Even Steven (4 page)

You're not out here to pick up trash.

He knew that, and it angered him that he could so easily be distracted. Returning to his original course, he took only six more steps and then he was there. His brother still hadn't moved; he was just a black stain against the night.

Samuel knelt as close as he could and rested his hand on Jacobs shirt, hoping that maybe he would feel it and wake up. "I'm really, really sorry, Jacob," he said. And then, choking back a sob and wiping the snot from his nose, he leaned down and kissed his big brother good-night.

WE'VE GOT TROUBLE, Sue," Bobby groaned, trying his best to squeeze the terror out of his voice.

Susan saw the strobing blue shadows and strained to look out the back window. "What do they want?"

"What do you think?"

"How could they know? How could they possibly know?"

Bobby pulled over to the side of the road, nursing a distant hope that the cop behind them might be chasing someone else. Yeah, right. The strobes slipped in behind them.

"What are you going to do?" Susan asked.

"I don't know."

Bobby's mind raced. What were his options? By his calculation, he had exactly none. Maybe this was for the best. They'd done what they'd done, and maybe it was best for them just to fess up to it and face the music.

Out of nowhere, he remembered the pistol he'd casually tossed onto the passenger seat as he climbed into the truck, and he quickly reached over to get it out of sight. Through his side-view mirror, he saw the cop's door open, and his heart did a quick somersault. The very last thing he needed was to greet the cop with a gun in his hand. Hesitating for only an instant, he tucked the weapon under his butt and tried to look innocent.

Ten seconds later, the cop was at the window, and Bobby pressed the button to lower it.

"Good evening." To his own ear Bobby sounded petrified.

The cop shined a flashlight in his eyes. "Howdy." Next, he shined the flashlight in through the rear window. Bobby noted with a tiny flutter of hope that the man's weapon was not drawn. "Y'all okay?"

Hope bloomed even larger. "I think so," Bobby said, forcing a smile. "Any reason I shouldn't be?"

The flashlight came back around, but this time at a less imposing angle, aimed more at his door than his face. "None I can think of. We just don't get many people driving the roads this time of night. You haven't had anything to drink tonight, have you, sir?"

Bobby had to fight off a giddy little laugh as relief washed over him. Could it really be this simple? "No, sir, not a drop. Water and coffee, that's it."

With the light redirected, the top half of the cop's body was a faceless shadow, but Bobby readily saw the man's gold badge on the green shirt. This guy wasn't a cop at all. He was a park ranger. "I see y'all been camping. Is there a reason why you're bugging out so early?"

Bobby startled himself with his answer. "I'm afraid the wife's not cut out for the out-of-doors life. I could stay awake all night explaining sounds, or I could drive us back home. This seemed to make more sense." He marvelled at how easily the lie materialized, and how rational it sounded.

The ranger laughed. He'd been there, done that. "I don't suppose you have a camping permit I could look at, do you?"

This time, honesty served Bobby well. "Yeah, I do, but it's on my pack in the back. Do you want me to get it for you?"

The ranger thought about it, but after another quick glance in the backseat, he shook his head. "No, that's okay. I'll take your word for it. I'm sorry your trip didn't work out better for you. Have a good night, and drive carefully for me, will you?"

You bet." Bobby smiled. "Thanks." As his window climbed its track, he shook his head and allowed that giggle to escape. "Would you believe that?"

Susan saw none of the humor. "Just get us home, okay, Bobby? Just get us home."

Once the adrenaline high subsided, leaving only the monotony of a long drive in a quiet car, reality began to sink its hooks.

Jesus, he'd killed a man.

You can't murder another human being and just walk away. Life doesn't work like that. You do something wrong, and you step forward to take ownership of your crime. Throw yourself on the mercy of the court.

But he was a cop.

Why couldn't he have been anyone else in the world but a cop? Bobby didn't buy for a second that the guy was the kid's father, but maybe he was on the feather edge of solving a kidnapping case. Or, maybe, like the Martins, he was minding his own business in the woods when he saw this kid in his filthy, torn pyjamas, and like any other public servant, he stepped forward to do the right thing.

But I didn't know that, Judge, Bobby imagined himself saying in a future courtroom. He scared me so badly that I rushed him, and then when he pulled his gun, what choice did I have but to wrestle it away and shoot him?

His stomach tumbled at the very thought of it. They'd never believe him; not in a million years.

But they didn't see his eyes. They didn't hear the boy's reaction to the sound of his voice. Even with all of his doubts and all of his questions, Bobby couldn't escape the notion that the cop wasn't there to help anyone. He was there to hurt people; specifically, the little boy. And if he did that, then he'd have to do something about Bobby and Susan, too, wouldn't he? Of course he would.

It was self-defence, dammit. Bobby had nothing to hide. Why the hell was he acting like he did?

If he'd been anybody but a cop . . .

Yeah, if only.

If he stepped forward, people were going to want to know why his first instinct had been to run. He could explain it as panic, he supposed. How was he to know that the stranger didn't have an accomplice out there in the woods with him? Somebody named Samuel?

Well, tell me, Mr. Martin, if there were an accomplice, wouldn't he have well helped a little? Maybe stepped in sometime between the start of the fight and your killing his friend?

These people wouldn't understand that thoughts get all jammed up in your head when you're fighting for your life. Not everything was going to make sense in the calm afterglow of hindsight. Things that

seemed perfectly logical were going to sound ludicrous. Surely they would all understand that. They'd have to understand it, because it was the truth.

Innocent people don't run, Mr Martin.

And that's the truth, too. Ask anyone, and they'll tell you the same thing. The truth is a powerful weapon, they say. It will set you free.

