by Mike Walsh
Michael thought the man could read his thoughts, but he read the wrong time of day. Night was the best time to get out of here. Too flat for daytime.
Michael worked steady but slowly to conserve his strength. When he was walking the highway and sleepy with no place handy to take a snooze, Michael had a way to practically sleep while walking. Takes a long time on the road to learn it. An old truck driver giving him a ride from outside Philadelphia showed Michael how to do it. The man could sleep and drive at the same time. Michael learned to put his thoughts on another level and rest while walking. He needed it now.
When it started to get dark, Frank came walking down stretching and yawning like he had been sleeping. Maybe he did know that night was the right time. He told Michael to come up and get some supper and they would talk his talk or Michael might be digging cellar all night. His talk? What was that? Real weird.
They had some pork chops and mashed potatoes and gravy. It was real good. He had milk and Frank was drinking beer. Michael was tired so he started thinking how he was going to get out of there.
Frank started after they were finished eating. Dora didn’t come out for the plates.
“Now listen up Joey,” he used his false name for the first time. “I can’t waste any more time on you now. She wants you to go in there. Are you going or not?”
Michael was confused. Go in where? What for? He told Frank he guessed he would go lay down for awhile, but Frank got real mad for some reason and made Michael go back to digging, after he set up the light. But it was only about an hour or so and Frank said to bring the light on up and go to bed. No moving slow here.
• • •
Michael flopped on the bed and heard the padlock snap at the door. He sat up on the cot and looked out the window. He knew no one could see inside from a distance because it was dark inside. Frank went up the steps into the house and appeared at the kitchen window, sitting down with his rifle up in front of him so it could be seen. Michael could only see the shadow of the man because of the light behind him. The man was on guard! And he knew Michael was watching him. Had to know. Michael was scared now.
This may not be as easy as he thought. He had to get out of here. He felt something bad was going to happen, and happen to him. He had to sleep a little while, think about how to do it. Wake up and get out. But how? The boards by the outhouse were long from top to bottom. They would make a racket pushing them out. And they looked nailed in real tight. The dirt floor was the only way.
Michael looked around. There was nothing to dig with. Then he noticed the cot legs. They were like a pipe straight up to the curved part. That part was another piece. Michael lifted at the bottom and pulled the pipe loose. The floor was dirt and soft loam. He decided the back by the corner table. He remembered a ditch along this side of the building. If he could dig a big enough hole for him to fit into, he might be able to push the dirt back into the ditch instead of having to pull the dirt back into the room. He moved the table over and started digging. Forget the sleeping for awhile. He was excited and wanted to get this started. This was what Frank wanted him to do, right? Taught him good.
• • •
In an hour, Michael had a hole big enough to crawl through. That is, up to the sill of the garage. Now he used the other end of the pipe and started pushing it through. The pipe was about twenty inches long and the bracket on the end served as a handle. He pushed first near the top to see how far through to the ditch. The pipe went all the way, but not through. He used his hands to pull the dirt from around the hole to get the pipe in deeper. He broke through with his fist fully in the hole. Working from the top down he was able to clear a space big enough to fit through. Now, when to leave.
• • •
There was a bush outside to hide the hole, but not in the way. There were some roots hanging down but they were small and not a problem. Michael took the clean clothes left, pants and shirt, and stuffed them outside. He looked out the window. Frank was still there so he laid down for a nap and wait. Frank had to get tired eventually. He had a clear view from the kitchen window across the yard and picnic table to the ditch.
It was not as deep as the ditches along the state and county roads and the light from the porch and kitchen cast right across. He could go straight out through the back field, but that was an unknown, and Michael was not comfortable with that route.
Michael used his concentration on a time to wake up. It must be eleven, so wake up at one. Wake up at one. Wake... Michael jumped awake. Frank was still in the window. He had to be asleep. Michael had lost all sense of time. There was a bright moon and that was bad.
Would he shoot me if he saw me running? If he missed, would he chase after me in the truck? Michael thought he would, so he figured, why take the chance.
Carefully, Michael crawled out of the hole through the bushes and waited at the corner of the building, hidden by the bushes. Too bad they stopped at the corner of the garage. A line of cherry trees ran along the ditch on the other side. They didn’t provide any protection. He would just have to crawl real low and real slow. He pushed the clean clothes under his shirt. When he looked up at the kitchen window, Frank was at a different angle and noticed the rifle must have fallen down as he didn’t see it. A good sign that Frank was fast asleep.
He started crawling fast to the end of the ditch where it connected to the county road ditch. Still crawling, he scurried over the county road to the other side and another, deeper ditch. He didn’t dare stand up yet and scooted bent over the half mile or so to the state road. When he reached the state road he remembered the ditch on both sides. A car was coming. He stayed down and did not move. It went on by. Michael decided not to risk crossing the road and walked the ditch, the mile or so to Highway 40. He felt safe now. On his own turf. He took off the dirty clothes, put on the clean clothes and walked out of the ditch onto the highway. He crossed over to the north side heading west and felt good for the first time in days. He threw out his thumb.
