Highways to Hell (16 page)

He was still out.

Still quiet.

Ray realized how much he hoped he would never have to listen to the fucker again.

“Fuck it.”

He drove another eight miles, found the exit he was looking for, and left the interstate. He negotiated the familiar maze of rural back roads with a mounting sense of unease. Not many cops cruised back here, but the ones who did sometimes pulled you over for the pure hell of it. He didn’t begin to relax until he found the deserted boat dock he remembered from youthful excursions. He drove to the edge of the short, sloping pier, shut off the engine, and surveyed the area.

Nobody around.

As usual.

The unpopular dock was in a shallow cove accessible only to smaller boats. There was a boarded-up shack that had once been an unprofitable bait shop. He got out of the car and walked over to the decrepit structure. A rusted padlock dangled from an equally rusty latch. He gave the door a hard kick, and the latch popped out of the rotting wood. He took a good look inside. There wasn’t much to see.

Snatches of memory crowded Ray’s mind, images of drunk kids whose lives were filled with too much idle time and who were blissfully unaware of any better way to spend that time. The shack had been one of Rat’s favorite hangouts in the old days. It seemed appropriate that the guy who never wanted to grow up would spend his last moments in a place that remained one of the emotional touchstones of his short life.

“Raymond!”

Ray breathed a curse.

Rattlehead.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are, fuckhead!”

Ray relaxed a bit—no way would Rat be in any condition to mount a successful defense of his life.

Right?

Ray strode out of the shack in the grip of a sense of purpose as strong as anything he’d ever experienced. Old Ray would have avoided this confrontation.

Fuck that shit.

New Ray stepped into a blow from an aluminum baseball bat. The end of the bat clipped the tip of his chin, caused him to stagger back into the shack.

Rat followed him.

“You’re a stupid fucker, Raymond.”

Ray gave his head a hard shake.

Focus.

He back away from his slowly advancing adversary. The guy had surprised him, granted, and he was armed and relatively dangerous. Chalk up two minor points for the opposition. But Rat was still damaged goods. He had a weapon, but he didn’t have the strength to wield it effectively. The one blow he’d manage to deliver thus far had been no more painful than a bee sting.

“I can’t believe how unutterably dumb you are, Raymond.” Blood was still seeping from the gash above Rat’s eye. “You didn’t think this through. You wanna off somebody, never make the mistake of acting on impulse. That’s the downfall of a lot of would-be killers.”

“Yeah?”

Keep him talking.

“You’d know that shit if you read True Detective. You’d know not to let your emotions dictate your actions. You’ve already fucked up about a thousand different ways.”

Rattlehead still loved to talk.

Maybe for once he had something to say worth hearing.

“How have I fucked up, Sloan?”

Rat rolled his bleary eyes. “You’ve left a motherfucker of an evidence trail. There’s blood all over the front seat. Blood on the windshield. And that’s just the physical evidence. Think about all the people we met last night. We’re talking dozens of witnesses. There’s everybody back home—hell, I can think of at least a half dozen people who know we went to Nashville together.”

Ray thought about it.

A knot of tension formed in his gut.

Christ!

He had been so sure he was doing everything right. But there were so many things he hadn’t considered at all. He needed some kind of cover story. Some—

Shit!

Rat lunged at him

Ray sidestepped the blow, snatched the bat away from Rat, and waited until his attacker turned around. This part of it went exactly as he’d envisioned it. The bat thumped the side of Rat’s head, and he fell to the ground.

Rat was quiet again.

Everything became clear again.

Ray went back to the car, where he found the keys still lodged in the trunk lock. He put the bat in the trunk and replaced the keys in the ignition. Then he returned to the shack, got a good grip on Rat’s wrists, and dragged him back to the car. After successfully completing the heavy lifting part of the job, Ray started the car, put it in reverse, and allowed it to drift back to the foot of the pier.

He had a simple plan—put the car in neutral, guide it to the end of the pier, and bail out at the last moment. Let the lake swallow the evidence. There was a good possibility it would eventually be discovered, but he should be able to concoct a believable cover story before that happened. There would be time enough to think that part of it through once this thing was done.

So do it.

He tapped the gas pedal, and the car began to crawl along the creaky pier. He moved the gearshift to neutral, grasped the door handle with one shaky hand, and listened to his heart slam as the Civic picked up speed.

“This is brilliant, Raymond.” Rat was conscious again. “How’re you getting back?”

Ray frowned.

Goddammit.

His hand hovered over the gearshift.

