He opened the Valiant and threw his stick, knife, and baton across the backseat. He twisted in the driver’s seat and put both feet outside the car. With a grimace of pain, he unlaced the boot on his right foot and slipped it off.
Glad this is an automatic. Not sure I could drive a stick right now.
He said a silent prayer to a God he didn’t believe in, then turned the key.
The engine turned over immediately. He pulled out from behind the stone building and eased toward the road. He leaned across the front seat and rolled down the passenger door window—no luxuries like power windows in this vehicle.
He listened.
Sirens again, but coming from his right, and once again sounding some distance away.
They’re gonna stop any vehicle they see along here and question them, so I’ve just gotta hope they don’t see me, right?
He stepped on the gas with his painful right leg and turned left, away from the Jenkins house.
His first instinct was to floor it, to do eighty down that gravel road and put some distance between himself and the trouble behind him.
That’ll only kick up dust, though, and in this still air, it’ll hang there forever, pointing them right toward me.
He kept his speed at twenty-five miles per hour or less and drove toward the highway. He watched the road behind him in the rearview mirror almost as much as he watched the road in front of him.
After a few minutes, which felt like forever to Scott McAllister, he intersected with the highway.
He turned right onto Highway 137.
He looked down at his himself. Both his hands and clothes were covered in sticky, drying blood. He did his best to wipe his hands off on his shirt, but he would need soap and water to get it all off. He made sure to stick right at the speed limit and drove away from Waterville.
Behind him, he heard more and more sirens, but they were fading into the distance.
Twenty miles down the road, he felt safe enough to pull over onto a small side road and find a deserted place to park. He opened the door and tried to step out but immediately regretted it. His right ankle wouldn’t hold any weight and he pitched forward onto all fours. He turned around, grabbed his jo and again used it as a crutch to get back to the trunk.
Scott stripped off his jeans and shirt, rolled them into a ball and stuffed them into the corner of the trunk. He fished through his backpack and found a clean pair of jeans and t-shirt. He slammed the trunk, hopped back around to the driver’s side and collapsed onto the seat. Slowly, painfully, he managed to get his jeans on, but knew that putting his boot back on his right foot was a pipe dream. He slipped the clean shirt on and felt a little better.
I’ve got to be better prepared for these situations. I need a gallon of water stored in the trunk, maybe some baby wipes for quick clean up. Always need to have a change of clothes ready to go.
He started the car, but didn’t move. The horror of the memory of the scene washed over him.
Without warning, he felt onrushing nausea. He opened the driver’s door, leaned his head out and threw up the remainder of his breakfast. He stayed in that position for a long minute, waiting to see if there would be a second spasm.
I killed a man. That was awful. I don’t know if I can do this. I killed people in Vietnam, but that was so different. There, I saw a man a long ways away. Pulled the trigger. When I looked again, he was either still there, and I fired again, or he was gone. This is different. Looking into a man’s eyes while he dies. I don’t know if I can do this.
He put the car in gear and let it roll forward a few feet.
But if I don’t? Then what? Live with the knowledge that I could have stopped these horrible things from happening, but didn’t? I don’t think there is a good answer here.
Scott turned right back onto the highway and drove on. Wanting to put as many miles between him and the Jenkins place as humanly possible, he drove west into the sun. As the miles disappeared under his wheels, more thoughts haunted him.
What else did I mess up there? Mrs. Jenkins saw my face, for sure. She’ll be able to identify me if they ever arrest me. That was stupid. I don’t think anyone saw the car, so it should be okay for right now.
Scott continued revisiting everything and drove until it was almost dark. He stopped at a gas station and used the rest room to wash the blood off his face and hands. A few miles later, he pulled into the parking lot of a roadside motel outside of Lancaster, New Hampshire. His hands were shaking as he turned the ignition key.
At least I made it to another state.
Using the jo, he limped into the office. The gray-haired lady sitting behind the desk raised her eyebrows in surprise when she saw him.
“Looks like you came out on the wrong end of whatever you ran into.”
Scott gave her his best smile. “Just doing some hiking today and slipped off the path. I think I sprained it. Can I get a room for the night?”
“If you’ve got fourteen dollars, I’ve got a room.”
“Sounds like a deal.” He laid a ten and a five dollar bill on the counter. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a couple of aspirin you’d sell me for the extra dollar?”
The bills disappeared into a cash drawer, then she went through a door at the back of the office. Scott could hear a television playing and guessed that was her home. A moment later, she returned with a mostly-empty bottle of Anacin.
“Here. You can keep these. Check out is at eleven.”
“I might want to stay an extra day or two and let the swelling go down in my ankle. Will that be all right?”
The woman waved her hand at the barren parking lot. “We ain’t even full on the 4th of July, so it’ll be fine. As long as you’ve got money, I’ve got a room.” She grabbed a key attached to a plastic fob. “Room number twelve. You can park right in front of it, so you won’t have to walk far.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Scott said with relief. He had been able to hold himself together to this point, but he knew he was almost to the end of his rope.
Two minutes later, he had moved the car, grabbed his backpack, and shuffled into his room. He turned the television on. The ten o’clock news was playing.
A well-coiffed local news anchor was reading the news. “…and there’s the cutest footage you’ll see all day, the puppy parade down main street. In more serious news, we’ve had reports of a strange murder in neighboring Maine. We don’t have a live report, but word out of our sister station says that a homeowner was killed when a man attacked him with a knife. He might have killed the man’s wife and children as well, but she had a rifle and scared him off. Brave woman. More details as they become available.”
“That’s the spin, huh? I guess that’s the way it looks.” Scott realized he was talking to himself, shut the television off and collapsed across the bed.
He slept twelve hours straight.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Scott was serious about holing up in the little motel for a few days. When he woke up late the next morning, he was stiff and sore. He felt like he might have gone twelve rounds with Smokin’ Joe Frazier the day before.
He took a long, hot shower to loosen his muscles up. His ankle was still swollen, and it had started to turn a deep purple color in places.
He wasn’t even sure he wanted to move from his room to get something to eat. He hadn’t put anything in his stomach since lunch the day before, and he had thrown most of that up. So he hobbled to the car and drove to a small café down the road.