Scratch Fever

by Collins, Max Allan

He struggled with the cuff his wrist was in, as he heard her footsteps on the stairs, but it didn’t do any good, it didn’t do any goddamn fucking good, and then she was in the doorway, with a .38 in her hand.

  She shut the door behind her.

  “You bitch,” he said, his free hand a fist.

  He didn’t have to swing it: his words struck her like a blow.

  “Please, no,” she said. Whispering. Her eyes looked wet.

  She set the gun on the nightstand.

  She fumbled in her front pocket The jeans she wore were tight; she had trouble finding it but then she brought it out: a small key.

  She unlocked the cuff at his wrist.

  “We’re only one floor up,” she whispered. “There’s just ground under the window, not cement or anything. Hang out the window and drop.”

  “Ron . . .”

  “I’m going to tell her you got away. I came up here and you were gone. I’m going to tell her I had you tied, and you got loose. She doesn’t have to know about the cuffs.”

  She was undoing the cuff at his ankle.

  He got up; she helped him. He was dizzy. Hard to keep balance. He started unsteadily toward his shoes.

  “Never mind that,” she said irritatedly, pushing him toward the window.

  He grabbed her by the small of one arm. Looked at her. Touched her face.

  “Get out of here,” she said.

  She opened the window for him, and he climbed out into the darkness, hanging by the sill, facing toward the house, and the night air felt cold, the drizzle felt good. He dropped.

  The ground was hard, and one of his ankles gave, twisted. Fuck! He fell backward but was up in a second, and hobbled across the cold ground, wishing he had his goddamn shoes. This wasn’t as clear a night as last night, but he could still make out the general shape of things. The old two-story farmhouse. The bare yard going back to what was apparently a plowed cornfield. Trees off to the left, which he was heading toward now.

  His ankle hurt like hell, but he was so glad to be out of there and maybe, just maybe get out of Julie’s grip, that the pain felt good, as good as the cold, wet air. The pain meant he was alive.

  Then he was in the trees, and he could see the road: there were trees on either side of it, so it would be easy enough to head for cover if a car came. And since a car could mean Julie again, he didn’t dare flag one down, so he hobbled in the road, because with his turned ankle it was better than moving through the trees and bushes and high grass. And he heard a noise behind him, back at the farmhouse. Something that could have been a shot.

  He stepped up the pace, coming as close to running as a guy with a bum ankle can get; sort of a drunken jog.

  Pretty soon headlights were coming up behind him, and he headed to the right, into the trees, and dropped to his stomach in the tall, wet grass; the car slowed, as if the driver had thought she (and this was certainly a she: Julie) had seen something moving in the road ahead but wasn’t sure. Then moved on.

  He waited what seemed forever and was possibly a couple minutes.

  Then he made his way back to the road. He listened very carefully before he started his drunken jog again, listened for an idling motor, in case Julie had pulled over and cut her lights up ahead. He heard nothing, except the sound of the rain—the drizzle had already turned to rain—against the ground, the trees, the road.

  He started moving again.

  Should he stop at a farmhouse? There’d surely be one soon. He didn’t know if he could come up with a story that could get him safely out of this area without the cops getting into it. A guy with no shoes, looking bruised and beat-up, coming to a farmer’s door for help? Assuming he didn’t get shot first, what could he say?

  Better to get to a town, if that didn’t take forever; if luck had headed him the right direction down this road, he might end up at Gulf Port before long. A tavern there would ask no questions about his appearance, and he might even be able to bum a dime to try to call Nolan again.

  But he felt sure Nolan would be on the way. He just didn’t know how to connect up with him.

  Up ahead there was a curve in the road. He got off to the side, so he could make a quick move off into the trees if a car came unexpectedly around it. And just as he jogged around the bend, the beams of headlights hit him like a spotlight, and he knew he’d never make the trees in time.

  16

  WHEN NOLAN got back to the motel room, the girl was asleep.

