Orchard Grove (34 page)

Miller waved his arms in the air.

“Hold your fucking fire!” he screamed. “Forrester just wants to communicate with us!”

I liked Miller. He was a good cop. Under different circumstances, we might have been buds. Best buds.

I brought my face to the opening in the window, careful not to cut my lips on the jagged glass.

“I didn’t kill that old man in the convenience store,” I barked. “He tried to kill me. It was self-defense.”

“Listen Mister Forrester,” Miller said, taking a few steps forward on the gravel lot so that the space separating him from my room couldn’t have been more than twenty feet, “…Ethan… just come on out and we can sort things out up in Albany.”

“John’s suicide… Lana planned the whole thing. She hated him. Despised him. He abused her and she couldn’t take it anymore. He was going to kill her if she didn’t get to him first. Do you understand me? She asked me to get him to eat his piece. But she put the bullet in the gun, not me. She must have covered her hands in Latex gloves. You have to believe me.”

“I do believe you, Ethan,” he said. “I
want
to believe you. But this isn’t the place to be hashing out truth from fiction. This isn’t one of your movies. But you know how it all works. Come out with your hands up and we’ll leave this place peacefully.” He took on a smile. “Hell, I’ll even spring for some coffee and hard-rolls on the ride back to the city. Whaddya say?”

I rolled back over onto my ass, foot stinging, back once more pressed up against the wall. I felt the sweat dripping into my eyes, burning them. Making a fist with my right hand, I raised it up and swung it into the air conditioning unit, sending a stream of sparks flying out onto the table and the floor.

The idea came to me then, like a light bulb that illuminated brightly over my head.

“Ah ha!”
came the voice of John Cattivo.
“I know what you’re up to, Hollywood. Leave it to the crafty mind of a writer. You’re gonna blow the joint sky high. That’ll serve Miller, right, the pencil neck geek.”

The dead cop was sitting on the bed, his head half blown away, chunks of flesh and brain hanging down off the sides, blood dripping out his nose, his eyeballs, and the corners of his mouth. For the first time, I got a real good look at his front teeth. Sure enough, the top two teeth were broken in half. Just looking at them made my own teeth feel strange and painful.

“Let me guess, John,” I said. “You’re too rotten even for hell.”

“Hey Hollywood,”
he giggled.
“Guess what? Hell can wait. I’m having a good time here just watching you panic. Why don’t you just give up now? You can’t outrun the cops. Even you, as stupid as you are, should know that. I mean, who kills a cop and a convenience store clerk, then stops at a motel for pizza and the company of a cheap whore? Where’s the logic in that? My guess is you’re already dead, pal, and you just don’t know it. More dead than me even.”

“Maybe I’m just in over my head.”

“Call it what you will, Hollywood. But you’re done. D-U-N, done.”

I shook my head, tried to shrug the vision of John away as easily as I would shake away a black and white image on an Etch A Sketch pad. But it was no use. He was sticking around for a while. Using the shotgun for support, I lifted myself up off the floor, hobbled to the stove. I opened the valves on all the burners without lighting the flame. The gas began to pour into the room.

Next, I went into the bathroom, grabbed a couple of towels. First I stuffed the end of one towel into the bullet hole in the wood door, sealing it up. Then second towel I stuffed into the jagged hole I made in the picture window, making that as air tight as possible. About-facing, I grabbed hold of the bedspread, yanked it off the mattress, and carried it to the bathroom door. Closing the door, I spread the blanket on the floor so that it completely covered over the narrow horizontal space between the bottom of the wood door and the plastic saddle. The room was now sealed off and filling with gas, fast.

“You’ve got a pair of steel ones after all, Hollywood,”
Cattivo said, from where he sat on the bed, sipping from my pint of whiskey.
“But you’re still a fuck up. You know, none of this had to happen. All you had to do once my head was blown to smithereens was call 911, and confess the whole thing. No one saw you pull the trigger. You could have laid the blame squarely on my wife, and that alone would have got the gears turning in the mind of Detective Miller. Especially now that Miller knows she’s been shacking up with my partner, Carl. Trust me, Hollywood, the woman is poison. Looks what she’s done to you? You looked in a mirror lately? You look like forty miles of chewed up roadbed. And jeeze, that foot? It’s really starting to smell bad. My guess is that before this thing is over, you’re gonna lose the mofo.”

Dead Cattivo stole another sip of the whiskey, then made with his two hands like he was starting a chainsaw. He made a blade buzzing sound with his tongue pressed up against what was left of his mouth.

Once more, I tried to shake the asshole off. He was wrong of course. Maybe I killed the convenience store clerk in self-defense, but there was no way Miller or the Albany DA or God himself was going to see me as anything less than guilty in John’s death. Not only was my DNA all over everything, I had motive and opportunity. All wicked characters in my scripts… characters who kill… require motive and opportunity or else they’re just cartoon caricatures. Miller might be good to his word. He might actually stop for hard-rolls and coffee on the way back to Albany, but the only thing about to get chewed up and crapped out was my future.

Sitting back down on the bed, I slipped into my one boot, and put on my jean jacket. It surprised me how fast the small room was quickly filling with gas. But then why the hell should I have been surprised? The smell was intense and my eyes were beginning to water, my head growing light, a slight nausea settling in my belly. I nearly jumped a mile, bad foot and all, when the gas detector went off. The round plastic device was mounted to the popcorn-textured ceiling directly above the bed.

