The curve passed, and as he merged onto 187, something whacked his forehead. The bike wobbled as he shook off the sting. He reached up, peeling the remnants of the bug carcass from his face. As he flicked the dead bug into the wind, he made a promise to himself to wear his helmet from now on.
Distracted by guts on his face, Demetrio didn’t see the car parked on the shoulder until he was upon it. He slammed on the brakes, careful to watch the front of the car for people changing a tire or working under the hood. As he reached the car, he saw the driver’s seat was empty, but someone sat in the passenger seat.
Probably out of gas, the driver walking into town to fetch some from Jerry’s station. It was a solid three- or four-mile walk, and although Cruz wasn’t on duty, he was still obligated to help if he could. Past the car, he worked the bike in a slow arc across the road until he passed it again. He flipped on his lights, accidentally turning on the bike’s siren. The still Texas afternoon shook with a dissonant howl.
“Whoops, sorry,” Demetrio said to his bike more than anyone else. He pivoted behind the car. A blue Nissan, an older model, Texas plates. He didn’t recognize the car. It wasn’t common for tourists to take 187, but it happened. The bike came to rest, and he lowered the kickstand with a practiced flick of his heel.
Demetrio dismounted, hoping the shade would keep the veggies in his saddlebags from wilting. He wiggled his belt, setting it on his hips, and took in the scene as he approached the passenger side of the car. Backseat was empty except for some trash—well, mounds of trash. No driver. Passenger was an older male, maybe sixty. Light features, and … goggling at Demetrio with a look of raw panic on his face.
Something felt wrong. Cruz widened his path around the car, taking in more details. The car’s engine ran. It wasn’t out of gas. The patrolman turned his practiced gaze to the road, scanning for anyone walking 187. No one. No cars. No people.
“Sir, are you okay?” Cruz asked, his voice carrying authority. He fumbled with the radio on his belt.
The man stared back at him, lips puttering in fear, his eyes wide and trembling in their sunken sockets. Could be drugs. He could be afraid of having the car searched.
“I asked if you’re okay. Do you need help?” The radio finally loosed from the holster. As Demetrio brought the radio to his face, he locked eyes with the old man in the car. Cruz flipped the talk button and called his identity into dispatch.
He waited for a response. The old man’s gaze left his. It moved past Demetrio and into the space behind him. Cruz followed the old man’s wandering attention.
Another man poked his head around the thin line of trees on the shoulder.
If the man in the car was panicked, this other guy was shitting-his-pants terrified.
They stood for an expanding moment. Cruz realized his hand rested on the butt of his revolver. A reflex from his unease. Demetrio took a deep breath, trying to stay relaxed and open to what was happening around him. He asked the petrified pants-shitter hiding in the trees, “Are you two in need of help here?”
The unlatching of the door spun Demetrio back to the man in the car. His voice took on a level of control. “Stay in the car!” He had walked into something that smacked of danger. His training and self-preservation instincts took control.
Demetrio turned to the man in the trees, commanding, “Move to the back of the car! Is there anyone else with you?” He felt the weight of his gun. He knew he’d loaded it with six bullets.
“No, Officer,” the younger man said as he inched around the trees, his arms raised, compliant and meek. Cruz chanced a glance at the older man in the car. He braced himself against the open passenger door, clutching at his chest.
The man’s eyes gaped in his skull and fixed on Cruz, skin splotched and ruddy. One hand drew his sweat-soaked shirt into a knot. The other clutched the open door in a death grip. The man croaked, a broken, dry whisper. “My chest … I’m having a heart attack!”
Chapter 36
Caleb
The officer crossed the mirror as he approached the car. Static flared through Caleb’s chest, his body tightening into a fist. Why did his pain have to strike now, when they were so close? Why couldn’t Wes have just held it a little longer?
No, he couldn’t think that way. This officer was on this road with them, coming from or heading to Utopia. There was no avoiding this.
The officer’s voice stopped the world, the baritone resonating through the window as if it weren’t there. “Are you okay, sir?” His tone was cautious. He knew about the stolen car.
