He meant to exit after the hipsters came in.
But then, he almost had a real stroke. A police officer held the door for him and said After you, sir. Ted had no choice but to keep walking—slurring the words thank you as he went—and nothing happened. The officer just told Ted he was welcome and went inside. That was that. Ted lumbered on, toward the trucker and the rattling diesel semis. Lazy exhaust streams poured skyward, in parallel, leaning down the gentle breeze.
Ted kept up his abnormal gait until he passed the first semi, after which no one who saw him exit the store could see him quit faking the stroke. He caught the bearded trucker’s attention. That’s when Ted knew one of two things. Either he would be on his way to Toledo, where he had no idea what he’d do, or it would be over for good.
CHAPTER 33
Lewis watched the trooper walk past the cashier and beyond the view of the window.
“Just grab your doughnuts and get the hell out,” Mr. Gray mumbled.
“Amen to that,” Lewis said.
Another couple of cars entered the lot, and a semi-truck left. The trooper suddenly hurried to the door, holding his shoulder speaker to his ear.
It didn’t look like Sunday afternoon any more.
He exited the store. Through the side and front windows, Lewis could see the man’s hat, distorted through two panes of glass. The cop searched all around him, seeming to stand on his toes as he did. He blew out steamy, rapid breaths. Suddenly, he focused on something in the darkness.
Oh, fuck. Here we go.
The trooper tilted his head, speaking into that shoulder-mounted mic. He stepped back toward his car, its driver side flush with the dark side of the building, maybe thirty feet from the van.
Don’t do it, man. Get in your damned car.
The cop didn’t get into his car. His hand resting on the butt of his holstered pistol, he instead went exactly where he shouldn’t have gone. He drew the weapon and quickened his pace. His shoulder mic crackled, and he reached for it again. “Anybody get a license plate on that van?” he asked the mic.
The cop’s flashlight beam roved the van’s grill and seemed to sniff its way onto the blown-out headlamp. The cop spun on the ball of his foot to check around him and resumed his trip to the vehicle. The round beam crept up, across the linear defects the buckshot had put on the short hood before cracking and glancing off the windshield.
Right when Lewis thought the light might brighten the blood on the steering wheel, the trooper spun once again on his foot to focus on his blind side. As he did, he crooked his wrists together, right-over-left, focusing the flashlight beam and gun sights in the same direction.
The beam was bright. It stung Lewis’s eyes.
~~~
The truck’s flutter cap levered toward the sky, and smoky steam billowed from the pipe. The cab growled and shimmied as its wheels broke into motion. Its two cones of light led it away from the truck stop.
Cab and trailer accelerated into the relative darkness. It picked up speed, merging into a northbound curve of red taillights that flowed against a bright, southbound river of white. The man with the limp had disappeared.
~~~
The trooper’s head jerked back. His elbows bent at ninety degrees as he fell stiffly backward, into the van. Leaving a gaudy red smear on the gray paint, his body slid to the ground in a sitting position, feet apart, legs straight. He toppled to his right and came to rest face down, forehead on the brim of his overturned uniform hat. Lewis and Mr. Gray dragged the body back to where they’d been hiding next to a dumpster.
They ran back to the van. No one seemed to have noticed. Lewis took a surgical towel and wiped the cop’s blood off the window, mirror, and driver’s side door. The rear-view mirror revealed three sets of flashing lights coming from Broadbent. The situation had finally shut Mr. Gray up completely. Shielding their faces from view as they accelerated through the parking lot, Lewis and his tongue-tied partner headed for the interstate.
~~~
Inside the building, Jason stood at the phones, having stared at a clock for about four and a half minutes. Saloon Man had said to wait five. Jason waited another thirty seconds, then picked up the phone. Before he even dialed, two Broadbent police and a sheriff’s deputy entered the store. Another deputy ran in from the outside yelling, Officer down! In another five minutes, the place was full of police. Their radios were so active the store seemed like NASA’s ground-control during a launch. Jason spilled his story and described its central character to two Broadbent police officers. He told them about a man who’d hijacked the Trans Am with a shotgun.
As truthfully as he could, Jason answered the officers’ questions. The woman talked, and the man wrote.
“He bought you a coat and hat?” the female officer asked.
Jason nodded.
“With cash, I’m guessing?” she asked.
“Do you know the man?” she asked. “Have you ever met him before?”
“Not before tonight.”
“Can you describe him to us? White, black? Height? Build? Approximate age? That kind of thing?”
Jason described Saloon Man down to his new outfit and boots.
“Did this man talk to anybody before he left?”
“Not that I saw. I mean, besides me. He did call somebody, though.”
“Which phone?”
Jason pointed to the second pay phone from the left. The male officer stepped over and recorded the phone’s number before returning to the lady’s side.
“Who’d he call? Do you know?”
Jason made a face. “Um. I’m… pretty sure it was his dad.”
“His dad.” The officers exchanged glances. “Okay,” she said, “What’d he say?”
“Not much that I heard. He said, ‘I gotta go’ and ‘I love y’—”
“He mention any names?”