The fuck is wrong with my brain today?

Rat was giggling. “I’ll grant you this, Raymond, you’re reliable—just when I figured you can’t get any dumber, you go and prove me wrong. Never fails. Hell, you’re not even considering the motherload of bad karma you’re accumulating.”

Karma?

Ray scowled. “That’s hippie bullshit.”

So he bailed out. He had been about to stop the car and attempt to come up with a new strategy, but Rat had opened his huge fucking mouth one time too many. The car hit the water nose first, sank a few feet, the tipped over onto its roof. Ray caught a glimpse of Rat through the sliver of window still visible above the waterline; he wasn’t trying to get out. Maybe he’d finally succumbed to the damage done by the blows he’d sustained.

He hoped not.

Rat should suffer some more.

A lot more.

Ray endured several terrifying minutes during which he became convinced the car wasn’t going to sink. The thing just bobbed along there like a child’s toy floating in a bathtub. Then a muffled thud was followed by the vehicle’s shockingly rapid submission. Air bubbles suddenly dotted the water’s murky surface.

Had Rat kicked out a window?

Ray groaned.

Moron.

That’s what Rat would say.

Shoulda rolled down the window.

He waited until the air bubbles disappeared, then he turned away from Rat’s final resting place and began to walk away. A sense of exhilaration pumped extra adrenaline into his system, made him giddy.

I did it!

So he had.

But the thrill of accomplishment began to ebb almost immediately. There were too many things to think about now, too many potential complications he would have to recognize and confront. Unpleasant scenarios of apprehension and punishment assailed him. He imagined a prosecutor telling a jury about the thousand different ways he’d fucked up. By the time he reached the road, he was rehearsing what he would say when the appeals ran out and the prison chaplain asked him if he had any last words.

Yeah, I did the world a goddamn favor.

He’d walked a half mile due east without encountering a single soul when a Chevy pickup appeared in the distance. He smoothed back his dirty hair, stuck out a thumb, and hope he didn’t look like a psycho.

The Chevy slowed as it neared him. A big redneck bubba was behind the wheel. Seated next to him was his identical twin. Well, they look like twins. Visions of Ned Beatty in Deliverance flashed through Ray’s mind.

But they didn’t stop.

Ray figured that was a good thing. They did, however, toss half-empty cans of Old Milwaukee at him.

This was a bad thing.

The front of his new shirt was soaked with cheap beer and redneck saliva.

He didn’t know which was worse.

Ray decided he was going to kill the poor fucker who eventually picked him up.

What the hell?

He saw things this way.

Rat was right.

He had done every goddamn thing completely fucking wrong, and he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting away with it. And he knew of no good reason to stick around and face the consequences. There was a simple way out. Kill some schmuck, take his car, and head out to the highway. Change the plates, get a new look, and disappear somewhere. Maybe make a new life on the coast.

Hell, he could do anything.

He was so immersed in his fantasies that he wasn’t aware of the cruiser creeping up on him until it was too late. He froze when he saw the familiar blue and white markings.

“Oh, shit.”

A big cop built like a pro linebacker got out of the car, instructed Ray to assume the position, and drew his gun when Ray didn’t immediately obey.

“ASSUME THE GODDAMN POSITION!”

Ray leaned against the car, endured a maddeningly thorough frisk, and weighed the pros and cons of trying to kill an armed man built like a T-Rex.

He decided against it.

When the cop was satisfied Ray wasn’t packing, he put him in the back of the cruiser. Then he got behind the wheel, put the car in gear, and drove away.

“Am I under arrest?”

The cop chuckled.

Ray tried to sound calm. “I don’t think this is standard police procedure. Aren’t you supposed to—”

“Shut the fuck up.” The cop’s stern voice reminded Ray of his high school principal. “I don’t like jabberjaws.”

Ray grunted.

Neither do I.

They rode in silence for a while. Then the cop made a left turn down a narrow gravel road. Ray knew the road—he’d made the same turn less than an hour ago.

We’re going to the boat dock.

Ray figured this was the part of the movie where the hero made his mad dash to freedom. Things looked grim, and it was up to Mel Stallone to save the freakin’ day.

Ray reached for the door handle.

One problem.

There wasn’t a door handle.

Ray groaned.

Fuckin’ cop car.

The cruiser came to a stop next to the former bait shop. The cop got out of the car, opened the rear door for Ray, and instructed him to get the hell out.

Ray did as he was told.

“W-why did you bring me here?”

The cop grinned.