Chapter 7 – Terre Haute Revenge
There was a stack of papers in the breeze-way of the diner. He was hungry but had no money. He thought he could wash some dishes for a meal. He scouted out the back, but nobody came to the door when he knocked. He came back to the front breeze-way to go inside to see how friendly they might be. He looked down at the paper again and suddenly was not hungry anymore. A fear he had not felt before, and he had felt fear, overcame him with light-headed dizziness and bile came up from his stomach. He read the headline again. “Terre Haute woman slain. Young vagrant sought.” That was him! He knew it! He grabbed a paper and flew out the door and around the corner of the cafe, sitting down on the tar with his back against the wall. That prick! That rotten prick! He killed her and now he’s blaming it on me!
Michael read the story on the front page and turned to page five to finish it. Basically, the story was simple. “Farmer helps out a vagrant. The ungrateful kid gets caught stealing their stuff by the wife while the husband is in town. He grabs a rifle and shoots her, then runs off.” Pretty cut and dried. Manhunt progressing.
He had to run off into the bushes. All of a sudden he had diarrhea and was puking up. He moved further back into the brush and curled up, crying himself to sleep, the warm sun beating gently on him.
He formulated a plan. Things were more clear now that he had time to get over the shock and think things through. He knew he’d never get away without getting caught, the paper was clear on that. And he knew if he did get caught, he was done for. Frank Nelson was a local and Michael was a runaway vagrant. That would be that. He considered giving himself up, telling the cops the real story, but that too felt like a slim chance at best and hopeless at worst. He crawled out of the bushes hours later, it was getting dark, and headed back the way he had come, towards Indiana and Terre Haute. He felt confident, now that he had a plan, and they weren’t looking for someone going towards the crime scene.
• • •
In a little while, he stopped in front of
a farmhouse like he lived there and threw out his thumb. An old Ford picked him up right away, on the way to Indianapolis. The driver, a salesman into gabbing, had not heard about the murder, and Michael told him all about it, changing the story some so suspicion wouldn’t fall on him.
He got dropped off at the state road that went to the Nelson place. Michael walked the mile or so and when he saw the police car parked at the side of the ditch on the dirt road to Nelson’s, he jumped down into the ditch he had come to know so well, and scurried bent over in the dark and quietly to the corner. He hadn’t figured on the cop being here. So much for a plan. When he could see the cop was in the car, he stopped and sat down to wait. He didn’t want to risk making the corner in the ditch with the cop so close. He was on the other side of the car, the car facing out to the state road, right at the end of the county road. But the wheels were so close to the edge of the ditch, he did not want to chance that the window was down or the cop got out to take a leak or something just when he was right there.
• • •
Pretty soon, the cop did get out of the car, the interior light splashing across the ditch. The cop went to the other side of the road and took a leak into that ditch. Then he lit a cigarette, crouched down on his haunches and smoked it. Michael could have made it except for that damn light left on when the cop left the door open.
When he finished the butt, the cop came back to the car, closed the door and then Michael could hear music coming from the car. Perfect under the circumstances. He crawled to the corner, around the corner and past the car. He wasn’t afraid of being seen, the ditch there was three or four feet deep, and the noise if he hit something or jarred something loose would be covered up by the radio.
When he got the half mile or so to the house, he stopped worrying about being seen. It was a dark night and he couldn’t see the police car, so he figured he couldn’t be seen either. He ran across the road to the front of Frank’s house, which looked like the back of any other house, and across to the shed he had been locked in. Frank’s truck was there, parked in front of the steps, but no light was visible and neither was Frank. Maybe he was down porking his sheep, Michael thought, suppressing a laugh. Why did he feel so good all of a sudden. He had a 50/50 chance of getting caught or killed. He was giddy with the excitement and fear of it. He needed to calm down, he probably had a long wait.
• • •
He decided to wait in the narrow ditch he crawled into when he came out by the back of the shed. He positioned himself right across from the front door with the picnic table and pickup in between. It was about a hundred feet or so and he could see the door and windows easily. He hunkered down to wait.
• • •
Frank stayed in all night, if he was in there. The sun came up and Michael moved behind the shed and tried to stretch out the kinks. He slept a little, but not much. The sun looked like it was about eight o’clock when the back door opened. Frank came out carrying a coffee mug and went to the pickup. He opened the door and rustled around for something, apparently found it, and went back inside, leaving the truck door open. Pretty soon he came back out with a rifle and a bundle wrapped in a sheet. He put the rifle in the cab rack and tossed the bundle in the back of the truck. He got in and backed out and down the road.
• • •
Michael waited a few minutes, stood up, stretched, and looked around. No movement, no sound except the faint squeaking of the oil derricks, bobbing their heads up and down off in the distance. The sun was out strong now, getting hot.