“Yeah. He mentioned a guy named Frank. He said something about ‘tell Frank’ or ‘ask Frank’ something.”
“Good. Anything else?”
Jason made a hasty decision. “He said he was going to buy me a new car.”
“What?… And then he left? Alone?”
“Yes.”
For the next few minutes, the officers talked about security cameras, witnesses, sales receipts, how many cars and trucks came and went per hour, what Saloon Man was wearing when he limped out the door. They met in clusters: Sheriff’s deputies, Broadbent Police, state police. They asked other customers questions. One group crowded around the cashier. And then, one of them out of uniform stepped up and said something—to the lady officer who’d asked Jason all the questions—about a phone call. The caller had been a retired judge from Something River, Indiana.
After that, things went pretty fast. Jason remained a big center of attention. He did everything the officers said, and truthfully. But inside, he found himself worrying, hoping Saloon Man was okay. Before he left with the officers for more questioning, Jason heard another officer mention a Detective Frank somebody from—he heard it correctly this time—Blue River, Indiana. He also heard them say other things, like murder, wife, and interstate fugitive.
Then, somebody said, Ted Gables. Our primary suspect is Ted Gables. Forty-two-year-old white male, approximately six feet tall, one hundred and eighty pounds…
They all had a description of Saloon Man from somewhere, maybe some kind of phone call tip, Jason thought. Since their outside information fit Jason’s description so well, he felt like a narc.
The kid had no idea how the police identified Saloon Man so quickly, but it looked to him like the man who’d promised to buy him a new car was wanted by just about every authority in Ohio and Indiana. The guy had been in a hurry and afraid, of course, but he’d been so nice otherwise.
He coulda killed me ten different ways. But he didn’t.
Jason would feel like a real snitch in a few minutes, when he identified Saloon Man in a photograph.
CHAPTER 34
The truck picked up speed on I-75
. Ted knew, in a minute, the kid and his Trans Am would be surrounded by police. The men in the gray van had probably disappeared.
The cab was a complex of gauges and levers he didn’t understand. It was also clean. Compulsively so. The driving log had its place between the bucket seats. A small air freshener sat on the dash. Behind them, a sleep compartment—likely with a made bed—hid behind a dark-colored curtain.
Ted pictured the police talking to the truck stop’s cashier. They’d chase down everyone who’d made a transaction there. It wouldn’t be long after talking to the kid, the police would know a guy who hijacked a Trans Am had just been there. The truck hadn’t been at a pump, so there’d be no fuel purchase to lead them to Toledo. Had the trucker paid for his coffee and sandwich with a credit card or cash? Ted worried it’d be risky even to ask. Did the kid, Jason, watch Ted get into the semi?
Ted leaned forward to use the side-view mirror.
“Are you expecting someone?” the trucker asked.
“No. Just never been in a semi before. Testing the mirrors, looking around.” He was sure the trucker didn’t buy it.
“It’s my home away from home. Humble space. Welcome to it.”
Ted didn’t know if he could trust the man, didn’t know if he could trust himself. Three speeding, southbound troopers crested a high place up ahead, lights spinning. Just then, Ted sank into his own fear, picturing Jason talking to the police. That man got in my car with a shotgun… and he wasn’t afraid to use it. I didn’t know what to do, officers… I swear I didn’t.
Frank Bruska’s walrus face spoke to Ted, too, saying, we need you home. The phrase it was your truck, Ted repeated itself in his mind. So did probable cause… arrest warrant… U.S. Marshals on speed-dial. Ted thought he might just disappear from Toledo, contacting his dad and Suzanne later. They were the only ones who really mattered. Them and Zeke, anyway. It wasn’t like Ted would keep up the good relationship with his in-laws. The ER in Blue River couldn’t really need him all that much. It was full of good people. He pictured himself in Canada or Alaska. Or Mexico.
Dad’s dying.
Ted’s own, private newsreel played and replayed in his mind: the rapid-fire progression of well-placed holes in the Trans Am’s windshield. The fleshy, metallic BWONG! of the garbage can on that man’s face. Kathryn’s horrible sneeze.
“You like talk radio, brother?” the trucker asked in a voice that didn’t fit for a second.
Ted seemed to awaken.
No. I don’t like talk radio, brother. I don’t like you, and I don’t like anything.
“Sure,” is what he ended up actually saying.
Ted wanted to ask the trucker a simple question but thought better of it.
Instead, in his own, silent hell, he stomped up to the trapdoor and yanked it open. He shoved the spider and its spindly legs aside and took a nice jog into the darkness that led to White Birch Camp. It was time to see what horrible things he could find. Jets of carotid blood spewing from an open neck? Buck’s knife dripping blood into the sand? Ted deciding to clean up the scene? Sure. Helping the world pretend a gaggle of twelve-year-olds had never crossed the lake at night, killed their camp counselor, and gotten away with it? Coaching Hoss about rinsing the blood out of his hair? You bet. On this little nostalgic journey through the trap door, if it was something horrible, and if it happened at White Birch—especially if it was Ted’s fault—he would find it.
