It was about two when I began to groan from the pain. By the time the guard came I was writhing on my bunk. My cellmate blabbered something about how I’d been complaining of the bump on my head. The jailer got me on my feet and I told him I was okay and then fell down. The jailer called for assistance and a couple of deputies dragged me to a waiting car for the trip to the parish hospital.
They might have handcuffed a man with two good arms, even one suffering from a concussion. But it was the dead of night and I was disoriented, muttering incoherent sentences. They sped me to the hospital and helped me into the emergency room, where I lolled against the wall, my eyes unfocused, while they woke up the duty intern. I told them about my terrible thirst and one of the deputies, who was sixtyish, overweight, and kindly, helped me to the water fountain. Then I said I was nauseated and he guided me around the corner to a snack area with a couple of tables and a door that said TOILET. I mumbled thanks and went into the tiny room and as soon as the door closed I made a retching noise and called for help. He opened the door to assist and found me doubled over the toilet.
“Hey, fellow …” he started.
I wheeled, hit him in the gut, and while he was still bent over, grabbed his pistol from his holster and prodded him into the little room. Then I wedged a chair against the door and walked away in the opposite direction from which I’d come.
11
I only made it because the hospital is on the highway. I was out the front door before the nurse in the reception area realized what had happened. Then I raced across the front lawn, half in shadow, half in the yellow pools of the arc lamps, tossing the pistol in the bushes as I ran. If I got caught, so be it, but I wasn’t going to get in a gun-fight with the law in the process. Across the road, less than a block away, were the lights of an all-night grocery. An eighteen-wheeler was stopped at the side of the road, just the other side of the gas pumps.
As I started across the road, headlights approached from the north. I brought my left arm close in to my side and made myself slow to a walk. The car flashed its brights and then passed. I did not look to see if it was a patrol.
I had been gone a minute, maybe less, and now, on the other side of the highway, I heard shouts. What if they had seen me? I wanted to run but restrained myself. Maybe it was my imagination. A few more yards now. The little truck stop was just ahead. Once there, I had a chance.
As I reached the parked truck, a siren blasted the stillness. Fortunately, the cab was unlocked. I didn’t have much choice; to stay in town would be fatal. So I hoisted myself up and shut the door just as a flash of red scythed the night and a sheriff’s cruiser skidded to a stop at the intersection.
I took a deep breath and reached into the sleeping compartment behind the seat.
It was empty.
I slipped into the berth and lay still. Tires spun on the gravel and I heard voices and shouts. I held my breath as footsteps approached from outside.
Then the cab rocked slightly as someone climbed onto the step and I heard the driver’s door open. I shrank back in the bunk, willing myself to disappear, and yet knowing that there was nowhere else to go. Someone outside was yelling directions and I recognized the frenzied voice of my erstwhile benefactor, the fat deputy. Lights flashed inside the cab and my skin went cold as I waited for a hand to poke a flashlight into my face.
Instead, the door slammed and I heard keys jingle. The diesel whined into life and I let out my breath, very slowly.
“Good luck,” the driver called. Then the rig jolted into movement and I felt us crawling out onto the highway. A radio started playing country music, but the driver switched it off and turned on his CB. He had the police band, because I began to hear calls for assistance in establishing a perimeter of one mile from the hospital on all sides. There was a brief flare and then the strong smell of tobacco smoke drifted back. It burned my lungs and at the same time made me wish that I could join him.
Where was he going? I wondered. He was headed for the interstate, but from there he could go either of two ways, west to Baton Rouge or east toward the Gulf Coast. Or he might head up to Jackson after a few miles, or even back to New Orleans, via the Pass Manchac cut-off.
At this point it really didn’t matter. The police seldom put roadblocks on the interstate; it was too dangerous. My best chance was to relax until I got a sense of our direction and make plans from there.