He walked across the yard and into the house. Frank never locked the door. He stood still for awhile and then walked into the living room. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom across the back of the house. The front door came into the kitchen and there was a living room at the other end. You could get to the narrow hall from the kitchen and living room. Overcome with hunger, he went back to the kitchen and rifled it for food. He found a grocery bag with handles on it and filled it with crackers and bread and what fruit was around. He put that by the door. After surveying the kitchen again, he decided there was nothing he could use there. Next he did the living room. He knew what he was looking for, but it was gone. In its place was a blond television set sitting on the table. One chair was positioned in front of it. On top was a weird contraption of two long antenna whips and a large dial in the middle. He figured this must be an antenna for the television. So where was the tape recorder? He had seen a floor type radio and a Webcor tape recorder on top of it. Michael had seen it one time when he was in the house, actually just at the kitchen door helping Dora bring the dishes and stuff in from the picnic table, and had heard it when she was playing music without commercials or news interrupting the music. He went to the hall and looked in the first bedroom. He gagged and backed out, dizzy, as he realized this is where it happened. He looked back in. The gray and white striped mattress was soaked in blood. That explains the bundle Frank was hauling away. There were a few splatters on the headboard and on the wall on one side. Michael did a quick look in the closet and got out of there.
The middle bedroom had a bed and dresser and the closet had old winter clothes hanging on the rod. The bed was made up and looked like the rest of the room. Unused for some time, but taken care of. This must have been her father’s room before he died.
The last bedroom was used as an office and the radio was against the wall. The recorder was not on it. But it was on the closet floor. Michael hauled it out and put it on the radio. It had two reels on the front about a quarter inch thick and six inches across. He studied the controls and figured out the on/off, play and record functions. The reel was part way on each side, so he clicked a rewind switch and nothing happened. He looked in back and found a cord to plug in and a little microphone on a long cord, all wound around some pegs. He plugged in the machine and the rewind started right away. It stopped automatically when finished. Michael plugged in the microphone where the little metal plate under a hole said “microphone” and flipped the switch that said “play.” In a second or two music started coming out from a little round speaker. He had seen a wooden box speaker used by Frank’s wife because it sounded better, but this did not interest Michael right now.
He went to the kitchen window and looked out. Nothing. He opened the window a crack, hoping that would help him hear if anyone came by, or if Frank returned. It was at least twenty minutes into town, so he figured he had at least an hour, and probably a lot longer before Frank got back. He went back to the recorder and flipped a switch that said record. Nothing happened. He flipped the play switch also and a little red light came on and the reel started. “Hello? Hello? Am I recording? If I am, blah, blah, blah, Frank, I got you by the nuts. I hope.”
He turned the switches off and rewound the tape again. Then he hit play and heard himself loud and clear through the speaker.
He went back to the bloody bedroom trying not to look at the bed. The wall that backed up to the living room had an electric outlet. Good. He pulled the night table to the wall, putting a fancy lamp on the floor. He carried the recorder to the room and set it on the table, plugging it in.
The on button was on and the little green light came on. Power, OK. Then he found a yardstick between the icebox and wall and measured from the hall corner to the end of the couch that was against the wall in the living room. He did the same on the opposite wall in the bedroom and made a mark with his fingernail. He did the same from the floor up, marking next to the couch just below the curve of the arm. He found an old hammer in a bottom junk drawer in the kitchen and whacked a hole on both sides. The plaster had furring strips behind it so he worked the holes till they lined up.
He pushed the microphone through the bedroom hole but it fell down between the plaster. He made the holes a little bigger and slid the yardstick through and slid the microphone through on top of it.
He wedged the front of the microphone with a matchbook until just the wire head of the microphone showed through. He moved the cou
ch a bit so it could not be seen. He put on the record and play switches, sat on the couch and talked normally for a few minutes. When he played it back, the sound was not very good even after turning up the volume. He found a record volume knob and turned that up and recorded again, after rewinding. That did it. Loud and clear.
He rooted around in the office closet and found some cans that had other tapes in them. He dumped the tape out of one of them and sat at the desk. After he wrote in clear block letters on a piece of paper, he found some construction paper glue and glued it to one side of the can. He put that next to the recorder. He went back to the living room to Frank’s gun cabinet. It held six rifles or shotguns, but now only four were in the cabinet. The missing two were probably the one Frank had and the one that killed Dora. The police would have that one. He was sure his prints were all over it from when Frank had him handle it. Thinking ahead, the bastard.
He looked them over. He had handled and fired a .22, a 300 Savage and a 20 gauge shotgun when he lived on the farm with his uncle and aunt at thirteen. There were a double barreled shotgun and a pump shotgun. The other two were bolt action unfamiliar to Michael. He chose the double barrel, not wanting any mechanical malfunctions, and found shells in a bottom drawer. The side of the barrel noted 12 gauge, so he inserted two 12 gauge shells in the barrels, tried the hammers for action and set the gun by the kitchen window.