Mad River (19 page)

McCall nodded. “Sure. I shot about six games of nine-ball with him.”

“Did you win?”

“No. He’s a pretty good nine-ball player. He was some kind of athlete at the high school.”

Good detail,
Virgil thought. “Did Jimmy beat him at nine-ball?”

“Oh, shit no. Jimmy is terrible at pool. Any kind of pool.”

“So . . . you say that the next night Jimmy had a thousand dollars. But he couldn’t have won that from Murph, shooting pool?”

“No fuckin’ way, man,” McCall said.

“So when would Jimmy have gotten the money?” Virgil asked.

“He didn’t have no money that night,” McCall said. “Didn’t have any the next day, until he borrowed ten bucks off some guy so we could get some breakfast. We went down to the IGA and bought a loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter and one of jelly, and we ate that, and then Jimmy and Becky went off somewheres, and I met up with them that afternoon, and they still didn’t have any money. Then Jimmy left Becky with me, and when he came back, late that night, we were in the car, he had this gun and he said we were going to do some robbing—”

“Stop,” Burden told him.

Virgil asked, “He didn’t have the gun before?”

“Nope. That was the first time I ever seen it.”

Virgil leaned back in his chair and said to Meadows, “I’ve got nothing more to ask at the moment. Mickey won’t let me get closer to the robbery, but I already know what happened there, anyway.”

“Okay,” Meadows said. “So let’s bring this—”

“Wait,” Virgil said. And to Tom: “You think he got the money from Murphy?”

Tom said, “Can’t think of no place else it could have come from. That money popped up like a gopher out of a gopher hole.”

“And you told me they were brand-new twenties. Is that right?”

“Yep. Brand-new and shiny. You could smell the money ink on them, when Jimmy flipped through them.”

Virgil spread his hands and said, “I’m done.”

16

VIRGIL CALLED UP SALLY
on her cell phone and said, “Shoot, I was driving into town on 68 and you know what happened?”

“You got a flat tire?”

They met at the Perkins, and when Virgil slid into the booth, Sally said, “My reputation is going to be shredded. Changing the same guy’s tire two nights in a row.”

“Promise me you won’t put it on Facebook,” Virgil said.

“Facebook, the curse of the auto-tire repair business,” she said. Then, “You didn’t get them. I was watching on TV all day.”

“No, we didn’t. I think . . . tomorrow. We could get them tomorrow. We likely will. But I’m afraid there are going to be more dead people. Unless they went someplace, parked, and killed themselves.”

“You think that’s possible?”

“Five percent,” Virgil said.

•   •   •

VIRGIL AND SALLY
were just coming up for air, at the motel, when Becky Welsh, who’d been clicking around channels, found the interview with Virgil on Channel Three. She watched it, growing increasingly angry, then said to Jimmy, who was lying on the floor with his head propped up on a pillow, “They said we had a sex encounter. What the fuck? Tom raped me, wasn’t no sex encounter.”

“He’s telling his side of the story,” Sharp said.

His head was clear now, and the fever had mostly disappeared. The wound didn’t look so good, but they were still spraying the Band-Aid stuff on it, and they’d convinced themselves that it was better.

Becky was freaking out, and wouldn’t change channels, and wouldn’t put any more pornos into the DVD player. Jimmy said he liked them because they were funny, but she didn’t believe him.

Anyway, it was two hours before the regular news came up, and she saw the interview again. This time she was ready, and she said to Jimmy, “I’m going out. I’m taking the gun.”

Now he rolled toward her. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not leaving you. I’m gonna drive into the gas station in Arcadia and I’m gonna get me a cell phone.”

“From who?”

“From whoever. Fuck this shit. Wasn’t no sex encounter.” She started to cry again.

Jimmy looked at her and said, “Go on. Don’t bring the cops back.”

•   •   •

ARCADIA WAS A SMALL TOWN
sixteen miles away, back in Bare County. Becky knew it because there was a park outside of town, with a small lake, a loop off the Mad River, and she and some kids from the high school had gone there on hot summer nights, with the cicadas going in the elm trees, and the fireflies out over the fields, to skinny-dip.

She got a ball cap before she left the house, swept her hair up under it, to give herself a different look. Outside, checked the gas in the old man’s truck—it was more than half full—and took off, rolling carefully out the driveway, then turning west at the bottom of the hill. She stayed strictly on gravel roads, hunched over the steering wheel. Nobody was looking for that truck, but she knew about the National Guard roadblocks and didn’t want to run into one.

And in fact, she saw one—a bundle of lights at a crossing a mile or so ahead of her, something you just didn’t see out on this part of the prairie, at eleven o’clock at night. When she dropped into a dip in the road, she turned off her headlights, and when she came to a side track, took it, weaving her way toward Arcadia in the starlight.

When she got there, nothing was stirring. The only thing open was the gas station, with a single car parked by the pumps. She could see a man standing at the counter, chatting with the clerk, and waited across the street, impatient, until he wandered outside, got in the car, and drove off.