  He sat on the bed next to her and watched her. She looked young. Very peaceful, her breasts rising, falling, with an easy rhythm. He hated to wake her. He hated to let her in on what had just happened. But he couldn’t think of any way around it.

  For one thing, it wasn’t fair to her not to let her know what was going on here. She had to know just how rough it was getting, so she could have the option of getting out He hoped she’d decide to stay; he could use her help.

  He shook her, gently.

  “Oh,” she said, scratching her head, her brown hair a pleasant mess. “I was dreaming.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t remember. But it wasn’t a nightmare.”

  “That’s something, anyway.”

  “Right. Didn’t you go to get me a Coke?”

  “Yeah. I forgot it.”

  “That’s all right. I probably shouldn’t be putting any caffeine in my system anyway, not if I want to get some sleep. What’s that on your shirt?”

  Nolan looked down at the front of his turtleneck. “Blood,” he said. “Powder burns.”

  “Jesus. What’s going on?”

  “There are some things you need to know. Sit up.”

  She did, and he told her about Sally and Infante breaking into his house, how they tortured Sherry, how he came in on them, killing Sally. She listened with a wide-eyed expression that tried to be interest but was mostly fear.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she said. No anger, just curiosity.

  “I didn’t want to scare you off,” he said. “I thought I could use you.”

  She managed a smirky little smile, smoothing a hand over the bed. “I see.”

  “That isn’t what I mean.”

  “I know it isn’t.”

  “Telling you about my killing Sally makes you an accessory after the fact,” he said. “That’s the main reason I didn’t tell you. There’s always a chance, in a situation like this, that you can end up in the hands of the cops. So you were better off ignorant. I wanted your help, but I wanted to protect you, too.”

  “You didn’t get blood on your shirt from killing Sally. That’s new.” She reached her finger out and touched the front of his shirt, like a kid checking if paint was dry. “That’s wet.”

  He told her about spotting Infante’s car, about the confrontation in the motel room.

  She looked ill.

  “This screws things up a little,” he said. “I didn’t intend killing Infante—not at the moment, anyway. I wanted him alive, so I could use him, to get to Jon, and handle Julie, as well. Dead, he’s a problem.”

  “Why?”

  “When Julie tries to contact him and finds him gone, she may figure I’m in town, which takes away the edge I need.”

  “What can we do about it?”

  “Well, if Julie finds Infante’s body in his room, we’re as dead as he is.”

  She nodded. “And so is Jon.”

  “Right. We’re better off if we get rid of the body.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “There isn’t much to it, really.”

  She shuddered. “Yeah, I know. It’s the second body you’ve dumped today, after all.”

  Nolan shrugged. “It’s got to be done.”

  “Well, give me a second.”

  “It’s almost five. We better get this done while it’s still dark.”

  She got out of bed and followed him out of the motel room. Neither one wore a coat, and it was cold. There was no one around; the sky was just hinting at dawn.


  Nolan handed her some car keys. “These are to that little Mazda over there. It’s Infante’s. Back it around, right up to the edge of the sidewalk in front of the door to his room, and open the trunk.”

  She nodded, and went to the car, and did as she was told.

  Nolan unlocked Infante’s room, silenced 9 mm in hand; it was faintly possible that Julie might have showed up in the few minutes he’d been back at his own room, explaining things to the girl.

  But there was no one in the room except Infante, and he was just a sprawl of leaking flesh on the carpet by the bed. Nolan took the spread off the bed and rolled Infante up in it; it was harder than it sounds. Then he went to the doorway, and the girt was standing by the open trunk.

  “Nobody’s around,” she said, glancing from side to side, her breath visible in the air. “You need any help in there?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” she said, hugging her arms to herself, shivering, only partially from the cold.

  Nolan went back and lifted the mummylike Infante into his arms, carrying him like a bride over a threshold, only Infante was going out, not in. When the girl saw the bundle in Nolan’s arms, she covered her mouth.

