“You never accidentally made one of your own? In what, fifteen years?”
“Gabi's second pregnancy was very difficult. She almost lost her son, and the prognosis for any future pregnancies was not good, so she had her tubes tied. We've been happy, but we knew from the start that our options were limited.”
“But what about Ellie-- Eleanor?”
He sighed, then smiled. “Eleanor's brilliant, talented, and sexy, and such a handful!” he said. “She wants life to be exciting and romantic. All the time. Sex should be exciting. Vacations should be exciting. Meals should be exciting. Mr. Kane, I'm a cardiac surgeon. My life is full of excitement. I like peace and quiet. I like watching television with a beer. I don't need nightclubs or restaurants, or theaters, or concerts, or any of that highbrow crap. I like helping a neighbor rebuild his lawn mower's carburetor. I like plantains and gallo pinto. And I love Gabi.”
He looked at me as if awaiting a response, but I couldn't think of a thing to tell this guy about love or marriage.
“Well, that's it. Are you going to tell Eleanor?”
“Tell her? Tell her what?” I shook my head. “Nooooo. No, the more I think about it, just... no.”
“Your friend is back in the truck. He's sitting a block down, probably making my neighbors nervous.”
I looked behind me to see the truck idling with parking lights on. I was hungry and tired. “Dr. Hubbard,” I said, “I'm going to go eat some burritos, maybe drink a few beers, and get some rest. I'm sorry I bothered you. Best of luck to you... and Gabi. And your grandbabies. I won't say a word.”
He took my hand and pulled me to him for a hug. “Thank you, sir. Vaya con Dios!” he said.
“De nada,” I replied as I waved for Steve to pick me up.
21. Just Like Old Times
The burritos were even better than I expected. Perhaps ravenous hunger contributed to my enjoyment. Since Gabi had turned out to be a real woman, Steve said they were on him, and that made them even tastier. He had ordered the largest they made, and after two of them, I was stuffed and sleepy. I locked my door, leaned into the corner of the cab, and closed my eyes. It felt wonderful.
“Addie. Wake up.”
There was something in his voice. I was immediately awake. “What's up?” I asked.
“They're behind us. Green Suburban. I saw them about a mile or so after we got off the interstate.”
“Where are we?” I asked, looking around. Behind us, I saw headlights. They weren't on our bumper, but they were close.
“Still south of town, about to cross the Yamassee River.” The light inside the cab increased, and Steve confirmed what I already feared. “They're gainin' on us. I think they're gonna pass.”
A long earthen embankment led up to the Yamassee River bridge; on both sides, the ground fell away into darkness. The Suburban pulled up next to us, then jerked toward us. Steve snatched the wheel to the right and gravel flew. He stomped the accelerator and put us back on pavement just as the embankment ended and the bridge began. Behind us, the Suburban drew closer and closer, their headlights filling our cab.
“His engine's bigger'n ours,” said Steve. “I can't outrun him.”
“Do try.”
In the middle of the bridge, the Suburban moved into the next lane and pulled up alongside. The passenger's window came down and a shotgun barrel poked out. Fire exploded from the muzzle as Steve hit the brakes, throwing us into our seatbelts and putting the Mighty Ford into a slide. The Suburban shot past us, brakes squealing. Steve downshifted and hit the gas, and the Mighty Ford leapt forward.
Just across the river, I saw a road to the left and pointed to it. “That way!”
I had no idea where we were. Steve slid the truck sideways like a Hollywood pro and nailed the pedal to the floor, and we shot up an unlit road at top speed. We flew over a hill, down into a creek valley and across a small bridge, and then began climbing a hill on the other side. It wouldn't be two minutes, I knew, before the Suburban caught up to us again. Time to change the game. Predators hate being prey.
“Turn it around,” I said. “Fast as you can.”
Steve locked the emergency brake and slid the truck a hundred and eighty degrees to a halt.
“Let me drive.”
He opened his door and stepped out. I bounced across the bench seat and slammed the door shut, locking it just as he discovered I'd locked the other one, too. I waved goodbye and sped away.
In seconds I was at the creek bridge. I raced across and brought the Mighty Ford to a smooth stop, then positioned it sideways between the concrete abutments. I turned off the lights and got out. I withdrew the Crown Royal bag from under the seat and took out the .38.
Two hundred yards away, the Suburban crested the hill. I took a position at the rear tire and began breath control. The Suburban grew louder. I spread my legs shoulder-width apart, the right slightly behind the left. My left shoulder instinctively rotated toward the oncoming target. My hands brought the pistol into a modified Weaver stance as I slid the safety off. Now to wait for just the right moment... suddenly I realized I'd miscalculated. This bridge had barely enough room for two vehicles at once and no room for pedestrians. If things went haywire in the next minute, I couldn't get out of the way. Suddenly the shotgun reappeared at the window, the combat high kicked in, and everything slowed down. Deep breath. Halfway release--. Squeeze. POW! Too far! BOOM! Missed me! Squeeze. POW! One more squeeze. POW! BOOM! One more. POW!
