Feast for Thieves (30 page)

We all stayed silent for a long time after that, even Bobbie. I was okay with Cisco’s answer—that in the end he didn’t have an answer.

Augusta asked us to pray with him, and Bobbie asked Cisco if that would be okay, and Cisco said yeah, he never minded anybody praying for him. So we did. We joined hands, and Bobbie prayed for strength and peace for Cisco and Augusta Wayman. She thanked God for the blessing they were to our community. And she prayed that God would restore in some way everything that was ever taken from them, perhaps one day far in the future when God would set all things right again. I prayed too, but not nearly as long, and not nearly with so many poetic words.

After we said amen we hugged again, all of us. Augusta promised she’d be back at the café soon. She patted my stomach and said she was worried I was getting thin.

So, that was our trip.

Bobbie and I walked out of the hospital room and down the long corridor and stopped only to thank the receptionist on the way out. When we came to the old Chevy truck I opened the passenger side door for Bobbie to climb up and into, then I walked around the back of the truck and got inside the driver’s seat. We
sat in the parking lot of the state mental hospital, and I didn’t start the engine right away. I stared straight ahead for a while, and then I reached over and took Bobbie’s hand. Her hand felt small and soft and yet powerful and determined—all those things all at the same time, and I wished I could tell her more things about what I was thinking. Oh, I did. But I couldn’t right then, I couldn’t at all.

She didn’t take her hand away, and we sat like that in silence for at least half an hour. Then, only because it was getting dark soon and we had a long way to go, I removed my hand from hers, started the truck, and drove out of the parking lot, headed back for Cut Eye.

When we reached Highway 2, dusk fell and I switched the headlights on. The Texas sky was cloudy and darkened, and a twinge of apprehension ran down my spine. Sure, I wanted something I could never get. But the fear was more pronounced than the possibility of what might be transpiring between Bobbie and me, which I knew was an impossibility. Call it a premonition, perhaps, a feeling of dread. If I had any sense in me, we would never have started down that road at all.

For the first stretch of highway heading south, Highway 2 is flat and straight, and you can see for miles in either direction. Our Chevy was the lone vehicle out. Once or twice a trucker passed, but that was it.

Around mile sixty out of Rancho Springs we hit those hills and curves and the road grew darker. The Chevy hummed along at a steady 45. We came out of the hills just fine. The highway straightened out again and we were sailing back to town.

But about a mile out of the hills, I noticed far in my rearview mirror the tiny yellow gleams of a set of headlights. The headlights flickered off for a moment. Or maybe I had just imagined them. No, those strange lights were there all right.

There came that premonition again. That tingle down my spine. I felt the same way before we jumped into Holland for
Operation Market Garden, a series of battles that didn’t go as well as we hoped they would. Back then I had every available weapon at my disposal—an M1 and enough ammunition clips to last for weeks. A sidearm and a trench knife and a musette bag full of supplies. But this dark night I was weaponless.

I shifted the truck into high gear and pushed the pedal as far into the floorboards as it would go.

TWENTY-FIVE

W
hat’s wrong?” Bobbie asked. “Doesn’t that driver behind us realize his high beams are on?”

“He knows.” I kept my voice low, not wanting to alarm the girl.

“How long ’til we get back to Cut Eye anyway?”

“About three hours.”

“Pull over and let him pass then.” Bobbie fidgeted in her seat. “He seems in an awful hurry.”

“He’d pass us if he wanted to.” I kept my speed even.

Bobbie craned her head around and looked again. “He’s about an inch from our bumper now. That fool could kill us. Please stop, Rowdy. Pull over and see what he wants. Maybe he’s in trouble.”

“No, he’s not in trouble.” My voice stayed low.

The first high-speed bump from behind felt like a little tap. Our Chevy twisted slightly, like it was pushed on the pavement. The second bump came harder. Like momentum was building and the car behind us planned to ram us if he hit us again.

“Rowdy!” Bobbie yelled. “I’m scared. Real scared.”

