“How’s it feel?”
“Hurts like hell,” I said. “Are you sure it needs to be so tight? I think you cut off circulation to my leg.”
“Better than it getting infected. If the wound gets gangrenous, an amputation might be necessary.” She winked at me.
“Maybe it needs to be a little tighter.”
Amanda washed her hands, collapsed back into bed and sighed. Her eyes closed, her chest rhythmically rising and falling. My eyes traced her delicate curves, the brown silky hair spilling over her neck. Why now, in the middle of everything going wrong, did something feel so right?
“Why are you helping me?” I asked before I could think not to. Amanda didn’t move, simply laid there, breathing.
“It’s the right thing to do,” she said drowsily.
“How do you know it’s the right thing? You just met me. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough about you,” she said softly. “Believe it or not I’m a good judge of character. I trust my instincts more than any person’s word. Those men in my house tonight, you’re not like them.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re helping me. You could go home right now, call the cops and tell them where I am. Why don’t you?”
“Don’t you get it?” she said, rising to rest on her elbows, her voice plaintive. “I’m in danger, too. And if I turn you in, no justice will have been done. We’ll never know what Fredrickson was looking for, or why the Guzmans and Grady Larkin lied, what they were protecting themselves from. I’m with you, Henry, to the end of this. No matter what.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, knowing the enormity and truth in those two syllables.
Amanda nodded. Soon her breathing steadied, her eyes closed and she fell into a deep sleep.
Watching her sleeping peacefully only made me more aware of my own body. My bones felt like they’d been rubbed against a cheese grater. I needed a long, peaceful sleep, if only to remind me of the life I used to have. But sleep never came. I just watched Amanda, hoping her dreams were peaceful. Soon, I hoped, our reality would mirror those dreams.
26
David Morris was combing his hair-the thick, long hair that Evelyn fucking hated, god damn her-when the doorbell rang. Slamming down his plastic comb, David yelled at her to answer it. She didn’t respond. He heard the muffled sound of the television. Some sort of damn daytime talk show. Fuck. Couldn’t she get off her ass once a day?
David insisted she get a job months ago, and what did Evelyn do? Watched more television. Now that he was working full-time again, coming home late at night and sleeping until early afternoon, she had all day to be productive. Twice a week he had to make the three-hundred-mile drive from St. Louis to Chicago, arriving home long after the midnight hour, dropping into bed like a sack of bricks. And yet he still made time to get the kids ready for school, pack their lunches and drive them to soccer practice. Years ago he would wake Evelyn up for a quickie, gently tickle her neck and bite her earlobe. These days the thought of munching her ear made him sick.
Ever since they’d moved to Chicago, Evelyn had made David’s life a living hell. His salary was off the charts, but his home life sucked worse than an Eagles reunion. At least twice this month, David had seriously considered grabbing the kids from under her nose and getting out of the hellhole he called home. Throw some Hank Williams on the radio, throw his arm around David Jr. and little Cassie, and he’d be home free.
David pulled on an AC/DC shirt and trudged downstairs, leering in the direction of Evelyn’s talk show, silently cursing whichever red-faced evangelist had her attention this morning. He peeked out the side windows before opening the front door. Force of habit.
The man outside was wearing black pants and a black shirt, sunglasses shielding his eyes. He held his arm at an awkward angle, like he’d recently injured it. David was no stranger to the law-hell, his band had torn up the southwest in his younger days and he’d spent a few nights in county lockup-so he immediately knew the visitor was a cop. Sighing, he opened the door.
“Can I do for you, Officer?” The cop laughed, showed his white teeth, then removed his sunglasses, wincing as he bent his arm.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Can practically smell the gun oil through the front door.” David looked around for the squad car, saw only a beat-up rental. “Where’s your vehicle, Officer?”
“Federal Marshal, actually.”
“Fibbies drive rent-a-cars? Lemme see some ID.” The man pulled out his wallet-a handsome leather model- and flipped it open. Inside lay a government-issued ID stamped with one of those five-pointed stars sheriffs in western movies wore on their vests. The agent’s name was Spencer Bates.
“So what can I do for you, Agent Bates?”
Bates pointed to David’s truck. “That your Tundra?”
“Be a mighty coincidence if it were someone else’s.”
“Mind if I have a look?”
“Mind if I ask what this is all about?” Bates smiled and apologized.
“Mr. Morris, we’re tracking two fugitives by the names of Henry Parker and Amanda Davies. We have reason to suspect they hitched a ride out of St. Louis last night, and we’re doing a search of all vehicles we have reason to suspect may have aided in their escape.”
“I was in St. Louis all day yesterday for a meeting. What’s my truck got to do with this? I didn’t aid nobody.”
“We have a record of your E-Z Pass being charged at a tollbooth in downtown St. Louis late last night, around the same time the suspects were seen fleeing Ms. Davies’s house in that neighborhood. We’re just being thorough and following procedure. There’s a possibility they could have climbed in the back while you weren’t paying attention.”
“No way,” David said, stroking the hair flowing down the back of his neck. “I woulda seen something.”
“Maybe,” the agent said. “Maybe not.”
“Well, suit yourself, I got nothing to hide. Let’s go examine my vee-hi-cle.”
Better to get the cop off his back than give him a reason to get suspicious. Bates walked over to the truck and lifted the tarp covering the bed. He ran his finger along the metal, looked at it, nodded.
“Whaddaya got there?” David asked, squinting. He joined Bates at the car.
“If you look at the dust patterns in the flatbed…” Bates said.
“Ain’t no dust patterns in Betty. I keep her good and clean.”
Bates rolled his eyes. “If you look at the dust patterns, Mr. Morris, they’re uneven, like someone was wriggling around. You can even make out where a derriere might have lain for several hours.”
“A derriere?”
“Someone’s ass, Mr. Morris. Now let me ask you, did you examine your flatbed when you got home? Was it empty?”
Morris nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. I keep my toolbox there. Wouldn’t leave it sitting around overnight. Goddamn vagrants here’d steal it in half a minute.”
“Did you stop anywhere else last night on your way home? For gas? Food perhaps?”
David thought, put his hand to his lips. “One stop,” he said. “Gas and coffee. Some place on I-55. Ken’s something. Ken’s Coffee Den.”
David felt a surge of pride. He was assisting in a federal investigation. This shit ever made the news programs, maybe he’d get interviewed. Maybe write a book, be like that Mark Fuhrman guy, get as much money as that blond chick who screwed Scott Peterson. Plus those anchorwomen were hot. He’d ditch Evelyn for one of them in a heartbeat.
Bates took out a notepad and wrote the information down.
“Ken’s Coffee Den, you said? On Route 55?”
