Bad Signs

by R.J. Ellory

  “Yessir,” Digger said, as politely as he could. “I figured you come on up here in that there station wagon, and I wondered whether there was room enough for one more for a while.”

  “Well, son, I don’t know about that kinda thing. I’m just here having some breakfast with my family, and we’re lookin’ to get goin’ as quickly as we can. We have a long drive ahead of us, and very little time to be making detours and diversions, no offense.”

  No offense. Digger knew what that meant. Earl had told him what that meant. Folks say “No offense,” well what they’re really saying is that they’re gonna insult you or say something really shitty to you, and they don’t want you to get mad. How about that? No offense? How’s about you go fuck yourself, huh? How’s about that for no offense?

  “No offense?” Digger heard himself say. He meant to think it, but it just came right on out of his mouth.

  “Right, son, no offense … now if you don’t mind, we have to be making tracks.”

  Digger glanced back at the kids. The girl looked like she was laughing at him. She had on a nervous expression, but underneath he knew she was laughing. Why, Digger didn’t know. Did he say something to upset anyone? Did he say something strange? No, he sure as hell didn’t. He was polite and respectful, and all he did was ask if they had room in their wagon for one more. Which they did. Sure as hell they did. And they were just disrespecting him … just like that guy in the diner, the one with the hat.

  Digger clenched his fists. He could feel the sweat creeping out from between his fingers.

  There was no reason for him to feel like this.

  Earl would not have felt like this. Earl would have just told the guy that he was going to give him a ride, no question, and that would have been the end of it.

  Digger didn’t move.

  “Son … if you don’t mind …” the man said, and he was getting to his feet.

  “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Digger said. “I was just askin’ if you’d be kind enough to get me a ride, that was all.”

  The man frowned. He tilted his head as if he was trying to see Digger from some other angle, like there might be something further to this than what he could see if he looked straight ahead. It was a dismissive look, just like that dirty son of a bitch back in the diner. Marlon whoever.

  “You asked real polite, son, and I answered real polite …”

  Son?

  What the damn hell was it with this?

  Did no one see the man? Did everyone just see some fool kid standing in front of them?

  “… but we have a ways to go, and like I said before, we ain’t planning on making any detours or diversions. I hope you get a ride an’ all, but we have to get going.”

  Digger stepped back as they made their way out from the table and started toward the door. He could feel the weight of responsibility crowding against him. He was aware of what needed to be done.

  As the boy passed Digger he smiled. It was a dirty little smile. A nasty little smile.

  It was meant to make Digger feel like shit. But Digger didn’t feel like shit. Something was inside him. It was strong. Earl was there. Earl was with him.

  Bide your time there, buddy boy. Bide your time. They make you mad, well, you lost the game already. You set the rules, and hell, you pretty much won it hands down before the get-go.

  Digger waited until they’d left, waited until he heard the station wagon start up, and then he went after them.

  Digger followed the station wagon for a good three miles. They were headed his way, back west along 180 toward El Paso.

  They could have given him a ride.

  They could have been nice folks, good citizens, but no, they wanted to be assholes.

  Earl would have been so pissed. Hypocrites, he would have called them. Shallow, superficial goddamn hypocrites.

  Digger didn’t trail them closely. He let them go on ahead by a good quarter mile, and it was only when his anger started to mellow into something a little more edgy and focused that he decided to pull up ahead of them and make them stop. He glanced at the clock in the dash. It was a few minutes after noon.

  Why Maurice Eckhart stopped was the question that would later be asked. In reality, it was simply because he had no choice. The young man that had asked him for a ride in the diner, the young man that was now driving alongside them in a dark gray Ford Galaxie had a gun. He pointed that gun out of the window right at Maurice and shouted at him to “Slow down! Slow down, goddammit!” And when Maurice slowed down the young man in the Galaxie nudged him over to the side of the highway and brought him to a standstill.

