*
MY ANKLE WAS BETTER, almost okay, but my knee was not. Every step was a full measure of agony.
I stuck to the shadows and stayed off the road, limping back the way I’d come, skirting the accident scene, heading in the direction of Gary’s T-Bird. The wind gusted—shoving me. Billows of grit blew off the desert and people huddled in groups, hunched away from the flying dust, silhouetted by headlights.
It was a traffic jam. More cars had arrived and more were arriving all the time. Soon there’d be police, if they weren’t there already. I looked for flashing lights or anything cop-like and realized that I still had Gary’s gun in my hand. I brought my arm back and almost, reflexively, threw it away, but then thought better of it. If I wanted to get away clean, I had to erase every possible smidgeon of evidence.
I frisked myself, looking for the rag that was once my shirtfront, and remembered using it just before Gary woke from the dead. It was back there, undoubtedly, at the scene of the crime, along with the flashlight and everything else I’d touched.
There was absolutely nothing I could do about it, other than go back, which was the last thing in the world I wanted to do.
I worked the switch on the side of the gun and let the cylinder fall open. I tipped it and the cartridges—two of them still live—fell into my hand. I used the still attached tail of my shirt to polish them clean. When I was satisfied, I let them fall to the ground and wiped the gun—all its surfaces, inside and out. I let that fall as well. It slipped from the folds of cloth, thudding against the earth.
As well as my precious stuff, I had Gary’s keys, her lighter and cigarettes, and more than enough cash. I also had a knocked-out tooth and a seriously injured knee, and she was still back there—I was sure of it—the most terrifying person I’d ever met in my whole, entire life. Mind reading, seeing the future and raising the dead—what else could she do?
I needed to get away—flee the scene.
Gary’s car was the most obvious means of escape. I had the keys and there it was up ahead, unmoved, tipped off the edge of the road, its trunk hanging open and its headlights on—dimmer now, battery running down. A line of cars stretched beyond it, headlights blazing full-strength, illuminating a low ceiling of racing gloom.
I approached as unobtrusively as possible, letting the wind push me up the shoulder, limping but trying not to. I didn’t want anyone remembering me, not for any reason. I got closer and there was a small crowd on the far side of Gary’s car, snuggled out of the wind. Apparently, in the time I’d been gone, it had become a minor center of attention.
I walked up to the group like anyone would and stood next to the male half of a couple. They were like puppies from the same litter: the same age with the same size and build, with identical hair—spiral perm mops, like Metallica.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s up?
He turned and got a look at me. “Fuck! Dude! What happened to you?”
I’d forgotten about my bloody face and the puke on my clothes—so much for being unobtrusive. I wiped my face with my sleeve and played a hunch. “I got into a punch-up,” I said. “My old lady kicked my ass.”
He glanced at his mate. She was looking in the opposite direction—paying no attention. “Yeah,” he said. “Tell me about it.”
We stood, nodding, building consensus.
“So...” I pointed with my chin. “What’s with the T-Bird?”
“The owner caused this whole accident,” he explained, full of knowledge. “He abandoned his vehicle and wandered out into traffic and got creamed by a semi—stoned or something.” He pointed in the direction of the tractor unit lying on its side across the road, and then down the hill, sweeping his arm towards the shoulder. “He’s dead and his body’s down there somewhere, at the bottom of the hill, thrown by the impact. It must be like some kind of world’s record.”
“Fuck!” I said.
“Totally,” he agreed.
And then, I asked the sixty-four thousand dollar question: “Where’s the police?”
“Donno,” he said. “Should be here by now. That guy over there called them.” He nodded in the man’s direction. “He’s got a cell phone.”
I backed away. “Thanks for the lowdown.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And, dude—sorry about your face.”
Left-handed Luck Page 6