Nothing else on the street. She got her guts up, did a U-turn into the station. Still nothing moving. She sat there for another minute, then got out with the pistol in her hand.

The only sound was a faraway truck on the highway north of town. She walked past a flickering neon Bud Light beer sign to the front door, walked in with her head down, the bill of the ball cap covering her face. The counterman said, “Nice night.”

She brought the gun up and pointed it at his chest, and she said, “Maybe not. Give me your cell phone.”

He said, “You’re—”

“That’s right. I’ll blow a hole clean through you if you look like you’re going for a gun or do anything I don’t tell you to do. Give me your cell phone.”

The clerk was a tall thin boy with a prominent nose and a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down in fear. He said, “Don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me.”

“Cell phone.”

He dipped in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. She handed him the slip of paper with the state cop’s number on it and said, “Call that number and tell them that you have to talk to Virgil Flowers. No, wait . . . first, get them grocery bags and fill them up with what I tell you.”

She walked him through the store and got two plastic grocery bags full of candy bars and ice cream and Pepsi and corn chips and tortilla chips and salsa and dip and Hershey’s bars and Snickers and a carton of Marlboros.

She had him put the sacks by the door and then waved the pistol at him and said, “Back to the counter. Call that number. Tell them your real name and tell them it’s an emergency and that you have to talk to Virgil Flowers. Got that? Virgil Flowers. Don’t tell them where you’re at, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out.”

The kid was shaking like an aspen leaf, could barely punch in the numbers, but when it was answered, he said, “I gotta talk to Virgil Flowers. It’s an emergency.”

Becky couldn’t hear the answer, but he looked at her and then blurted, “It’s an emergency. My name is Dale Jones, and I gotta talk to Virgil Flowers. . . . I can’t tell you that. No, I can’t tell you that. Listen, I gotta talk—”

Becky lost her patience and said, “Give me the fuckin’ phone.”

He handed her the phone and she snarled into it, “This is Becky Welsh. If you don’t put Virgil Flowers on this phone in fifteen seconds, I’m gonna kill this man.”

The voice on the other end said, “I’m . . . Don’t do that, please don’t do that. I’m patching you through.”

•   •   •

AT THAT VERY MOMENT,
Virgil was licking Sally’s nipples, and she was laughing at him because he was doing it, but he wasn’t inclined to stop, though he couldn’t have told anybody why. He’d been nursed by his mother when he was a child, so he probably wasn’t suffering from a lack of breast contact; but nevertheless, here he was, lapping like a yellow Lab, when the phone rang.

He looked at the face of it, said, “Goddamnit, the most inconvenient . . . I gotta answer it.”

He picked up the phone and the BCA duty officer said with a rush, “I’m patching through a woman who says she’s Becky Welsh and she says she’s going to kill a man if you don’t talk to her.”

And he was gone and Virgil said, “Becky?”

•   •   •

BECKY SAID,
“You sonofabitch, you said there was a sex encounter with Tom McCall, but there was no sex encounter—that motherfucker raped me.” She started crying again, and the muzzle of the gun was shaking, and the clerk backed up against the cigarette rack, his mouth hanging loose in white-faced fear.

“Becky, Becky . . . I gotta know it’s really you and not a trick,” Virgil said. “Where’d he rape you? Where in the house?”

“It was in that back room, down the hall to the left . . . no, to the right. It had a table with a big stack of magazines on it, and they had these pink shades on the bedside lamps.”

She was exact. Virgil said, “Becky, don’t hurt anybody else. Tell me where you are and I’ll bring you and Jimmy in. The other cops around here, they want to kill you, because that police officer got killed in Oxford. They’ll do it, too: they’ll shoot you down like a couple of dogs, but I’ll bring you in, like I brought in Tom McCall.”

“Fuck that, you’re gonna kill us anyway, one way or another,” she said. “But I want it straightened out, on TV. I didn’t have no sex encounter, he raped me . . . and I’ll tell you what, I’m so pissed off I might just kill this man here to prove to you how pissed I am—”

“No, no, no, don’t do that. . . . Becky, I talked to some people who told me they thought you’d probably been raped. That a woman wouldn’t have voluntary sex under . . . those circumstances.”

“That’s right, no way I was going to have a voluntary sex encounter,” Becky said.

“This guy you’ve got, let him go, and I’ll fix you up to talk directly to the TV woman, so you can straighten her out,” Virgil said.

“
You
straighten her out,” Becky said. “But I’ll tell you what, I’m going to kill somebody every day until this gets straightened out or you kill me. I’m gonna be watching.”

“The man you’re with . . . what does he do?” Virgil asked. He could feel the desperation clutching at his throat. “What does he do?”

“Runs a gas station store—”

“Ah, for cryin’ out loud, Becky, you guys were trying to find jobs. Right? Weren’t you? Tom McCall said you were looking everywhere, this poor guy is just like you. Got a horseshit job and just trying to pull it together. Don’t shoot him, I’m beggin’ you.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said. “But I will kill somebody every day until this sex encounter gets straightened out. Just pull up next to them in the truck and shoot them in the head.”

