scared. He made an effort to control his breathing. He'd been waking up like this lately, feeling all tight inside, out of breath.
He tried his version of mental discipline to ease his tension, getting tough with himself.
What the hell are you afraid of, you big pussy, except every cop in the country wants to kill you?
Didn't work.
He fell back on the bed, his eyes wide open.
The Tumble Onn Inn was just outside of Burback, Louisiana. It was where Coulter's flight from the law had left him, this ramshackle clapboard building constructed in a U around a swimming pool full of algae. The outside walls had once been white but were now a dull gray mottled with mold. There were rust-colored vertical stains where the gutters leaked.
At least it wasn't the kind of place where the staff was curious about the guests. The old guy at the desk wore rimless glasses held together by black electricians' tape and looked as if he'd been hired especially for the motel to give it local color. He hadn't raised an eyebrow when Coulter paid cash. He was used to guests who didn't qualify for credit cards. Coulter didn't worry much about him.
On the other hand, the old bastard probably watched TV, and Coulter's name and image were all over the damned news channels. They kept using the photo he hated, the one with his hair all messed up and with his bad teeth showing. Damned thing made him look ignorant. Made him look like a criminal.
The rattling old air conditioner had stopped working since Coulter had gone to bed and fallen into an uneasy sleep hastened by cheap vodka. Either that or the power was off again. It was close and hot in the cruddy little room. There was no sound except for the insects buzzing outside in the darkness.
Coulter was breathing okay now. He tried to relax, even though he was sure something had awoken him. He told himself it might have been anything. A cat, or maybe even some kind of wild animal, making a noise. A possum. There had to be plenty of them around. There seemed to be a dead one every two or three miles of road.
He was wearing only his jockey shorts, trying to keep as cool as possible, but his body was coated with oily perspiration. Too close to the damned swamp. Something soft, probably a moth, brushed his forehead, and he swiped at it with his right hand, not really expecting to make contact.
This wasn't how he'd foreseen things. His notoriety had overwhelmed him. Not that he didn't still enjoy being a genuine celebrity. But no matter where he went he could be sure people had heard or read about him and probably seen his photo. It was always a worry. That kind of thing could be damned wearying if the law was itching to hang a string of murder raps around your neck. The irony was, he'd never set out to kill anyone. He wasn't that sort of guy. This had all been done to him, a series of bad breaks, most of them brought on by mistakes made by other people. All he'd done was react to a shitload of bad luck. Another example of how unfair life was to him.
Nothing had changed from the time he'd jolted awake and sat up on the sagging mattress. No sound. No movement of light or shadow. No stirring of air. Beads of sweat continued to form and trickle down his bare neck and arms.
He made himself relax and let the weariness close in on him again.
Everything's gonna be okay, at least for a while. Go back to sleep…
His eyes flew open.
No doubt about it this time. Very faintly in the night, the unmistakable crunching sound of tires rolling slowly over packed gravel.
Something had driven into the parking area outside the rooms.
Coulter slid out of bed and went to the window. He crouched down and parted the blinds and peered out into almost total blackness. A sliver of moon provided the only light. He gave his eyes a minute or so to adjust, and then figured, hell, they didn't need it, since he'd been sitting like a mushroom in a dark room.
He saw nothing out there but the same six cars that had been parked in front of rooms when he'd pulled in earlier that evening. They were all older models, one of them a vintage '98 Olds with a flat front tire. Coulter liked and knew about cars. He'd stolen a lot of them in his younger days and figured the Olds would have been a collector's item if it weren't such a rust bucket.
Staying in a low crouch, he shifted his weight and glanced in the other direction over the sill. Parked two spaces down from his room was the late-model black Ford F-100 pickup he'd stolen two days ago. Faint moonlight glimmered off its fender. It looked like a gigantic toy on drastically oversized tires. Which was maybe what it was.
Another sound!
It might have been a car door shutting as quietly as possible, pulled closed, and latched.
Something's going on out there, all right.
Coulter backpedaled away from the window to where his Levi's were wadded on a chair. He hurriedly slipped into them, then yanked a T-shirt over his head. He thought about going barefoot, then changed his mind and took the time to work his feet, sockless, into his boots. Sweat was pouring off him, stinging the corners of his eyes.
He picked up the.38 handgun from the nightstand by the bed and held it in his left hand while he dug the truck keys from his pants pocket with his right. The gun was a blue steel semiautomatic with a checkered wood grip. He'd stolen it in Baton Rouge and had never fired it. Didn't even know for sure if it worked. He thumbed the safety off. Then he moved to the door.
Coulter rotated the knob with a trembling hand and slowly opened the door a few inches.
Sultry night air flowed in, carrying the fetid stench of the nearby swamp. He could see nothing outside but the dark parking lot, the shadowy bulks of cars nosed into spaces outside the identical rooms. He glanced to his right. The big Ford pickup, resting high on its huge knobby tires, looked tantalizingly close.
No movement out there. No sound other than the drone of insects. Not even a car passing on the state road, not at three in the morning. And the big trucks didn't use this narrow, meandering road, with the interstate only about ten miles away running almost parallel to it.
Coulter felt his confidence returning. Maybe all he'd heard was some guy going out to his car because he'd forgotten his cigarettes. Something like that. Nervous as Coulter was, maybe he'd gotten himself all in a dither over nothing.
Maybe not.
Either way, I ain't goin' back to sleep. I'm outta here.
He stepped all the way outside, moving cautiously in his cowboy boots. His crunching footfalls were barely audible in the still night as he made his way toward the truck. The ignition key was tight between his fingers, ready to insert and twist. He was squeezing it so hard he felt it cutting into his flesh. In his left hand, he still carried the gun.
Maybe I should switch. Can't shoot good left-handed.
Too late for that.
He made it to within ten feet of the truck, then used the key fob to unlock the doors. A dim light came on inside the truck's cab. He straightened up and moved faster, not worrying now about the noise, and opened the driver's-side door and swung himself up behind the steering wheel.
Wham!
A blinding light hit him in the face like something solid. He reeled back even as he reached forward. Amazingly, the ignition key found its slot. Red and blue flashing lights were all around him now, and sirens began to yowl.
Ignoring the maelstrom of light and noise, he slammed the shift selector into reverse, twisted the steering wheel as he stomped on the gas. Gravel flew as the truck did a 180-degree spin. The truck had stopped, but was still rocking as he rammed the selector into drive, and headed hell for leather for the driveway leading to the state road.
The truck's big engine roared with power as Coulter laid the gun on the seat beside him and hunched over the steering wheel. He was gripping the wheel with both slippery hands. Something made a loud crack behind his right ear. Glass breaking. Like a rock had been hurled through it. Only he knew it hadn't been a rock.
Shooting at me! Jesus!
His right foot mashed down on the accelerator even harder. Gravel, dirt, large rocks were hurled into the air off the knobby tires as the truck lurched forward. Sonuvabitch has got power, he thought, as he felt himself pressed backward in his seat. There was a bump that made him rise off the seat cushion, and the steering wheel writhed in his hand. The truck leaned left and he yanked the wheel right.