We went into a slow gyre and I had the sense we were headed west. If it was an all-night run, that meant he might not stop until Lafayette or even Lake Charles for coffee. I’d have to slip out then, but without any money it would be hard to find a telephone. I took some deep breaths and reminded myself that whatever happened, it was a damned sight better than staying in the St. Tammany Parish jail.
The driver started to whistle under his breath. After a while he tired of the police band and switched back to the CB. Somebody named Crawdad One asked what traffic was like between Hammond and Bogalusa. Hot Pants Mama answered that it was A-okay, except for some Smokey activity around Covington. A third voice asked for a White Sox ball score and somebody barreling down from Jackson laughed at him and said they were lucky they weren’t in an eight-team division. The chatter died out and the driver started singing, this time, disconcertingly, the “Folsom Prison Blues.” He was no Johnny Cash, and I thought that every time he wailed that he was “stuck in Folsom Prison,” his voice gained a few decibels.
What would he say if he knew an escaped prisoner was only a foot away from his back?
When he finished the “Blues” he went on to an old Kingston Trio tune about a man on the run in the Everglades. I gritted my teeth. We were headed over swamp now, where murderers frequently dumped their victims, and the parallel was too exact for comfort. The hum of the big diesel moved up a half octave and I had the sense that he was opening it out.
“Sheriff Johnstone, why don’t you leave me alone?” he sang, and I shut my eyes.
It seemed like forever, but later I figured it could only have been an hour when the rig started to slow down. We were coming to a city and, from the distance, it had to be Baton Rouge. We made a slow arc and I realized we were bypassing the city, and when we started upward I knew we were on the bridge, headed west to Lafayette. We went for a little way and then I felt us edge over into the right lane and the brakes squealed and moaned as we began to decelerate. We were on some sort of exit ramp, and I wondered where the driver was headed. Once, during the trip, I’d smelled hot coffee and realized he was drinking from a thermos. Well, coffee did that to you, so maybe it was a rest stop.
He pulled off the road then and I heard the brakes hiss. The big rig shuddered to a halt and for a few seconds all was silent.
Then the driver brought out the thermos, because I smelled the coffee again. “How about some java?” he asked.
I didn’t answer immediately and I heard the seat squeak as he turned around. The curtain moved and he thrust the thermos cup back at me. “Might wake you up some,” he said. “But if you don’t want it, I’ll finish it.”
I sighed and accepted the cup, my brain racing through my options. He was a big man with a round face, and from the lights in the parking area I could make out a thin stubble on his chin.
“How did you know I was back here?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Saw you get in. I started to yell at you, but then the Smokeys came running up, asked did I see a one-arm guy, just busted out of the hospital. They was running around like pissants in a shit pile, and I figured anybody who’d pulled one on them couldn’t be all bad. Besides, I owe the bastards.”
I didn’t ask him what he owed, just thanked my stars he had been there when he had. “How did you know I wasn’t armed?” I asked.
“Armed?” he guffawed. “That’s just it. You was armed. One-armed. That’s what I loved. Here was all these assholes running around like crazy, couldn’t even hold on to a man with one arm! I figured you was somebody I had to meet.”
“The pleasure’s
mine,” I said fervently. “But you don’t need to get involved in my trouble.”
“Who’s involved? I’m just giving you a lift. How far you want to go?”
“Back to New Orleans,” I said.
He squinted at me like maybe he’d been wrong and the cops should have held on to me.
“Podnuh, she ain’t worth it, I’ll guarantee.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I have to go back,” I said.
“Your decision. How you aim to do it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you could lend me a quarter. There might be somebody I can call.”
He screwed up his face and then opened the cab door. “Stay here. I’ll see what good I can do you inside.”
