He threw the bag in the back seat.
"You'll have to untie me first."
"I'm going to. Gimmee time." He carefully unraveled the rope and slipped the loops from her hands."You can take it off your feet yourself," he said.
She leaned down, her nipples brushing against her thighs as she took the rope from her ankles. She shivered as if a mild bolt of electricity had shot through her veins. Even her nipples were raw. She was going to bawl again if she thought about the men who molested her.
Her muscles ached, her back was a solid pain zone, and her poor backside--her buttocks felt dead as stones. The T-shirt fell into her hands as she sat up. She turned her back to Cruise, wriggled out of the torn blouse, slipped the shirt over her head. She zipped the jeans over the pudge of her bloating stomach, sucking in as she did so.
"The bathroom?"
He nodded, and stepped out of the car. She opened her door, had a little trouble lifting her legs to the ground. She had to lever herself from the seat by hanging on to the top of the door. Her legs felt wooden. Her bottom tingled and stung now, the circulation coming to life. She groaned, took a step away from the car. Cruise stood back, giving her a chance to make it on her own.
"Where?" she asked.
"Go inside. There's a bathroom behind the curtains at the back, near the stairs."
She hobbled into the cantina, trying not to look anyone in the eye. Some of these same men had been the ones who assaulted her the night before. She didn't see the girl who brought her food and Cokes. She kept her gaze lowered, watching her footsteps as she shuffled across the room, the crowd opening a passageway as she moved through it. The noise in the bar died down to an uneasy silence.
"Damn you," she muttered at Cruise beneath her breath. "You bastard."
He was right at her back. "Shut up. Just keep going."
"Damn you."
She made it without falling down, but her rear was a pincushion of new sensations. She slipped past the flowered curtains, across a dark hall, past the shadowed stairs, into a dirty bathroom painted a shade of red she'd never seen before. Cruise shut the door for her, stood outside waiting. She had to lower the toilet lid with the tip of one finger, afraid of the splashes and dark spots around the rim. She couldn't hurry fast enough to get her jeans undone and stripped down her legs; she was dribbling water before she ever lowered herself to the seat. She never sat on public toilet seats, but this time she hadn't the strength to hold herself suspended over it. She covered her face with her hands in despair when she saw there was no toilet paper. All these small things might build to such a peak they destroyed her, she thought. The humiliation of it. The helpless feeling, the refusal of everyone to lend a hand to save her from Cruise.
She sat for a long time, long enough for Cruise to grow impatient and call for her to come out. She found brown paper hand towels to clean herself. She washed her face, though there was no mirror, and used a minuscule sliver of soap to get the sand and grime from her arms and hands. The grains stung as they were washed across the scrapes on her arms. By the time she exited the urine-splattered bathroom, she could walk without imitating a cripple, and her kidneys had stopped hurting.
She held her head high as she pushed open the door to confront Cruise. This time he took her arm as if instinct told him she was in much better shape than when she'd come into the cantina, that she needed watching now.
"Some friends you have, Cruise," she said as they passed through the room and out the door. She tried jerking her arm loose, but he kept his hold.
"Only the best."
"Yeah, real high achievers with prominent IQs."
"Get in the car, it's late. No one cares about your bitching."
She sat in stony silence as he wove through the back streets into the middle of Mexicali. Would he really kill her if she jumped from the car at the border crossing and accused him of kidnapping and murder? Would he have time? Could he take two guards, various passersby, and her all at once?
The more she thought about it, the less she saw she had to lose. She couldn't depend on getting a stranger's help again. That hadn't seemed to work out; it just got people killed. She couldn't run away. He always brought her back.
If she wanted to get out of this alive, she'd have to take greater risks. Nothing less would do.
#
Mark Killany couldn't get an audience with any police officer who would tell him anything. They had gotten the word from Globe. They didn't believe he had a legitimate gripe. They didn't believe his daughter might be with the killer. And they had enough mayhem on their hands, they didn't need him in the way. That was the message.
