by Ronald Kelly
Keith shrugged. “I guess I just figured you deserved to have as much fun as the rest of us, that’s all.”
The skepticism in Chuck Adkins’s eyes faded. “Well thanks. It’s really great.” He wheeled his chair closer and inspected the sidecar. “Does it actually work? It’s not going to fall apart when I get in, is it?”
“I sure hope not,” said Keith. “We’ve already tried it out with me and Maggie, and it worked like a charm.”
“Climb on in,” said Rusty. “Let’s take her for a spin.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” said Chuck anxiously.
Together, the three lifted the overweight boy from his wheelchair. Taking great care, they slid his lifeless legs through the opening and sat him inside. Chuck settled against the boat seat. “Feels comfortable enough.” He immediately noticed a handle attached to the inside of the sidecar, connected to the wheel’s stubby axle. It resembled an oversized crank, sort of like the kind on the side of an antique coffee grinder. “What’s this for?”
“It helps turn the side wheel,” explained Rusty. “You know, when we’re trying to pull a steep hill.” He frowned at his friend. “You didn’t think I was gonna do all the work, did you?”
Chuck laughed. “I reckon not. Hop on and let’s see what it does.”
Rusty mounted his bike, careful to stick his right leg between the heavy brackets that secured the sidecar to the frame.
“Hey, Mrs. Adkins!” Maggie called up to the porch. “Come down and take a look at this!”
By the time Flora Adkins made it to the mailbox, Rusty and Chuck had made their way fifty feet down Sycamore Road. She watched in amazement as they made a U-turn in the roadway and then started back. “Well, I’ll be!” was all she could manage to say.
“Look, Mom!” Chuck called out happily. “Ain’t it great?”
“Is it safe?” she asked.
Chuck pounded on the body of the sidecar with his fists. “It’s solid as a rock!”
“Why don’t we all go out and take us a ride?” Rusty suggested.
“Can I, Mom?” the boy asked excitedly. “Can I go with ‘em?”
Doubts and fears nagged at Flora Adkins, but she didn’t have the heart to say no. It had been a long time since she had seen her son so happy. Two long, difficult years, in fact.
“Well, it’s fine with me, if you be extra careful and don’t go too fast,” she told him. “But you’ll have to get your father’s permission, too.”
Chuck’s spirits plummeted. “Aw, do I have to.”
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “He’s in his workshop. Why don’t you go and ask him?”
Chuck’s expression darkened. “Oh, all right.” He looked around at his friends. “Can you help me back into my chair for a minute?”
It wasn’t long before the three where wheeling Chuck back up the sidewalk and around the side of the house. Joe Adkins’ workshop was located in a small room that adjoined the two-car garage. The door was open and they could hear the shrill whine of a belt sander echoing from the shadows within.
“Want us to go with you?” asked Rusty.
“Naw,” sighed Chuck. “I’ll ask him myself.”
The boy in the wheelchair left his pals and propelled himself along the paved driveway, toward the dark square of the open door. His father had arrived home from his job at the Shell station a half hour ago. He had mounted the porch in that solemn, preoccupied way of his, kissed his wife on the forehead, then walked through the house and out the back door, heading straight for his workshop. He hadn’t said a single word to Chuck; just ignored him, as if he wasn’t there.
Chuck hesitated just before he reached the doorway. He found himself afraid to even approach his father. Sometimes it was simpler – and less hurtful – if he ignored his father the way he himself was ignored. It pained the boy deep down inside to exist in a vacuum completely devoid of his father’s love and affection. Of course, it hadn’t always been that way. They had been the best of buddies once… back before the accident had happened.
Chuck glanced back at the others, then cleared his throat. “Dad?” he called.
The sander continued its high-pitched whine.
“Dad?” he said louder. This time the noise came to a halt and an awkward silence hung in the air. In the shadows of the workshop, Chuck could see his father sitting on a stool in front of his workbench, staring at the shelf he was working on.
“Yeah, son?” replied the man. There was no emotion in his voice, no hint of feeling at all.
