Текст книги "Prodigal Blues"

Автор книги: Gary A. Braunbeck

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

"Here," said Christopher, tossing something toward me.  "You hold this, I'll do the deed."

I turned on the flashlight and followed him around; the flat was on the driver's-side rear tire, so we were going to be sticking our butts half into the road; the sooner we got this fixed, the better.  Christopher threw open the hatch in back of the bus and pulled out the jack and tire iron.  It was only as we headed to the back of the trailer—where the spare tires were attached—that I noticed for the first time that the all the windows of the trailer had been sealed around the edges with wax.

"What gives with the wax?" I asked.

Christopher glanced at where I was pointing the flashlight beam.  "Huh?  Oh—that's to try and keep the stink sealed in.  Bodies tend to swell up and burst a lot faster in this weather."

I nodded my head.  "Right.  Did you say 'bodies,' as in plural?"

"Told you—he's got five distributors.  You think that guy back there was the first one?"

"Actually, yes."

"Could we not talk about this right now?"

"Fine by me."

Good God; I was standing by the side of the road at four-thirty in the morning casually discussing the best way to seal in the stench of dead bodies piled up inside a trailer:  was my life working out, or what?

"A little help here?"

I looked up.  "Huh?—oh, yeah, sorry."

Christopher was having trouble getting the brace mechanism loosened; between the two of us and the tire iron, we got it opened, but then the tire decided it didn't want to come down just yet.  Christopher told me to stand on the bumper and press down-and-out on the top of the tire.  It took some graceful balancing on my part—at one point I almost did a spill to make Buster Keaton proud—but I managed.  It was as the two of us worked the tire that I happened to glance down at the back window of the trailer.

The cardboard that had been duct-taped over the inside of the window had come loose on one side; nothing you could see from a passing car, but at this angle I got a fairly good look at what set directly beneath the window.

An aluminum barrel strapped to a dolly; around the barrel were buckets of ice—both the wet and dry variety (though the wet ice had mostly long since melted); the outer rim of the barrel was covered in something that looked like foam; interspersed at even intervals around the foam were a series of plastic-looking plugs (or maybe fuses, it was hard to tell); out of each plug snaked what I first thought was thin copper tubing (they had a still?  Grendel did a little bootlegging on the side?) but on closer examination I saw was actually electrical wire; these wires merged above the center of the barrel where they connected into what appeared to be a modified computer motherboard; the motherboard, in turn, had two thicker wires dangling from its underside; one went directly into a hole that had been drilled, poked, or pounded into the barrel; the other wire just hung in the air, end exposed.

I continued working the tire as Christopher pulled on it, not once looking up at me.

A half-emptied bag of fertilizer lay crumpled near the ice buckets, along with dozens of empty fireworks boxes.

"Ammonium-nitrate," I said aloud before realizing I'd done so.

Christopher stopped pulling at the tire and stood up straight.  "What was that?"

Lying to him would have been futile.  I nodded in the direction of the window.  "The fertilizer.  Ammonium-nitrate?"

"What if it is?"

"I'm assuming the barrel is filled with fuel oil?"

"I'll ask again, what if it is?"

"Gelatin and gasoline makes a handy napalm recipe."

He stared.  Even in this darkness, I could see the anger surfacing behind his gaze.  "I might've read that somewhere, maybe."

"The stuff around the lid—C4?"

"Chalk up another one for the college man."

"How did you get your hands on some C4?"

"I didn't.  Grendel did.  He was planning to blast out a section of hillside on his property and build a Frank Lloyd Wright-style guest house for some of the… 'visitors'—for their private sessions.  That's also how I got the dynamite and blasting caps.  He had plans for all three floors, where the cameras and sound equipment would be installed.  It was going to be really spiffy."

"Uh-huh.  What the fuck are you doing with a bomb?"

