Three racing heartbeats later, watch Nancy Yazzi emerge from the same door, fire in her eye, the over-and-under 12-gauge tucked under her arm, primed and ready for action. Watch her stop, stare, wonder, Where’d that $%&#* so-and-so go? What the frustrated young woman needs is a clue. Aha! She hears any number of engines being cranked to life, just as many vehicles departing as fast as they can go—destination: anyplace but here!
She rounds the corner, points the shotgun in the direction of Jake’s recently pilfered Ford Escape. The top barrel says ka-Booom! The bottom repeats the earsplitting statement.
More or less shielded amid the fleeing pack, the diminutive SUV was not struck by a single pellet. The aforesaid pair of ka-Booms did pepper three pickup trucks, and the lumbering stake-bed loaded with hay, which (as a consequence of the fellow behind the wheel being unnerved by the assault) rammed the VW bus, flipping that vehicle onto its side. Seven of the kazinging lead spheres also struck a passing FedEx van, whose stalwart driver (without so much as batting an eyelash) took note of that little cluster of stars that made a brand-new constellation on his sandblasted windshield, jutted his clefted chin, kept right on going. No matter what, come heck or high water—the parcels must go through. The fellow definitely had the right stuff.
Nancy Yazzi’s stuff might not have been entirely right, but she was not short on grit. Undaunted by the knowledge that the hateful man was picking up speed, she leaned the spent shotgun against the overturned VW bus, got the pistol and a handful of .44 cartridges from her raincoat pocket, and reloaded Charlie Moon’s revolver. Realizing that this might be her last opportunity to severely injure the former lover, she held the pistol in both hands, closed her left eye, sighted down the barrel with the other one, pursed her pretty lips, held her hot breath, got a steady bead . . . pulled the trigger.
When operating a firearm, the importance of applying proper technique cannot be exaggerated.
Just as Jake Harper was pulling onto the gravel road, the slug passed through the rear window, buzzed like a bumblebee between the front seats, and smacked into the dash-mounted AM/FM radio. The next one—and this is not an exaggeration—parted his hair before it smacked into the windshield. Two of the next four lumps of lead came close enough to the terrified driver to clip an earlobe and penetrate a loose undergarment. This caused his teeth to clench, his mind to generate what is aptly called an HNDE (Harrowing Near-Death Experience). But, as scary as the HNDE is, Near is not the same thing as Dead Center, and by the time the stolen pistol was empty, Jake was roaring past other fleeing vehicles as if they were backing up, running one off the road into an irrigation ditch, another through a bob-war fence and into a slime-encrusted pond.
Long before the state police arrived to investigate this most recent hullabaloo at Hamlet’s rowdy roadhouse, all the witnesses had fled the scene. Ham, who had spent the exciting interlude with his nose pressed against the filthy floor behind the bar, informed the officer that the joint had been shot up by a gang of at least six guys. Great big guys, with automatic weapons. And hand grenades.
Which was why the incident was never connected with Nancy Yazzi and her errant boyfriend. Not that either one of them gave it a thought. Both had other, more urgent business to tend to. Nancy, a persistent soul, had not given up the chase. Moreover, she was not all that far behind Jake Harper. The outcome hinged on whether that distance would stretch or shrink.
The Escape’s top speed on a conventional highway exceeded what the rebuilt F-150 could muster by about fifteen miles per hour, which is a considerable advantage. The problem was (for Mr. Harper) that the potholed gravel road was several notches below conventional, and he was a long way from a paved highway. This being the case, the outcome of the race was—problematic.
Even though not a single drop of Jake Harper’s blood had been spilled, the day was not yet over and neither was the saga of these star-crossed lovers. While the outcome remains in doubt, one feels justified to offer the following observations:
With practice, Nancy Yazzi’s aim was improving.
If the romance had not ended, it had definitely experienced a setback.
Thirty-Two
She Has a Notion
Refreshed by a long, soapy soak in the motel tub, Nancy Yazzi (wrapped in a bedspread) sits in front of the TV, munching buttery popcorn hot from the microwave. Has the passionate young woman cooled off, given up on getting even with Jake Harper? Not for a minute. While the entertainment-craving portion of her brain absorbs a dose of America’s Funniest Home Videos, her dark, sinister lobe mulls over serious business.