All he thought he could do was listen to radio reports and follow the trail west. After leaving the police station, he drove to the freeway and found a restaurant. He had to eat. The sun lanced through the windshield where he parked in the lot facing the feeder road. He searched, couldn't find his sunglasses. He also couldn't stop yawning. He felt sleep grabbing at him like a pickpocket. Sneaking up and putting the touch on him, moving off a little, coming back for another try.
After breakfast, orange juice, more coffee--a last ditch attempt to stave off sleep--he made his way to the car and collapsed in the seat. He sat rubbing his eyes with the balls of his thumbs. He didn't think he had enough energy to find a motel. He could sleep in the car. Maybe he could park it around the side in the shade.
He started the motor and put the car into reverse. He parked next to a black van in the lee of the building. Perhaps the occupant had decided on a quick nap too.
He scooted down in the seat until his neck fit comfortably against the headrest. His eyelids came down like weighted curtains. He didn't drift into sleep; it came over him like a crushing ocean wave, taking his consciousness with it.
In his dreams he saw a very large man, long hair, mustache, beard. The man was walking a swinging bridge across a deep chasm. He herded Molly before him, forcing her to take another step. If the rope bridge broke, Mark knew the man would let Molly fall into the rocky depths without trying to save her. He'd first save himself. Mark stood on a narrow path before the bridge calling out, "Molly! Molly, come back!"
He groaned and stuttered in his sleep, twisting in the car seat. His knees knocked the steering wheel. His neck slid off the headrest until his face pressed against the rolled window.
The dream renewed itself, played over again, an old film on automatic rewind. He saw the man, Molly ahead of him being prodded across the dangerous swaying bridge. Below the rocks lay in velvet purple shadows, beckoning.
He called to her, "Molly...oh please..."
#
Cruise knew he was in trouble. He had never before wanted to harm himself. The fresh cuts on his arms were deep and would surely leave scars. Yet it wasn't enough to let out his mounting trepidation. Nothing seemed to be of help. The visit to see his father. The whores in Mexicali. His witness.
Especially his witness. She was less than useless to him. Just as soon as he found the right place, he was dumping her. It was possible he didn't need witnesses anymore--a really novel thought that left him uneasy. He might not get lonely again. He had too much to deal with to keep a close watch on someone else.
There was something loose inside him,rattling around and causing him profound concern. Could it be doubt? He had never doubted before, never worried that what he did--the killing--might be unwarranted, an aberration. The day he buried his brothers, he thought he was free to do as he pleased. He would never again be threatened. But maybe the threat was inside him, hiding there, always waiting. And here it was back again despite his years of living by his own code--that threat he felt racing toward great pain and retribution. It was as if he had found a way to avoid it for only so long and now it had returned to mock him. To destroy him.
The doubt, if that's what it was, whispered about coming annihilation. Payback.
And he did not know why.
The uneasiness ate at him like a wildfire cancer. His arms itched int
olerably. The girl at the cantina had bandaged them for him with a torn white sheet. He could hardly pull on his shirt over them. Now they burned and screamed to him to reopen the wounds. Let the blood flow. Release the ballons of grief welling beneath the taut skin before he exploded.
At the border crossing the frenzy to do something was upon him. He squirmed in the seat and had trouble keeping still. Looking normal. Appearing sober and sane.
"You feel okay, buddy?" one of the border guards asked, peering in at him.
"Oh, sure. I feel fine." The words felt like shards of glass on his tongue. He thought he might have grimaced. He looked at Molly to keep his face from the guard's inquisitive view. She had her hands on her thighs. If they bothered to look very closely they would see the rope burns. He reached over and covered her left wrist with his hand. She opened her mouth as if to say something, closed it. Her eyes were in a panic, gray wolves fighting to get free of traps.
He knew then what she meant to do. His hand tightened on her wrist. Her mouth twisted and she let out a small whimper.
