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."
"What's in the bag?"
"Hundred thousand dollars in cash. We agreed that we'd split Grendel's money even between us. Don't worry, it's all wrapped up inside my shirts and pants and socks. You gotta get out of here before your buddy comes back or her makeup starts coming off."
I reached out and touched his cheek. "What makes you think I'd leave you two at a time like this?"
"Because if you don't, then Christopher's gonna be all alone out there and I wouldn't like that. Neither would Rebecca. He's more scared than all of us about going home. You know how long he's been missing?"
"Eleven, twelve years?"
"You bet. People can change a lot over that long. They can… they can forget about things if forgetting makes it easier for them to go on living."
I smiled at him. "You know, you sure as hell don't sound like a twelve-year-old."
"I ain't never been twelve, which is okay—I hear it ain't such a hot age to be, anyway." He looked away for a moment, considering something. "You know, it never occurred to me before—Christopher's been missing as long as I've been alive. Damn, that's sad." He looked back at me. "You gotta go with him. He can't be by himself, he'll chicken out or do something stupid. Please go, Mark. Do it for Rebecca and me. I'll make sure she knows you're the one who brought her in, and that you didn't want to leave us. She'll understand. She understands about most things. She's pretty cool that way."
I couldn't help it; I started crying again.
"Aw, now—what'cha wanna go and start that crap again for?"
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry, my ass—you can't wimp out on me now. This is almost over. You gotta be the one to finish this for us, Mark. Christopher ain't too good unless he's got someone around he thinks he's in charge of. He ain't been taking his pills like he's supposed to—that's why he keeps changing the way he acts—and if you don't go with him, he'll keep not taking it and then he'll really go crazy and I don't want that to happen, that's not him, he's not really that way. We'll be—ah, well, shit!" He started crying, too. "Ain't this a bitch? Standing here bawling like a couple of old ladies at a funeral."
"I'm so sorry for everything that's happened to you, Arnold. I'm sorry for what he did. I'm sorry for all the time you've lost, I'm just… I'm just sorry."
"What for? You didn't do it." Suddenly he sounded like a little boy, lost and tired and alone so very, very afraid.
"No, but you… you need to know that somebody gives a shit, all right? Somebody needs to be angry for you."
He nodded his head, spattering tears and snot onto his jacket. "Yeah, I know. It's real… real nice of you to say that, to… to feel that way. I sure wish you'd leave—nothing personal."
"I know." But I couldn't; I couldn't just turn around and walk away from him, even though every sensible impulse told me that's exactly what I should be doing; Ransom would be back any second, the doctors had to have at least discovered Rebecca's false teeth by now, if not her glass eye and wig, and on top of that how long could Christopher stay parked out there before someone gave the bus and trailer more than a passing glance? It was close to five-thirty in the morning, and while the silver butter dishes might be a forgettable oddity on the highway or at a truck stop, they were bound to draw attention parked outside an emergency room entrance. Sure, every sensible impulse dictated that I hightail it out of here fifteen seconds ago… but I couldn't just leave them.
"If you don't leave right now," Arnold said, getting back some control, "then I'm gonna… I'll…" He sighed, his shoulders slumping, and looked up at me. "I got nothin'."
I did my best to suck it up, as well; pulled in a deep breath, straightened myself, held out my hand. "It's been a real pleasure traveling with you, Arnold."
He took my hand. "Yeah, same here."
"Take care of yourself."
"Count on it."
I started to pull my hand away. Arnold let go and threw himself into me, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face in my chest. "You kick ass, my man. Don't ever think any different." And with that he was gone, shoulder bag in hand, banging on the automatic doors and asking where his sister Rebecca was, was she all right, the U.S. Marshal-man said she was in here, couldn't anyone hear back there?
I went out the doors and climbed into the bus, slamming the door and burying my face in my hands as Christopher drove off.
To his credit, he didn't say anything for a very long time. He just let me sit there and cry in peace and pretend I still had some remnant of dignity left.