  Maurice was confused and disoriented. The young man got out of the Galaxie and walked toward the station wagon. Linda was asking what was happening. Dennis said he was a psycho, to which Margot replied, “Don’t be such a damned fool, Dennis. Stop trying to scare your sister.” It was too late. Linda was already scared. The young man was close to the car, and there was something about the arrogance and certainty with which he approached them that frightened the hell out of her. Had there been a chance to ask questions later, then Linda would’ve been the one who was closest to the truth. I knew it was trouble from the moment I saw that boy come to our table. I knew something was going to happen. And I knew it was going to be bad. That’s what she would have said had anyone asked her.

  Maurice Eckhart, however, was faced with a situation for which there was no context or reference point. A young man with a gun. Was he just some crazy drunk? Was the gun even real?

  “Hey there,” the gunman said. “My name is Charlie …” Then he paused, and he smiled in a crooked kind of way, and he said, “What the hell, eh? I think we’re all gonna end up friends by the end of the afternoon. My name ain’t Charlie, it’s Digger. At least that’s what folks call me.”

  Digger leaned down toward the open driver’s side window and grinned at Maurice.

  “Maybe you don’t remember, but we spoke a little while back. Up there in the diner.”

  Maurice nodded. “Now look here, son—”

  Digger jabbed the barrel of the gun into Maurice’s forehead. He repeatedly jabbed him as he spoke, emphasizing each word.

  “Don’t. Call. Me. Son. Get it?”

  Maurice didn’t say a word.

  Digger turned his attention to Linda.

  “Need you to get out of the car, sweetheart,” he said. “Need you to come right on out of there and come get in my car over there.”

  Margot reached over the back of her seat and grabbed Linda’s arm instinctively.

  “Mom? Daddy?” Linda said, her voice wavering.

  Maurice turned and looked at her. He shook his head. His eyes were wide with fear. He looked back at Digger. “Mister, I don’t know what the problem is here, but my daughter isn’t getting out of this car—”

  Digger was fast. Whatever Maurice was planning to say was cut short as Digger’s left hand closed around his throat. The right hand held the gun, and that gun came through the window and the barrel was pressed against Maurice’s forehead—right there between his eyes and above the bridge of his nose.

  Margot’s complexion visibly paled. She held on to her daughter with one hand, gripped the edge of her seat with the other, and was angled against the door. Her face was rigid with fear. She looked at the young man with the gun, and in her eyes was such an expression, something so basic, something almost wild, as if the sheer force of her maternal instinct possessed sufficient power to stop bullets.

  “Hey there!” Dennis said. “I don’t know who the hell you think you damned well are, but—”

  The gun was suddenly in Dennis’s face. His mouth opened to say the next word, and it stayed open.

  “Shut the fuck up, little boy,” Digger said.

  “Okay, okay,” Maurice said. “I want to get out. Let me out of the car.”

  “Only one coming out of the car is the girl,” Digger said.

  Linda’s eyes welled with tears. “Mom,” she said, her voice faint
. “Daddy … no …”

  Margot reached back farther, almost as if she was trying to hide Linda completely. “My daughter isn’t going anywhere with you, mister,” she said, her tone direct and unflinching.

  Digger was around the back of the car and he’d come up on the rear door before anyone had a chance to appreciate what he was doing. He wrenched the door open, grabbed Linda’s arm, and she was out on her knees and being dragged roughly away from the vehicle. Dennis reached out for her, but Digger kicked the door and it came back against Dennis’s left wrist. He howled in pain.

  Digger hauled the girl to her feet and pushed her around to the front of the car once more.

  By this time Maurice was out. He lunged for his daughter, but Digger took one step back and let fly with an almighty kick. That kick caught Maurice in the side of his right knee. He howled in agony and went down like a stone. Despite the pain, despite the fall, he was up again in moments, his body listing heavily to one side.

  “Goddamn you!” Digger said. “You just don’t know when to say uncle, do you?” He let fly with another kick, and this time he connected with Maurice’s shin. Maurice screamed and went down for a second time.

