A Blind Eye

by G. M. Ford

  “So all this time you’ve had your platoon of lawyers keeping the Texas folks at bay. Keeping you in Seattle.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how in hell did things get so ugly so quick?”

  “Barry called,” Corso said, naming his lawyer Barry Fine. “Seems they’re a mite pissed off down in Texas. They decided to send somebody up to get me.”

  “They can do that?”

  “Only if the local authorities cooperate.” He waved a hand. “Barry said King County was cooperating with the extradition, and I better get lost until the grand jury’s term expires.”

  She laughed. “Because you’re such a popular figure with the King County authorities.”

  “They’re still pissed off about Walter Himes.”

  She walked in a slow circle. “So you decided to hide out, but you didn’t want to be alone, so you decided to drag me all the way to Justine, Minnesota, on a fool’s errand, where I might end up stranded”—she began to sputter—“up to my ass in…”

  Over Corso’s shoulder, Courteous Annie and the soldiers were no longer bothering to disguise their curiosity. “I ought to turn you in,” Dougherty said. “I ought to march right over there and tell those soldiers who you are. There might be a reward or something.”

  Corso pretended not to hear. “We can drive to Madison and catch a red-eye.”

  She gestured toward the window. “In this?”

  Corso inclined his head toward the sleeping woman, then checked the Courtesy Desk, where Annie now had her eyes locked on Corso as she whispered into the phone.

  “I can’t spend another night here.”

  As Dougherty thought it over, the old woman groaned again and turned her spit-glazed cheek toward the ceiling. Dougherty winced at the sight. “Drive?”

  “We’ll get an SUV. Four-wheel drive. It’ll be an adventure.”

  Her eyes remained on the old woman. Unconsciously she brought her hand to the side of her face. “I don’t drool when I sleep…do I?”

  “Buckets,” he said.

  “I hate you for dragging me into this.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well now,” she sneered, “at least there’s something we agree on.”

  “You wanna rent the car or fetch the luggage?”

  “What I want is to go back to Seattle,” she said. “You don’t need a playmate, and I don’t take fugitive gigs. You’re gonna have to dodge the cops on your own, Frank. I’ve got a life to live.”

  He started to speak but changed his mind. After a moment he said in a low voice, “Soon as we get to Madison, I’ll put you on the first flight to Seattle.”

  “For real? No speeches? No messy scenes in the airport?”

  He held up two fingers. “For real.”

  “I still think it would serve you right if I turned your ass in.”

  “The car or the bags?”

  “I’ll get the car,” she said.

  Corso dug into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a credit card.

  “On me,” he said.

  “Damn right,” she said as she snatched it from his fingers and strode away.

  2

  It’s getting worse.”

  She was right. No more fluff floating down from the dome of the sky. Now it was a torrent of ice slanting onto the metal skin of the Ford Explorer, hissing like static and rocking the big car on its springs. What had, four hours ago, been the sharp slap of windshield wipers was muted now. Despite the full-blast roar of the heater, snow had collected at the extremities of the windshield, leaving only a pair of crescents through which they could peer at the deserted freeway ahead.

  “How far have we gone?” she asked.

  Corso checked the odometer. “A hundred and fifty-three miles.”

  “We should have driven out of it by now.”

  “Presuming your friend Jerry was right.”

  She shifted in her seat and bared her teeth. “Don’t start with me, Corso. This fiasco was your idea, remember? As I recall…”

  The recollection lodged in her throat as a violent gust of wind buffeted the car, throwing it out of the solitary set of tire tracks they’d been following for the past hour, sending the rear wheels skittering back and forth across the icy surface. Dougherty grabbed the overhead handle.

  “What was that?”

  “The wind,” Corso said, as the Ford wiggled back into the ruts.

  She tapped a long red fingernail on the dashboard. “You noticed the outside temperature gauge?”

  Corso flicked his eyes down to the green digital readout. What had, in Chicago, read twenty-four degrees Fahrenheit was now registering minus three.