"Don't sweat it, Pretty Boy; I haven't made the last few connections or activated the timer."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Ask Arnold—or wake up Rebecca and ask her.  They helped me build it.  Have you seen either of them getting skittish about things?  It's not going to blow by accident.  I was hoping you wouldn't find out about it, but since you have—yeah, we got a big old bomb that's going to make a big old boom and bring the walls a-tumbling down.  So.  What?"

"So what the hell are you, planning to do with it, anyway?"  Images of Oklahoma City and the first World Trade Center explosions kept presenting themselves to me with loud and bloody fanfare.  "Christopher, I will do everything I can to help you guys get back home, but I will not go one more mile if you're planning to kill innocent—"

"Oh, put the paranoia in park, pal.  No one's going to blow up a church or preschool or soulless financial institution.  We just want to make sure that when this is over, there's nothing left of this bus and trailer or the garbage inside of them.  I already know the spot where I'm going to blow it up; nobody's lived there for twenty years—hell, probably nobody but me has even been near it for that long.  Do we seem like terrorists to you?"

"That may not be a good question to ask me, all things considered."

"Fine.  If you don't believe me, go ask Arnold and Rebecca.  I promised them that when this was all over and done with, I'd take a shit in both these things and then blow 'em to hell ten different ways.  Can you give me one good reason why things like these should be allowed to continue to exist?  Knowing what's been done inside them, what they've been used for, the pain that's been inflicted on their floors and in their seats—knowing whose bodies are inside and what those sick bastards did while they were alive… can you give me one good goddamn reason why I shouldn't bomb the living fuck out of all of it?"

I stared at him, then blinked, swallowed, found my voice.  "No.  No, I can't."

"So?"

"So… nothing.  I'm sorry I doubted you.  C'mon, let's get this tire off."

"About time.  Welcome to the same road trip, Mark."

"Thank you."

It took us another minute or so, but we at last got the tire free and set about changing the flat.  Christopher was obviously tired, so after his third attempt to loosen the lugs, I handed him the flashlight.  "You hold the light, I'll be quicker."

"Fighting words if I ever heard them."

"Don't start."

"Just yanking your chain a little—I'm no hero, here, gimme the damned thing.  I'll time you."

"Three minutes," I said.

"You're kidding?"

"We'll see."

I did it in two minutes, forty-eight seconds, a new personal record.

"I am impressed," Christopher said.  "He acts, he does windows, has a college degree, and can change a flat in under three minutes.  If you weren't already spoken for I might propose to you myself right here and now."

"I'm guessing a bigger man would find that flattering, but to tell you the truth, it's kinda creeping me out."

"Then I haven't lost my touch."

"Very funny."

I was just finishing up with the jack when a Highway Patrol car came up alongside us and slowed to a stop.  The rest happened so fast there wasn't time to panic:  the officer on the passenger side rolled down his window, leaned out, and said, "Getting her fixed up all right?"

"Ready to roll," I said.

He looked at Christopher, then back at me, and said, "Those're a couple of classics you've got there."

"Don't I know it.  But try finding parts for 'em nowadays."

"I can imagine.  You fellahs need any kind of assistance?"

Christopher and I looked at each other and simultaneously shook our heads.  "No," I said.  "I think we're good to go."

"All right.  Drive carefully—and don't forget to extinguish those flares, all right?"

"Will do."

And away they drove.

Just like that.

"Half an hour," said Christopher.  "Half an hour from now they won't even remember seeing us."  He laughed, then shrugged.  "Never fails."

Until this moment, I hadn't believed him.  But he was right; all they saw was the bus and trailer; there was no asking for names, no requesting to see a license and registration, no inquiries about what was in the trailer, other passengers in the bus, nothing:  Hey, how are you, couple of classics, drive safely, bye-bye.

Despite my initial rush of relief, somehow it didn't make me feel much safer.

Christopher stomped out the flares, then just stood there staring up.  "I'd forgotten how pretty the night sky can be," he whispered.  "Look at all those stars."  He shook his head.  "I feel like I'm seeing all of this for the first time."

