No. You have to get going.
Okay. Charlie put his juice glass on the ground and stood. He took an envelope out of his pocket and said, I have a thousand dollars for you.
I don't want Uncle's money.
It's my money. Personal.
No, it's not.
Well, it's an advance on your pension check.
Keep it.
Charlie shrugged and put the envelope back in his pocket. He said, Self-reliance, chivalry, and knighthood are dead, Keith.
Forgive me for sounding pompous, but they're not dead while I'm still alive.
Then they'll be dead by tomorrow. Okay, I tried. Good luck, my friend.
They shook hands, and Charlie Adair walked away, across the yard and through the herb gardens, then disappeared into the cornfield, like some sort of ethereal nature sprite, which was the effect Charlie was looking for, Keith knew. Keith liked a man with style, but sometimes Charlie overdid it a bit.
Keith kept watching the wall of corn, and sure enough he saw the tall stalks start to move, then flatten as Charlie Adair drove out of the cornfield in a gray Ford Taurus.
Charlie went through a flower bed and across the lawn and stopped near Keith. I'm at the Maple Motel.
Good choice.
No choice. Hey, she must be a hell of a lady.
She is.
Is she as good as what's-her-name in Georgetown?
I don't remember what's-her-name in Georgetown.
Well, if she's that good, then you owe her a better chance than you're giving her.
I have to do it without your help or any help from Uncle. Keith will learn how to handle problems on his own.
As you wish. Charlie added, You created the fucking problem.
Keith didn't reply.
Charlie said, I mean, really, Keith, a guy who slipped in and out of East Germany a dozen times can't even get the fuck out of Ohio? Jesus Christ.
Don't bait me. I'm not in the mood.
You don't have to prove anything. You fucked up, now you need help. No big deal. Your problem is that your ego is too big. You never were a team player, Keith. I'm surprised you weren't killed or fired long ago. Well, you've cheated death all over the world for too many years—don't get iced here.
Thank you for your concern.
Fuck you, Keith. Charlie hit the gas and drove away, across the yard and out to the street.
Keith had the strong suspicion that he hadn't seen the last of Charlie Adair.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Keith drove the blue and white police car west, along a straight, flat farm road that was barely wide enough for two cars to pass. The walls of tall corn came almost up to the gravel, creating the effect of driving in a deep trench.
Keith had on Ward's hat and shirt, but so far he hadn't passed another police car or sheriff's car on the way from the Porter house. He was mindful, however, of the deputies driving their own vehicles, but he hadn't seen any uniformed deputies in private cars, nor had he seen any mounted posse. Spencer County was big, he knew, about six hundred square miles, and the distance between the Porter house and the Cowley farm was only about ten miles. With any luck, he'd get there, though he didn't know what he'd find when he did.
Keith had encouraged Officer Ward to radio headquarters and give a situation report, and Sergeant Blake had reprimanded Ward for being away from the car so long. Ward, with his own revolver being held to his head, his hands cuffed behind his back, his groin somewhat achy, and his sergeant chewing him out, was a truly unhappy man. He was less happy now, Keith suspected, bouncing around in the trunk. But that was Officer Ward's own fault and was the least of Ward's problems and the least of Keith's problems.
The farm road ended at the T-intersection of Route 8, and Keith turned onto it.
As he approached the Cowley farm, Keith saw five mounted men with rifles and dogs coming out of a tree line and onto the road in front of him. Keith slowed down as the troop crossed the road, and everyone waved. Keith waved back. One of the mounted posse reined his horse around and came toward him. Keith didn't know if the horseman would know every cop on the force by sight, but he did know that the blue Armani trousers weren't going to pass inspection, not to mention the problem of Officer Ward, who now and then kicked and shouted.
As the horseman approached, Keith waved again and accelerated past him as if Keith didn't understand that the man wanted to speak to him. Keith looked in his rearview mirror and watched the horseman looking at him.
Keith passed the Cowley farm and noticed Billy Marlon's blue pickup truck near the house. He continued on a mile up the road, then made a U-turn and came back.
