Spencerville

by Nelson DeMille

  Baxter had disengaged himself from his wife, and Annie was lying on the floor, crying. The two cops still had their guns pointed at Keith, but their eyes were on their chief's naked wife.

  As Keith moved toward Annie, Baxter swung the butt of the shotgun again and buried it in Keith's solar plexus. Keith doubled over and fell to his knees. He could hear Baxter screaming to his men, Get out of here! Get the fuck out of here!

  Keith was aware of the two cops leaving, then felt the shotgun butt hit him again, this time on his back, sprawling him forward on the floor. He heard Baxter's voice, So—fuck me? No! Fuck you Fuck you Keith felt Baxter kicking him in the ribs, he heard Annie scream again, then felt her fall on top of him, covering him with her body, her arms wrapped tightly around his chest and her face buried in his neck. He heard her shouting, Leave him alone! Leave him alone! Go away!

  There was a silence in the room, and Keith fought to remain conscious. He could see Baxter's legs in front of him, blood running down the man's pant leg and into his shoe.

  He heard Baxter's voice again. Get off him! Get off of him or, so help me God, I'll kill you.

  No!

  Keith heard the pump-action shotgun cocking, and he caught his breath and said to her, Get off . . . Annie, get off . . .

  No!

  A voice from outside the door called into the room, Chief! We got to get moving! Got people out here now. Police on the way!

  Baxter stuck the muzzle of the shotgun under Keith's nose. I'll count to three, and if this bitch isn't up and getting dressed, your fucking brains will be laying on your ass. One—

  Annie . . . get off . . .

  Two—

  It's okay . . . remember what I said—

  Three.

  He felt her arms loosen around his chest, then felt her weight lifting off him.

  Baxter gave her a shove, then stepped back, but kept the shotgun pointed at Keith's face. Baxter said to him, When I get through fucking her, there's not gonna be any fucking left in her.

  Keith tried to raise himself up, but Baxter kicked him in the head, and he fell forward on his face. He heard someone shout from the doorway, Chief. State police on the way!

  Keith kept passing in and out of consciousness. His vision was blurred, and sounds seemed to reach him from far away. He could see Annie's bare legs, then saw her legs again with jeans and slippers on, then the legs of uniformed men walking away with her, and heard her voice calling him, but couldn't make out what she was saying, except for his name.

  He heard Baxter's voice more distinctly, and the voice said, Look at you, lying there, naked as a skinned buck.

  He opened his eyes and saw that Baxter was kneeling in front of him and that Baxter had the K-bar knife in his hand. Baxter said, You're mine now. All mine.

  Fuck you.

  Baxter spit in his face and brought the heavy pommel of the knife down on Keith's head.

  Keith was vaguely aware of hands on him, then his body rolling so that, when he opened his eyes, he saw the ceiling. He saw Baxter squatting over him, the knife in his hand, and he heard Baxter saying in a soft voice, I'm just gonna relieve you of those things that got you in trouble. Keith could feel a tug at his scrotum and thought he felt Baxter's hand fondling his testicles, but he might have been imagining that, then realized he wasn't, and Baxter's voice was still droning on in a soothing tone. So, we're just gonna take these home with us, and for the rest of your life, you can think about who's got 'em, and about who's fucking my wife and who's never gonna fuck her again—

  Keith jabbed two fingers into Baxter's right eye, and the man howled and tumbled backward, covering his face with his hands.

  There were hurried footsteps in the room, the sound of urgent voices, and the image of Baxter being half dragged, half carried away by Ward and another policeman.

  Keith couldn't feel any pain, except for the heavy pounding in his head, and the feeling that his eyes wanted to burst out of their sockets. A wave of nausea came over him, and he was on the verge of blacking out, but he knew he had to get on his stomach so he wouldn't drown in his own vomit. Somehow, he managed to get on his side, then got sick and felt well enough to let himself go, slipping into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  What day is this?

