“You’re a silly son of a bitch.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Back on the road before eight o’clock they are barreling west with Salt Lake City another hour or two ahead of them when they come past an entrance ramp in light traffic and Doug, glancing in the mirror, stiffens.
He glances at her: his expression renders speech unnecessary.
She studies it in the mirror. It’s three or four cars back. “That’s either the same station wagon again or a twin for it.”
“I’ll slow down a little. See if it’s the same license plate.”
“I didn’t think, before.…”
“I did.”
He drops the speed and the other cars pull out and overtake the rig but the station wagon hangs back, keeping its distance. “I can’t see the license plate. Too much vibration in the mirror. But then I don’t need to,” he says bleakly. “He’s shadowing us all right.”
“Could it be an unmarked police car?”
“Maybe. I doubt it. Whatever that is, it’s not a Utah plate. Wrong color.”
“Can we lose him?”
“In this freight train? Not a prayer. You want a wild guess, I’d say it’s one of those shortwave jokers with a police band radio in his car, maybe picked up that twenty-five thousand dollar reward broadcast, saw you and the baby in the truck here and thinks maybe he can earn big money by playing amateur detective. Tell you what-I think I know a way to get rid of him.”
“How?”
“Talk to him. Scare him off.” He grins into the mirror. “I can look real mean when I set my mind to it. Here we go.”
She hasn’t time to protest: he’s already swinging off the highway into the roadside rest area. Picnic tables and trash bins and the middle-high sun blasting all of it.
Sure enough. Back there the station wagon follows.
Doug sets the brake. “Man, you ain’t never seen
“Doug, for Pete’s sake don’t do anything foolish. He may be a trooper. Look-maybe we ought to …”
“You just leave everything to the iron duke here, lady.”
Setting his jaw, he punches the door open and jumps down and trots around the nose of the rig and then pauses, hooks his thumbs in his belt, and swaggers toward the station wagon as it pulls in forty feet away. The sun throws reflective shafts painfully from its chrome and glass; she still can’t see the driver.
There’s one other vehicle in the parking area-a dark blue Mustang, one of the original ones. A very thin old man, having emerged from the restroom, slides into the car. She hears the door chunk shut.
She has the baby in her arms; she thrusts the door open with her foot, climbs down into the shade and peers toward the station wagon, curious to see what sort of creature would have followed them this many hours.
Doug marches toward the station wagon with the plunging no-nonsense stride of a man who’s had enough and now intends for the guy to come out of the car and explain himself.
The Mustang backs up out of its slot and goes away up the ramp toward the Interstate.
Now the station wagon door opens, fanning a bright swath of sunlight across the pavement, and the driver comes straight out as if on wheels.
He doesn’t even look at Doug. He’s looking straight at her and the baby.
He has a rifle in his hand.
Doug begins to speak. The rifle lifts and turns and, with hardly an effort to take aim, barks once.
Doug spins around and falls.
The muzzle of the rifle turns toward her.
It’s Bert.
71
With the baby in her arms she stares at him in utter disbelief. He’s shot Doug. Just there. Like-like that. Like a paper target …
She wants to scream. Nothing comes from her throat but a hot gust of silent pain.
There is an onrushing blast of sound: an approaching bus on the Interstate.
She sees its reflection in the window of the station wagon’s open door. The sound makes Bert hesitate and for a little while they both stand frozen as if in some crazy tableau.
Running through her mind is the most ridiculously unimportant question:
How the hell did he find us?
God knows. What does it matter? Could have been anything.
That fat cop with the mustache, or maybe the trooper in khaki-phoning in a report, looking to collect $25,000; the report relayed to Bert; a fix on the truck, its license plate numbers, the highway it was traveling; a quick charter jet flight to that airport they passed early this morning-then just wait by the side of the road in the rented station wagon until the truck came along …
The bus slams by with a heavy whoosh. Bert is holding the rifle straight down alongside his leg so the people on the bus won’t see it.
Now he lifts the weapon into sight and begins to walk forward. Not hurrying.
“All right now Madeleine. Give me the child. That’s a good girl. Just take it easy and everything’s going to be fine.”
He talks to her the way you might talk to an insane person; he contrives to sound quietly confident and calm but the extra edge on the rasp of his voice betrays the throbbing depth of his rage.
She feels her eyelids flicker. Sensations carom through her flesh, contradicting one another. This is like one of those suffocating dreams in which you try to run but your muscles are imprisoned and nothing will move.
Walking toward her he holds his body twisted slightly to one side because he’s using both hands on the rifle, one of them extended in front of him.
All we’ve been through-to come to
He says, “There were a million cops waiting for the plane.” For a moment she doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
Involuntarily she steps back. Her rump strikes some part of the cab. She’s trapped here against the truck.
He says, “Was it you that tipped them? I figured it probably was you. They got the shipment.”
A truck goes by; the rifle drops out of sight again. In the wake of the noise Bert says, “They got the Jamaican pilot and Jack Sertic and Phil Quirini. Got George Talmy, too. They didn’t get me. I had a friend in uniform who owed me an obligation. He got me out of there. They never identified me. I’ve always been a little too quick on my feet for those assholes.”
His eyes seem a trifle too intense, too bright. Is he on something? Some of his own drugs, to hype him up?
Why doesn’t a car appear? Why doesn’t somebody come?
“Nobody’s going to get hurt.” He’s still talking in that same tight little voice. “Everything’s fine.”
Behind him Doug is twitching on the ground, crawling around in a slow circle like a half-crushed beetle.
“Madeleine. You listening to me?”
She has no voice.
“Bitch-you’re dead!”
Bert does something to the rifle. The metal clacks shut: the sound intensifies the pitch of her alarm and in her mind she’s shrieking obscenities at him:
He comes on, relentless, moving like a mechanism, oblivious to her rage.
Twenty feet between them now; no more. He’s got no need even to aim the thing at this short a range.
