The snap in Johnny's voice made Freeman look sharply at him.
'Are you in trouble, friend?' he asked.
Friend?
No one had ever used that word to him. Friend? It was now Johnny's turn to look sharply at Freeman and what he saw was reassuring.
'You call it that,' he said. 'I'm in a spot, but I've got money. Can you put me under the wraps until this goddamn ankle is okay?'
Freeman patted Johnny's sweat-soaked arm.
'I told you . . . take it easy. Is it police trouble?'
'More than that.'
'Put your arm around my neck. Let's go.'
With surprising strength, he got Johnny up on his left foot, then, supporting him, he helped him hop along the path until they reached the edge of the jungle where an old, broken-down Ford stood, parked in the shade.
Johnny was sweating and in pain as Freeman helped him into the car.
'Relax,' Freeman said as he slid under the driving wheel. 'You've nothing to worry about.'
Johnny relaxed. The pain in his ankle kept him from talking. He just lay against the worn plastic seat, thankful he was moving.
He was dimly aware of being driven along the freeway, then up a dirt road, then along a narrow path where tree branches scraped against the sides of the car.
'Here's home,' Freeman said and brought the car to a stop.
Johnny raised his head. He stared at a low-built log cabin, set in a clearing with trees overshadowing it. It looked good and safe to him.
'No problem,' Freeman said as he got out of the car. 'You can rest up here.'
He half carried, half dragged Johnny into the cabin that consisted of a living-room, two bedrooms and a shower room. It was sparsely furnished and one side of the living-room was lined with books.
Freeman got Johnny into the smaller bedroom and propped him up against the wall. Then he stripped off the cotton coverlet on the bed and with care, steered him around and got him onto the bed. 'Just relax,' Freeman said and went away.
Johnny's ankle hurt so badly, he only half registered what was going on. He lay on the bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling, not believing this was happening to him.
Freeman returned with a glass of ice cold beer in his hand.
'Drink this.' He gave Johnny the beer. 'I'll look at your ankle.'
Johnny drank the beer in one gorgeous gulp. He set the glass down on the floor.
'Thanks! Man! Did I need that!'
'It's a bad sprain,' Freeman told him. He had got Johnny's shoe and sock off. 'It can be fixed. In a week, you'll be able to walk.'
Johnny half sat up.
'A week?'
'You're safe here, friend,' Freeman said, 'No one ever comes here. Maybe you're a stranger in this district. I'm known as the Snake Man, and you have no idea the horror people have of snakes.'
Johnny stared at him.
'Snakes?'
'I catch snakes. It's a living. I work with the hospitals. They're always yelling for serum: I supply them. Right now I have three hundred venomous snakes in cages behind this cabin. People keep clear of me.' While he was talking, he bound Johnny's ankle with a bandage soaked in iced water. Already the pain was lessening. 'Feel like eating? I've been out all morning and I haven't had a bite. Want to join me?'
'I could eat a horse,' Johnny said.
Freeman chuckled.
'That's something not on the menu,' he said. 'Won't be long.'
Within ten minutes he came back with two soup plates full of thick, savoury-smelling stew. He sat on the end of the bed, handed Johnny one of the plates and began to eat. When Johnny had finished, he decided it was about the best meal he had eaten in years.
'You're some cook!' he said. 'Never tasted anything so good.'
'Yes . . . rattlesnake meat when cooked the right way, is pretty good,' Freeman said, collecting the plates.
Johnny's eyes opened wide.
'That snake meat?'
'I live on it.'
'Well, for God's sake!'
Freeman laughed.