The mounted posse was in the far distance now, and Keith swung the police car into the driveway of the farmhouse, then veered off, avoiding the pickup truck, and headed straight for an old cowshed. He hit the double doors, and they burst inward. He slammed on the brakes, but not in time to avoid hitting a pile of milk cans, which toppled over with a deafening crash.
Ward shouted something from the trunk.
Keith shut off the ignition, then took off Ward's hat and shirt and strapped on Ward's gun belt. He gathered his M-16 rifle and the rack-mounted police shotgun, then went around to the trunk and rapped on it. You okay?
Yeah. Let me out.
'Later. Keith walked out of the cowshed and met Billy Marlon coming toward him.
Marlon looked at the police car in the shed, then at Keith and said, Jesus Christ.
Not even close. Are you alone?
Yeah.
Let's get in the house. He gave Marlon the shotgun to carry.
Billy Marlon was understandably agitated and confused, but he followed Keith into the farmhouse. Marlon said, Hey, they're lookin' for you.
Who was here?
That bastard Krug. Asked me if I seen you, and I told him I didn't even know who the fuck you were.
He buy it?
Sort of. He reminded me that you helped me out of a scrape with the law—hey, thanks for the money. I found it. I thought you was gone.
I came back. You sober?
Sure. I'm broke, I'm sober. Billy looked at Keith. What the hell happened to you?
I got drunk and fell down the stairs.
No shit? Hey, something else, there was a guy here yesterday, can't remember his name, says he was a friend of yours and that the Porters told him you might be here—
Charlie?
Yeah . . . kinda all spiffed-up, light hair, wiseass—
Charlie.
Yeah. Lookin' for you. I showed him that note you left me and told him you was gone, but he said you might be around. What the hell's goin' on? What's all the hardware for?
I don't have a lot of time, Billy. I need your help.
Anything you want, you got it, if I got it to give.
Good. I need your pickup truck and a pair of boots. Do you have camouflage fatigues?
Sure do.
Binoculars, compass?
You got it. You goin' huntin'?
Yup. Got to get moving.
Come on upstairs.
They went up the stairs of the tidy farmhouse and into a small bedroom.
Billy pulled his hunting gear out of a closet, and Keith took off his suit pants and shoes, saying to Marlon, Burn these.
Burn . . . ?
Burn everything I leave here.
Keith tried on the tiger fatigue pants, which were a little snug and less than clean, but for a man who hadn't bathed since Sunday morning, it was okay. The boots fit fine, and so did the camouflage shirt. Billy gave him a bright orange vest for visibility, which Keith took but had no intention of using.
Billy watched him getting dressed and said, I'll go with you.
Thanks, but I want to hunt alone.
What're you huntin' for?
Varmint. Keith tied the boots and stood. He thought about Baxter's three dogs. At the house on Williams Street, there had been a kennel, and Keith had seen no signs of dogs living inside the house. He as
sumed that if the dogs were outdoor animals on Williams Street, they would be outdoors all night at the lodge. He asked Billy, You do any longbow or crossbow hunting?
Nope. I like the rifle. How about you?
Same. Despite all his exotic training, he'd never been introduced to bows and arrows, blowguns, slings, spears, or boomerangs. The only silent way of killing he'd been taught was by knife and garrote, which wouldn't work on a dog, and he didn't have a silencer for his M-16, and Billy didn't have a crossbow. But he'd worry about that later.
Billy said, Varmint's a real hard shot with a longbow. Seen it done with a crossbow.
Right. Okay, thanks. I'll get the truck back to you tomorrow or the next day.
Hey, Keith, I may be a fucked-up juicehead, but I'm sober now.
Keith looked at Billy Marlon, and they made eye contact. Keith said, The less you know, the better. Keith moved to the door, but Marlon held his arm.
Marlon said, I remember some of that night at John's Place and in the park and you drivin' me home.
I have to go, Billy.
He did fuck my wife . . . my second wife. I loved her . . . and she loved me, and we was doin' okay, but that bastard got between us, and after what happened, we tried to get it back together again . . .you know? But I couldn't deal with what happened and I started to drink, and I got like real mean with her. She left, but . . . she said she still loved me, but she'd done somethin' wrong and she could understand why I couldn't forgive her. Billy suddenly spun around and kicked the closet door, splintering the plywood panel. Ah, shit!