"Do you have anything to declare?" the guard asked.
"Nothing," Cruise said, pinning Molly with his gaze, warning her not to make a move, not to say a word.
He glanced at the guard. His mind was suddenly brilliantly clear. If he'd been playing chess, he'd have been at least five moves ahead of the border guard. "My daughter and I have been on a pleasure trip to Mexicali. We didn't do much shopping."
"Fine." The guard marked something on a clipboard he carried. "And where were you born, sir?"
"Arkansas. West Memphis."
"And you, miss?"
Molly turned to him. Cruise bore down on her wrist. She said, "Dania, Florida."
"Okay, drive on."
Cruise let up on the brake and eased forward in the lane. He had not let go of Molly. When they were past the crossing station he said, "You were going to tell them."
She whined a little, turning her hand this way and that to free it of his grip.
"Weren't you?"
She yelped when he applied even more pressure. He felt her small wrist bones grinding together beneath his palm. Little bird, he thought.
"Don't try it again," he said, letting her go, throwing her hand away from him. "I'm tired of your bullshit."
She didn't speak. When he turned on the radio to search for an AM talk radio station, she slumped down until her knees were against the dash. Sulky little bitch.
On the hour during the newscast Cruise learned he was in real trouble. Not only did he need to get rid of Molly, not only did he feel as if at any moment he was going to fly apart if he didn't release the building pressure building in the cauldron of his mind, but the radio informed him that the incredible, the unbelievable, had happened. He had left behind a living witness at a murder scene. On the lake. Where he took the fat man's life and his diamond ring. The man's son had been in the back seat. Why hadn't he checked? Why had he been so sloppy? It was the rain, the tornado. He had made a mistake. And now they knew he had been in Yuma, had killed there next.
There was a net out. They knew his car. They knew what he looked like. They thought he might have entered California.
For the first time in more than two decades of murder, he was a wanted man, hounded, on the run.
Molly had come back up in the seat, ears primed, listening.
Cruise said, "They won't get me."
"I think they will," she said in an even voice.
"Don't bank on it. Don't lay your money down."
When he reached Interstate 8 he turned east. They thought he was headed west. He would backtrack. He'd take minor highways where they wouldn't have the manpower to put up roadblocks. He'd pick his way back across Arizona and New Mexico. In Texas he'd head north, throw them off completely.
But first he had to ditch the Chrysler. A car he had driven for ten years. A car he loved.
"Goddammit," he swore, tapping the wheel with the heel of his hand. Molly jumped in her seat.
Where was he going to find another car?
A semi-truck overtook and passed them in the left fast lane. Cruise stared at the rectangle of lights that outlined the rear doors.
Would they be looking for a truck driver?
He started laughing, positively overwhelmed with his new idea. Molly wanted to try out as a Lot Lizard, didn't she? Wasn't that what she was up to when he found her in Mobile?
He sped up to trail the semi. He had to drive a steady sixty-five or seventy to stay in the game. The semi was perfect. A cab, independently owned, hauling a container trailer for a company. He could tell by the logo on the driver's door.
"I'm going to want you to do something," he said when he could stop the laughter bubbling out.
"What?"
She was right to sound cautious. She wasn't going to like it. He saw that since he was driving faster, she had begun to grip the top of the door where the window had been rolled down.
"Wait and see."
"You can't tell me now?"
He shook his head. His hair moved and the Velcro patch pulled at his scalp. When he touched the knife to make sure it was secure, Molly crouched closer to her side of the car.
No. She wasn't going to like it at all.
#
It took some talking to get the driver pulled over at a rest area. He had to do it before they reached Yuma. Already he was taking chances driving the Chrysler on Interstate 8 in California. From the corners of his eyes he kept seeing ghost images of patrol cars coming close to him in the fast lane, readying to pull him over. When he looked square out the side window the ghost cops disappeared.