He stepped down, the door slammed, and I watched him walk across the parking lot to the coffee shop behind the gas pumps. There were some other rigs in the lot, and some cars. It was almost five o’clock and the sky was already growing lighter. A man with a useless arm would be a giveaway in daylight, so I hoped my unexpected benefactor was having some luck. Then a darker thought seized me: What if he was calling the law right now? What if his little speech had been a clever put-on and he was setting me up? As if in answer, a white state police cruiser emerged from the fog and pulled to a halt beside the building. I went cold all over. The trooper got out and went in. I had a sudden urge to open the door, get out, run. The fog would hide me for a little while. I could head into the cane fields, throw myself flat against the mud.
I put my hand on the door handle and then halted. What if I was wrong? My odds in the cane fields were nil. If the trucker proved out … The door opened and he came out, followed by the policeman. It was too late. I had lost the opportunity. Now there was nowhere to go.
Then, as I watched, the policeman laughed and started back for his car, a Styrofoam cup in his hand. The trucker waved and then hitched his pants. He sauntered back toward the cab, in no particular hurry, and then turned to watch the cruiser leave.
He hoisted himself up and pulled the door open. “Had to wait till the Smokey left,” he drawled. “Anyway, I think I got you took care of. Fellow inside I know pretty good, name is Red. He’s headed for New Orleans with a load of furniture. I told him you was okay, needed a lift. He’ll be out in a minute.”
“I appreciate it,” I said.
He waved away my thanks. “Do the same for me someday. Here.” He handed me a pair of bills and chuckled under his breath. “It was worth every cent to see what you done to them fuckers.”
Five minutes later a tall scarecrow figure came out and spit onto the pavement. My friend nodded and I wiggled my way into the passenger seat. We shook hands and then I opened the door and swung down.
The tall man waited, digging into a bag of Levi Garrett. I guessed my benefactor had not said anything about my being wanted and I decided not to raise the issue.
“Where you going?” the new driver asked dolefully, popping a wad into his mouth. “I’m heading down 61. I can let you out in Kenner or Metairie, at the motel.”
“Metairie’s fine,” I said.
He nodded and gave his wad a few test chews. He seemed satisfied with the taste and spat. “Okay. Let’s go.”
It was already light enough to see figures, but the river fog kept visibility to ten yards. I climbed into the seat beside him and fastened my safety belt. He gave me a fish eye, as if I had betrayed my true colors, and started the engine.
After ten miles it seemed clear that he did not want to talk, so I shut my eyes and let my mind wander in and out of dreams. I was on a plane, dropping through the clouds, and I did not want it to land, because when it did I would be back in the suffocating hell of combat. Somehow I knew that if the clouds ever parted, the green world below would be the last world I would ever see. I awoke sweating and saw a sign that said LaPlace.
Twenty-five miles.
It was six-thirty when we passed the airport and the fog was still heavy, like cold smoke, licking over everything. We came to the first in the interminable series of traffic signals and once I looked out the window and saw a Kenner police car, but to the driver I was just another trucker, and he didn’t give me more than a second’s glance. Ten minutes later we eased off the road at a trucker’s motel, and my companion jerked on the emergency brake.
“All right,” he said.
I thanked him and he allowed me to shake his hand. Then I took a deep breath and descended into the gray morning.
12
There was a phone booth at the side of the building but I realized I didn’t have any change. I looked down at the money the first trucker had given me. Two fives. I would have to go inside to get one changed. I didn’t like it, because by now my description was probably on all the radios, and the desk clerk would have been up all night, listening, but there was little I could do. I reached over and placed my left hand in my pocket. Then I walked into the office.
It was dingy and there were some old Motor Trend magazines on a battered table beside the desk. The clerk was busy with my driver and I thumbed the magazines until they were finished. When the clerk turned to me I handed him a bill and pointed to the cigarette machine outside. He handed me the change without another look and I left.
Sandy was out of town and I couldn’t involve O’Rourke without risking his law license. There were two or three ex-girlfriends, but I couldn’t be sure they’d be alone or even at the same numbers. Only one name came to mind and I knew it spelled a calculated risk. I raised the phone book and found Degas, K.
She might refuse to help. She might even call the police. But I had a gut feeling she could be trusted. I put in my quarter and dialed.