  The nurse replied, First you tell me your name, then I'll tell you what day it is.

  Keith thought that was a fair deal, so he said, Keith Landry.

  She smiled. Today is Tuesday. You got here Sunday night— Monday morning, really.

  Keith looked at the sun outside the window. Is it morning or afternoon?

  My turn. Who is the president of the United States?

  Keith told her and added, He's a delightful man. I had a chat with him last week.

  She frowned.

  Keith realized this was not what she wanted to hear from a head injury patient, so he added, Just kidding.

  She nodded.

  He tried to sit up, but she put her hand on his shoulder. Lie still, Mr. Landry.

  He regarded her a moment as she hovered over him. She was about mid-thirties, plump, friendly face, but with enough experience, he guessed, to be stern if he got frisky. He asked her, What time

  It's eight-fifteen A.M. You've been unconscious for about thirty-six hours.

  Oh . . ."He felt a little foggy, and his head and body ached, but otherwise he thought he was all right. He tried to remember exactly what had happened, and he recalled parts of it, but it was like a piece of broken china whose fragments had to be fitted together.

  The nurse asked him, What is your address?

  He told her, and she kept asking those kinds of questions, and he saw now that she rwas marking a sheet of paper as he responded. He wanted to think about what happened, but she was going on and on with the questions. Finally, he remembered the last minute or two before he blacked out, and his hand went down beneath the covers and between his legs. He said, I'm okay.

  You're fine. Good vital signs, good responses, good—

  Good. I'm out of here. He sat up again, and again she put her hand on his shoulder.

  Lie down, Mr. Landry, or I'll have to call an attendant.

  Okay. When can I check out?

  When the doctors sign off on you. The neurologist is making his rounds now.

  Good. Where are my things?

  In that closet.

  Does this telephone work?

  No. Do you want me to have it turned on?

  Yes, please. He asked her, Do you know what happened to me?

  She didn't reply immediately, then said, I understand you were assaulted.

  That's right. I was with my girlfriend. Do you know anything about her?

  No, except that there are a few items of women's clothing in your closet. She added, A police ambulance brought you here, and the police inventoried all the personal items that were found with you and brought everything here. I can go through it with you later, if you're concerned.

  No. I just need my wallet. Can you get that for me?

  Later.

  He thought a moment, then asked her, Do the police want to question me?

  Yes, they've asked that we notify them when you're up to it.

  Okay. But not today.

  We'll see.

  What is my prognosis?

  Well . . . favorable.

  Did they do a CAT scan?

  Yes. You have a hairline fracture, some internal swelling . . . I should let the doctor speak to you about that.

  He questioned her further, but she was reluctant to give him specific medical information and only described his injuries in general terms— trauma to the midsection, the right shoulder, the left forearm, and to the head, no internal bleeding, a few contusions, lacerations, and so forth. He concluded that, if he could stand and get dressed, he was well enough to leave.

  He asked her, Where am I, exactly?

  The Lucas County Hospital, outside of Toledo.

  He nodded to himself. He was
in the hands of the local government, and that included the local police, who considered him either a victim or a fugitive, or both.

  She said to him, I'll ask the doctor if you can have solid food. Do you want breakfast?

  He did, but it was time for him to play sick and feeble. In fact, he felt weak, but not too bad otherwise except for the headache. He said, I just want to sleep.

  All right. I'll be back later with the neurologist.

  Fine. But I need some sleep now.

  She left, and Keith sat up. At some point, the police would ask the hospital to sign a fit-for-confinement slip, and he'd be transferred to a prison sick bay or similar facility. He didn't know his legal status and wasn't completely clear on his medical status, but he had no time to waste finding out or straightening it out to other people's satisfaction. Headache and fogginess notwithstanding, he knew he had to get out of where he was, and get to Spencerville and find Annie.

  He pulled out the two IVs, and his veins bled. There was gauze and tape on his bed stand, and he quickly wrapped the punctures. He put his legs over the side of the bed and stood slowly. His knees buckled, but he raised himself up and took a few tentative steps around the room.