So long as the evidence bears out your story.

And so long as your victim is not a cop.

Holy God Almighty, what was he going to do?

Bobby had been tracking neither the mileage nor the time, but his gut told him that he was still a good hour, hour and a half, away from home, and the gas gauge had dipped below the one-quarter mark. The lighted Amoco sign consequently caught his attention more readily than it might otherwise have. He slowed the Explorer smoothly, slapped the turn signal, and slid behind the row of pumps closest to the road.

Sensing the change in direction, Susan mumbled something he couldn't understand and then set her head back down on the headrest. An instant later, her jaw dropped, and she was back asleep.

"Must be nice," he grumbled as he carefully and quietly opened his door. The way he felt now, he doubted that he'd ever get a restful night of sleep again. He walked with one foot on the curb as he slid between the truck and the pump, reaching for his wallet as he went. He had his credit card in his hand, ready to insert it into the gas pump when the sensibly paranoid lobe of his brain reached out and gave him a good slap.

If ever in his life there'd been a bad time to use a credit card - with all of its traceability - this was it. It'd have to be cash. He checked his reserves, found two twenties, and went ahead and set the pump. He lifted the nozzle, flipped the lever, just as he was supposed to, and nothing happened.

It shouldn't be this complicated, he thought, and then the speaker popped in the roof of the pump island, startling the bejesus out of him. "You've got to pay first," said a groggy adolescent voice. Bobby peered through the windows of the Explorer to see a zit-faced kid behind the glass, waving at him.

Leaving the pump handle dangling out of the tank, Bobby stepped over the hose and made his way toward the squatty glass building that advertised itself as a Mini-Mart. An electronic bell pinged as he opened the door, and the kid behind the counter wrestled himself to his feet.

"How much do you want? Whoa, are you okay? What happened to your face?"

Clearly the visual effects of his fight were worse than the physical ones. "I was just born ugly, I guess." No way was he going to explain anything to this kid. "Let's shoot for twenty bucks' worth. You'll give me change, right, if it doesn't take it all?"

"Course," the kid said. "Wouldn't stay in business very long if we stole people's money."

A Kit Kat bar on the first rack inside the door caught Bobby's attention, and as he reached for one of the orange packets, a picture of a smiling baby on a box distracted him. They sold Pampers here, too. Well, he could sure use some of them. And some of those wipe things, too, to clean babies' butts.

He brought his booty to the checkout counter and nearly fell over when the kid said, "With gas, that'll be forty-four dollars and thirty-seven cents."

"Holy cow," Bobby gasped.

The kid smiled. "We ain't the cheapest, but we're the only place open for thirty miles."

You had to give him credit for honesty. "Tell you what, then," Bobby said. "Put me down for fifteen dollars in gas, and then the rest here."

Susan still had not moved by the time he wandered back to the truck, though she stirred as he opened the back door.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"I just stopped to get some gas and essentials."

Susan saw the diapers and smiled. "That was sweet." She shifted around in the seat, drew one leg under her, and closed her eyes again.

The Explorer drank every bit of the fifteen dollars' worth, with thirst to spare. Bobby returned the nozzle to its slot in the pump and was on his way back to the driver's seat when he saw the pay phone at the far edge of the parking lot.

This was his chance, he told himself; his chance to do the right thing. But what would he say?

Hi, there, my name's Robert Martin, and I just killed a police officer. . . .

No, that wouldn't do at all, would it? Truth be told, he didn't have to say anything to anybody. He could just go on his merry way, and maybe nothing would ever come of any of this. Maybe no one would happen by the body in the woods for months - until long after the remains had been carted off by animals, or at least until the body had deteriorated far enough that it was no longer recognizable. How long would that take? he wondered. In this weather, as cold and dry as it had been, probably a long time.

He found himself approaching the phone booth even before he knew what he was doing. Just let it go, his brain screamed. Just drive on and take your chances.

But a man was dead, goddammit. When somebody did get around to finding the corpse - and one way or another, he knew they would - they'd call it a homicide, and the hunt for the killer would never end. Never. The statute of limitations on murder ran without end in every state in the Union. He knew that much from a lifetime of cop shows. Over time, he'd crumble under the weight of it all. He knew he would.

Bobby's mind conjured up the image of a retirement party one day. He'd be surrounded by colleagues and family when the police came, knocking down the doors and hauling him off to prison. How would he feel then, starting a life prison term at a time when he'd probably be getting released if he'd only fessed up earlier?

And none of this even touched on the issue of the boy. What the hell were they going to do with him? Bobby supposed there were still orphanages somewhere, but they couldn't just drop him off on the front step of some building.

He placed his hand on the phone and paused. This was it. The point of no return. What the hell was he going to say?

Nothing. You say nothing. You just go back to your car and let fate take care of this.

And when they finally caught up to him, how would he explain forgetting about the guy he killed five, ten, thirty years ago?

"Okay, Bobby, you can do this," he said aloud. After another pause for a deep sigh, he settled himself down and made his phone call.

APRIL SIMPSON OFFERED up a little prayer of thanks that she'd been able to drive all the way home without falling asleep. She feared sometimes that this pace might kill her. Eight hours at McDonalds followed by another four cleaning offices downtown was only half of the available hours in a day, but as the baby in her belly continued to bloom, she needed more sleep than she could find.

Some nights, she lay awake in her bed crying, wondering how she was ever going to get by with two children to care for. She remembered those endless nights when infant Justin refused to sleep, crying and crying and crying until she finally had to leave the apartment for fear of doing something to hurt him. Now her son was nearly three, but still terribly two, and she was going to have to find a way to deal with another infant. She wasn't sure she could do it.