  “We should have turned around when the snow-plow did,” she said, for what Corso reckoned to be the eighth time.

  He grunted. As much as it pained him, she was right. For the past hour, the freeway had been deserted. Service areas closed. Snowed-over cars and trucks abandoned along the shoulders of the road. Seemed like the whole state of Illinois had decided to sit this one out in front of the fire.

  “When the snowplow gives up and turns around…you know…I know this sounds crazy to you, Corso, but maybe we should have taken the hint…. Maybe we should have showed a modicum of…of—”

  Corso wiped the inside of the windshield with his sleeve. “Exactly where are we?” he interrupted.

  “In the middle of a goddamn blizzard is where we are.”

  “I mean like on the planet,” he said. “Where’s the map?”

  Dougherty was feeling around on the floor beneath her seat when Corso feathered the brakes several times and brought the Ford to a halt.

  Her dark eyebrows merged as she looked up at Corso.

  “What?”

  Corso inclined his head toward the windshield. She sat up and looked out. Whoever they’d been following for the past hour was gone. While the eastbound lanes of I-90 were a maze of ruts and tracks, the westbound lanes ahead were an unbroken ribbon of drifted snow.

  “Where the hell did he go?”

  “Beats me.”

  “What are we gonna do?” Dougherty asked, as much to herself as to Corso.

  “Depends on where we are,” he said.

  She started to reach for the floor.

  “I think you put it in the door thingee,” Corso said.

  He watched as she retrieved the map and snapped on the overhead light. She pulled an emery board from the pocket of her cape and laid it down next to the scale indicator on the map. Using her thumb as a marker, she worked her way up their route from Chicago. “Presuming the odometer is right, we should be somewhere along the Illinois-Wisconsin border.”

  “How far would it be if we turned around and headed due east for Milwaukee?”

  She took a measurement. “About a hundred miles.”

  “How far to Madison?”

  “About half that.”

  “We’re down to a quarter tank of gas.”

  She checked the map again. “There should be a town named Avalon somewhere up ahead.” Corso clicked on the high beams, but the extra wattage only made visibility worse. Looked like they were inside a Christmas paperweight.

  “This was really dumb.”

  “We’ll get off at the next exit,” Corso said. “Spend the night in Avalon.”

  “How long has it been since we passed anybody?”

  “Maybe an hour,” Corso said, easing his foot off the brake, allowing the car to creep forward.

  “You know why that is?” she demanded.

  “No…but I’ve got a feeling you’re going to enlighten me.”

  “It’s because we’re the only people on the planet rat’s-ass dumb enough to be out driving around on a night like this…that’s why.”

  Corso pressed his lips tighter and gave the Ford gas. His back ached from leaning forward, squinting into the gale. He took one hand off the wheel and used it to massage the back of his neck. The twin cones of halogen light disappeared about fifty feet in front of
the car. The overhead freeway lights illuminated only themselves.

  The dull thump of the wipers and the roar of the heater filled the inside of the car. Corso let go of his neck and reached for the radio.

  “Pleeease.” Dougherty strained the words through her teeth. “I don’t think I could stand it.”

  They rode in silence. A mile and they passed a trio of cars, snowed over and abandoned on the shoulder. Then two more cars and an abandoned bus before Dougherty pointed and said, “Stop.”

  Corso eased the Ford to a halt. Twenty yards ahead, covered with snow, a road sign rocked in the wind. Dougherty popped the door open. The interior was immediately filled with swirling snow. “I’ll be right back,” she said, slamming the door.

  He watched as the wind propelled her to the snowed-over sign on the shoulder of the highway. Her cape was pressed tight around her body as she used the flat of her hand to smack the sign, sending a wall of snow slipping to the ground around her boots.

  Avalon 2 miles. She used her hands to clean off several smaller signs mounted lower on the post. Blue and white symbols. Gas, food, and lodging.