It was the third ring when she answered and her voice was logy with sleep. “Hello?”
“Katherine? This is Micah Dunn. I need your help.”
“Micah?” Her voice became instantly awake. “What’s happening? I heard on the news they’d arrested you. What happened?”
“We had a parting of the ways,” I said. “I’ll explain later. Right now I need you to pick me up and bring me to your place.”
“Micah, did you escape from jail?”
“It’s better for you not to ask questions. Please, Katherine: I need your help.”
“Where are you? I’ll be there as soon as I get dressed.”
I gave her the location and hung up the phone, hoping I’d made the right decision. But in reality I didn’t have many choices.
I slipped back into the shadows, as pale streamers of dawn streaked the eastern sky.
My God, what if her son was with her? Wasn’t he staying in the house? I hadn’t even thought of it, but if it was so …
Surely she would have said something.
A police car came slowly down the highway and stopped at the traffic signal twenty yards away. I stifled my urge to head for the shadows, turning back to the phone booth and pretending I was making a call. Thirty seconds later the light changed and the cruiser started off again. It was six o’clock and the night shift was thinking only of getting home to bed.
It seemed like forever and I was beginning to wonder if she’d changed her mind. But then the brown Toyota made a left turn at the light and nosed into the parking lot. She saw me and reached over to open the door.
“You look like death warmed over,” she said. “What did they do to you?”
“Chinese water torture,” I cracked. “Look, Katherine, I really appreciate this.”
“It’s okay. But what happened in Covington? It said on the news they were holding you for killing some rich man.” Her face darkened. “It also said Gregory’s wife was there.”
I recounted what had happened and she shook her head, speeding up to pass a slow cab.
“It gets stranger and stranger.”
We came to Carrollton and turned right. The city was waking up now, a few people coming and going on the street, and a scatter of cars hurrying people to early jobs.
“So what’s the game plan?” she asked. “Or is there one?”
> “The game plan is sleep,” I said. “I need to get my brain into thinking shape and right now I’m about to pass out. By the way, is your son …?”
“Scott has his own apartment, thank God. He only comes around to raise hell with me for not being wiser in my old age.”
“I hope your neighbors won’t be awake,” I said, fighting the dreams that kept wanting to carry me away. “I’d hate to ruin your reputation.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said. “It’s about time I did something to shatter that image.”
She parked in front and a quick glance did not reveal anyone else on the street. I hurried up the walk after her and stumbled in gratefully, glad to hear the big front door close behind me.
I collapsed onto the sofa. “I have to warn you that you may be charged with harboring a felon,” I said but didn’t hear her reply because I was already asleep.
When I awoke I was in a strange room and the covers were over me. I stared at the ceiling and tried to make sense of the chandelier-type light fixture. I was not in prison, I was not in my own apartment, and I certainly was not where I had fallen asleep.
I turned on my side and saw a small framed photograph. The military officer in it looked familiar, but it wasn’t me. Beside it was a clock, its red digits burning in the darkness: 2:00 P.M. I threw off the covers and sat up. Someone had removed my shoes and unbuttoned my shirt. The sheets smelled of perfume, but I smelled of sweat and dirt.
Stepping over to the window, I peered through the blinds. It was a bright June day, and as I watched, a car passed along Prytania, headed uptown.
I let the blind drop and went to the door. A folk ballad from the sixties floated up from below. I went out onto the landing and looked down. There was no one in sight, and no sound of voices other than the record, which I could see rotating on the turntable.
I tiptoed down the stairs and was halfway to the bottom when a key turned in the front door and the door opened.
Katherine smiled faintly, removing her sunglasses and stooping to put a heavy brown paper bag on the floor. “Well. I thought I could slip out for a few groceries, but I can see I’m wrong.” She picked up the sack and started into the kitchen with it. I followed. “So how are you feeling?”
The Maya Stone Murders Page 11