I’ve got to get rid of Sarah’s pickup before the cops spot it and pick me up. Another handful of popcorn masticated by her perfect molars. Crunch-crunch. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll dump it someplace. The enthusiastic man-hunter would require an alternate means of transportation, and was considering her options. Then, there was the overriding issue.
How do I find him? Even Jake won’t be dumb enough to go back to his hideout on Muleshoe Mountain. Which would make things difficult. A man who would cheat on his faithful girlfriend by having a wife on the side—the rascal was devious in the extreme. What I need is a really good idea—
Bang!
No, that was not a gunshot. Not even a fifty-cent firecracker.
Nancy had experienced one of those explosive eureka! moments.
Indeed, the answer appeared as if it were a gift—though definitely not from heaven. And the notion was what a thoughtful gambler would call a long shot. Never mind. Elated, the pistol-packin’ momma tossed the popcorn bag aside, raised clenched fists over her head, and yelled, “Jake—you are as good as dead!”
At the very instant that Nancy shouted, the object of her threat—who was huddled in the backseat of the stolen Escape, shivering under a wool blanket—awakened from a troubled sleep, banged his head on something or other, and yelped, “No, Nance—please don’t shoot me! I got a wife and two kids. . . .” Or was it three kids? As he floated up from the semi-groggy state, Jacob Harper was relieved to realize that his vengeful sweetie was not about to administer lead poisoning to his person. It also occurred to him that if Nancy had been ready to pull the trigger, mentioning the wife and young’uns would probably not have gained the sought-for sympathy from his judge/jury/prosecutor/executioner. Girlfriends, he had learned at that recent rendezvous at Hamlet’s Cowboy Saloon, tended to be sensitive on such subjects.
Jake groaned, laid his head back on a makeshift pillow, which was a rolled-up copy of last Sunday’s Rocky Mountain News. Though he tried ever so hard, the bone-weary fugitive could not drift away to Dreamland. Too many thorny issues pricked at his mind. Nance’s out there somewhere. She finds me again, she’ll shoot me dead.
Thirty-Three
A Hunted, Haunted Man
It has been established that Jake Harper is no sissy. But even the most stalwart soul has its limits, and as he drove southward his fevered thoughts festered with a corrosive fear: Nance won’t ever give up. For the hundredth time in the past hour, he glanced at the rearview mirror. The fact that he saw nothing on the strip of Texas asphalt that stretched off to the horizon provided little comfort. She’s still back there somewhere, sniffin’ at my trail. As it happened, this fear was totally groundless. But Mr. Harper would not have been greatly surprised if his sweetheart had popped up in the backseat, jammed the cold pistol muzzle against his head, and shot him dead.
With every minute, his anxiety increased.
And though he had put hundreds of miles between himself and Hamlet’s Cowboy Saloon . . . It feels like the farther I go, the closer she gets. Odd that the normally sensible fellow should entertain such a counterintuitive conclusion. Put it down to stress.
That little gal won’t stop till she puts enough bullets through my hide to let all my blood leak out. The contemplation of such an undesirable outcome is what has kept him going in the Escape, which stolen vehicle the police in several states are not looking for because the owners of t
he summer home where Jake left his Jeep Wrangler as a trade-in for this spiffy little Ford SUV have not yet shown up to discover the exchange.
It is too bad that worry about his angry girlfriend has prevented the nervous tourist from enjoying his travels. He has recently paid calls on such exotic tourist meccas as Pueblo, Lamar, Dodge City, Amarillo, Tulia (the home of Charlie Moon’s favorite honey), Plainview, Lubbock (he lunched there on Texas-style red chili with a half inch of grease floating over the fiery ingredients), Abilene (where he purchased a bottle of Granny Hodad’s Old-Fashioned Stomach Remedy and Nerve Tonic), and, last, Comanche (a quick stop for ice cream). Despite all this excellent recreation, his trip cannot be said to be a true vacation. And though our desperado is in desperate need of some R & R, Harper must stay on the road until he reaches a particular destination. Waco, of course. As Scott Parris and the Texas Rangers know, Jake’s momma lives there, and everyone knows that no matter how badly a boy treats his mother or how many times she warns him that if he ever shows his hairy hide at her door again she will fill it so full of buckshot he won’t be able to walk faster than a duck-waddle, the one who gave birth to him doesn’t really mean it. Really, now—how many mothers can you count on all your fingers and toes who are sufficiently mean-spirited to carry out such a violent threat?