BLAM! Their left front tire exploded. The Suburban jerked across the road to my right, flipped, and rolled three times before coming to rest upside-down in the creek. My heart pounded in my chest. I felt the weight and heat in my hand and smelled that too-familiar smell. Just like old times.
The night went silent for a moment before the soundtrack of crickets and bullfrogs resumed. I heard Steve's boots on the asphalt, running downhill toward me as he called my name. I opened the door and used the Crown Royal bag to wipe down the revolver, then returned it to the bag. I unlocked the Silver Shield, hid the bag under a couple of dozen wooden stakes, then closed and locked the bed cover again.
Steve came running across the bridge, breathless and shouting. When he reached me, I had already emptied my pockets onto the dashboard, and I was removing my shirt.
“Addie! Addie! Shit! Damn, I'm glad to see you alive! What the hell was that?”
“No time now, bud. Move the truck. Park it on the shoulder the way you're supposed to, and turn on the emergency flashers. See what you can get by calling 911, and if that doesn't work, call the highway patrol. We need an ambulance out here now. Two. And a tow truck. And I need those assholes to live.”
Steve did as told. I jogged down the grassy embankment to the creek. The water was only waist deep, exactly deep enough to drown in if you're upside-down. I slipped and struggled to keep my footing as I made my way to the passenger's door and jerked it open. The guy hadn't been wearing a seat belt, so he was jammed into the windshield above the dashboard, or in this case, beneath it, and when I finally pulled him free and dragged his corn-fed ass to land, he wasn't breathing.
Steve was standing on the bank. “Lay him down and go get the other one!” he shouted. “I know CPR!”
I hustled back into the creek in waterlogged boots. The driver's door was already slightly ajar, but these were big men, and I needed the door open all the way to get him out, but it kept catching on large rocks just under the water. Feeling where they were in the dark, slipping to my knees with every other step, I moved enough rocks out of the way to open the door and pull the second man free. He wasn't belted, either, and on his way to the intersection of windshield and dashboard, he had been detoured by good old Mr. Steering Wheel. I tugged and pulled on his clothes and his belt to get him out, and I dropped him twice in shallow water. With Steve's help, I got him onto the grass. I dropped him to the ground and he began breathing, but it sounded like it was really hard for him, and he was blowing pink bubbles from his mouth..
&nb
sp; Twenty feet away, Steve worked the first man's chest. “So what happened?” Steve asked. “Who was shootin'?”
“The passenger fired that shotgun at me a couple of times. Look, here's the story. These guys tried running us off the highway, then they shot at us. We tried to get away by driving up here, turned around to go get help, and they tried playing chicken with us while we were coming back across the bridge. At the last minute, they blew a tire and lost it. Got all that? We were trying to go for help, and they were playing chicken when their tire blew.”
“No problemo, Cap'n. But I heard a shotgun and a pistol.” He listened for breath, then resumed chest compressions.
“For now, there is no gun.”
“Where the hell was it? Is it legal?”
“It was locked in the toolbox, and that's where it is now,” I lied. “And it's legal, but it's not registered to me, and I don't have a carry permit.”
Sirens began wailing at low volume and grew louder as emergency vehicles crested the hill, and flashing red and blue lights began bouncing off treetops.
“Tried to run us off the road, shot at us, pursued us up this dark road, and played chicken with us when we tried to drive out,” said Steve. “Gun? What gun? This shit keeps up, and you can bet your ass I'm bringin' my Glock next time.”
We climbed back up the embankment and waved down a sheriff, a deputy, two ambulances, and a tow truck. Steve pointed downhill, and the EMT's went to work. The deputy and the tow operator followed the EMTs, and Steve followed them. That left me alone with Sheriff Carl Edmonds.
He was tall, just over six feet two, with a square jaw and shoulders to match. He was lean, silver of hair and mustache, with a gently lined face. Unlike his uniformed deputy, he dressed casually in jeans, a starched white button-up, and clean white sneakers, his badge, like his gun, clearly visible on his belt. If it hadn't been for those latter two items and a black baseball cap with his job title stitched into it in heavy gold letters, you'd never have guessed he was a cop, let alone the county's sheriff. He held an old-fashioned reporter's notebook and took notes with a Bic pen while questioning me. I told him everything that happened, almost.
“Just flipped, eh?”
“Just as I thought they were gonna kill us,” I said.
“You're a lucky man. You know these boys?”
“No sir. I'm from out of town, like I told you. Just working here.”
“Why would they want to shoot at you and run you off the road?”
“I haven't a clue.”
“Did you flip them off, or... no, nothing like that? There wasn't any road rage, nothing like that?”
“I told you all I know. You'll have to ask them what the hell they were thinking. I'd like to know, myself.”
His phone rang, and he walked away from me so he could talk to “Sir”, whoever that was. All I heard was “yes sir”, “no sir”, and “I don't know, sir,” and then he suddenly handed me the phone.
“It's for you.”
I took it from him. The voice on the other end said only two words: “MY county.” The call ended. I handed it back.
“Wrong number,” I said.
“I don't know what you two have going on,” the sheriff said, “but you picked the wrong man for an enemy. You ought to see about getting reassigned.”