"In a way, you are."

He looked at me.  "I think maybe you're right."

I stood next to him, the both of us just enjoying the night air and the starry sky and the peace of it all.  We could've just been two lifelong buddies on a road trip, getting away from the wives and kids for a week, seeing America the way it was meant to be seen, if you believe the AAA literature.

Our reverie was broken by the sound of someone pounding on a window of the bus; we turned to see Arnold climbing over to the driver's seat and opening the door.  "You guys need to get in here," he said.  "I think something's really wrong with Rebecca."

"What?  She got stomach pains again?  What's she saying?"

"She ain't saying nothing, man—I can't get her to wake up.  And she feels cold."

We threw down everything and jumped inside.

I got to her first.

Her skin was clammy and her breathing was slow and shallow.  I tried some mouth-to-mouth but that didn't help.

Christopher checked her pulse at the wrist and the neck.  "Jesus Christ, it's slow."

"How slow?" I asked.

"What the hell difference does it make?—it's slow!"

I pulled her up into a sitting position and began lightly slapping her face.  "Rebecca, Rebecca, c'mon, honey, wake up.  Wake up, c'mon, c'mon…"

"What's wrong with her?" said Arnold.  "I never seen her like this before."

"Maybe all the pizza and pop made her sick," Christopher said.  "Maybe—fuck, I don't know!  Mark?"  He sounded nearly hysterical.  "Come on, college man, what is it?  What's wrong with our Rebecca?"

"She's really out of it, guys.  God—her hands felt cold earlier, but now—"

"She's been shaky all night," said Arnold.

Christopher nodded.  "I thought she was just wrecked, y'know?  Coming down off all the adrenalin of the last few days or something."

"No, this is a helluva lot more than just exhaustion, it has to be"—then I remembered what she'd said back at the truck stop:  Probably need a shot—I should check my blood sugar just to be—

"Her insulin," I said.  "When's the last time she had a shot?"

Arnold and Christopher looked at each other, and I knew before either of them even shook their heads that they had no idea.

…sometimes I get so busy with them I forget to take my own medicine, and that's not good…

"Get her insulin kit," I shouted.  "Christ only knows how long she's needed it."

Arnold looked around frantically.  "Where's it at?"

"Find it!"

"If I knew where she kept it—"

I took a deep breath and swallowed my own panic before it had a chance to get out of the gate.  "In her cooler, the little one that she carries with"—and then a terrible thing occurred to me.  "Oh, no…"

Christopher and Arnold both froze.

For one second I was so stunned by the thought I almost couldn't form words.

"What?" shouted Christopher, definitely closer to hysteria now.  "What is it?"

I closed my eyes and thought about saying a prayer.  "The refrigerator."

"What?"

"The refrigerator back in the motel room.  Did anyone see Rebecca take her cooler out of the refrigerator back in the motel room?"

I didn't have to open my eyes to see their faces; I knew.  As Christopher had been pushing me out the door, I'd known we were forgetting something, I just couldn't say what.

I opened my eyes.  Rebecca's pulse and breathing were even slower.  I decided a quick prayer was in order, after all.  "Please God, tell me that you guys have an extra insulin kit stashed in one of the drug cases."

After a moment of silence where I swear I could hear all the cells in our bodies jumping up and down and pulling out their hair while yelling "shit, Shit, SHIT !" at the top of their lungs, Arnold shook his head.  "She never… she never trusted us with any of her medicine.  Said we'd forget our heads if they weren't screwed on."  His lower lip trembled.  "She carried all of it in that cooler of hers."

"All of it?  Everything?'

"Everything!" snapped Christopher, his voice breaking on the last syllable.  He reached out an unsteady hand to brush away some hair from her face.  "Oh, God…."  It was at this moment that I realized how deeply he loved all of them; a father standing over his child's deathbed could not have been more wracked with sorrow and grief and helplessness.  It was the first moment of genuine vulnerability I'd seen in him.  He had not planned on this—after all, Rebecca was the responsible one; nurse, seamstress, booster-of-morale, maker-of-peace.