That many? You must come from a sure-enough tough neighborhood.
Waco, on the other hand, is the heartland of Texas, which is the friendly Lone Star State and home of the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, for goodness’ sake. Mommas in these parts want their boys to grow up to be good-looking cowboys who drive old pickup trucks and such, and the little tyke under that big-brimmed hat cannot very well do that if Momma employs deadly weapons to enforce parental discipline.
Which was why Jake Harper had no doubt that his dear old mom would welcome him with open arms, big hugs, and kisses. His judgment may also have been affected by the fact that he had an overpowering hankering for home-cooked victuals. After all that had occurred recently, it would be mighty gratifying to belly up to the old family trough and chow down on big helpings of Momma’s pinto beans and pork enchiladas. And, best of all—sleep in his own little bed again. But when Harper motored up to the venerable homestead, Momma was conspicuously absent from the premises. The outraged felon banged on the front door, kicked on the back one so hard that he injured his big toe, and shouted foul obscenities that scandalized the drug-pushing pimp who plied his trade next door.
Mrs. Harper’s son broke in a window (a nasty habit he must learn to overcome), found nothing in the refrigerator but a quart of skim milk, a moldy onion, and two shriveled lemons. The cupboard was empty except for a fifteen-ounce can of a cornlike vegetable with the notice: BEST IF USED BY 6/22/96. As he sat at the table, eating cold hominy from a can with a plastic spoon, Jake Harper could not help being miffed. When a man can’t even count on his own dear old momma to be there when he needs her, on who can he count? Even though this was merely a rhetorical question, an answer came to Jake. His wife, that’s who. But Lulabelle was also on the outs with Jake on account of how he had run off about two years ago with a waitress about half his age and left his missus flat broke, with a pile of unpaid bills and children to look after.
But wives, as all husbands know, are almost as forgiving as mothers.
Which is why Harper, now in desperate straits, took I-35 south through Austin, hung a right just before entering good ol’ San Antonio, rolled along I-10 in a northwesterly direction, and before he knew it he was practically to Kerrville. By the time he pulled into the familiar dirt lane (which was getting muddy on account of a thunderstorm that had drifted down from Kimble County), and pulled to a stop at the wife’s double-wide, the poor boy was all tuckered out. And no wonder: He’d been hard at it since dawn, and it was now close to midnight. It was hard to see anything through the downpour—such as a stray elephant that might have wandered into the front yard, or for that matter Lulabelle’s 1993 F-250 pickup. But in a window, a dim light flickered. She’s still up watching TV. Feeling a sudden unease (a woman would have called this intuition), Jake chewed on his lower lip. I hope Lulabelle lets me in.
After several knocks, she turned on the outside floodlight, which illuminated the small porch and caused the weary pilgrim to squint. After getting a good look-see at the late-night visitor through the window, Lulabelle shouted, “Jake—is that you?”
He yelled, “Sure is, Peachy Pie.” Yes—this was also the pet name by which he called the missus. Particularly when he wanted something, such as hot food and a safe place to sleep. “Lemme in. It’s raining up a reg’lar Noah’s flood out here!”
No response from Lulabelle. For the longest time he stood there, water dripping off his hat and running down his collar, waiting for Wifey to open the door. This, he knew, was not the best possible sign. Maybe she don’t like me anymore. His vanity begged to disagree—it couldn’t be that. A more likely explanation occurred to him: She just needs a little while to fix up her hair, slap on some makeup. Women wanted to look their A-number-one best when their man showed up unexpected. He was relieved when the doorknob finally turned and the portal to the warm, cozy parlor opened just enough that he could see her face, and the half-smoked cigarette hanging limply from her lips. True, she did not exactly reach out and grab an armful of the errant husband, smother him with passionate kisses and urgent caresses. But neither did she spit in his eye. Indeed, when she removed the cigarette, her lips smiled. And what did she say, in that honeyed Texas drawl?