  There was an elderly man in the next bed, and Keith saw he was sleeping. Keith pulled the curtain around both beds to partially block the view from the open door. He could see the nurses' station off to the left.

  Keith opened the wall locker and saw his suitcase and overnight bag wedged inside, along with his briefcase and a large plastic bag filled with assorted pieces of male and female clothing and toiletry items. He pulled his suitcase out, took off his hospital gown, and dressed himself quickly in his blue Italian silk suit.

  Inside the plastic bag that the police had used to gather loose items, he found the jeans, shirt, and windbreaker he'd been wearing on Sunday, but couldn't find his wallet or his license plates. Obviously, these items were in the hands of the local police. At the bottom of the plastic bag, he saw the brown and white teddy bear. He held it a moment, then dropped it back in the bag.

  Keith opened his briefcase, which was still unlocked from when Annie had opened it. The police had undoubtedly looked inside, but everything that was visible seemed innocuous enough. He pushed down on the false bottom of the case, and it sprung loose. He lifted the bottom and saw that his passport was still there, as well as several hundred dollars in various denominations. He put the money in his jacket pocket, then stuffed everything except the briefcase back inside the locker and shut it. Keith carried the briefcase and walked quickly and purposefully into the hallway, glanced left and right, and located the elevators to his right. He went directly to an open elevator, stepped inside with hospital staff, and rode down to the lobby.

  In the lobby, he saw a uniformed policeman sitting in a chair, reading a magazine, and across from him a man in a suit who Keith figured was a detective.

  Keith went outside and spotted a taxi dropping someone off. He got into the rear of the taxi and said to the driver, Airport, please.

  The driver got onto the airport highway. It was still rush hour in both directions, Keith noticed, but they were making decent time heading away from Toledo. The commercial strip looked different in the daylight, and he noticed the Chevrolet dealership on the right, but didn't spot his Blazer. Further down, on the opposite side of the highway, he saw the sign for the Westway Motel.

  He wasn't certain how Baxter had found them, but he assumed that the manhunt had been intense enough to finally turn up the only two clues he had left: the conversation with the security man at the airport, which led to an area search and eventually to the Westway Motel, the dark sign notwithstanding. America was, by no means, a police state, but it had far more policemen with far more advanced gadgetry, mobility, and resources than any police state Keith had ever been in. Nevertheless, it was only a bad break at the airport that changed the outcome of that evening so quickly and completely.

  Keith knew that if he dwelled on it too much, if he let the rage and the guilt take over, he wasn't going to be able to do what he had to do. He put it out of his mind and considered his next moves. He wasn't going to get many more shots at this, if any. But all he needed was one more.

  The taxi arrived at the airport, and the driver asked, Where to?

  Just stop over there near the USAir sign.

  The driver stopped at the terminal and said, That'll be twelve seventy-five, please.

  Keith gave him a twenty, took the change, and tipped him.

  He went into the terminal, turned around, and came out another door twenty feet away. He stood at the curb, looking at his watch, and seeming for all the world like a businessman who just got off a morning flight. He'd been to this airport many times over the years, and he knew the ropes. He ignored the line of taxis and said to a skycap, Anyone around who wants to take a long ride?

  Sure. Where you headed?

  Lima.

  Okay. The skycap signaled to a customized van parked in the lot across the ramp. The skycap asked Keith, Luggage?

  No. Keith gave the skycap two dollars as the van pulled up. A skinny kid of about twenty jumped out and asked, Where you headin'?

  Lima. How much?

  Oh . . . let's say . . . that's about two hours, so we got gas and the return . . . is fifty too much?

  Sounds okay. Keith opened the passenger door, and the driver got in the van, and they were off. As they drove out of the airport, the young man stuck out his hand. Name's Chuck.

  Keith shook his hand. John.

  Good to know you.

  Nice van.