Grabbing hold of the shotgun, I slapped the alarm off the ceiling with the metal barrel. It landed on the bed, still blaring its ear-piercing squeak. I reached out for it, dropped it onto the floor, and crushed it with the shotgun stock. Still it squeaked. Bending at the knees, I grabbed hold of the now broken, disk-like unit, pulled out the battery, tossed it across the room.

“Ethan,” I heard Miller bark through bullhorn speaker. “You okay in there? Something wrong? I hear an alarm?”

I eyed the air conditioner. I knew that at any second, its unit would start back up and at the same time, throw off some sparks that would ignite the gas and light this place up along with me inside it. I needed to get the hell out now. But I was also aware of this: once I opened the door and slammed it closed behind me, the vibrations from the wood slab connecting with the wood frame would also send a stream of sparks shooting out of the unit.

Shotgun in hand, I went to the door, opened it until the chain caught.

“I’m coming out, Miller,” I yelled.

The troopers and cops took aim.

“Hold your fire!” Miller ordered.

I looked at him but remained in the room. Ever so gently I closed the door again.

“So this is it?”
the dead cop said from the bed.

I glanced back at him, at his bloody face, and messed up head.

“What’s it?” I said.

“The moment in the movie when the fugitive makes his dramatic escape. When you run your ass out of here and try like hell to get away. You know, like when Harrison Ford jumps off that dam in The Fugitive, or when Butch Cassidy and Sundance try and shoot their way out of that spot where the Bolivian army has them pinned down. Come to think of it, ole’ Butch and Sundance didn’t make out too well. With all them guns pointed at them, they didn’t have a chance.”

“I got a chance,” I said. “I’m gonna live.”

“A nice burst of confidence, Hollywood,”
he laughed.
“Just remember what I said. You’re already dead.”

“Go to hell,” I said.

“Working on it,”
he said.
“From what I’m told they’ve got a nice one bedroom, one and a half bath apartment waiting for you there. No air conditioning sadly.”

Fingering the chain, I slid it slowly off its track so that it dangled before my eyes. I opened the door, stepped on out into the heat of the bright summer day, the shotgun gripped in my right hand, the barrel pointed at the cracked concrete. I faced down the barrels on at least half a dozen firearms with rounds loaded into their chambers, every single one of them engraved with my name. Miller had positioned himself only about fifteen feet away from me in the dusty lot. He was standing straight and tall in his gray blazer, white shirt, and tan trousers, that automatic gripped in both his hands.

“You’re making the right decision, Ethan,” he said. “Now please drop the weapon.”

“Butch and Sundance,” I said, shifting myself so that I stood protected by the narrow piece of wall that separated the room’s wood door from the picture window.

“Excuse me?” Miller said, a look of confusion masking his tight face.

“Some people think that Hollywood got it wrong. That Butch and Sundance actually got away in the end.”

“That so, Ethan,” he said. “I did not know that.”

“Now you do,” I said.

And then I slammed the door closed.

T
he explosion proved more powerful than I anticipated.

It knocked me on my belly to the immediate left of the door while both the door and the picture window on room 30 blew out in the faces of the state troopers and Detective Miller. Out the corner of my eye, I saw Miller go down onto his back, as the troopers dropped for cover behind their cruisers. The woods were barely a dozen feet away from me. Pulling myself back up onto my feet with the shotgun posing as a crutch, I made a painful limping run for them. It was my only chance for escaping the law.

By sheer force of will, I cut across the open lawn, shooting off two rounds at the cops as I hobbled, until I arrived at the woods. By the time Miller and the troopers lifted themselves up from off the gravel lot, I’d already disappeared into the trees.

T
he woods were thick. But that was a good thing for keeping me hidden from some pretty pissed off troopers. On the other hand, with my injured foot, the going was almost impossible. The pain was intense and shot up and down my leg in bursts of electric jolts as I pushed myself through the brush and briars, the branches on the trees slapping me in the face, making it sting, making eyes tear.

I heard sirens and loud voices over the relentless pounding in my head. I heard tires spinning out on the gravel surface of the motel parking lot. They had to know that I’d taken off for the woods. They must have seen me limping for the trees. I wasn’t sure how much time I had until they snagged me, but it couldn’t be very long. Turning the shotgun around so that I gripped it by the barrel, I used the stock like a machete, barreling through the thick stuff on my way toward the road.

After a minute that seemed like an hour, I caught sight of the road through the branches. Without hesitating, I pushed on through what remained of the brush until I made it to the ditch that ran parallel to the roadside. A car passed by then. And another. Coming from out of the south, sirens. The troopers were coming up on my position, fast. My only choice was to somehow hijack a ride or else make a run for it through the open farm field directly across the road. I climbed up out of the ditch, stepped onto the road and prepared myself to enter into the field on the other side.

But that’s when I saw the dump truck coming toward me from out of the north.

The truck was moving at a good clip. Faster than the speed limit allowed anyway. Without question, that truck was my only hope. The sirens grew louder as I recognized the blue and yellow trooper cruisers speeding toward me along a sub-baked road that was topped with a transparent, liquid-like mirage that hovered over the yellow-striped blacktop.