coffee.
I didn’t see Frank’s car outside so I pulled into one of the spaces, walked up the stairs, and went in. The bell jangled.
Abraham was behind the counter, and when he saw me come in I could tell he wanted to smile. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m thirsty,” I said. “I hear you make the best coffee in town.”
I took a seat at the counter. This was the first time I had set foot in the place since I lost my job. I missed the place, the normality it represented for me.
“What happened to you?” he asked, pointing at my face. “Personality clash?”
“Something like that,” I said.
Behind me, I heard, “Howdy, Marley.”
Without turning, I said, “Howdy, Brian.” Abe poured me a cup of coffee, slid over an ashtray, and leaned in close to me.
“A cop came around asking about you. What have you gotten yourself into?”
“Nothing, except one bitchin’ headache.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
I looked away. My head felt like it had been in love with a bag of rocks.
“Looks ain’t everything, Abraham. If they were, you’d be the loneliest bastard in the world.”
He laughed, said, “Fine, forget I asked. Am I gonna see you on the news one of these days?”
“I sincerely hope not. I’m not a bad guy, Abe. Things have just gotten complicated.”
“I don’t like complicated.”
“Me neither. I got a question for you.”
“It ain’t complicated, is it?”
“Remember that fruitcake that came in here a while back? The prettyboy?”
“The prettyboy. How can I forget?”
“When was the last time you saw that guy?”
“Why? You two gonna run off together?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Marley. This hasn’t been your most glorious month, man. I’m worried about you, and I don’t want to get involved in …”
“There ain’t nothing to get involved in. Just help me out. Have you seen the kid?”
“He was in this morning.”
I smiled, said, “Did he say anything about leaving town?”
“No, not that I recall. In fact, he was looking for you.”
“Was he? Good. Did he say anything strange? Did he talk about aliens, or communists, or Charles Manson, or anything like
that?”
“I think I’d remember if he mentioned communism.”
I got up off the stool and briskly headed for the door.
“You owe me for the coffee!” he shouted.
“I’m good for it,” I said, and I left. Pearce had been the master at walking out without paying for coffee. It looked like I had stolen that little trait of his.
I had to go back to hunting. I had twenty-four hours to find the Rose Killer. A police force could scour the whole of Evelyn in a few hours, come up with whatever they wanted. One man looking for a single car would take a hell of a lot longer, but that’s what I did.
I drove up and down the streets at random well into the night, keeping one eye open for that dusty, black Mach 1 that I had seen so many times before.
I saw Anthony everywhere and nowhere. My eyes were starting to play tricks on me. Up high, the big moon shone down like a warning. I decided that if the wolf took another innocent person, I’d go to the feds with what I knew about Anthony. It wouldn’t matter if they believed me. Someone somewhere would do some kind of checking or other, and maybe find some proof of what had been going on. After that, I’d take myself out. I would almost have to.
I was driving east on Main, through the woods. When I got to the water, I took Campbell’s Bridge across, got out of the truck, and checked the waterfront on that side of the river on foot. There were a lot of romantic places to park a car over there, to get it on without being seen, but I didn’t see the Mach 1.
I headed back across the bridge to Evelyn.
When I got to the other side, my frustration got the better of me. I punched the dashboard as hard as I could, and with that, this eerie green light sprang up behind all the dials, and music filled the car.
The radio was working. Creedence’s “Lookin’ Out My Back Door” was playing on KBTO. I laughed out loud. The damn thing had been broken for so long, and all I’d had to do was drop a fist to get it going again. Things were looking up.
These bright headlights appeared from my left. A car was speeding toward me through the darkness. I figured it would swerve, that it was maybe some drunk kid tooling around the waterfront, but it just kept coming.
“Holy shit,” I said.
The car made contact. A noise I’d only heard in movies filled the air, and the truck tipped over on its side, then came to rest upside down. Metal and glass shards perforated the air, tickling me with pain. I wasn’t wearing my seat belt, so I got banged around pretty bad.
When I got my bearings, I realized I was lying on the inside of the roof, covered in glass. I looked out, and there were a pair of feet standing outside the truck. The feet wore clean, brown leather shoes. The car behind the feet was a blue or black four-door of some kind. I’d never seen it before. The front of it was sizzling with smoke and noise.
The legs attached to the feet bent, and Van Buren poked his head into the truck. His face looked a little worse than mine did, but after getting bounced off the walls of the truck I didn’t know
“Higgins,” he said, “need a hand?”
“You sonofabitch,” I said, coughing. “I’d just gotten the radio working….”
“Save it,” he said. “It’s time to end this. You lied about Pearce.”
“You’re forgetting the bombs, you fool….”
“Bullshit,” he said, and he pulled his gun with one gloved hand and fired two bullets into me.
The midnight hour came and went, leaving me behind.
I pulled myself from the wreckage, clawing at the dirt like it was sucking me under. The truck was smoking, burning. Every breath felt like fire inside me, and every muscle I moved made me want to cry in agony. I wasn’t strong enough to take everything with me. I took the rifle and the handcuffs. I left behind the extra shells.
I was wet with blood.
Up high, the moon glared, calling me out. I had thunder in my veins. I went into the woods on my hands and knees. I had to hide. I had to rest. Just for a little while.
TWENTY-FIVE
When I came to, daylight was pouring down like rain. A rabbit was looking at me from about five feet away like it knew me. I grunted, and it took off.
When I sat up, my insides cried. I was caked in dirt, and dried blood held my shirt to me like a second skin. Leaves were stuck all over me, and I must have looked half buried. My chest was on fire. That’s where the bullets were. I wasn’t bleeding anymore—it would take a lot more than that to prove fatal for me—but I wasn’t in the best shape of my life. I got up slowly, using the rifle as a brace; then, like a zombie cursed to walk the face of the earth, I stumbled west.
