Langfranc wasn’t happy, was sure there’d been some Beaton sleight-of-hand in the background — he hadn’t become senior partner for nothing — but he reminded himself of that groan of disapproval, like the low rumbling of an approaching storm, when he’d told Beaton he’d been aware of McElroy disposing of his girlfriend’s gun. While Beaton’s pen was in dismissal-letter-signing flow, he didn’t want to tempt fate.
Langfranc sighed resignedly. ‘I suppose all the main arguments McElroy has already submitted in the petition before them. This Rodriguez should be able to handle it from there.’
But as Beaton agreed offhandly, ‘Yes, he should,’ and hung up, the words left a sour tang in Langfranc’s mouth; he was getting almost as bad as Beaton. Almost, because while he might now and then spin the right rhetoric, he hadn’t yet got to the stage of believing it himself.
Jac found it hard to stop shaking. Another car had passed him on the ramp, but a trailer-truck behind stopped.
He’d originally told the truck driver, half an eye fixed on the approaching helicopter light over the driver’s shoulder, that he wanted to go to Gramercy — the first place to spring to mind on Highway 10 Westbound — then, when the driver mentioned stopping before that for gas and a quick coffee, Jac quickly amended: ‘Well, on the way there. Small community between the Highway and Great River Road. I’ll point it out when we get closer.’
The truck driver — pushing forty, but trying to cling to youth with shoulder-length hair and an earring — obviously hadn’t seen the news bulletin yet, but if they stopped in a busy roadside cafe, chances are someone there would have.
He had some Garth Brooks playing in the background, which after a moment with a ‘Don’t bother you none?’, he turned up. Perhaps he’d had it up loud before, so hadn’t noticed the sirens; though at such a busy junction, sirens wailing were perhaps nothing unusual.
At only one point, about six miles into the drive, did the driver eye him curiously — the t-shirt and the rain outside perhaps not correlating. ‘Not the best night to be out?’
‘Break-down,’ Jac said. ‘Tow-truck kept me hanging for forty minutes. But I didn’t want to miss out totally on seeing this old friend. Haven’t seen him for a while; since college, in fact.’
The truck driver nodded thoughtfully. The casual college-buddy dress, Jac flustered and wet from the rain, his uncertainty about where his ‘old friend’ lived. Jac hoped that the component parts slotted in.
But in the long gaps when they didn’t talk at all, above Garth Brooks and the thrum of the truck’s wheels on the road, Jac could still hear the thud-thud of the helicopter blades, pushing the images of the night through his mind… Gerry with half his skull blown away… ‘You’ve shot him… you’ve shot him!’…Sirens wailing as he ran through the night… ‘You’ve got to give yourself up to the police, Jac’… The ram hitting the door… The helicopter light moving in… ‘Your new girlfriend… I’ll bet you she hasn’t told you what we did together…’
‘That coffee stop’s about five miles up the road now.’
‘What?’ The thudding so heavy in his head that it took a second for the words to register. Truck stop. Crowds of people. Jac peered at the road ahead. He had to get dropped off before then. But they hadn’t passed any houses or signs of life for a while. ‘I… I think where I want is not far ahead now,’ Jac said hopefully. ‘This looks familiar.’
But as another two miles rolled by with nothing either side, Jac became desperate. The TV on in the truck stop. People looking between the TV and himself, pointing: ‘It’s him.. it’s him!’
Finally, a few shacks and wood-frame bungalows appeared two hundred yards to his left.
‘Yes, here… here!’ A dead-and-alive place, but it was the best he was going to get. He couldn’t afford to wait longer. Quick smile and ‘Thanks’ as he stepped down, a ‘S’okay buddy’ from the driver. But again that curious stare, Jac concerned that some things hadn’t added up for the driver, and as soon as he got down the road he’d get on his cell-phone to the police.
Jac ran down the narrow road leading to the houses. Ditches either side, fields beyond. A small farming community.
The town, if it could be called that — half a dozen streets with forty or so small wood-frame bungalows — was deserted. The only person he saw was an old black man eyeing him with lazy curiosity from his front veranda as he went by. Jac slowed from a run to a rapid walk.
White man walking around in the dead of night in a small black farming community? Hands would be reaching to phone for the police as quickly here as at the truck stop; and as Jac got round the corner, already he could hear a siren approaching. Becoming stronger for a moment before drifting into the distance as it passed on Highway 10.
Jac eased his breath, swallowing back against his hammering nerves. This was ludicrous. Only an hour he’d been on the run, and already there was nowhere left for him to go. Truck stop. Small town. And as more people saw the news bulletin, it would get worse. Heading back to the city would be out of the question, as would contacting family or friends — by now almost certainly monitored. And the main reason he wanted to stay loose and free — trying to save Larry Durrant in the remaining days left — a million miles away. Impossible.
Jac shook his head. He had to face it. There was nowhere left for him to go. Nothing left that he could do.
‘I’m sorry… sorry,’ Jac mouthed softly towards the night sky, letting the raindrops hit his face for a second. Wash away the guilt. ‘I did everything I could.’
Jac found a phone booth in the next street, but his body was still shaking as he approached it, the images still thudding through his mind — Larry Durrant’s pleading face now among them: Promise me, Counselor… you won’t just forget about me and leave me here to rot… because there’s somebody I’ve been apart from already far too long… If I could just see his face, see that it wasn’t me — I could turn and shout that out to her in the courtroom: It wasn’t me, ma… it wasn’t me… This is a dying man’s drink, isn’t it?You don’t see much hope left… Jac imagining that his last steps towards the phone booth were Larry Durrant’s as he approached the execution chamber, and now there was nothing left to stop that.
Jac’s hand shook wildly as he fed in the coins to call John Langfranc. But as the last dime slid in, Jac was struck with another thought.
32
Rodriguez thought he was doing fine. Until the woman on the left of the two men that made up the Board of Pardons panel started to speak.
Mid-forties, severe, hair in a small beehive, black-rimmed almond-shaped glasses which she perched on the front of her hairdo or end of her nose, peering unwaveringly at Rodriguez and Larry Durrant.
The questioning from the two men, one bearded in his mid-fifties, the other a clean-cut late thirties, had been mostly perfunctory, filling in the details: When did you become more strictly religious, Mr Durrant? Five years into your term… any particular reason for the timing? Soon after your mother dying. Did you feel that might have been a factor, then? A catalyst for something that was already there, you say… is that how you’d like it termed in our report? Okay. And your correspondence degree in literature? How long did that take? Three years. That’s a long haul and a lot of application. Very commendable.
Larry answered most of the questions directly at first, but at that point Rodriguez took over more, as it became obvious that Larry was uncomfortable expanding too much about his personal achievements; private and guarded to a fault, even when his life depended on it.