Orchard Grove (36 page)

T
he afternoon was filled with cop and trooper cruisers speeding up and down the highway, rooftop flashers lit up, engines revving. I wondered if I’d left my cell phone on for too long, and they’d been able to make out my general position as opposed to a precise one. It was like one of my movies. Here I was fighting for my life, and the world never seemed so alive, even if I did feel like I was about to die or, at the very least, lose my foot.

Resisting the urge to power the phone back up to call Lana and Susan, tell them I was coming for them, I instead began to wonder if I’d made a mistake by not allowing Walt to take me all the way into the city. Then I could have hidden somewhere in the mostly abandoned north side industrial section. From there it would have been a short walk back to Orchard Grove. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight when I had him drop me off in the woods. Maybe gangrene had set in after all, and the fever that went with it was cooking my brain.

When darkness finally fell, I stepped out of the woods, made my way to the soft shoulder, set the shotgun out flat in the grass behind me so that it was hidden from view. Then I did something I’d never done before in my life. I started thumbing for a ride. I knew I was taking one hell of a chance by attracting a cop, but at this point, it was a chance I was willing to take. If a cop or a trooper did pull up, I’d have no choice but to retrieve my shotgun and point the business end at him, tell him to scram or else.

My physical troubles were worse than I first thought.

My foot was bleeding, bad. The throbbing was almost unbearable, my fever growing worse. All I wanted to do was get to the Cattivo house, extract Lana’s and Susan’s confession for their complicity in this whole mess, and it would all be over. I’d turn myself in to Miller who would get me to a hospital.

It took some time while the cars and trucks sped past, the drivers not giving me a second look, most of them not noticing me at all in the dark and what with me wearing dark blue overalls. Until finally, a passing truck slowed down, pulled over. Over my shoulder I saw the red taillights illuminate as the pickup came to a stop along the shoulder. Limping the few feet to it, I recognized it as an old Ford F150, color dark blue, just like my overalls. Something from out of the late 1970s maybe.

The guy driving it leaned over the seat, rolled down the window. He was young. Maybe thirty or so. He had a head full of thick blond hair that was partially covered by a skull cap that was more like a stocking cap since a good portion of it hung down against his back. Like the kind of hat a Rastafarian would wear during all seasons, hot and cold. Or a committed stoner. He also sported a blond mustache and an equally blond beard. He wore a thin leather jacket over a denim button-down shirt, the tails hanging out of the blue jeans.

“Hop in, dude,” he said, smiling. Like picking up a total stranger trying to thumb a ride on a hot summer’s night was the most fun you could have with your pants on. “Ain’t you heard? There’s some crazy killer out there. You shouldn’t be walking all alone like that.”

I climbed in, as carefully as I could. When I set the heel on my bad foot on the floor, I flinched from the pain.

“Ouch, dude,” he said, his gaze focused on the foot, which was illuminated by a dull floorboard lamp. “I hope the other guy is worse.”

“Cut it on some glass a while back,” I said. “Stitches haven’t completely healed.”

I don’t know why I felt compelled to lie. But I did it anyway.

“Feet can be like really tough ass healers,” he said in his pseudo-West LA stoner twang. “Hey man, don’t forget the seatbelt. Safety first and it’s the law.”

I went to grab the shoulder harness part of the belt. But since this was an old truck, there was only the waist belt. I put the belt on, tightened it around my mid-section.

The driver looked out the window onto on-coming traffic. Then, reaching out the open window with his left arm, proceeded to make an official left-turn hand signal. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he threw the automatic, column-mounted tranny into drive, and pulled out. After we’d been driving for a minute or two, he asked me where I was headed.

“Albany,” I told him. It dawned on me then that for a stoner, the truck cab didn’t smell at all like he’d been burning pot inside it. I grew pot in my backyard, sold it to several stoners, all of whom loved nothing more than getting baked in their cars and trucks.

“I can take you all the way,” he said. “Fifteen minutes.” He held out his right hand. “By the way, I’m CP.”

I took the hand in mine. His grip was tight.

“CP,” I said. “What’s that?”

“Short for the real thing,” he said. “Letters are just easier.”

“Hi CP,” I said, “I’m Jim Summers.”

I thanked him for the ride then, and as I sat back against the old bench-style seat, I felt the tight bounce of the suspension, and wondered if my luck was changing, or if it even had a right to change. Maybe I was going to find a way out of this train wreck after all.

“You mind if I pop in a CD?” CP said as the lights of the city became visible on the western horizon.

“People still listen to CDs?” I said. “I thought millennials all listened to Sirius radio.”

“I’m all about the retro, dude,” he said.

When he suddenly reached under the seat with his free hand, he gave my heart a start. I thought he might come back out with a gun. Or a knife maybe. You had to be crazy to hitchhike these days. Even crazier to pick a hitchhiker up. CP said it himself. There was a killer out there on the loose.

But he didn’t produce a weapon. Instead he held a plastic CD case in his right hand while still gripping the wheel of the truck with his left. He set the case onto the empty seat between us, opened it one handed, pulled a CD out that had the words, “The Best of the Clash” printed on it. He slid the CD into a player that had been mounted under the dash as an afterthought. Before the first song came on, he forwarded the CD to a song he wished to hear more than any other.