  “Shut the door,” he said.

  She shut the door to Infante’s motel room.

  “Go get the other car.”

  She walked down toward the Datsun. Briskly.

  He laid Infante in the Mazda trunk, which was empty except for a spare tire. He had to stuff Infante in there, and bend parts of him around, as though he was fitting a piece into a puzzle, but the wrong piece. Infante would have been uncomfortable, had he been alive. Nolan shut the trunk.

  The girl was there with the Datsun. It had frost on it, as did the Mazda.

  He went over to where she was leaning out the rolled-down window and said, “Just follow, me,” and got behind the wheel of the Mazda.

  He led her down a country road lined with trees on either side. About fifteen miles out of Gulf Port, Nolan pulled the Mazda into an access inlet to a cornfield. The field was flattened and desolate looking. There were no farmhouses or barns in sight. Nolan took a handkerchief and wiped everything he’d touched: steering wheel, trunk lid, even the car keys, which he pitched out into the field. Then he left the Mazda where it was and joined the girl in the Datsun, waiting in the road nearby, motor running.

  “Turn around as soon as you can,” he said, “and head back to the motel.”

  She nodded.

  When she was pulling into the stall in front of their room, Nolan said, “Now let’s check Infante’s room again.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t want to leave a mess.”

  They got out of the car. Nolan went down and unlocked Infante’s room. She followed him haltingly inside. There was a reddish-brown spot about the size of a saucer, but not as perfectly round, on the floor by the bed.

  “Get a towel,” Nolan said, “and get it wet and soapy.”

  “You want me to clean that up?”

  He just looked at her.

  She frowned. “Woman’s work is never done,” she said, and went into the bathroom.

  Nolan looked under the bed. The twin to the 9 mm was there. He reached under and got it.

  By this time, the girl was on her hands and knees scrubbing. She stopped for a moment, looked at the reddish-stained towel in her hands, and said, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “That’s good enough,” Nolan said, nodding toward the spot on the floor. “You don’t want to rub it bald.”

  “I’ll get another towel with just water and kind of rinse the area.”

  “Good idea.”

  Nolan went to the dresser and found a notepad and pen. He wrote the following on the top sheet: “Got hungry and bored. Going to Burlington for some food and a movie. Be back in a few hours.” He didn’t sign it, but left it out on top of the dresser. The girl looked at it.

  “You think that’ll hold ’em off for a while?” she asked.

  “It might.”

  He went to the phone. He dialed the desk.

  “I’m in room thirteen,” he said. “I’m just getting to bed now, and I don’t want to be disturbed. So don’t bother sending a maid around at all today. I’ll be sleeping.”

  “Sure,” a disinterested female voice on the other end said.

  “You write this down or something. I don’t want to be disturbed, got it?”

  “I got it,” the voice, now irritated, said.

  “There’ll be a tip in it for you.”

  “Oh! Well, sure. I’m writing it down now.”

  “And hold my calls. I’ll pick up any messages at the desk later. Just say I’m not in.”

  “Glad to. My name’s Frances, by the way.”

  “Fine, Frances.”

  “So you’ll know who to tip.”

  “I’ll remember, Frances.”

  He hung up.

  “Is that going to work?” the girl asked.

  “It might. Take another towel and wipe off anything we touched. I never knew anybody who actually got nailed by fingerprints, except on TV. But I don’t want to be the first.”

  He gathered Infante’s clothes and the damp towels used by the girl to clean the blood up, and on the way back to their motel room, dumped it all in a trash barrel, shoving it under some other garbage.

  “The sun’s up,” she pointed out.

  “So it is,” he said. “Let’s get some sleep.”

  It was late morning when he woke and found her sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Are you okay?” he asked her.

  “I don’t know. I don’t feel so good.”

  “How so?”

  “My stomach hurts. I feel kind of weak.”

  “You’re hungry.”