  Halfway back to the car, she slipped on the icy surface, teetered for a moment, and then fell in a heap. Corso jammed the Ford into Park and fumbled for the seat belt. Just as he got the belt loose, she was back on her feet and leaning into the wind with her cape flapping wildly as she trudged back to the car and climbed in.

  Her eyelashes were a solid line of snow. Her lower jaw chattered as she spoke.

  “Daaamn, it’s c-c-c-cold out there.”

  “You okay?”

  When she nodded, the snow in her hair dropped into her lap.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said, brushing snow down onto the floor.

  “Avalon, here we come,” Corso said, easing the car forward.

  She shuddered. Tried to turn up the heater but found it was already running full bore, and then sat back and re-fastened her seat belt.

  “What’s Avalon mean anyway?” she asked.

  “It’s a Celtic legend. Supposed to be an island in the Western Sea. A paradise where King Arthur and his knights were taken after death. Kind of like Round Table heaven.”

  “There’s the exit,” she said.

  Corso tapped the brakes several times as they rolled down the exit ramp and skidded to a stop. “Icy,” Corso said.

  On the far side of the road, the gas, food, and lodging symbols were accompanied by a blue-and-white arrow, pointing to the right.

  They both leaned forward and peered down the tree-lined road.

  Dougherty rubbed at the inside of the windshield with her sleeve.

  “I don’t see a thing.”

  “Town’s probably just up around the corner,” Corso offered.

  Fifty yards and, without warning, the road got steep. The Ford skidded several times as the two-lane road wound down into the valley below. Corso shifted into first gear and allowed the engine to hold the car back as they descended, and still the tires fought for traction. Corso wrestled the wheel. “Icy,” he said again.

  “Town’s probably down at the bottom of the hill,” she said in a low voice.

  “It better be,” said Corso. “’Cause there’s no way we’re getting back up this thing until the snow melts.”

  “A problem we wouldn’t have if you had just—”

  “Give it a fucking rest, will you?” he snapped.

  Suddenly her tone matched the weather. “Is that my employer speaking? Am I being ordered to just take my imaginary photographs on demand and otherwise keep my mouth shut so as not to annoy the famous writer?”

  Corso sighed. “No…it’s your friend Frank Corso speaking, and he’s telling you that we’re in this together. Maybe trying to drive to Madison wasn’t the brightest idea I ever had, but we’re stuck with it now…so we might just as well not act like…”Uncharacteristically, he fumbled for a word and then gave up.

  “I see. You’re not telling me what I can and can’t say. You’re just telling me to stop being such a bitch.”

  Corso searched his mouth for a denial, but “Something like that” came out.

  Her face said she should have known. “How quick they forget.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Whatever you want it to.”

  “Isn’t this conversation just a joy to be part of on a wintry night?”

  “I can remember a time when you thought so.”

  “That was then.” He took a hand off the steering wheel. “We were…you know…then.” Waved it. “You know what I mean. It was different then.”

  She put on her astonished face. “I most certainly don’t know any such thing. Why doesn’t the famous on-the-lam crime writer enlighten me.”

  “When you’re…you know…”

  “Doing the nasty.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go on.”

  “When you’re…you know…involved like that…the rules are different. You put up with a little more shit than you otherwise might.”

  She sat in silence for a moment and then emitted a dry laugh. “So what you’re saying is that when you’re getting laid, you’ll listen to a lot more bullshit than you will when you’re not.”

  He thought it over. “Makes complete sense to me,” he said finally.

  She looked at him for a long moment. “Amazing,” she said. “Guys are absolutely amazing.” When he didn’t respond, she folded her arms across her chest, sat back in the seat, and said, “You’ll be sure to let me know when I’m allowed to speak again, won’t you?”

  The muscles along the side of Corso’s jaw tightened. Ahead, a bright yellow sign announced a 20 percent grade. Corso worked the brakes. Gritting his teeth as the Ford slid around a corner, Corso turned his head toward Dougherty.

  She sat stiffly in the seat, staring through the wind-shield, wearing her most disinterested gaze.

  “Why don’t we just…”he began.