13. Bury the Cow
"So… I understand you're a Marshall Tucker man, right?"
"Yeah," I said, wiping my nose on my sleeve. "I always… always thought they were every bit as good as the Allman Brothers."
He popped in a CD with a shaking hand and there were the Marshall Tucker boys once more, singing about taking the highway, 'cause Lord knows they'd been gone so long. "Oh, now, I don't know about that," said Christopher. "I mean, we are talking about Duane and Gregg and Dickie Betts, after all."
I stared out at the dawn-filtered road. "Looks like it's just you and me now, sport."
"They'll be fine. Arnold will have them jumping through hoops in no time flat. They'll be just… just fine."
I turned toward him. "How do you know?"
"Like I said before—I have magic powers; all who ride in this bus will stay protected."
"Did you make that up yourself or get it from a movie?"
"I don't remember." On the highway, morning commuters were starting to cluster in the pre-rush-hour traffic, on their way to get the worm, as the early bird is said to do.
"We shouldn't have left them."
"It was Arnold's idea, not mine—I just happened to agree with it. In case you haven't noticed, the wax around the windows isn't what it used to be. Some of the stink is starting to get out. If we'd stayed there much longer, someone would have said something to one of the security guards and then…."
He didn't need to finish it.
After several minutes of my continued silence during which Christopher kept getting more and more restless and agitated, he said: "Hey, here's an idea—you ever play 'Bury the Cow'?"
"Life has denied me that thrill."
"Oh, well, then, we have to get a game going. Isn't really a proper road trip without a few electrifying rounds of 'Bury the Cow'—it's a classic for a reason. Okay, here's how you play it—you keep an eye on your side of the road, I keep an eye on my side—"
"—really not much in the mood for 'Kill the Crows'—"
"—'Bury the Cow', please keep up, and how do you know you're not in the mood until you hear all the rules? You don't, so listen: you watch your side, I watch mine, and we each count all the cows we spot on our side, then—"
"—not listening to me, I'm really not in the—"
"—then whoever has a cemetery pop up on their side of the road loses all the cows they've counted up until then, and we keep going until we stop and whoever has the most cows when we stop, wins. Isn't that the greatest road game you ever heard, I ask you. How, I ask again, how could anyone refuse to play? No one should ever travel
without playing 'Bury the Cow' at least once in their—"
(…ain't been taking his pills like he's supposed to—that's why he keeps changing the way he acts…)
"Christopher?"
(…and if you don't go with him…)
"Yeah?"
(…he'll keep not taking them and then he'll really go…)
"You're getting a bit manic."
(…crazy and I don't want that to happen…)
"So what?—I'll take a pill later. C'mon, Mark, I'm trying to get the old juices going, help me out here, why don't—"
(…that's not him, he's not really that way….)
"How did all of you get away from Grendel?"
"I'll answer that—but only if you play—"
"'Snuff the Livestock', I know… all right, all right—deal. Answer my question and we'll go a few rounds. How did you get away from Grendel?"
He reached down and lifted the universal locater, setting it on the dashboard between us. "What makes you think we were ever away from him?"
I stared at the blinking white dot in the center of the grid. "You're telling me that he's been back there in the trailer this whole time?"
"He's been in that trailer for eight days, Mark. And he's going to spend the rest of his life there… unless he goes along with the game I've got planned for him. He was always making up new games for us to play, or changing the rules of old games and not telling us about it until we were in the middle of things. Seems only fair that he should have to play someone else's game just once, don't you think?"
"Are you going to blow him up along with the bus and trailer?"
Christopher grinned. "That'll be his decision, when the time comes."
"How did you get away from him, Christopher?"
His right leg was bouncing rapidly up and down. "Do you like Tony Curtis? I always thought he was a terribly underrated actor. He was really creepy in The Boston Strangler. He looked great as a woman in Some Like It Hot. Ever see him in The Last Tycoon? Damn good actor."
Prodigal Blues Page 17