  Digger leaned down, his hand still holding Linda tight as anything, and he shoved the gun in Maurice’s face.

  “Now get back in your fucking car, old man, and follow me. Follow me and you’ll get your daughter back. Take off for the police and she’s gonna die.”

  Linda started sobbing, Margot screamed at the top of her voice. Maurice was struggling to get up, managed to reach the outer handle of the door and drag himself to his feet.

  Margot started to open the passenger-side door.

  “Stay in the fucking car!” Digger shouted. “I’m taking her with me, just like I said. Follow me and everyone’s gonna be just fine. Take off and she dies.”

  Digger didn’t wait for a response from anyone within the car. He hurried Linda Eckhart over to the Galaxie, pushed her into the passenger seat, and went around to the driver’s side.

  With his back to the station wagon for just a moment, Digger didn’t see Dennis. Dennis was out of the wagon, and with his left arm hanging limp by his side, he still possessed sufficient presence of mind, sufficient strength in his right, to come at Digger with a coffee flask. Metal, solid, a good pound and a half in weight, Dennis hurled it with every ounce of will he possessed, and it hit Digger in the back of the head and sent him sideways.

  Digger, dazed for just a moment, realized that Linda was out of the Galaxie and back in the wagon, as were all the Eckharts, and that the wagon was kicking dirt up from its rear wheels as it skidded away.

  “Jesus Goddamned motherfucking cocksuckin’ son of a bitch!” he howled, and he got in the Galaxie, jammed it into gear, hurtled away from the side of the road, and went after them.

  He was alongside them within two or three minutes, bearing over to their left so he could point his gun out of the window.

  “Pull over!” he shouted. “Fucking pull over right fucking now!”

  Maurice, his face showing nothing but abject terror, floored the wagon. It nudged ahead of the Galaxie, but the Galaxie was a more powerful car, and it carried only one whereas the wagon carried four. Digger had no difficulty matching his speed.

  Digger glanced toward the rear window and saw the boy looking at him.

  Motherfucker.

  Digger fired once and saw the bullet pass through the rear door just beneath the lower edge of the window.

  He knew he’d hit the boy. The boy fell back, his face a stretched mask of anguish and pain.

  He believed he could hear the mother and daughter screaming over the roar of both engines.

  “Now!” Digger shouted again. “Pull over now!”

  Maurice flattened the accelerator, but the engine was grinding. The wagon would go no faster.

  Digger fired into the side of the car. He hoped to hit Maurice, but he knew he hadn’t.

  Steam or smoke or something started to rush from beneath the wheel arch.

  Maurice seemed to be losing control of the wheel. The wagon swerved back and forth across the road.

  Digger aimed the gun to fire again, but suddenly the wagon angled violently and took off toward the far side of the road. It pitched off the highway altogether, and when the wheels hit the loose stones the car started to roll.

  Digger slowed up. He drew to a halt. The car was still rolling.

  Suddenly there was a dull crump. Digger saw something flare. Before he had a chance to reconcile what he’d heard and what he was seeing the car just seemed to erupt in a ball of bright orange and black. The sound was deafening. Ba-doooom!

  It rocked to a standstill as the flames just burst from every window. The windshield exploded outward, and—though he knew it could only have been his imagination—Digger was certain he heard those motherfuckers screaming as they roasted.

  Digger got out of the car.

  He stood there with his hands on his hips.

  “Son of a bitch …” he said to himself.

  Then he turned.

  Jesus fuck!

  Another car coming down this way. Another damned station wagon.

  Digger hurried back to the Galaxie and got his gun. He tucked it into the rear waistband of his jeans and went back to the side of the road.

  The car was near, slowing then, getting closer, and then the car came to a staggered halt no more than thirty yards from Digger.

  A woman got out, middle-aged, and came hurrying toward him.

  “Oh my Lord!” she was saying. “Oh my Lord Almighty … what happened?”