“Uh, I was wondering if it’d be okay if I went riding with Rusty and the gang?” he began. “They rigged up this neat sidecar onto a bike and it really works great.”
Joe Adkins continued to stare at the piece of maple that was secured to the edge of the workbench with C-clamps. “What’d your mom say?”
“She said it was fine with her,” said Chuck hopefully. “She said you’d have to okay it first, though.”
The mechanic shrugged his shoulders. “Do whatever you want,” he said, his voice sounding incredibly tired, like that of an old man instead of a man who was scarcely forty years of age. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
Chuck swallowed dryly. “Okay,” he said, feeling a little sad. “Thanks.”
When the boy returned to his friends, Rusty frowned at the troubled look on Chuck’s face. “What’s wrong? Did he turn us down?”
“No, he said it was okay,” said Chuck. “Said he didn’t care one way or the other.”
Rusty traded uneasy glances with Keith and Maggie. “Well, come on, guys,” he said.
“Let’s hit the road!”
A few minutes later, they were back down at the road. Chuck was helped into the sidecar, then Rusty, Keith, and Maggie climbed onto their bikes.
“Ya’ll don’t stay out too long,” Flora Adkins told them. She checked her watch. “It’s a little after three-thirty now. Make sure you get him back home by six, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” promised Rusty. “We sure will.” He turned and smiled at Chuck. “Are you ready to roll, pardner?”
“You betcha!” said Chuck, his spirits soaring once again. “Bye, Mom.”
“Bye, sweetheart,” said his mother, feeling both elated and a little scared. After all, this would be the first time her son had left the Adkins’ property in two years, not counting trips to the doctor and the hospital. “Have fun.”
A moment later, the four were heading southward down Sycamore Road. Chuck Adkins settled back in the makeshift sidecar and closed his eyes. He relished the warmth of the late afternoon sun against his face, as well as the rich aroma of honeysuckle blossoms growing along the roadside and the rush of the wind blowing through his curly hair. For a very long time, Chuck had felt like a prisoner, not only in the wheelchair, but in his own failing body. But now, due to an act of ingenuity and compassion on the part of his friends, he felt as if he had finally broken free of those restrictive bonds.
What he experienced at that moment, riding down the country road, was freedom, pure and simple. After a long absence, he was part of the gang again. And that was better than any medicine or physical therapy that he had been subjected to since the unfortunate incident at Willow Lake.
Away from the limiting confines of his wheelchair, Chuck felt like a true – and whole – boy once again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Slash Jackson had put some serious mileage between himself and Atlanta during the past several days.
After his session with Allison Walsh at Adairsville, he had taken the woman’s car and driven the rest of the way through northern Georgia, across the Tennessee line to Chattanooga. Feeling that he was pushing his luck, he ditched the Taurus in a Denny’s parking lot, then began to hitchhike. The brunette from St. Louis had probably been discovered by now. Whether dead or alive, Slash had no idea. In any event, the Georgia state police had probably alerted the authorities in Tennessee and provided them with a description of Walsh’s car and, perhaps, of Jackson himself.
Slash brooded over the lenience he had shown toward the woman. Had he screwed up in the shack near Adairsville? Had he been too soft and merciful? He was beginning to believe so. In hindsight, he knew he should have taken care of business the same as he usually did. He should have slit Allison’s throat when he had the chance, instead of leaving her naked and half-dead on the dusty floor of that abandoned house.
“So, has your father had a problem with his heart for a while now?” asked the man next to him.
Slash pulled his thoughts away from what he should and shouldn’t have done, and focused on the driver of the big Lincoln Continental. He was a businessman from Lexington, Kentucky named Larry Bell. Bell was overweight and balding, with a ruddy red face and a nervous tick at the corner of his right eye. The salesman was returning from a computer software convention at the Hyatt in Atlanta. Slash had approached him at a Burger King near Monteagle and given him the same song and dance he had pulled on Allison Walsh. Bell, a trusting and friendly man, had bought the sob story; hook, line, and sinker.
“Yeah, for about fifteen years,” liked Slash convincingly. “I wasn’t aware of how serious it was, until my mother called and told me was laid up in the hospital, waiting for a triple bypass.”