Caleb strained in his seat to see the officer. He was rounding the car in a wide arc now, his posture wary, his movements deliberate.
Caleb turned forward. What the hell should he do? Movement caught his eye. The patrolman was outside his window now. Neither Caleb nor the world around him breathed as the man raised something from his belt. Was it a gun? Too big.
A radio. The patrolman was announcing their location. Caleb sucked in an agonizing breath. They were done for.
Was Wes hiding? Did he know what was happening? The thought pulled Caleb’s gaze away from the officer, to the line of trees behind him. Wes skulked by the largest tree, watching them. His face soured with fright. He looked like his father felt.
Caleb pressed a hand to the window. His son’s attention turned to the cop. Caleb’s eyes followed.
The officer locked on Wes. His hand fell to his gun, his stance widening. Shit. Shit! How could they have gotten this close only to blow it?
The voice. Would it help? “What do I do?” Caleb heaved, his breath locked tight in his chest.
Nothing.
The officer issued a command to Wes. “Move. Move to the car.” His tone wasn’t pleasant anymore. He knew. He would stop them here.
“What do I do!” Caleb spit, watching his son step over the thick roots, his arms over his head, raising his shirt and exposing his belly.
His deaf ear remained silent.
The officer tracked Wes, turning his body to try to put both men into his field of view. Wes padded out from the trees, glancing at his father. His son mouthed the words, “I’m sorry, Pop.”
And that was it. All of Caleb’s pain, his good intentions, his forethought to plan a Final Release. It was ruined. The officer would arrest them. Caleb would die today, tomorrow, or the next day, away from home, in a strange place, with no one he loved around him. His heart ached knowing it.
And poor Irene. Instead of a quiet passing, she would need to deal with this mess now. Twenty-four hours of panic they’d caused her. What in hell had he done to his daughter? She would never have accepted what they were trying to do. His chest clenched when he thought of her remembering him this way. The man who ran from death like a damned coward, only to die alone on a dirty Texas road.
His breath stunted, his vision blurred, his son becoming a blob rolling to the back of the car. His son. God, his son. What the hell would happen to him now? These were his last moments of freedom. What would prison do to him? He was soft, a schemer. Not a brute. He’d had a chance, only twenty-four hours ago, a chance at a healthy life. To turn things around for himself. But Caleb took it away from him with this … this … this what? This wasn’t an adventure anymore. This wasn’t a journey of hope. This was a road trip through hell. Pain stabbed through his limbs like an electric current.
Caleb owed his children. There was more he needed to do for them. In his good ear, he could hear the whoosh of his pulse grow louder, feel the pressure of it in his cheeks and face. As if his body was a size too small for his heart.
The waitress, her money. The man they abandoned when they stole this car. He owed them too. The pressure twisted in him, the surge expanding against his skull. Caleb could feel the fear and the static solidify in his chest. It grabbed him, turned from emotion into something physical. This pain was unfamiliar. Each beat of his heart became deliberate, thick, moving sludge through his body.
This
couldn’t end here. Caleb had so much to fix now.
His hand fell down the window to the car’s panel, finding the latch to the door. His heart beat once—thud.
The car door opened before Caleb realized he was doing it. His legs were heavy, his chest exploding. Thud.
His lead feet found the ground. He pulled his screaming body off the seat. Thud. Pressure filled his head. Not the voice. Something else. Something new.
The officer’s attention turned to him. Thud. He was shouting now. Stay in the car. Thud. The colors of the world pulsed from vivid to gray with each slam of his heart.
He took a step. The edge of the door pushed sharp into the flesh of his hand as he used it to hold himself up. Thud. Caleb’s vision narrowed around the officer.
“My chest,” Caleb said, staring at the man. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
The officer was on him in a moment.
“Help me,” Caleb said.
The officer’s voice was clear over his slamming pulse. “Lie down, sir. I’ll get you some help.” Caleb felt the man’s fingers cupping the back of his head, the patrolman’s other hand finding the small of Caleb’s back. His bottom touched the earth.