The car in back zoomed up behind us again, looked to come close enough to crash into us, then at the last minute veered over into the left-hand lane. The car switched off its lights and accelerated ahead. I tried to make out the type of car it was as it passed by. The night was too dark to tell, although I caught a flash of the paint job. The sides and doors of the coupe were white. The trunk
and hood were a darker color. It looked like a brand-new 1946 Ford Super Deluxe Tudor sedan, although I wasn’t certain. I’d seen one of those back when I was drifting through Oakland. The police in that city used them as squad cars.

Ahead of us, the car’s headlights came on again, and with it, the driver applied the brakes. We swerved to the side trying to get around him, but he swerved too and wouldn’t let us through, then he slowed to a stop right in the middle of the highway. We slowed and stopped behind him. I decided to see what the matter was, once and for all. He sat directly in front of us with the motor running. We sat directly behind him. Neither of us moved. I switched the headlights on bright to get a better look.

A bullhorn showed at the driver’s window. The horn was pointed back at us. It crackled, and a loud voice boomed through the night air, though the voice sounded a bit garbled.

“Driver and passenger, step out of the truck!”

“That’s a police car, Rowdy,” Bobbie said. “I think it’s the sheriff from Rancho Springs. That’s okay, he knows my daddy real well.”

“Stay in the car,” I said. “We’ll know soon enough.”

“Driver and passenger,” came the bullhorn again. “Step out of the truck!”

“Show yourself!” I yelled out the driver’s side window.

The door opened and a figure stepped out. He wore a sheriff’s uniform and had his pistol drawn and pointed our direction, although his hat was pulled low over his face. He stood at his car and didn’t advance further. “Rancho Springs Sheriff’s Department,” the figure called out. “Both of you—get out of the vehicle.”

“Were we speeding, Rowdy?” Bobbie said. “I didn’t think we were going that fast.”

“No, this ain’t about speeding,” I said.

The bullhorn crackled again. “On the count of three, driver and passenger step out of the vehicle. This is your final warning. If
you don’t come out, martial action will be taken. One … two …”

“He sounds serious, Rowdy. Let’s get out.”

“Three!”

I opened my door. Bobbie did the same with hers.

“Driver, get down on the pavement with your hands behind your back,” the bullhorn said. The voice was distorted through the horn. “Passenger, step to the rear of the vehicle and place your hands on the bed of the truck.”

Slowly I crouched to my knees.

“Driver lay flat,” came the voice over the bullhorn.

I could see by the light of my headlights that the man held a Smith & Wesson square-butt military and police revolver. That meant he had six shots to my none. I lay flat on the pavement and tried to keep an eye his direction. Bobbie went behind the pickup truck. The man walked over and snapped handcuffs on my wrists—that much I expected. But when he snapped them on my ankles too, I grew more than a mite alarmed. In a flash I rolled over, trying to sit up. He was already behind the truck, snapping a third set on Bobbie.

“What are you doing?” I yelled. “Hey—where are you going with her?”

Wordlessly, the figure pushed Bobbie up the blacktop. They passed on the shoulder side of the roadway, on the dark side from me. He was pushing her by the back of her shoulders and speaking low behind her ear. I doubted if she had seen his face yet. He put her in front seat of the Chevy truck and shut the door, then walked up to his patrol car, got in, and backed it up in a lurch so it was positioned behind the truck, although off to the shoulder. He got out and walked back over to where I lay, pulled out his revolver and shot twice over my head toward his own car. The patrol car’s headlights shattered. Again I tried to roll into a sitting position. I couldn’t see what he was doing now, and the cuffs held me fast.

He walked back to his patrol car. The Ford’s grill was smoking,
and the night was pitch-black. I heard him opening his trunk. A rattling sound came my direction. He walked up toward our Chevy truck and chained something fast around my bumper. Then he stood next to me. I moved to head-butt him, but he easily sidestepped me. Again he moved toward me, a chain in his hands, and I moved to swing into him, maybe take him down. A boot came into my ribs and I sucked in air. I felt his hands over my hands. Hot. Clammy. He drug me backward to the bumper of the Chevy truck and linked a chain around my handcuffs—the same chain that was tied to the bumper of the truck.