“Well, don’t you worry,” assured Larry Bell. “It shouldn’t be more than an hour and a half until we reach Nashville. I’ll even take you as far as the hospital, if you’d like.”
“I really appreciate the ride, Mr. Bell,” he replied, putting as much humility into his voice as he could muster. “It’s really important to me.”
“No need to thank me, son,” said the computer salesman. He smiled assuringly at the man in the black Grateful Dead t-shirt and faded jeans. “I’m just glad I could help out.”
Slash studied the middle-aged man from Kentucky. Larry Bell looked to be doing well in his career. He appeared well-groomed and the nails of his chubby fingers had been recently manicured. The gray suit he was wearing was custom-tailored, not off the rack, and his shoes were Italian loafers that had probably cost him a hundred dollars. All that Slash was interested in, however, was the man’s wallet. He was sure Bell carried a wad of cash on him, as well as some valuable credit cards, probably all platinum with impressive limits.
Slash settled into the Lincoln’s leather-upholstered seat and relished the smoothness of the car’s suspension. They passed over a pothole in the road, but barely felt it. Slash hoped to hold onto the luxury car for at least a couple of states before he was forced to abandon it. Hopefully, Bell’s automobile, cash, and plastic would sustain him until he reached Detroit, where he had friends. He planned to hole up there for a couple months until things cooled off, then head back to Georgia where he belonged.
“Yeah, it’s a real shame,” continued Bell. “You know, my old man died of a stroke five years ago. He passed away while my wife and I was on a trip to Hawaii. I sure hope you get to see your father, before it’s too late.”
Slash played the part subtly. He nodded quietly, allowing an expression of anxiety and sadness cross his face. Inwardly, however, he was amused. Slash’s real father was already dead. When Slash was fourteen years old, Bud Jackson had mysteriously disappeared after years of drunkenness and cruel abuse, both physical and mental. Everyone, including Slash’s mother, was certain he had abandoned them. But that wasn’t the case. Not by a long shot.
Unbeknownst to family and friends, Slash had been the one responsible for Bud Jackson’s abrupt absence. In a fit of rage, he had split his father’s skull in two with the edge of a shovel and buried him in an apple orchard out back of their house. It was not something Slash was ashamed of. In fact, it was one of the fondest memories he possessed of his dear old dad, particularly the look of complete bewilderment that had crossed his face when the shovel crushed his skull and cleaved his brain cleanly in half.
Absently, Slash glanced in the Lincoln’s side view mirror. His heart leapt into his throat when he saw a Tennessee state trooper cruising a few yards behind them. At first, Slash wondered if the trooper was onto him, if he knew that it was him that rode shotgun in Larry Bell’s white Lincoln. But his fears subsided as they neared the Manchester exit. The patrol car put on its turning signal and left the interstate. Slash turned and watched as the car made its way up the ramp and headed for a Texaco station to the right.
As they continued northwestward along Interstate 24, Slash knew that it was time to make his move. It was time to take Larry Bell out of the equation while he still had the chance.
He let the computer salesman drive five miles further, until he spotted a green sign up ahead. It read: EXIT 105 – FAIRFIELD, BUGSCUFFLE, HARMONY – 2 MILES.
Slash let Bell pass the exit sign before he made his move. He dipped his hand into his pants pocket and withdrew the folding knife. “Pull over,” he instructed.
“Pardon me?” asked Bell, totally unaware of what was going on.
Slash extended the blade of the Buck knife with a practiced flip of his thumb. A metallic click rang throughout the interior of the car as it locked securely in place. Slash raised the knife to the row of double chins beneath Bell’s ruddy face. “I said pull over,” he instructed. “Nice and slow, right over here.”
Larry Bell was no fool. He put on his turning signal and slowly eased onto the shoulder of the interstate. A moment later, they were sitting there with the engine idling.
“Turn it off,” said Slash. “Then give me the keys.”
The salesman nodded. He cut the engine and pulled the key from the ignition switch. The air conditioning died as well and, almost immediately, the heat of the August afternoon closed in on them, turning the interior of the car muggy and uncomfortable.
