had to continue toward town. Glancing at the gas gauge, I knew I wouldn’t make it. My tank and perhaps my life were not even half-empty. I looked up again to see Skipper slowing to match my pace.
As he did, I sped up and passed him. I downshifted, which was the only way to get any power out of my little truck, and floored it. I gained speed, but I lost precious fuel.
In less than fifteen seconds, Skipper caught me again. This time he came up from behind. When he caught up with me, he didn’t slow down. He hit me hard from the back. I was thrown forward in a classic whiplash motion and realized that in my disorientation at the afternoon’s events, I had failed to buckle up. Needless to say, I remedied the situation.
After buckling up and praying to arrive alive, I checked my rearview mirror. Skipper was no longer right behind me. Now there were maybe fifty yards in between us. I checked my gauge again, not good, and looked at the road in front of me again. It was empty. When I looked back for Skipper again the distance between us had increased to a hundred yards.
And then he began to increase his speed, decreasing the gap between us. He was coming up fast. It was decision time. I knew I couldn’t outrun him. I knew I couldn’t outmaneuver him. I was in trouble. I had the gas pedal to the floor, and I was doing just over sixty-five. Before I could think of what to do, he was right on me again. I braced myself.
He plowed into me hard. I pitched forward, but the seat belt snapped me back. My bumper dropped off, causing Skipper’s Bronco to bounce up in the air as he ran over it.
That was it. He had bumped me hard, yet I had managed to keep it on the road. I felt encouraged. Pottersville was less than seven miles away now. I just might make it.
And then my engine died. I was out of gas-literally and figuratively. How, I do not know, but I had the presence of mind to pray.
When my truck finally rolled to a stop on the right shoulder of the road, Skipper and company were right behind me. They jumped out quickly. I knew it was only delaying the inevitable, but I locked my doors. Within seconds a tire iron crashed through my window. Glass shattered everywhere. My eyes fixed on a single shard of glass as it slid the length of my dashboard.
When you get hit on the nose, it has a feeling all its own, and, besides being hit in your credentials, nothing hurts worse. This is especially true if you are hit very hard in the nose with a tire iron.
Blood spurted out; cartilage shifted, and bone crunched; my eyes filled with those painful, I-got-hit-in-the- nose-with-a-tire-iron tears; and the pain made me nauseous. I fell over to the side, but not very far-the seat belt held me up. Somebody grabbed me by the shirt, which ripped open as buttons shot like bullets across the cab.
Someone snatched me hard from the seat, but the seat belt held. He yanked even harder, jarring me unmercifully. My brain felt as if it were rattling around inside my skull. Finally he figured out that the seat belt would not give me up, so he unbuckled it. He yanked at me again, and this time I went flying out.
I had probably seen him at the prison, but everything was blurry, and I didn’t recognize him. He reared back and hit me hard in the gut. I fell down as my lunch came up.
I knelt there vomiting as they stood around laughing. On my last heave, I fell forward. With everything in me, I tried to get up, but I couldn’t.
“Search the truck,” Skipper called to Shutt. I lay there with tears, blood, vomit, and dirt smeared all over my face while they searched the truck.
“It’s not here, boss,” Shutt said.
“Get him up,” Skipper yelled.
He got right in front of me after two of his men were holding me vertically again. “Where the hell are those tapes, you son of a bitch?”
I thought I answered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” but evidently nothing came out.
“Answer me,” he yelled again, and this time his spit joined the other disgusting things on my face. Of everything, it disgusted me most.
He turned, and with his back to me he said, “Okay.”
That was just what the two men holding me were waiting for. One got behind me to hold my hands back as the other one moved in to position in front of me. They were placing me in the classic working-over pose. However, rather than keeping me from defending myself, the man behind me was actually keeping me from falling to the ground.
The guy in front of me began working on my midsection as if he were doing a heavy-bag workout. My knees buckled, but the officer behind me held me up. I began to heave again, but everything in my stomach had been purged. I coughed in between heaves. The heaving and the coughing only produced blood. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but it was my blood, which made it way too much blood.
“My turn,” the officer behind me said with an evil sneer.
He was enjoying this way too much. Come to think of it, they all were, with the possible exception of Shutt, who seemed not to have the stomach for violence.
The officer released me, and I crumpled to the ground as they switched positions. I could see the boots of Skipper and the other officer on the other side of the truck, and it looked as if they were still searching through it. When the two officers had switched positions, the one behind me kicked me hard with his pointed-toe boot and said, “Get up, you big pussy.”
I tried.
Finally, he yanked me up, primarily by my hair.
The officer in front of me said, “Hold him still now. I don’t want no moving target. I held him still for you.” The officer holding me began to push me from side to side as if I were a boxer bobbing and weaving. “Cut it out,” the one in front said.
“We got to give him a fair chance now, Jeff, don’t we?” He continued to jerk me from side to side, but I could tell his arms were getting tired. As his grip loosened, I thought of trying to break free to run. When he finally did get so tired that he released me slightly, I fell to the ground again.
When he pulled me back up to my feet, he said, “Now be still, boy. Can’t you see we got work to do? The one in front drew back like he was about to pitch a baseball and swung his fist fast and furiously toward the left side of my head. The blow landed between my ear and eye.
And then the strangest thing happened. Somebody turned off the lights.
Chapter 36
I awoke to the muted sounds of soft, constant beeps, whispering voices, and the low hum of an air conditioner. Everything sounded as if I were in outer space or under water.
When my eyes finally opened, they closed again from the assault of the bright light.
Someone said, “Close the blinds. He’s waking up.”
Someone else said, “Okay.” Both voices sounded excited.
My eyes opened again. I saw white light, less bright now, but still very present. A TV mounted on the wall in front of me played CNN. I lifted my right hand. Something was attached to my forefinger. I tried to remove it, but a hand descended out of the sky and prevented me.
My eyes followed the hand up the arm to the body to which it was attached. It was a beautiful goddess with large brown eyes and long brown hair. Beside her was another one. The second one looked like Bambi with a broken nose. Bambi? Laura. And Anna.
“I must be in heaven,” I said. There was laughter, so my words must have come out, but I hadn’t heard them.
The loudest laughter came from the left of the bed. I looked over to see Merrill standing there with a wide grin on his face.
“Oh, no. It must be hell,” I said. And this time it was the ladies who laughed.
“How are you feeling?” one of the ladies asked.