“Okay, Rowdy,” the figure said, and I thought I recognized that voice from somewhere. “Let’s go for a little drive.” He pushed back the brim of his hat and a small red gleam of taillight caught his sideburns.

Only then did I fully realize who it was.

Crazy Ake jumped back in the cab of my pickup, put my vehicle in gear, and took up the slack in the chain. Bobbie screamed. The Chevy truck started down the highway with me dragging behind. I rolled on my back and tried to absorb some of the scraping with my hips. He went only about twenty feet before he hit the brakes and stopped. The handcuffs bit into my wrists and my body ached. I tasted blood from biting my cheek and heard the truck door open. Bobbie was screaming hysterically. “Please stop! Oh Jesus, please make him stop!”

Crazy Ake walked back to me and kicked me hard in the ribs. “You best know that’s only a taste.” He unchained the longer chain from my wrists and the back of the bumper and threw the chain in the bed of the truck.

I spat blood. “Taste of what?”

“A taste of torment. It’s how I’m going to drag both you and your girlfriend along the highway the rest of the way to Cut Eye if you don’t do exactly what I say. What’ll it be, Rowdy? Answer
quick, or I’ll hook up the girl to the bumper too.”

“We’ll do whatever you say,” I said.

“Right answer!” He yanked me to my feet and threw me in the bed of the truck, then locked another set of cuffs around the rail so I couldn’t move and threw a tarp over me so I couldn’t be seen by passersby.

I heard footsteps again in between Bobbie’s screams and then heard a slap and a thud. All went quiet, and after that I didn’t hear Bobbie scream again. The truck door slammed shut and the truck took off. We began to gain speed down the highway.

In my mind I counted Mississippis and tried to think of a plan. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Twenty. An hour passed. Two. Three. We hadn’t changed direction, so when the truck slowed and stopped, I reckoned we were nearly back at Cut Eye.

The door opened and footsteps came around to the side and the tarp came off. A rough hand unlocked my cuffs from the rail. He grabbed the lapels of my jacket and dragged me out. I noticed by the headlights we were near the sign for the Murray Plant. I also noticed three large duffel bags tied fast to the rear of the truck’s bed, which he must have placed there sometime earlier when he was talking with Bobbie. He clipped me to the truck’s rail so I could stand, then hefted out one of the duffel bags from the bed of the truck, shucked off his deputy’s clothes, and started putting on a dark-breasted twill suit and a pair of fancy shoes. He took out a can of pomade, slicked back his hair, and grinned. I could just see him in the light of the taillights.

“What did you do with her?” I said. “If you touched her, I’ll kill you.”

“Relax,” Crazy Ake said. “She’s still squirming in the front seat with a gag in her mouth. Something I bet you wished for a long time ago.”

I spit his direction. He pasted me in the side of the head with his fist.

“You have no bargain in this, Rowdy. Absolutely none. So let me explain my plan and how you’re gonna help me get rich. The sooner you help me, the sooner I let your girlfriend go free.”

“She’s not my girlfriend—and you better.”

“First thing is you shut your mouth unless spoken to.” He pasted me again, this time in the gut. Again I sucked air.

“Right now, it’s a quarter after 10 p.m.” He tossed the spent can of pomade into the weeds. “An hour ago four fellas began to play poker two miles from here at the home of Cut Eye’s beloved mayor, Oris Floyd. I know you know him, Rowdy, so I won’t explain why this is such a big deal. Nod if you follow so far.”

I nodded.

“The benevolent mayor is hosting a small party tonight. He’s flown in three of his richest friends. One is a Denton Bright, an oilman from Oklahoma. Another is Carl Stanford, a cattleman from San Francisco. I don’t know the third fella’s name, nor do I care. All I know is I’ve kept a close eye on Oris for some time now, and he only plays high stakes poker. Real high stakes. The pot tonight will be at least fifty grand. You following me? Nod if yes.”