I released my breath, pulled in another, slower one.  "Guys, we have to get her to a hospital."

"No!"  Christopher was screaming now.  "We're not taking her to any goddamn place where they're going to stick her with things and s-strap her down on a t-table and put her under… under b-b-bright l-lights and… and…"

I reached out and grabbed his arm, squeezing it as hard as I could.  "Calm down, buddy.  Listen to—look at me.  Look at me!  That's right, now take a deep breath, pal, that's it.  Now, listen to me, Christopher—listen:  if we don't get her some medical attention, and fast, she's going to go into a full-blown coma and will quite probably die, and she's come too far and been through too much for us to allow that to happen, got me?"

He nodded his head but said nothing; tears spattered from his eyes onto my sleeve.

"Give me the cell phone."

He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, flipped it open, and handed it to me.

I punched in 911.  The emergency operator answered before the first ring was completed.

"Emergen—"

That was all she got out before the phone fizzled.  I jerked it away from my face, glared at it like that would coerce it into cooperating, then shook it just because I was. So.  Fucking.  Angry.

"Oh, this ain't happening," said Arnold.  "Uh-huh, not now, not now, not when we're so close!"

I tried the phone again, but its charge was a fond memory.  "It's gone."

Arnold took it from my hand, shook it once, held it to his ear.  "Don't those emergency operators call right back if there's a hang-up?"

Christopher yanked the phone away.  "And how the fuck are we supposed to answer?"

I held up my hand.  "Knock it off, guys—look, we're screwed as far as the phone goes.  Christopher, you need to get us rolling and I mean right the hell now!  Go on!  Go!"

He climbed into the front seat and fired up the engine.

"You got an idea?" asked Arnold.  "Please tell me you got an idea, college man."

"Bring up the route map on the computer as quick as you can."

Christopher pulled back onto the highway so fast the tires squealed and even left a smoke trail; no small feat, considering what we were hauling; Arnold woke the computer and called up the map; I tried mouth-to-mouth on Rebecca once again because I couldn't just sit there and do nothing.

Arnold asked me, "What now?"

"Grendel's got every other thing marked on there, he's gotta have some hospitals—for chrissakes he grabbed Thomas in an emergency room, you can't tell me he doesn't have a few locations bookmarked."

Arnold stared at the screen.  "I, uh…"

"What?"

He made two fists and slammed them against his forehead.  "I don't remember where we are."

"Just outside of Fort Wayne, Indiana," shouted Christopher.

Arnold took a deep breath and steadied himself.  "All right.  Gimme the next exit number."

"112, one mile."

"I-69 North, right?'

"What?"

"We're on I-69 North, right?"

"I guess—"

"—the fuck do you mean, you guess?—"

"—mean… I mean yes, yeah—I-69 North."

"How far to exit 112?"

"It's right ahead!" shouted Christopher, triumphant.

"Floor this bad boy, big brother—we need exit 116."

"Shit!"

Christopher floored it.  The drive between exits 112 and 113 took about seven years, give or take a month.  Rebecca's body heat kept fading.  I propped up her legs and covered her with the blanket, my coat, Arnold's coat, then, finally, my own body.

"Exit 116, Christopher."

"I got it!  What's the map say, how far?"

Arnold did some quick scrolling, double-checked what he found.  "Five miles from 113."

"Hang on."  He shifted gears and kicked us into a higher and much harder speed.

Rebecca's breathing was so slow it was almost nonexistent; but I still kept up the mouth-to-mouth; these guys had it together, they were back in control of themselves, they were a unit, I'd just be in the way.