  He watched as her eyes opened wide. “Corso!” she bellowed.

  He snapped his eyes back to the road. It took a moment before his brain was able to register and categorize what his eyes were seeing.

  Ahead, a snow-encrusted pickup truck lay on its side, blocking both lanes, passenger door open and pointing at the sky. When he tapped the brakes, the Ford surrendered the last of its traction and began to accelerate down the steep incline.

  “Do something!” Dougherty screamed as the hill pulled them faster and faster toward the wreck. Corso stood on the brakes, but the Ford was out of control now, gaining speed, turning a lazy circle before plowing headfirst into the wreck.

  Inside the Ford, Dougherty’s face was a mask of fear. The last image she processed was the bottom half of Corso’s face covered with blood. And then the Ford began to pinwheel along the undercarriage of the pickup truck, the scream of tearing metal filling the air, in the instant before they bounced over the guardrail and became airborne.

  3

  Corso…damn it…get off me.”

  She grunted as she tried to push him off, but Corso’s unconscious bulk remained welded to her left shoulder. The scratch of the wipers was slower now, the heater a mere whisper at her feet. Her right ear, pressed against the window, was beginning to freeze. She grabbed him by the ears, lifted his head, and looked into his face. His nose was squashed nearly flat. In the eerie moonlight, the twin rivulets of blood running down over his lips and chin shone obsidian black. Using his ears as handles, she gently shook his head. Called his name. Nothing. She shook him again, and he coughed. Groaned. Suddenly his eyes fluttered, rolled several times in his head, and then popped open. He moved a shoulder and brought a tentative hand to his face. She watched as he blinked several times, trying to focus on his bloodied fingers.

  “Corso,” she said again. He looked her way with nothing in his eyes. “I think you busted your nose,” she said.

  His lips blew bubbles in the blood as he touched his face and winced.

  “Nose.” H
e said it as if he’d never before heard the word.

  Without warning, the car began to slide, the sickening sound of ripping metal again filling the air. A silent scream stalled in her lungs as the Ford slid downward, bouncing twice before coming to rest again. From the corner of her eye, Dougherty could make out the rough bark of a tree pressed against the passenger window. “We gotta get out of here,” she said. Corso was still staring dumbly at his hand. “Come on, Corso…move.” He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and then rolled his shoulders to the left, easing his weight from Dougherty as he grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself upright in the seat.

  She grunted as he knelt on her side and groped for the door handle. She heard the click of the lock. Watched as he tried to push the door straight up and failed. Then tried again, without budging the door from the twisted frame. Blood from his nose dripped like red rain onto her shoulder as he eased himself higher, found the button for the window and pulled it downward. The window squeaked but didn’t move.

  He banged the window with the flat of his hand and the car began to spin on its axis. They lay perfectly still until it seemed the car had finished moving, and then Corso tried the button again. This time, with a sorrowful groan, the window began to ease open. Slowly, as the dashboard lights dimmed and the wipers slowed to a crawl, the window began to slide down into the door.

  Powdery snow swirled into the car’s interior. The remnants of the heater output and the collected warmth of their bodies instantly disappeared, replaced by an icy, bone-numbing cold. Corso pulled a knee to his chest, got one foot on the steering wheel, and levered himself up through the window.

  Relieved of Corso’s weight, Dougherty reached over, grabbed the steering wheel, and began to pull herself sideways in the seat until first her knees were on the inside of the passenger door and then higher until her boots made contact and she could push herself to her feet.

  She stood on the door, her toes resting on the arm-rest. Above her head the open window gaped, velvet black. “Corso,” she cried. She waited. Nothing. And for an instant she felt the fear rise in her chest. Had he fallen and gone skittering down the hill into the ravine below? Had he, in his stupor, simply wandered off and forgotten her? Again she hurled his name into the darkness. And again his name was swallowed by the storm. The snow stung her cheeks as she sniffed back a tear and mustered her strength. And then suddenly she felt the car move, and the black void above her head was filled with Corso.