“Now what?” asked Bell.
Slash smiled. It was a smile he kept hidden from his victims until just the right moment. That awful moment when they realized that they had made the worse mistake of their entire life.
“Now we take a little walk into those woods over yonder.”
Bell’s frightened eyes shifted toward the side of the interstate. Beyond a guardrail was a steep embankment and a stretch of tall oaks and maples, along with heavy underbrush. It was the type of thicket that ran for miles. The type where someone could vanish and no one would find them for a very long time.
“No,” gasped Bell. “I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are,” said Slash. “You’re gonna do whatever the hell I tell you to do.”
“I’ve got a family,” pleaded the salesman. The tiny muscles at the corner of his eye ticked with the precision of a fine watch. “I’ve got a wife and two teenage daughters.”
“Too bad they’re not here with us,” said Slash, his voice soft and oily. “Then I could do all three of them while you watched. I reckon you’ll just have to settle for watching your own self die instead.”
“No,” whispered Bell. Tears bloomed in his eyes. “Please.”
“We ain’t got time for groveling,” snapped Slash. He increased the pressure of the blade, picking the folds of tender flesh beneath the man’s chin. “Now, move your ass!”
Larry Bell moved, but not in the way Slash wanted. The pain of the cut, as well as the trickle of warm blood running down this throat, caused the salesman to panic. He grabbed Slash’s hand in his own and attempted to wrestle the knife away from his attacker.
Slash couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
Bell screamed hoarsely and struggled to pull the knife toward the dashboard, as if he hoped to batter Slash’s fist against the padded console and force him to drop the knife.
Slash’s grin broadened. “This is downright funny, you know that?” He allowed the man to think that he was winning for a moment, but there was little chance of that. Muscles grown flabby and weak by a life of easy living were no match for those hardened by years of road-crew work. The sinew of Slash Jackson’s forearm flexed like steely cords beneath tanned skin. Without effort, the blade of t
he knife began to inch back toward the salesman’s throat.
“No!” croaked Bell, his eyes bright with alarm and hopelessness.
“Afraid so,” said Slash. Then he plunged the blade deeply into the man’s Adam’s apple and with a sideward motion, sliced Bell’s throat open. The big man let out a strangled cough, sending droplets of blood spraying onto the inner windshield and the top of the dashboard. He shuddered violently, his eyes bulging as he drowned on his own blood. A moment later, he was dead.
Slash withdrew the blade, feeling the honed edge grate against the salesman’s neck bone. Then he wiped it clean on the material of Bell’s trouser leg.
“Dumb bastard,” he said, unlocking the blade and returning the knife to his pocket. He rummaged through Bell’s jacket and found his wallet. Just as he had hoped. There was four hundred dollars in cash and four gold cards – enough to get him to Detroit and back several times over.
A flash of sunlight in the Lincoln’s rearview mirror drew Slash’s attention. He glanced up to see a car coming down the interstate at a steady speed. Again, sunshine gleamed off the car – or, rather, off something on top. Suddenly, Slash realized what it was. It was a bank of emergency lights.
It was the state trooper. He had filled his tank at the gas station and was back on patrol.
“Shit!” growled Slash Jackson. He stuffed the wallet in his hip pocket, grabbed the garbage bag of belongings from the floorboard, and opened the Lincoln’s passenger door. As he jumped the guardrail and slid on his butt down the embankment to the woods below, he caught a glimpse of the police cruiser from the corner of his eye. It was still a good distance away – perhaps a hundred yards or so – but it was gaining ground fast. In a matter of seconds, it would be there.
He wasted no time. When his feet hit level ground, Slash plunged headlong into the thicket, seeking the shelter of close-grown trees and heavy stands of honeysuckle and kudzu. He paused for a moment, catching his breath and hoping that the trooper would drive on without stopping.
His luck had turned sour, though. The state cruiser began to slow, then eased to a halt at the shoulder of the road, scarcely twelve feet from the rear bumper of Larry Bell’s Continental.