“Becky . . . I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it.”

•   •   •

SHE WAS GONE.
Virgil held on to the phone, said, “Becky? Becky? Becky?” and then a man said, “She’s gone, Virgil. I got the number. It’s a Verizon phone, and I got Verizon looking for the location, but it’ll be a few minutes—”

Sally, at his shoulder, said, “Oh my God . . .”

Virgil said to the duty officer, “Get it get it get it . . . see if they can track the phone with the GPS.”

•   •   •

BECKY TOLD THE CLERK
to lie down on the floor, and said, “I’m parked right outside, and I’ll shoot you big-time if you move. You better be goddamn certain, when you move, that I’m gone or I’ll put a bullet right through your forehead.”

She walked out to the truck carrying the grocery bags, threw them in the back, and took off. She was watching the counter where the clerk was, and saw no movement. She turned in the street and headed north, rolled out to the end of town, to a curl in the Mad River, and threw the cell out the window, into a ditch full of cattails. Then she reversed, went around the single block, away from the store, and turned south. A moment later she was heading out of town, and thirty seconds after that, she turned off on a side track and killed her lights again, to drive on in the dark.

•   •   •

THREE MINUTES AFTER
Becky hung up, Virgil was pulling on his jeans, with the phone pressed to his ear, and the duty man said, “I got a call from the Bare County sheriff, says a gas station clerk just called them from the town of Arcadia, says he was held up by Becky Welsh. They’re rolling.”

It took Verizon nine minutes before they found the cell where the phone call came in. Their phone did have GPS enabled, and a Verizon technician said that it wasn’t moving. It was near the bridge over the Mad River, north of Arcadia.

Virgil punched off and called Duke, who snapped, “What?”

“You’re headed down to Arcadia?” Virgil asked.

“Fast as we can get there.”

“Becky called me on a cell phone she took off that clerk, and the phone has a GPS,” Virgil said. “The GPS shows it as being near a bridge on the Mad River, north of town. Right on the north edge.”

“Bet they’re hiding there in the weeds, just like they did in that cornfield.”

“Don’t kill them if you don’t have to,” Virgil said.

“You coming?”

“Fast as I can.”

•   •   •

VIRGIL RAN OUT
to his truck, Sally chanting, “Go, go,” as he went out the door. Lights and siren all the way: and he punched up the number for Daisy Jones at Channel Three. It was nearly midnight, but she answered on the second ring and said, “Virgil.”

“Off the record.”

“Okay.”

“Becky Welsh just called me,” he said. “The call came from a small town—”

“So it worked.”

“Yeah, but she says if we don’t retract that story about a sex encounter, she’ll kill somebody else every day,” Virgil said. “We need you to go on, with her claim: she says that Tom McCall raped her. I believe her. I’m afraid that we won’t get to her in time, and she’ll kill somebody tomorrow morning if you don’t do this story.”

“I can do it,” Jones said. “I’ll call the station now. We’ll put it on every half hour.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“You know where she’s calling from?” Jones asked.

“We know where she was a half hour ago. We know where the cell phone is. But I honest to God can’t believe that she’s that dumb. This isn’t quite right.”

“What town?”

“Arcadia,” Virgil said.

“I’m coming as soon as I file. I’ll likely see you there.”

“Don’t talk to me—talk to the sheriff.”

•   •   •

FOR A CERTAIN TYPE
of personality, found mostly on the plains, in the South and the Southwest, there is a great sense of pleasure in going out on the rural roads at night and driving as far and fast as you can. When you come up to a high spot on an overcast night, you can see domes of light scattered around the landscape, reflected off the clouds, marking the towns, almost like illuminated chessmen scattered around a vast chessboard.

Virgil was that kind of personality.

When he was a teenager too young to drive, he’d occasionally hitchhike somewhere ridiculous, like up to the Twin Cities or over to Sioux Falls, to do something ridiculous, like buy an ice-cream cone, and scare the brains out of his parents. When he was old enough to have a car, he roamed hundreds of miles out across the prairie, listening to the FM stations come and go, with all the newest pop and rock, dodging oncoming lights that might be cop cars, seeing how long he could keep the speedometer needle over the eighty-miles-an-hour mark. He’d see how lost he could get.

Part of it might even be genetic, he thought. One of his earliest memories, of men and cars, had been driving at night with his preacher father, riding shotgun in the old man’s bottle-green Pontiac Tempest, the car smelling of nicotine and oil, listening to the radio, to the Pentecostals and the psychics and, best of all, Wolfman Jack on that border blaster signal out of Rosarito Beach, Mexico. Sometimes Wolfman would play one of his father’s favorites, like the Stones singing “Faraway Eyes,” and the old man would sing along with it, nothing like the man who climbed that pulpit every Sunday morning. . . .