“ If he was trying to stop someone he wouldn’t have left the gun.”
“ Maybe they chased him away.”
“ Then how come they’re not still out there?”
“ Maybe they are.”
Chapter Six
He glanced at the dead tire lying in the puddle. It had saved his life. It didn’t seem right to leave it for the trash collector, but he was too tired to waste energy picking it up and putting it in the trunk. Besides, the car was trash anyway. He heard sirens in the background. The fog started to move in. It was time to go.
He closed his eyes for an instant and imagined that fantasy blond on that far away island, clean in the warm sun, the pounding surf in the background. All he ever wanted in life, but he’d chosen the wrong path. He sighed again and climbed in the car.
A low overcast sky hid the moon and stars and he had a difficult time seeing across the alley, through the blanket of thickening fog.
He had already managed the impossible. Three encounters with the old horror and he was still alive. It would be tempting fate to invite a fourth, but he didn’t have any choice. She was the host at this party and his invitation was in the mail, so he had to prepare.
He started the car and drove out of the alley. The sirens were behind him, and judging from the sound of them, he figured they were going to the scene of his second battle. True, he had driven across four or five lawns and ripped them to shreds, but didn’t anybody care about gunfire in the night anymore?
He stopped at the alley’s end. The fog, a double-edged sword, was getting thicker. It would give him cover and allow him to slip out of town unobserved, but it would also slow his progress, and he wanted to be as far away from Carolina as possible when she came for him again. He turned left and then right on Fremont Avenue. After a few slow blocks, he took another right on Across the Way Road.
He had to go through Tampico before he could pick up the road to the highway, which could be a blessing, because he had no other weapons save his knife, and of course, the pepper, but she’d be ready for that. There were a lot of specialty stores on both Ocean Drive and Beach Walk. Maybe he could break into one and find something before he headed toward the highway.
He kept his left hand on the wheel as he reached toward the glove compartment. He grimaced with pain. She’d hurt him. It seemed like his left side, from his waist to his shoulder, was bruised, maybe he even had some broken ribs.
Grunting, he punched the glove lock with his index finger and the glove compartment popped open. He reached in and pulled out a leather knife holder. It wasn’t a gun, but it would have to do, he thought, as he pulled to the side of the road, halfway between the two towns, and parked.
He kept the lights on, the engine running, and the car in gear with his foot on the brake, as he loosened his belt and pulled it from his Levi’s. Once free from the pants, he ran the old leather belt through his fingers. It was World War II standard Army issue. It had been his father’s. He wore it to hold up his faded Levi’s every day of his life, till the farm and the drink killed him.
He had been seventeen when his father died on that tractor. He turned eighteen a month later and joined the Army the old man had loved so much. He wanted to be a hero, like him. But heroes are hard to be, especially between wars, he mused, as he slid the belt through the loop in the scabbard.
He arched his back and eased the belt through the belt loops behind him. The night was alive. An evening breeze rustled through the trees. A cricket chirped in the background. He heard an owl hoot and a car backfire from a few blocks away. He heard the river, off in the distance, as it wound through town, taking melted snow from the mountains down to the sea. He buckled the belt and sniffed the air, like a rabbit checking for the fox. He hated being the rabbit.
He slid the scabbard around so that it rested over his right side. Then he slapped it with his right hand, unbuckling the strap that held the knife in place with his little finger. The Bowie knife was in his hand and before his eyes in a flash.
Satisfied, he put the knife back in the scabbard and buckled the strap. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax. He listened to the night and willed himself to become part of it. Then, lizard-quick, he slapped the knife holster with his left hand, unbuckling the strap with his thumb and, as quick as before, he was holding the gleaming blade before his eyes. He hadn’t lost his touch, he was as fast with his left as he was with his right. He reholstered the knife and snapped the buckle. He was still the rabbit, but he was a rabbit with fangs.
Ready, he squinted into the fog, took his foot off the brake and eased down on the accelerator. The car started to move away from the side of the road, coughed and died. Instinctively he put it in neutral, turned the ignition and listened to the starter motor grind. It refused to catch. He turned the key off and waited a few seconds. He tried again and received no joy. He pumped the gas a couple of times, being careful not to flood it, tried again and still it didn’t start.
He was about to try again, when he heard a car coming from the other direction, from Tampico. He formed an instant plan and acted on it. He got out of the car, leaving the door open. He lay down on the opposite side of the road, facing away from the oncoming car. He was afraid if he was able to see it bearing down on him, he’d be tempted to jump out of the way.
With his ear on the road he could feel the car approach as well as hear it. It was crawling toward him, picking its way through the fog. Would the driver see him in time to stop or was the fog too thick? Had he inked his own death certificate when he thought of this plan and had he signed it by foolishly playing possum in the street?
The car came closer. He imagined he could see it and silently cursed himself for facing away from it. He wanted to see the face of it. He imagined the massive mouth of an iron grill, grinning and open, covered by giant headlight eyes, bright and menacing, glaring, angry and hungry, an aging, nearsighted driver behind the wheel, unable to see on the best of nights, blind as the dead on a night like this. Would the blind driver even realize something was awfully wrong when the front wheels rolled over his head and pelvis, turning his brains to mush and condemning him to an eternity of damnation?
He said a fast Hail Mary and prayed for the forgiveness he knew could never be his. He mentally crossed himself. He grit his teeth as the soft sound of the purring engine roared through him.
He heard a scream. Someone had seen him, but would the driver react in time? How fast was he going? Slow enough to stop before or after the thumping the tires would make as they rolled over his body? What a stupid plan, he thought, as he waited for the sound of rubber screeching on the road.
He wanted to roll out of the way, to get up and run, to leave and never come back. But he was committed. There was no place for him to hide.
The rumbling engine penetrated both the ear pointed skyward and the ear on the ground, ricocheting in deafening stereo through his skull, in sharp contrast to the quiet night. But it wasn’t coming any closer. There were no screeching brakes. There would be no thumping of tires rolling over his head.
His world was dark. His eyes had been squeezed shut, like a child’s when he’s trying to fool his mother into thinking he’s asleep. He opened them and realized that his body was bathed in the car’s headlights. He closed them again and relied on his hearing.
He listened, willing himself to remain still as a dead man. The engine continued running. No other sound. He started to count in his head, when he got up to sixty he started over. A minute is a long time, two is longer, three, longer still. He stopped counting.
Why wouldn’t they get out of the car? Why wouldn’t the driver shut off the blasted engine? Whoever was in the car was still thinking, being cagey, making sure. Maybe the driver thought he was dead and so he didn’t need to act in haste. Could be, he thought, so he decided to give him something to think about.