Caleb’s arms reached up. They wrapped around the officer’s torso. “Help … me!”
“Sir, please, I am trying to help you,” the officer said, twisting around to remove Caleb’s grip.
Caleb pushed his fear into his arms. He tightened his hold. The officer tensed, eyes flashing with realization.
Caleb glared over the officer, to Wes. The kid was standing there. Mouth open, eyes wide. No idea what to do. “Help me!”
The officer’s hands reached for Caleb’s arm. The movement was deliberate, strong. Caleb pushed his arms closer, one hand finding his braced wrist, and winced at the sharp pain as he squeezed his arms tighter. The officer cried out, realizing what was happening. Caleb couldn’t hold him for long.
Through his clenched teeth, he spit at his son, “I said, help me!”
Chapter 37
Wes
Panic clawed at Wes’s throat. His breath shortened as he watched the cop ease his father to the ground, as if his dad might shatter.
Pop’s hands scrambled around the officer’s body. This was it. Dad would die right in front of him. His pain must be immense, skin glowing maroon as he struggled. The officer tried to settle him. He needed to call an ambulance. Why wasn’t the officer calling a fucking ambulance!
Dad’s arms closed over the cop’s waist. Wes’s hands lowered—the image made little sense. Dad wasn’t flailing. This seemed purposeful.
The officer sensed it too. One hand gripped Pop’s arm; the other clambered for the pepper spray on his belt.
The logic of it snapped together. Holy shit! His dad wasn’t having a heart attack!
Pop’s head appeared over the officer’s shoulder. He locked wide and tight eyes with Wes. A look of determination, his teeth gritted behind his lips, peeled back in struggle.
Over the rush of his own heartbeat came Pop’s strained voice. “I said, help me! Fucking help me here, Wes!”
A flame raced through Wes, loosening his arms and leaving them flopping about as he searched the ground for … for what?
The cop found a grip on something from his belt. As he jerked the item loose, he commanded, “Sir, let me go or I’ll be forced—”
Wes didn’t think as a twitch of panic pulled on his muscles. He looked at the dead branch of the oak tree, somehow in his hands now. He took three strides to the men on the ground, raising the branch over his shoulder. The only sound was the breath of air as he swung, followed by the dull crack of the branch connecting with the crown of the cop’s head.
Whatever was in the officer’s hand fell to the dirt. He remained frozen, motionless, squatting over Pop, held up by air, for one prolonged moment. Dad stared up at the man, then at Wes, his face wide with horror.
The patrolman slumped forward, landing across Pop’s chest, pushing a puff of dirt into the air.
Wes looked back to his hands. The branch had broken, splintered remnants left clutched in his fists. Blood—his own blood—filled the gaps between his fingers, seeped between his palm and the wood. Wes dropped the split branch to the ground. An ache flowed through his arms.
He turned to his dad. The officer’s body lay over him. Writhing. Like a caterpillar, rolling forward. Except … it was Pop, trying to shove the officer off him. Wes grabbed the cop’s shirt with bleeding hands, and heaved him off his father.
Wes looked to Pop. He was breathing heavily, eyes watering, easing himself onto his side. Wes shifted to the patrolman. The officer wasn’t moving. His breathing was shallow. The cop’s hair matted against his head. Bloody. Dirty. The sound of moving air filled Wes’s ears. He realized it was the sound of his own breath, his chest heaving it in and shoving it back out.
His father got to his belly, rose on all fours, coughing as he crawled toward the Nissan. Wes reached for him. Blood covered his hands, and he wiped them across his jeans before helping Dad to his feet. Wes settled him into the car, his frayed nerves starting to tremble in his arms.
Wes picked up the bottle of water from the floorboard. He washed the blood and dirt from his palms. Fetching another bottle from the backseat, he pushed it into Pop’s hands and cracked the seal for him. “Drink this, Pop. Try to calm down.”
Dad was silent. He shook, but he was safe. Wes turned around and surveyed the scene. The cop was unconscious. Wes couldn’t leave him here. They needed to tuck him away. For a day or two, that’s all. What else? Wes looked around. The bike. He needed to hide the bike.