The trucker turned a knob on the dial and fiddled with the tuning. Soon came droll-to-angry voices. Political talk radio. Ted didn’t want to hear a word of it.
A gray minivan with one headlight darted past them in the fast lane. The minivan. Ted’s heart skipped a few beats. The van cut across two lanes and careened down the exit ramp just ahead. The trucker laughed and said, “Now there’s somebody whose chickens have come home to roost.”
“What’s that?”
“The driver of that van. He’s driving like his past just caught up with him.”
Home to roost?
When the chickens come home to roost. Some people pay a high price for deception.
Oh, God.
That’s me.
For the love of… Kathryn… Mom and Dad… and… and Neil…
That’s me.
Ted’s heart collapsed in his chest.
As the truck crossed the overpass, Ted watched for the van on the crossroad below.
In another couple of minutes, the trucker spoke again. Looking into his mirror, he said, Uh-oh. Ted leaned forward. The mirror revealed several sets of flashing red and blue lights, quickly gaining on them.
Ted must have held his breath for a solid minute. As the trucker slowed and prepared to pull over, the police cars flew past, and Ted’s circulation seemed to stop altogether.
“Damn,” said the trucker. “I thought they were after me.”
If they’d been after the van, Ted thought, they missed it. He didn’t say a word. After ten or so minutes, his pulse returned to normal, and the semi motored on.
The politics talk droned on for over an hour. About twenty minutes north of Dayton, the radio people said something about the election, the incumbent’s scandal, and the president himself. He was out of the race for certain. Would he be impeached? Would he resign?
And of course, the Missouri Senator Denton McDaniel came up. One guy from Cabin 7 loses his wife and best friend, and the other gets to run for president.
Bastard. Whatever life you have right now, Buck, I gave it to you in 1970. I hope you lose, and I hope you lose BIG.
“The Bob and Hayley Show,” the trucker said, excited. “You ever listen to these two?”
“No.”
“It’s an unprecedented change in candidate standing so close to the New Hampshire primaries,” said Hayley, in a butterscotch voice like Joni’s.
Hayley’s sarcastic counterpart said, “Good luck getting your name on the ballot, Senator. Even if you are a McDaniel.”
“Don’t be such a Debbie-Downer, Bob,” Hayley said. “The senator has a strong foundation of support in his father, the Senator Joseph McDaniel.”
“But not much time to raise the campaign funds, Hayley. I mean, come on. He’s a McDaniel, for sure, but even they have financial limits.”
“I bet you’ll be surprised.”
“At what? You think the senator has his fingers in the dirty business, like his Uncle Hugh?”
Hayley guffawed. “Oh, there it is! There it IS! The senator’s press conference is still echoing through the speakers, and already he’s accused of a crime. I knew it’d come early, but not this early. And I didn’t think it’d come from you, Bob! My goodness!”
Hayley and Bob shared a laugh.
Cute, Ted thought.
“McDaniel Security is their family business,” Bob said. “Do you remember in the late seventies? Are you old enough to remember the late seventies?”
“Oh, hush,” Hayley said.
“The accusations of mob ties?”
“I’m proud to say I’m too young to remember it, but let’s go toe-to-toe on the facts right now. Shall we?”
“The champion of research, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Darned straight, Bob. Are you too old to remember the senator was a boy back then? A boy? And that the mob-tie accusations were unfounded? You’re just vilifying the family.”
“I’m not vilifying the family, it’s just that—”
“You’re vilifying the name. Look. Neither the senator nor his father own stock in the family business. The late seventies were an entire generation ago… and look at what McDaniel Security’s done over the last twenty years. In private grants to law enforcement alone. They help pay to train officers and equip struggling police departments all across the country. To the tune of almost a billion dollars over twenty years.”
“Special favors are what they’re after. They practically have the police wearing the McDaniel logo.”
“Oh, stop!” Hayley said, laughing. “Would you say that
to a policeman’s face?”
“Not if I thought he was in McDaniel’s pocket. I’d be afraid for my life!”
“BOB!! Honestly!” Hayley’s laugh sounded nervous. “That’s just disrespectful.”
“Like I’m going to be respectful to a crook.”
“All right. That’s enough. Besides, that argument went stale twenty years ago. Can’t you do better than that? McDaniel Security is nothing but reputable!”
“Reputable? How about reprehensible?”
Do we really have to listen to this? Ted thought.
“Say what you want,” Hayley said, “but don’t forget. We’re talking about Senator Denton McDaniel here, not his uncle. The senator is squeaky clean.”
“No, he’s not,” Ted whispered into the darkness.
~~~
Ted’s question for the trucker came back, and this time, he decided to ask it. “Why are you helping me?”
The man took his hand away from the radio knob and put it back on the wheel. His answer was calm. “Not sure, really. Something just moved me to offer. Why?”
“Just, uh, wondering, I guess.”
“You look like the one who got the short end of the stick, is all.”
White Birch Graffiti (White Birch Village Book 2) Page 14
