In his ear the telephone began to ring, and this time the sound was scratchy and distant. If the signal was going through—and the quality of this ring seemed to indicate that it was—another Motorola telephone, this one on the dashboard of a Ryder truck somewhere between fifty and two hundred and fifty miles east of John Edward Mar-inville’s current position, was now ringing.
Down in the desert, the cop went on kicking and kicking, burying the handlebars of Johnny’s scoot.
Two rings… three rings… four.
He had one more, two at the most, before another robot voice came on the line and told him that the customer he was calling was either out of range or had left the vehicle.
Johnny, still crying, closed his eyes. In the throbbing, red—tinged darkness behind his lids he saw the Ryder truck parked in front of a roadside gas station/general store just west of the Utah—Nevada state line. Steve was inside, buying a pack of his damned cigars and goofing with the counter girl, while outside, on the Ryder’s dashboard, the cellular phone—Steve’s half of the corn-link Johnny’s agent had insisted upon—rang in the empty cab.
Five rings…
And then, distant, almost lost in static but sounding like the voice of an angel bent down from heaven all the same, he heard Steve’s flat West Texas drawclass="underline" “Hello… you boss.”
An eastbound semi blew by outside, rocking the cruiser in its backwash. Johnny barely noticed, and made no attempt to flag the driver. He probably wouldn’t have done even if his attention hadn’t been focused on the tele-phone and Steve’s tenuous voice. The rig was doing sev-enty at least. What the hell was the driver going to see in the two-tenths of a second it would take him to pass the parked cruiser, especially through the thick dust matted on the windows.
He drew in breath through his nose and hawked back blood, ignoring the pain, wanting to clear his voice as much as he could.
“Steve! Steve, I’m in trouble. I’m in bad trouble!”
There was a heavy crackle of static in his ear and — he was sure he’d lost Steve, but when it cleared he heard: up, boss. Say again!”
“Steve, it’s Johnny! Do you hear me.”
“Hear you… What’s…” Another crackle. It almost completely buried the next word, but Johnny thought it might have been “trouble.” I hear you, what’s the trouble2 God, let that not just he wishful thinking. Please God The cop had stopped kicking sand again. He stepped away for another critical look at his handiwork, then turned and began to plod back toward the road, head down, hatbrim shading his face, hands plunged deep into his pockets. And then, with a sense of mounting horror Johnny realized he had no idea what to tell Steve. All his attention had been focused on making the call, ramming it through by sheer willpower, if that was what it took.
Now what.
He had no clear idea of where he was, only that—“I’m west of Ely on Highway 50,” he said. More sweat ran into his eyes, stinging. “I’m not sure how far west forty miles at least, probably more. There’s an RV pulled off the road a little farther up from me.
There’s a cop not a state cop, a townie, I think, but I don’t know which town… I didn’t see it on the door… I don’t even know his name…” He was talking faster and faster as the cop got closer and closer; soon he would be babbling.
Take it easy, he’s still a hundred yards away, you ‘ye got plenty of time. For the love of God, just do what comes naturally—do what they pay you for, do what you’ve been doing all your life. Communicate, for Christ’s sake!
But he had never had to do it for his life. To make money, to be known in the right circles, to occasionally raise his voice in the roar of the brave old lion, yes, all those things, but never for his literal life. And if the cop looked up out of his head-down plod and saw him… he was crouched down but the phone’s antenna was sticking up, of course, it had to be sticking up…
“He took my bike, Steve. He took my bike and drove it out into the desert. He covered it up with sand, but the way the wind’s blowing… it’s out in the desert a mile or so east of the RV I told you about and north of the road. You might see it, if the sun’s still up.”
He swallowed.
“Call the cops—the state cops. Tell them I’ve been grabbed by a cop who’s blond and huge—I mean, this guy’s a fucking giant. Have you got that.”
Nothing from the phone but windy silence with an occasional burst of static knifing through it.
“Steve! Steve, are you there.”
No. He wasn’t.
There was only one transmission-bar showing in the phone’s display window now, and no one was there. He had lost the connection, and he’d been concentrating so hard on what he was saying that he had no idea when it had happened, or how much Steve might have heard.
Johnny, are you sure you got through to him at all.
That was Terry’s voice, a voice he sometimes loved and sometimes hated. Now he hated it. Hated it worse than any voice he had ever heard in his life, it seemed. Hated it even worse for the sympathy he heard in it.
Are you sure you didn ‘tjust imagine the whole thing.
“No, he was there, he was there, sonofabitch was there,” Johnny said. He heard the pleading quality in his own voice and hated that, too. “He was, you bitch. For a few seconds, at least.”
Now the cop was only fifty yards away. Johnny shoved the antenna down with the heel of his left hand, flipped the mouthpiece closed, and tried to drop the phone back into his right pocket. The flap was closed. The phone fell into his lap, then bounced to the floor.
He felt around frantically for it, at first finding nothing but crumpled papers—DARE anti-drug handouts, for the most part—and hamburger wrappers coated with ancient grease. His fin-gers closed on something narrow, not what he wanted, but even the brief glance he gave it before tossing it away chilled him. It was a little girl’s plastic barrette.
Never mind it, you’ve got no time to think about what a kid might’ve been doing in the back of his car. Find your damn phone, he must almost be here—Yes. Almost. He could hear the crunch-scuffle of the big cop’s boots even over the wind, which had now grown strong enough to rock the cruiser on its springs when it gusted.
Johnny’s hand found a nest of styrofoam coffee cups, and, amid them, his phone. He seized it, dropped it in his jacket pocket, and pushed the snap closed. When he sat up again, the cop was coming around the front of the car, bent over at the waist so he could peer through the wind-shield. His face was more sunburned than ever, almost blistered in places. In fact, his lower lip actually was blis-tered, Johnny saw, and there was another blistery spot at his right temple.
Good. That doesn’t cross my eyes in the slightest.
The cop opened the driver’s-side door, leaned in, and stared through the mesh between the front seat and the back. His nostrils flared as he sniffed. To Johnny, each one of them looked roughly the size of a bowling alley.
“Did you puke in the back of my cruiser, Lord Jim. Because if you did, the first thing you’re gonna get when we hit town is a big old spoon.”
“No,” Johnny said. He could feel fresh blood trickling down his throat and his voice was fogging up again. “I dry-heaved, but I didn’t puke.” He was actually relieved by what the cop had said. The first thing you’re gonna get when we hit town indicated that he didn’t intend to drag him out of the car, blow his brains out, and bury him next to his scoot.
Unless he’s trying to lull me. Soothe me down, make it easier for him to do… well, to do whatever.
“You scared.” the cop inquired, still leaning in and looking through the mesh. “Tell me the truth, Lord Jimmy, I’ll know a lie. Tak!”
“Of course I’m scared.” “Course” came out “gorse,” as if he had a bad cold.
“Good.” He dropped behind the wheel, took off the hat, looked at it. “Doesn’t fit,” he said. “Folk-singing bitch ruined the one that did. Never sang ‘Leavin’ on a Fucking Jet Plane,’ either.”