Again Cruise thumbed the CB mike. "She's a sweet girl, man. You won't be disappointed."
The trucker said, "Aw, I don't know. I got this load to deliver all the hell the way to Florida by Friday. I don't really have the time for much recreation, come back."
"Hey, tell you what," Cruise said, sounding jolly as a pimp with the john in his pocket. "We pull over at the next pickle park we come to and if you don't like her, fine, man, be on your way. If you do like her, what's a few extra minutes in the sleeper? You can add it anywhere in your logbook. And I ain't asking half what she's worth," he added.
"Forty. I dunno. That's steep." Static returned to the channel. There weren't any other truckers on the road right now. The driver was bored, seemed tempted by the impromptu offer from a four-wheeler.
"Let you have her for thirty then, what you say?" Sweat had popped out on Cruise's forehead. He probably shouldn't have done that, could have blown the whole deal. Driver might wonder what was wrong with her, lowering the price that way. It was costing Cruise plenty to sound buoyant and trustworthy. It never had before. He didn't know what was happening to him, what was going wrong. He felt like a man diving from high cliffs, aiming for the boulders below. He felt he might be on his way down.
A rest area sign leapt past in the headlights. Cruise didn't notice the mileage. "There, you see?" he asked over the CB mike. "Gotta be fate, man. There's a pickle park up ahead not far."
"She of legal age?" the trucker asked. "I don't want no jail bait."
Cruise said, "She's fine, don't worry. We just need the dough, man, or I wouldn't be offering her in this sleazy way over the CB where God and everybody could hear. I just been a trucker, you know, and I trust you guys to do right."
"Yeah, awright. Let me check her out." The semi drifted off the exit ramp for the rest area. The Chrysler followed.
Cruise lowered the knife from where he had it resting close to the skin on Molly's throat to keep her from talking. He didn't trust her since the border crossing. She was out to fuck him. He'd seen that in her eyes. They got to this point, his witnesses, and they were more danger than they were worth. He had to spend too much time threatening to get his way.
He replaced the knife underneath his hair. He transferred the mike from his left driving hand to his right and hung it in the slot. "You don't have to do much," he said to her. "Look
properly seductive. When he's out of the truck and standing nearby, that's when I'll take over."
The truck parked in the trucker lane. There was one more truck already in the line, but it was farther up. The truck driver left three open slots between them for privacy's sake. Cruise parked in a space for cars. The light from the public bathrooms stained the cultivated lawn, but didn't reach to the parking places. He had to hurry before more four-wheelers found their way into the rest area. It was too early in the night for most of them yet.
He had Molly out of the car, his hand around the back of her neck, pushing her slightly before him as they crossed the tarmac to the rear of the truck. He circled to the side closest to the freeway so that if anyone came into the area while he was doing the job, they wouldn't see him. He had to take the chance of the other trucker parked in front looking in his side mirror, but it was unlikely. He was probably snoring in his sleeper.
"Please, don't do this," Molly said.
"You cry, you bitch, and I'm going to take off your fucking head. Now smile."
His arms. They itched so bad, he had to rub his left arm against his side. His right one, the one holding Molly, felt like it was going to explode from the bandages. He couldn't understand it.
Couldn't think of it.
Had to get the truck. He knew how to drive one. Maybe not this particular one, but he'd figure out the gears by watching the driver go through the motions.
The driver was down from the cab. He wore greasy jeans and an undershirt. He was black. Cruise hadn't known that from talking to him over the CB. Big fucking deal. They
bled just as easily as white men. He'd taken them before.
"Hey, girl," the trucker said as they approached. He didn't have time to check over Cruise. His eyes swallowed Molly like a morsel of tasty cream dessert.
"I told you, man. Ain't she worth it?"
"What do you say, girl? You worth it?"
Molly choked trying to speak. Cruise stepped to her side, hand still on her neck. "She's still shy. Hasn't been in the business too long, you know how it is."
NIGHT CRUISING Page 22