“C’mon in, Jake.”
“Thanks, Peachy Pie.” Half blinded by the floodlight that had flashed in his face, he tripped on the threshold.
Lulabelle pointed to a chair he could barely see in the twilight gloom of the living room. “Siddown.”
It may have been the abrupt way she’d said, “Siddown.” Or the fact that the smile had vanished. For whatever reason, he did not feel entirely welcome. “Uh, I been doin’ a lotta sittin’ today—maybe I’ll just stand here for a little while.”
“Suit yourself.” His wife also remained standing, and, backlit by the television screen, her profile from head to knee was clearly visible. Lulabelle was looking good and she knew it. “So what’ve you been up to, Jake?”
“Oh, this and that.”
“You might ask how I’ve been doing.”
The mouth under the unkempt beard curled into a silly grin. “How’ve you been getting along, Lulabelle?”
“Things have been tough.” She took a puff. Blew smoke in his face. “But I’ve been able to manage.”
“That’s good.”
“You haven’t asked about the kids.”
“Well, that was right on the tip of my tongue. How’re little . . . uh . . . Sally and—” No. It’s not Sally. This was embarrassing. Acutely embarrassing.
“You don’t even remember their names.” Lulabelle laughed.
He was relieved to know that the missus still had a sense of humor.
“They’re Lilly and Bobby and Annie.”
He nodded. “Oh, right.”
“No, that’s not right. I just made those names up. And before you ask, the kids ain’t here. There up in Lubbock, staying with my momma.”
“Oh. I hope your old lady’s doing okay.”
Lulabelle flicked the cigarette butt, which bounced off his knee. “You are a sorry piece of work, Jake.” She lit up another smoke. “And you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
Jake Harper knew this was true. He was also aware that an idle mind was a something or other. Had to do with a workshop. He couldn’t remember whose workshop, or what the saying meant, but work was definitely a negative subject, which made him pretty sure what the bottom line was: When a fella was in deep trouble, he shouldn’t while away his time thinking about bass fishing or watching football or other stuff of that sort. He needed to apply his brain to finding a solution to his difficulties. This was why, all the way from Waco, Jake had considered a long string of more or less plausib
le lies. Several he had rejected out of hand, as no-sells. Two were definite keepers, but he hadn’t been able to decide between them. Not until right this minute. The business about the kids’ names settled it. He drew in a deep breath and got right to it. “Lulabelle, I’m awfully sorry about not being able to call the kids’ names to mind, and I feel really bad about not being in touch for a while, but—”
“A while?” Her tone was distinctly brusque. Almost to the point of being curt. “Jake, two-years-plus, ain’t a while, it’s a huge chunk of a woman’s lifetime!”
Such interruptions tend to unsettle a liar who has a dandy excuse right on the tip of his tongue, even make him entirely forget what he was going to say, which had something to do with having been kidnapped by a bunch of Arabs who’d found out he was a secret agent working for the FDA or BIA—one of those top-secret government intelligence agencies. But Harper had dropped the thread and could not just stand there all night trying to come up with a good story. The staunch fellow fell back on one that was almost as good: “It was on account of magnesia.”
“On account of what?”
Harper clarified, separating the syllables best as he could: “Mag-nee-zee-uh.”
Her expression remained blank.
Recalling that Lulabelle hadn’t made it past the ninth grade, the high-school graduate explained with admirable patience for a hunted man who has had a very tense time getting all the way from Hamlet’s Cowboy Saloon to a double-wide way down yonder by Kerrville: “Magnesia is a brain sickness a man can get. Like if he gets hit on the head too hard. It makes him not able to remember nothing that’s happened to him.” He assumed a sad-eyed expression calculated to elicit pity. “Like what his name is, or where he’s from, or—”
“Or whether or not he has a wife?”
“That’s right, Peachy Pie.” She’s buying it!
Snake Dreams Page 17