  Her name was Rita McGovern. She was thirty-nine years old, she was unmarried. Her sister, Mary, worked in an office in Washington, D.C., and had once spoken to Jacqueline Kennedy about a flower arrangement. Mary had told Rita that Jacqueline Kennedy was very nice, not at all airs and graces like she thought she might be. No, she was very pleasant, and she talked to her like her opinion actually mattered. Mary had felt awkward however, because she’d voted for the other one.

  Digger didn’t know this, wouldn’t have cared. She was unattractive to him, and the tone of her voice irritated him.

  She stepped closer to Digger, now no more than ten or twelve feet away.

  “Did you see what happened?” she asked him. “Did you see what happened to the car?”

  “Sure did,” Digger replied. “And not only did I see it, I did it.”

  The woman looked at him. Her eyes were wide. They widened even farther when Digger produced his gun and shot her in the throat.

  The sound she made as she hit the ground, the sound of her hands clawing at the huge wound in her neck, the blood that just seemed to bubble up out of that hole like it was never going to stop …

  Those were the things Digger Danziger heard as he got in the woman’s station wagon and drove away. He figured that whoever was looking for him might have found the old guy in the basement, and it was best to leave the Galaxie behind. He also left behind the .38, now empty, that he’d picked up in Wellton.

  “Family,” he said to himself as he accelerated away from the devastation behind him. “Trouble if you got ’em, trouble if you ain’t.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “You ever get the idea you were meant for greatness?”

  Clay frowned. “Greatness?”

  “Well, at least meant for somethin’. Somethin’ that ain’t nothin’. Seems to me most peoples’ lives are all chockfull of almosts and maybes. Things that should’ve been, you know?”

  He was silent for a while, and just as he looked about to speak he was silent a while more.

  They were on the outskirts of Las Cruces. They’d sat for some time—there at the side of the road where the ride had dropped them—and they’d just talked about nothing of consequence. Smoking cigarettes, eating pork rinds, wondering what the hell was going to happen next. Behind them was a dump. Tread-bare blacks and whitewalls, a rusted bicycle, a doorless refrigerator, hubcaps str
ewn about like bottle caps behind a late-night bar. There was no color in the landscape, as if drained off and put to better use someplace else. Someplace it would be appreciated.

  “No,” he said eventually. “I never did get the idea I was meant for much of anything at all.”

  “I did. I still do,” Bailey replied. She flicked the cigarette butt out across the road. It bounced in a small cloud of sparks and came to rest.

  It was about one thirty, and back sixty miles or so Hoyt Candell was surveying the scene as reported by Clark Regan from the gas station. Sure as hell there was an overturned car. Sure as hell there were a couple of dead fellers in it. And when he got down on his hands and knees and saw the gun and the box of shells beneath the vehicle the alarm bells went off in his head and he figured this for a good deal more than an accident. Candell, amongst many others, had been in receipt of the federal notice. It was now his responsibility to report this occurrence to the nearest federal office, which—if he was right—was about sixty miles away in Las Cruces. That report went in as soon as he had called up his deputies and had them secure the scene. They marked and taped and barriered, they took preliminary photographs and measurements, and they didn’t trample heavy boots all over the place because they knew there would be hell to pay if they messed it up. Hoyt Candell was a backwater burg sheriff, but he wasn’t dumb. He’d been in the game long enough to know that there were rules and regulations, there was policy and protocol, and any man who believed he could buck the system and survive was a good deal dumber than he appeared. Nixon and Koenig were right there in Las Cruces when Hoyt Candell’s report came in, and they were on the road by three. By the time they passed the dump on the outskirts of Las Cruces Clay Luckman and Bailey Redman had already walked into town, and their paths missed by inches once again. Had they crossed there would have been gunfire. Had they crossed, Clay Luckman would have been dead.

  Hungry once again, Clay and Bailey stopped at a diner about a half mile in from the town limits.

  “Now you think it was such a bad idea to take that money?” he asked her as he paid up for two hamburgers, a basket of fries, coleslaw, sodas.