"C'mon, honey," I whispered to her still, chill form.  "Can't do this to us now, you haven't seen me do my Tommy Lee Jones routine yet."  I touched her forehead, her cheek, felt for a pulse.  Going… going… going…

"Three miles!" shouted Christopher.

Outside, the world was a messy blur.  We were flying.  I hoped Christopher could keep a solid grip on the wheel; one slip and this whole mess would jackknife like nobody's business and we'd be a messier blur than the world whizzing past.  Probably leave a nastier stain, too.

"What do I do after the exit?" called Christopher over his shoulder.

"Turn left—that's Dupont Road.  The hospital'll be about a half-mile down."

"How's she doing, Mark?"

"Not good.  Can you make this thing go any faster?"

Christopher laughed.  Once.  Very softly.  "Just watch."

I would never have believed something as old and cumbersome as a VW Microbus could come close to breaking the sound barrier, but that's how it seemed during the next two minutes; the road out there didn't exist; the other cars and trucks were an optical illusion; we were invisible to the police and Highway Patrol; the road bowed before us, bested, apologetic, humbled.  The exit sign appeared in the headlight beams.

"You need to slow down now," I said.

"Fuck you, Pretty Boy!"

Now it was my turn to scream.  "IF YOU DON'T SLOW DOWN WE'LL NEVER MAKE THE GODDAMN TURN IN ONE PIECE!  I DON'T FEEL LIKE DYING TODAY!  ALL IN FAVOR?"

Arnold and I raised our hands.  I raised Rebecca's, which was technically cheating but right now I didn't care.

Christopher shifted gears and eased us back to something resembling mortal speeds.  We made the exit and didn't jackknife on the turn, and you never heard three people sigh so loudly in unison as we did when the "Dupont Hospital" sign loomed as high and bright as the Star of Bethlehem.

"There," I said, pointing.  "There's the emergency room entrance."

"Where?"

"On the left."

"The left?"

"Right."

"Go right?"

"The left—right there!"

"Right?"

"LEFT!"

This was not the time for an Abbott & Costello routine.

Christopher started to go right, corrected himself, and just made the left-side entrance toward the emergency room.  We pulled up a few yards outside the ambulance bay.  Arnold had the side doors thrown open before the bus came to a complete stop.  I started to pick up Rebecca and was surprised at how much she weighed; this girl had some muscle on her.

"What type of diabetes does she have?"

Christopher stared at me.  "There are different types?"

"Oh, fuck me…"

"Her bracelet," said Arnold.

"What?"

"It's on her bracelet, the one she wears around her ankle."

All three of us lunged for her legs at the same time; Christopher knocked me sideways into Arnold, who fell forward onto Christopher, pulling him the rest of the way over the seat, causing me to drop Rebecca, who flopped down onto the floor and Arnold was so busy trying to avoid stepping on her that he accidentally kneed me in the nuts and about two seconds later we'd switched from Abbott & Costello to the stateroom scene from A Night at the Opera because we were suddenly this mass of groaning, cursing, flailing bodies trying to untangle ourselves from one another, but untangle ourselves we did, pulling back both of Rebecca's pants legs—to discover no medical bracelet on either ankle.

"This isn't happening," I muttered.

"You bet your ass it ain't," said Arnold, snatching something off the floor near my foot.  "Here it is.  Must've fell off during the orgy."

I took it from him, picked up Rebecca again, jumped out onto the sidewalk, hit the pavement running, dodged an old man in wheelchair being pushed by a younger woman who gave me the dirtiest look, squeezed past another young woman who was coming out with her little boy in her arms (his arm was bandaged; I hoped it wasn't serious), elbowed my way ahead of a balding, overweight security guard who looked like he was about to flirt with the desk-nurse, and shouted:  "I NEED HELP!  THIS GIRL IS DYING!  HELP!"