“So I hear. He's a polarizing individual, isn't he? It seems people either hate his guts or kiss his ass. I tried to stay neutral, but I'm afraid I'm drifting into the first group.”
“Son, it is not in your best interests to piss me off. You want to know who runs this county, you're looking at him, and you'd best pray those boys corroborate your story. If their story's the least bit different from yours, I'll lock you up faster than you can say habeas corpus until I figure out who's lying. If those men down there die, you better hope like hell you're not responsible. So don't you worry about who's kissing whose ass. You just worry about telling me the truth.”
I collected my thoughts, then lowered my voice and started over. “Okay. I'm sorry. I'm just a little stressed, 'cause like I've been telling you, someone just tried to kill us. I believe you want to get to the truth, and I want to help you. If you get a chance to talk to these guys, tell them you know all about Pelican Bay, Texas.”
“What about Pelican Bay?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe your banker buddy sent a couple of his boys out to Texas to burn a house down. Maybe this isn't the first time he's sent them to kill someone. Maybe he's planning to steal eleven and a half million dollars tomorrow, and he's just trying to make sure nobody fucks up his plans. Maybe.”
“And maybe you're out of your mind. I've known Dick Polk my entire life. Where the hell would he steal eleven and a half million dollars?”
“Where his kind does his best stealing. In a courthouse.”
The EMT's, the deputy, and the tow operator worked together to transport both of Polk's beefy men up the embankment and into their ambulances. The drivers executed neat three-point turns and raced away. The sheriff questioned Steve, who told him the story exactly as I had. After only a few minutes, he told Steve that he and I could leave, but the tow operator had just started winching the Suburban out of the creek, so we hung out to watch the SUV being dragged on its roof across rocks, gravel, and grass. Once it was clear of the creek, the deputy started shining his flashlight inside. In less than a minute, he stood up, raising the shotgun high with both hands.
“Until I tell you differently,” said the sheriff. “don't go anywhere.”
“Will do, Sheriff. Remember the Alamo. Good night.”
Good night, indeed. It was almost eleven. I was so tired, I fell asleep as soon as the truck started rolling, like a child.
Unfortunately my nap only lasted ten miles. At the motel, I retrieved the .38 and the last diary from among the tools. Instantly my eyes felt sore. Still, I had to return the diary the next day, and if I was ever going to find out why a nice Anglo Southern girl from Sweeney County, Georgia, named her son Ramon, now was the time. I brought it inside.
Steve showed little interest in the .38 as I emptied the spent shells, wiped it down with a hand towel from the bathroom, and reloaded it. He showed less interest in the diary. He went immediately into the shower, emerging within minutes. I opened the diary and read the first page, and when I looked up, he was asleep on his back, still holding the remote control. Seeing him reminded me how exhausted I was, but the first page had me wanting to read more. I told myself I would only read for an hour.
I needed better light than a single lamp. I was hungry again. Dick Turd was probably in bed for the night, and hopefully his boys were, too. I tucked the pistol under my pillow, picked up the diary, and walked across the parking lot to the Huddle House.
June 4th, 1924
I am writing to keep from screaming out loud on a crowded train. The agony is unbearable. Human voices are but screeches and mumbles and throat clearings; all conversation is shallow, vain, and pointless. The next person who says, “blessed be the name of the Lord,” will meet Him by my hand. I cannot think of God or religion or Bibles. Everything is upside-down. A door has shut forever. There is no going back, and I have no idea how I am supposed to go forward alone.
In the baggage car, my beloved husband sleeps eternally. In my belly, our child sleeps until Christmas. I cannot sleep. I eat because I must, but food has no flavor. I rise, I bathe, I dress, I walk and speak and appear to live, but inside I am as dead as my darling Joseph, and in losing him I have lost something of myself. I am going home, because I could not bear the emptiness of New York without him beside me. I am taking my husband and my baby to Sweeney County. I plan to bury Joseph and to raise his child, but beyond that, I have no plans, nor can I make any now. I must get through today, get him home, get through the necessary rituals and get him into the ground without falling apart.
I am resolved that I will do my best to be the woman he loved, and I promise to keep his memory for the rest of my life. How I shall survive it, I do not
know, but if I can only make it through today, perhaps tomorrow something will come to me.
I sighed. The waitress delivered my midnight snack-- a pecan waffle--, topped off my coffee, and left. I kept reading.
Cousin Alice met her at the train station. Elizabeth remarked on improvements such as the cobble-stone streets and the electric lamps lighting up the public square downtown. She had made arrangements by telegram, and the undertaker's son drove an REO hearse carrying Joseph out to the house while Alice and Elizabeth followed in Alice's Locomobile, which Elizabeth drove out of concern for their safety, having acquired her skills from a combat ambulance driver.
The next day guests began arriving at noon for an afternoon viewing, service, and burial in the family plot. That was followed by a small reception, after which Alice went to bed, and Elizabeth was finally alone in her house again. The place that had once been home felt like a museum now. She wrote about needing to buy kerosene for the lamps. Just as she had as a teenager, she wondered when electricity would come to Sweeney County.
The Dead Hand of Sweeney County Page 31