  She made a face. “Please. I dreamed I cleaned up blood with a mop and bucket all night.”

  “All morning. How long since you’ve eaten?”

  “I don’t know. I had lunch yesterday. I never eat a meal before a performance, so . . .”

  “So you haven’t eaten for a long time. You’re hungry. Here.” He dug in his pocket for some money and gave her two twenties.

  “What’s this for?”

  “I want you to drive over to Burlington and find a MacDonald’s or something. Someplace where you can get a breakfast to go. Eat yours there, if you like, but bring me something.”

  “How can you eat at a time like this?”

  “The same way I can sleep, or screw.”

  She gave him a long, sarcastic smile, then said, “Forty bucks for breakfast is gonna buy you a truckload of Egg McMuffins, you know.”

  “I also want you to stop at one of those big discount stores and pick me up a shirt. Something similar to this, but without the blood and powder burns.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Some clothesline.”

  “Clothesline?”

  “Just enough to tie somebody up with.”

  She grinned. “Got ya.”

  “And get some toiletries. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, a shaver, shaving cream. Like that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Go.”

  She went—slowly, glancing back at him, afraid to go out on her own, he guessed. But she went.

  He lay back on the bed and slept till she got back.

  When she did, they both ate breakfast; she had waited to eat hers with him. It was MacDonald’s, some pancakes, sausage, eggs. Cardboard food, but since neither of them had eaten for many hours, they wolfed it down.

  Nolan took a shower, used the toothpaste. Shaved.

  The shirt’s a little big,” he said, getting into it, “but it’ll do.”

  “I got extra-large,” she said.

  “I take a large.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  “No. I’m grateful.”

  “Well. You better be.”

  “Where’s my change?”

  She shook her head, and got the change out of her jeans, then handed
it to him.

  “It’s almost two,” she said. “Shouldn’t we be checking on our friend Darlene?”

  “Take a shower first.”

  “Don’t be shy, Nolan. If I stink, say so.”

  “You’ll feel better. Clean up, and we’ll go.”

  When they did, they found the cowboy was still there; the red hot-rod pickup hadn’t moved an inch.

  “Shit,” Nolan said, slamming the heel of his hand into the steering wheel.

  “What now?”

  “This is getting messy. I don’t want to involve anybody else. I want the girl by herself.”

  “They’re probably still asleep. It was after four in the morning when they got here, and they probably didn’t get to sleep till five or six.”

  Nolan nodded. “Good point. We better just wait.”

  There were a few people out walking around on what was turning into a dreary, overcast Sunday afternoon. Some kids playing, none of them wearing warm enough clothing, considering the chilly weather—looking a bit ragged, in fact. A woman in a parka walking a shaggy mutt. An occasional blue-collar hippie on a motorcycle. Just enough action to make it awkward to park somewhere nearby and watch and wait.

  “Back to the motel,” he said.

  “Jesus, I’ll go stir crazy.”

  “It’s okay. We can keep an eye out the window and see if Julie or somebody shows up knocking at Infante’s door. That’d get us to Jon, too, you know.”

  She sighed. “I’m getting worried.”

  “Don’t be. Wherever Jon’s being held, it’s likely we’ll want to wait till after dark to get him anyway.”

  “After dark? Jesus!”

  “It’s dark by late afternoon this time of year. Don’t worry. If he’s dead, he’s . . .”

  “Dead. Yeah, I know. You’re real comforting, Nolan.”

  Nolan watched a football game on TV, with the sound down; the girl sat by the window near the door, peeking through the partly drawn curtains, watching for anyone who might pull into the motel lot. It was a quiet afternoon. The only action was a few people checking out late: a couple in their twenties, dressed in an expensively casual way, walking arm in arm toward a Corvette, in an easy, worn-out fashion that bespoke a fun-filled night before; some college kids—guys—heavily hung-over, shambling out to a station wagon like the survivors of a train wreck. Otherwise nothing—no Julie. Nothing.