Two nurses and an orderly fell on us like a curse from Heaven; it took them about two seconds to see that this was serious, then the orderly vanished into thin air, re-appearing almost instantaneously with a gurney which the nurses gently placed Rebecca on (when had they taken her from my arms?  I didn't remember their having done that) and the next thing I knew one of them was asking me what happened and I said something about her having missed her insulin shots and then another nurse or maybe it was the same one asked did I think it was only one or could she have missed more, as well, and I said I wasn't sure, it had been a long trip and she was usually pretty good at keeping track of her medicine, and the nurse said that was all right, calm down, can you give me any information about her type of diabetes, and I said sure, it's here on her bracelet, but that was silly because the nurse already had it in her hand (when had she taken it from me?  I didn't remember her having done that) and was shouting instructions to another nurse, and then someone was on the P.A. paging doctor something-or-other to the ER stat and then Rebecca was gone and so was the orderly and so was the security guard and so were the nurses…

…and I just stood there like the biggest, dumbest, crap-for-crap useless dick this side of a Homestar Runner cartoon and realized that I had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Except for an older couple sitting over near the wall-mounted television, I was alone in the waiting area.  I took a couple of steps and looked at the television.  Nick at Nite.  I Love Lucy.  Ricky was grabbing his hair and screaming that Lucy Esmeralda MacGillicuddy Ricardo had some serious splainin' to do.

"I know this episode," I said to the older couple.  "This is the one where Lucy does something silly and she and Ethel try to hide it from Ricky and Fred, right?"

They looked at me as if I'd just hawked up a live kitten.  So I went back to standing there, quiet, polite, without a clue; portrait of a doofus in action.

Then the overweight security guard came back from behind the automatic doors and asked, "Is she your daughter?"

"No," I answered without thinking.

"Can I have your name, sir?"

Ahem…

Have you ever had one of those moments where a simple piece of information like, oh, say, your phone number or shoe size or wedding anniversary or—just to pull another quick example out of my ass—your name suddenly eludes you?  If he would have asked me anything else—who was Vice President under Lyndon Johnson, or who shot J.R., or why for the love of God was Frampton Comes Alive still one of the biggest-selling albums of all time—those I could have answered; but, no, he had to be a wise-guy and stump the band with an obscure request.

At least there were options available here; I could:  1) Shriek like a little girl with the cooties and run like hell; 2) Ask the couple by the television if they knew what my name was; or, 3) Look at my I.D.  I opted for #3, and was just reading the word "Mark" when the security guard took a step back and said "Wow," with such genuine awe I thought Michael Jordan had just walked in; then the synapses started firing again and I saw the glint and realized that I still had my I.D. in the same wallet with the U.S. Marshal badge—but of course by then it was too late.

"Oh, sir, look, I didn't realize that you were—hey," he stepped closer to me, lowering his voice.  "Is that girl part of a case you're working on?"

His face said everything; that this was the most exciting thing to happen to him in a long time, that he really wanted to be of assistance, and who knew?—maybe his helping out a U.S. Marshal would impress the nurse he'd been trying to flirt with into finally going out with him.

"Yes," I said, then cleared my throat and spoke with more confidence.  "Yes, she is."  I closed the wallet and slipped it back into my pocket.  "She's"—I led him away from the older couple, who suddenly weren't so interested in seeing how Lucy was going to get out of this one—"a material witness in a kidnapping case we've been working on for a while, Officer"—I checked his name tag—"Ransom.  If you could—"

"That's kind of an odd coincidence, isn't it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You working on this kidnapping case and my last name being 'Ransom'.  Kinda odd, wouldn't you say?"

Jesus, I hoped the nurse didn't say yes to this poor sap.  "Now that you mention it, yes, yes it is.  I'll have to make sure to mention that in my report."  I leaned closer.  "My boss enjoys little tidbits of information like that.  He says it gives our reports 'verisimilitude'—whatever that means."

Officer Ransom and I shared a professional chuckle over that one.