Keith took a deep breath and said, It's okay. It was amazing, he thought, how much wreckage Cliff Baxter had left behind as he indulged himself in his carnal gratifications and moral corruption. Keith asked Billy, What was her name?
His back still to Keith, Billy replied, Beth.
Where is Beth now?
He shrugged. I don't know . . . Columbus, I think. Billy turned around and looked at Keith. I know where you're goin'. I'm goin' with you. I have to go with you.
No. I don't need help.
Not for you. For me. Please.
It's dangerous.
Hey, I'm dead already. I won't even notice the difference.
Keith looked at Billy Marlon and nodded.
Keith went into the cowshed, and, with an ax that Marlon had given him, he sliced a few air vents in the trunk lid of the police car. He said to Ward through the slits, Be thankful it's a Fairlane and not an Escort.
Fuck you, Landry.
Keith drove the police car out of the shed and headed back on Route 8 the way he'd come. He didn't want to leave any evidence of an association between himself and Billy Marlon and Marlon's pickup truck.
Keith swung off the road onto the shoulder, then cut the car hard right over a drainage culvert and onto a tractor path between two fields of corn. Fifty yards into the corn, hidden from the road, he stopped and shut off the ignition.
He got out of the car and said to Ward, I'll call from Daytona and tell them where you are. It'll be a while, so relax. Think about early retirement.
Hey! Wait! Where am I?
In the trunk.
Keith jogged back to the road and met Billy Marlon, who was waiting for him in the pickup truck.
Billy drove the pickup, a ten-year-old blue Ford Ranger, and Keith sat in the passenger seat, a dirty bush hat pulled low on his head.
In the storage space behind the seat was the hunting gear, canvas ponchos for the Michigan cold, his M-16 rifle and scope, the Spencerville police shotgun, Officer Ward's service revolver, and Billy Marlon's hunting rifle, an Army surplus M-14 with a four-power scope. He'd also taken his briefcase, which held his passport, important papers, some money, and other odds and ends. It occurred to him that this was about all he owned in the world, which was actually not much more or less than he'd owned when he left Spencerville for the Army half a lifetime ago.
As they drove, Keith said to Billy, Baxter has three hunting dogs with him.
Shit.
Think about it.
I will. Billy asked, Where we going?
Michigan. Northern part.
Yeah? I do most of my hunting up that way. There's some good maps in the glove compartment.
Keith found the maps and located Grey Lake at the northern end of the peninsula. It was nearly one P.M. , and they should be in Atlanta about seven and, with luck, be able to find Baxter's lodge at Grey Lake within an hour.
As they drove, Keith spotted two Spencerville police cars, saw another troop of mounted posse, and a Spencer County sheriff's car. He slid down in the seat each time, and no one seemed to pay any attention to the old pickup truck. Billy was wearing a John Deere cap pulled low over his eyes, and Keith instructed him not to make eye contact with any cops, since they all knew him from his frequent nights in the drunk tank.
Keith asked him, Do they know this truck?
Nah . . . I never got a DUI or nothin'. I drink and walk. Hardly use the truck to get to town.
Okay . . . if they want to pull us over, you do what they say. We can't run the police in this thing.
Billy replied, Fuck them. I'm not gonna lay down for those assholes anymore.
They'll shoot. I know this bunch.
Fuck 'em. They'll shoot you anyway. Hey, those assholes drive regular Fairlanes. When I get into the corn with this thing, there ain't gonna be no fuzz on our tail.
Okay. It's your call. Keith regarded Billy a moment. Apparently, there was more to the man than Keith had been able to determine when Billy was drunk. Billy was on a mission now, too, and though Billy Marlon and Keith Landry had traveled different roads since high school and Vietnam, they now found themselves on the same road and with the same thing in mind.
In fact, Billy said, I'm gonna get us to northern Michigan, Lieutenant—hey, you signed that note 'Colonel.' You a colonel now?
Sometimes.
