You know how I get when it comes to the police."
"Well, you know what? It's time you got over it. There's a little girl's life at stake. The quicker you call, the quicker they might be able to find her. And you don't need no money, just hit nine-one-one."
Clifton held the change out stupidly for another moment. With a cruel snap to his voice he said, "So now that you're officially my grandfather, you think you need to start teaching me all of life's lessons or something? Trying to help me become a man?'
Swamper looked directly at Clifton and locked eyes with him. "In a lot of ways, I think you're already a man well beyond your years. At the moment, though, you're acting like a selfish little brat. A little mama's boy. Now hop to it and make that call. I'm going inside to get a drink."
Clifton mumbled something inaudible under his breath as Swamper headed toward the steps. What an asshole. Does he know what I just went through? Face-to-face with a murderer.
A thin stream of smoke chugged from the stovepipe poking out of Old Henry's tin roof, and the rich odor of fried pork filled the morning air. Clifton punched the buttons and stuck the receiver to his ear. His heart still raced as he finally began thinking about everything that had just happened. He'd been so filled with adrenaline and in such a hurry to get
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to a phone that he hadn't had time to actually stop and realize how close he'd just been to being killed. I could've died. Jesus, I was this close. Thank God Swamper made me take that gun. As he waited for a dispatcher to answer, he saw a wrinkled flyer taped to the inside glass of the phone booth. Maria stared straight back at him.
The call didn't take long. All he told the woman was that he'd run into the man. He explained where it had happened and gave a description of what the man looked like. Most important, he told her about the yellow Lincoln and which way it had been heading. When she urged him to come down to the station, he refused. When she asked for his name, he hung up, forgetting to mention the new tattoo he'd seen.
Five minutes later, as he stood on the dock watching blue-gills investigate his dissipating drops of spit, Old Henry's screen door creaked. When Swamper approached, he had two bottles of Coke and a greasy brown paper bag in his hands. He handed one of the Cokes to Clifton. "Here ya go," he said.
Clifton took the bottle. "I'm sorry, Swamper. It's just--"
"You don't need to explain nothing. I gotcha. You wanna eat here or wait until we get back home?"
"How about here?"
Swamper sat down on the end of the dock, letting his long legs dangle over the edge. Clifton sat down next to him and reached into the bag.
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"Careful, they're still piping hot."
He took a handful and popped them into his mouth. Then he heard the distant chug of a motor from far upstream. Tricky Bob was sitting in his boat, the brim of his Bermuda hat hanging low over his head. "Look who's coming."
Swamper glanced upriver at Tricky Bob, who continued to roll along. As Swamper chewed on a mouthful of cracklin, he said, "Oh, hell. He's probably giddy with excitement right about now. In the twenty years I've been doing business with him, there ain't been one Friday out of all of em that I haven't been out on that dock waiting for him to pay me. The whole way down the river I bet that old son of a bitch has been smiling to himself, thinking that I died or something. Probably thought he was gonna get a free week out of me."
He spat a piece of fat into the water while Clifton shook his head, unable to contain his laughter.
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***
Chapter 13
The following morning , Clifton woke up sore and achy. His shoulder was swollen, but his knee was fine after he'd cleaned it the night before. He'd had to use some of Swamper's whiskey to dab at the cuts since that was the only thing he had. The smell of it had almost made him gag and brought back memories of how horrible h
e'd felt the day of his hangover.
As he lay in bed, trying to wake up, he told himself that he really wanted to go by the house and check the mail, mainly because he wanted to see if he'd received a letter from his mother. But he quickly talked himself out of that. After his terrifying confrontation with the man the day before, he told himself he wasn't going to go anywhere until the guy had been caught. However, after he got up and was eating breakfast, Swamper gave him some news that changed his mind.
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"They found the Lincoln abandoned in Roanoke late last night." Swamper stood at the stove, cooking his own eggs after he'd already given Clifton a plate. He reached for a can of pepper on the shelf and tapped some into the pan. "On a side street only three blocks from the Greyhound station. Apparently, most likely after you called, they had every officer in Crocket's Mill and Samford staked out along the roads. Every damn road leading in and out of the county. But he still managed to slip through. They got a huge manhunt going on over there right now."
Clifton chewed a mouthful of eggs as he took the information in. "Wow, maybe they're gonna get him. If I'd just called quicker and hadn't been such a baby about it, maybe they would've gotten him."
"Cut that crap out," he said, shaking the end of his spatula at Clifton with rebuke. "No more guilt trips for you. They're gonna get him. It's just a matter of time."
"But nothing about Maria?"
Gray baby: a novel Page 20