"Listen," I said, pulling him farther away from the two former Lucy fans, "I'd really appreciate it if you could keep a close watch on her until the rest of my team arrives.  We're very close to nabbing this bastard and she's the only one who can positively identify him.  That's why they've got to do their best for her, understand?  They've got to make her better.  She's a sweet girl and"—I felt myself starting to choke up and couldn't stop it—"and she's been through too much for it to end like… like this… I'm sorry…."

"Hey, no, I understand, sir, really, I do."  He put his hand on my shoulder.  "I imagine it gets to you, seeing a kid like that who's been taken from her family and subjected to God-only-knows what at the hands of her kidnapper."

I wiped my eyes and patted down my pockets for some tissue, but then the sap Officer Ransom handed me his unused handkerchief.  "It gets to me sometimes, too, you know?  Seeing some of the awful things done to kids that're brought in here."

Okay, he wasn't a sap.  Shame on me for thinking that.  I wiped my eyes again, blew my nose, and offered back the handkerchief; to my surprise, he took it without a flinch and shoved it into his pants pocket.  "You okay, there?  Want me to maybe get you a cup of coffee?  The crap from the vending machines tastes like old motor oil, but the stuff they make in nurse's lounge—hoo-boy!  That's some mighty fine joe."

"Yes," I said.  "I'd appreciate that.  And if you could check with the nurses and doctors back there about Rebecca's condition"—I bit my lip too late, her name was out—"I'd really appreciate that."  Then I added, for what reason I still couldn't tell you:  "And the office tends to remember those local law enforcement officers who cooperate as well as you are, Officer Ransom."

"Daniel," he said, shaking my hand.  "I'll check on the girl and the coffee.  Anything you need, sir, just give the word."

"Thank you.  Listen, if I'm not out here when you get back, don't worry—I'll just be out in the car, contacting other team members.  I'll be back in here soon enough."

He nodded.  "You're the boss."

I shook his hand again and smiled at him as he left; was it my imagination, or was his walk a little taller?

I really hoped that nurse said yes.

I turned around and almost knocked over Arnold, who was standing right behind me with his shoulder-bag dangling halfway down his arm.  "Watch it there, Grace.  I seen enough of your chest and belly for one night."

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to see another great performance.  Man, you could cause some serious shit with that badge if you put your mind to it."

By now the couple had apologized to Lucy for ignoring her, and were back at attention just as Fred Mertz was flipping out, screaming that Ethel Mae Roberta Louise Potter Mertz was going to have a tasty knuckle sandwich for lunch if she didn't zip it.  Personally, I'd always felt that Ethel could ream Fred's ass seven ways from Sunday—she'd feel awful about it afterward, probably even make him a big juicy steak dinner, but if it ever came to knock-down drag-out between them?  No contest.

I pulled Arnold aside.  "What are you doing in here?"

He hesitated for only a moment:  "I'm staying with her."

"You can't do that!"

"Why not?  You think they're gonna treat us like criminals once I tell 'em who we are and what's happened to us?  You think they're not gonna believe me once her makeup starts slipping off in there?  After the number you just laid on that rent-a-cop, they'll believe me if I tell 'em Rebecca and me seen Elvis Presley, still alive and well.  They're gonna treat us like heroes, Mark.  We'll be fine."  He showed me an envelope in his jacket pocket.  "I've got all of Rebecca's information in here, and mine, too—not that I need it.  I've had the address and phone number memorized for a long time.  I'm just sorry I won't get to see you do your little routine for my family."  He looked toward the automatic doors.  "She's gonna be okay, right?"

"I sure hope so.  I think we caught her before she crashed really bad.  We sure got here fast enough, though, didn't we?"

"They'll be peelin' those tire tracks off the road for a week."  He looked back at me.  "Look, Mark, I got everything we need right in here"—he patted his shoulder bag—"and they're gonna be so busy making sure the two of us are okay, they won't bother asking us too many serious questions until our folks get here."  He shook his head.  "I can almost smell the Social Services' lady's perfume now."