His eyes found the road. It was still, no movement except for the haze of heat. He turned back the way they had come. It was empty. A long breath hardened his resolve as he walked over to the officer. Hooking his hands under the officer’s armpits, Wes began dragging him toward the trees.
His body was heavy and uncooperative. It took too long to move. Wes’s neck twitched from scouring for the eyes he felt on him. He saw nothing except the bark of the trees, the light making patterns like stunned faces.
A grunt popped from Wes’s gut as he heaved the bulk of the officer’s body around the large oak. A few more feet, and the cop was in the barn.
Wes pulled the cop behind a stack of straw bales. He set the man upright against a rusted steel barrel with a few heavy pops and clanks. Wes cursed under his breath at the noise. The officer was still out. His body pliable, his breathing remained shallow. Blood seeped from the head wound, but not much. That was probably good. Putting fingers to the cop’s throat, he found a steady pulse. Wes figured that was a positive thing too.
He looked toward the open wall of the barn. This spot wasn’t visible from outside. Perfect. Wes patted the officer’s belt, finding the stiff metal of the handcuffs. He opened the cuffs and secured the officer’s wrists to the heavy shelving welded to the barn wall. His injured fingers groaned as he fumbled with the officer’s belt buckle. After a few pushes and pulls, the belt released and Wes placed it behind him.
His pockets contained a handful of bills and an ancient flip phone. He tore open the cover, pulled out the battery, then tossed them to opposite sides of the barn. In the officer’s back pocket, Wes yanked out a folded bandanna.
He fell back on his haunches, considering the cop. He’d take the radio and the gun, and he had disabled the phone. How else could this asshole give himself away? Wes looked around the barn. Organized tools filled the far wall, well out of reach of the cuffed patrolman. Nothing else around him but bales of hay. Or was it straw? Hell, it didn’t matter. The only other way this prick could call attention to himself was to yell. Wes stuffed the officer’s own bandanna into his mouth as a gag.
He lifted the officer’s head by the chin. With his other hand, Wes pried open one of his eyes. The pupil was wide. Was that right? Or wrong? Wes couldn’t be sure. Were Pop’s pupils wide after he’d collapsed on the stre
et? Or were they narrow? Maybe he should wake the officer. Explain that this was for a day or two, at most. Wes debated, losing count of the unconscious man’s shallow breaths. He snatched the officer’s belt, stood up, and left the barn.
Back at the car, Wes dropped the belt at Dad’s feet. He looked behind the car. The officer’s bike stared back at him, headlight wide in appalled judgment. Wes approached the bike, taking the handlebars and wobbling it across the road and into the tall grass. He walked fifteen paces into the field, then let the bike fall to its side. Walking back to the road, he checked his work. The bike wasn’t visible, and there was only a slight dent in the meadow where he’d entered.
Was this how Irene felt when she was problem solving? Ticking off the things, making a goal attainable piece by piece? The thought was random; Wes was unsure where it came from. He paced over to the passenger door, still open while Pop sat slumped in the front seat.
“Can I have …” Wes looked into the branches above, calculating how much water he wanted before huffing out, “… two of those bottles of water, Pop?”
Dad nodded, reaching into the backseat and producing one bottle at a time. Wes held the bottles in one hand. An unease came over him, a tumbling insecurity.
“Dad, do you … want to leave a note, or something?”
After a long moment, Pop closed his eyes and shook his head.
Wes returned to the barn. The officer sat hunched where he’d left him, cuffed to the heavy shelving and unconscious. His head painted with blood, it seeped over his face and stained his khaki shirt. Had there been this much blood earlier?
He considered where to leave the water so the man could get to it. A shallow gesture, Wes realized. “You’re gagged and bound,” he said aloud. “How will you even drink it?”
Wes debated for a moment. He left one bottle on the officer’s slumped chest and took the other with him as he walked back out of the barn. He emptied the plastic bottle before making it to the trees, discarding the bottle on the ground
Season of Waiting Page 17