  Ain't she, though? Did it all myself. Chuck gave Keith a complete rundown of the customizing done on the van, a late-model Dodge. Chuck was currently unemployed and supported his expensive chroming habit by undercutting the fixed taxi rates at the airport. By the time Chuck was finished with his monologue, they were on Interstate 75, heading south.

  Keith was going to tell Chuck to step on it, that he was late, but Chuck already had the van cranked up to seventy-five. Chuck saw him looking at the speedometer, laughed, and said, Route 75, I do seventy-five. Lucky we ain't on 106. He added, Hey, if this is too fast for you, let me know.

  It's fine.

  Yeah? Good. I got the best fuzz-buster made—right here. He tapped the radar detector on the dashboard. Fuck them.

  Right.

  He nudged it up to eighty and asked, Where you from?

  New York.

  Yeah? You like it?

  It's okay.

  Never been there myself.

  Keith felt a headache coming on, and his stomach heaved. He didn't know if it was because of the ride, or the beating he'd taken. Maybe it was Chuck.

  Chuck glanced at him and said, Don't mean to be personal, but it looks like somebody whooped you upside the head real good.

  Keith hadn't seen himself in a mirror, which was just as well, but he put down the visor, and there was a vanity mirror on it, surrounded by pink lights. He looked at himself. His left temple was black-and-blue and slightly swollen, and he had a cut under his right eye that was smeared with iodine, but not sutured. He also looked very pale, and there were dark circles around his eyes.

  You get mugged?

  No, had a car accident.

  Jeez. Hey, you here on business?

  Yes.

  No luggage?

  No. Going back tonight.

  Thought so. You want me to wait for you? Five bucks an hour to wait.

  Maybe.

  Want to listen to the radio? Tapes?

  Radio.

  Chuck turned on the radio, a hard-rock station.

  Keith hit the scan button, and a succession of stations came on for about ten seconds each, then Keith locked in an all-news station from Toledo and listened to the world news, which interested him about as much as it interested Chuck. Finally, the local news came on.

  The newscaster said, The state police announced this morning that they expect to question Keith Landry, the suspec
t in the Spencerville kidnapping case. Landry, of Spencerville, is currently in Lucas County Hospital suffering from head injuries resulting from an assault committed by an unknown assailant or assailants in an airport highway motel. Landry was the subject of a statewide manhunt Sunday night and early Monday morning, after the Spencerville police charged that he kidnapped Annie Baxter, the wife of the Spencerville police chief. Mrs. Baxter was not found at the motel, but the state police have been informed by the Spencerville police that Mrs. Baxter is safe and is now back with her family. The investigation will continue, according to authorities who hope to discover the identity of the assailant or assailants, and to determine what charges will be filed against Landry.

  Keith hit a button, and a country-western station came on.

  Chuck said, That's something, ain't it?

  What?

  That kidnapping. They found the guy right near the airport back there. Chuck gave his opinion of the incident. Like, they got all kinds of stuff on the radio, on TV, and all, and I'm thinkin', hell, if that was my girlfriend or something, the cops wouldn't go jumpin' through their asses like that. But it's another cop, you know, and this woman was like an upstanding member of the community and all, two kids, and the husband is a police chief. So, anyway, they find them . . • well, like they said, they never found her, which is weird, but the state police get to this motel and all, like some kind of hourly place, you know, and so they find the guy who kidnapped her, and he's all beat to shit, but nobody knows where the wife got to—when the cops got to the motel, everybody who was checked in are long gone, you know, because they don't belong there in the first place, and the only witness is this motel manager or something, and the cops ain't saying what he said. Now, I think there was two of them, two guys, Landry and another guy, and they get into an argument about who's gonna fuck her first and all that, and one of them slam-dunks the other guy, then cuts out with the wife. And they was all white people. Can you believe that shit?

  Incredible story.

  You said it. And now they're sayin' the wife is back with her family. And the state police says the husband, the chief, is in . . . some word . . .