Marlon laughed. Yeah? I'm a sergeant. I made three stripes before I got out. Ain't that somethin'?
You must have been a good soldier.
I was . . . I was.
They drove a few more minutes, and Keith said to Marlon, They might have roadblocks at the county line.
Yeah, I know. But there's got to be fifty, sixty farm roads that leave this county. They can't put a roadblock at each of them.
Right. Let's pick one.
I know the one. Town Road 18—mostly dirt and most of the time mud because of the bad drainage. Lots of cars get stuck, and Baxter's bozos got to keep their Baxter Motors lease cars lookin' good. He laughed. Assholes.
Marlon turned west onto a paved farm road, then a minute later turned right and headed north on a rutted gravel road, Town Road 18.
Ten minutes later, the corn ended and they were in a low-lying area of marsh grass, a vestige of the ancient Black Swamp. The road became muddy, and the truck splattered through the black silty muck.
Five minutes later, Billy said, We're out of Spencer County.
Keith hadn't seen a sign, but he figured that Billy was familiar with the area. He took an Ohio map out of the glove compartment and said, Let's take back roads up to the Maumee, then maybe we'll pick up Route 127 to Michigan.
Yeah, that's the way to go.
They continued on, heading west and north on a series of intersecting town and county roads, through the rich autumn farm country, the endless fields of corn and hay, the pastures and meadows. Now that he was leaving and perhaps never coming back, he made certain he noticed everything: the road signs, the family names on the barns and the mailboxes, the crops and the animals, the people, and the vehicles, and the houses, and the whole sense and feel of this land whose whole was indeed far greater than the sum of its parts . . . And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.
They drove another half hour without much said that didn't pertain to the subject of land navigation and police.
Keith regarded the map and saw that most of the
bridges across the Maumee River were located in the bigger towns on the river, and he didn't want to go through a town. He spotted a bridge near a tiny village called The Bend and asked Billy about it.
Billy replied, Yeah, bridge is still there. Got some sort of weight limit, but if I gun it, we'll be across before it falls.
Keith wasn't sure about Billy's understanding of applied physics, but it was worth a look at the bridge.
They approached the small trestle bridge, and before Keith could see a weight limit sign or evaluate the structure, Billy was racing across the narrow span, and within ten seconds they'd crossed the Maumee. Keith said, I think that bridge was closed to motor vehicle traffic.
Yeah? Looked okay.
Keith shrugged.
They drove through The Bend, which took slightly less time than the river crossing and picked up U.S. Route 127 at a village called Sherwood. Keith noted it was two P.M., and it was about thirty-five miles to the Michigan state line, then another two hundred fifty miles or more to Grey Lake.
Route 127 went through Bryan, Ohio, but they skirted around the small city and returned to the highway some miles north of the town. That was the last major town in Ohio, and, in fact, after Lansing in southern Michigan, there were no major towns along Route 127 all the way up to the tip of the peninsula. Twenty minutes later, a sign welcomed them to Michigan, The Land of Lakes. Keith was only interested in one of them.
There were no great differences in terrain or topography between northern Ohio and southern Michigan, Keith noted, but there were those subtle differences in signage, blacktop, and land surveys which, if you hadn't seen the Michigan sign, you might not notice. More important, Keith thought, whatever residual interest the state of Ohio had in him most probably didn't extend beyond that sign. This border crossing wasn't the heart-stopping equivalent of the old East to West border crossings in Europe, but he did feel a sense of relief, and he relaxed a bit.
They drove on for another half hour, and the terrain started to change from flat farmland to rolling green hills and small valleys. There were large stands of trees now, mostly oak, hickory, beech, and maple, and the autumn colors were further along than in Ohio. Keith hadn't been in Michigan since he and Annie used to drive up to see the Ohio State-Michigan game in Ann Arbor, or to see Bowling Green play Eastern Michigan in Ypsilanti. Those had been magic weekends, he recalled, a break not only from classes but from the war and the turmoil on the campus, a time-warp weekend without dissent or demonstrations, as if everyone agreed to dress, act, and look normal for a traditional Saturday afternoon football game.
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