As I listened to the ascending tom-tom buildup, I began to recognize the song. The drum roll finished in a crash of cymbals and an explosion of guitar and bass. “Breaking rocks in the hot sun,” sang the gravelly voice of the late great Joe Strummer. “I fought the law and the law won… I fought the law and the law won.”

CP sang along, slapping his fist to the catchy beat.

“Interesting choice of music,” I said. My gut started speaking to me. Whispering, poking, prodding. My whole body tightened up, like something more was going on here than just an innocent stoner going out of his way to give me much needed ride into the city. Part of me wanted to slam him on the side of the head with my fist, then jump out of the truck. But my gut screamed at me to keep my eyes open, my mouth shut, and my hands and one good foot ready for anything. The important thing was that he was taking me into the city. Once I was within a reasonable distance from Orchard Grove, I could jump out at a stoplight and simply disappear into some non-descript cookie-cutter housing development. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the only plan I had seeing as I was no longer in possession of the shotgun.

I no longer had the means to blow him away should push come to violent shove.

Minutes later we entered onto the north/south Hudson Riverside arterial that would take us into the North Albany suburbs. The Clash sang “I Fought the Law” non-stop. As soon as the song finished, CP would hit the repeat button, taking the tune from the top, like he was trying to pound it into my head.

“You must really like this song, CP,” I said after a while.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me and my coworkers listen to it all the time. It’s kind of like our adopted anthem.”

Coworkers…

He shot me a look over his shoulder, along with a wink of his eye.

“What’s your line of work?” I said. “You don’t mind my asking.”

He cocked his head while turning onto an exit ramp that hooked up with the road that would connect us directly with Orchard Grove after about a mile. That’s when he reached into his jean jacket, pulled out a small leather wallet-like object. He flipped it open, revealing a badge.

“I serve and protect,” he said, as he pulled off the white wig and skull cap, along with the white mustache and beard, revealing a trim black mustache and goatee. “Surprise! Surprise!” he said in his best imitation Gomer Pyle.

“CP,” I swallowed. “Carl… Pressman.”

My heart went still inside my sternum.

“And you, motherfucker,” he added, “you killed my partner, John Cattivo.”

S
ure I was fucked. Totally, absolutely fucked. But I also had a choice. I could either sit there and allow him to take me into custody. Or I could go after him claw and fist. Disable him, then jump out of the truck, make a run for it. Or maybe run wasn’t the right word for it. Hobble, limp, crawl, was more like it.

I was just about to choose the latter when he returned the badge to his pocket and drew his service weapon, shifting it into his left hand so he could more easily point the barrel at me while he steered with his right.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Make my fucking day, Forrester. Try and jump me with that rotten stinky foot of yours. I’d love the excuse to blow a hole in you so wide I could drive my pickup through it. And trust me, ain’t no one in the APD gonna care if you bleed to death. Doesn’t matter if Cattivo was an ugly prick. Now it’s personal.”

Joe Strummer sang,
“…Killed my baby and I feel so sad, I guess my race is run…”

Maybe that’s what I should have done from the get-go. As soon as I realized that Lana and Susan had double-crossed me, I should have grabbed one of Cattivo’s guns and shot them both on the spot. But then, where would that have gotten me but a free ticket to the state death chamber? At least, as things stood right now, I had a shot at redemption and revenge, no matter how slight.

I glanced into the eternal darkness of Carl’s pistol barrel.

“How did you know where to find me?” I asked.

“I’m a cop. I’ve been tracking you all day. I finally caught up with Miller just after you ran off. Then I followed you in that dump truck. I saw you head into the woods, but you didn’t disappear entirely. I was able to keep an eye on you through the trees with a pair of binoculars.”

That explains why no other cops or troopers picked me up… They were tracking me all along by way of Carl…

“You could have come after me.”

“It’s easy to run and hide in the woods, even for a cripple like you. Ain’t you ever read
Little Red Riding Hood
or
Hansel and Gretel
? I didn’t want to risk losing you. I’m a patient man, so I simply waited until you came back out.”

I recalled Miller smiling and waving at me in that motel parking lot. He knew I was riding into an ambush, never mind the state trooper roadblock I’d just busted through.

“What if I’d never hidden myself in the woods,” I said. “What if I came all the way back to Orchard Grove in that dump truck?”

“I’m one hell of a cop fortunately,” Carl said. “When it comes to tracking down killers like you, I’m prepared for any eventuality. It’s what separates the men from the boys.”

“Nailing your partner’s wife behind his back separate you from the boys too?”

He laughed, but it was a bitter, scornful laugh. And he further backed it up by removing his hand from the wheel and backhanding me with it.

“None of your business, Forrester,” he scolded.

“My apologies,” I said, feeling the sting in my check and nose, hearing the bells ring in my head. Then, “Where are you taking me?”

“Home,” he said.

“Why?” I ran my fingers under my nostrils and upper lip, checking for fresh blood.

“Payback,” he said.

“Payback,” I repeated.

“Yup,” he said. “Rotten apple like you has gotta pay for his sins.”

Then, shifting his pistol back into his right hand, he swung it against the crown of my head and...

W
hen I came to, I found myself still seated in the pickup. It wasn’t parked in my driveway next door, but in Lana’s driveway instead. Something strange was happening at the front door to the single-story ranch house. A queue of neighborhood kids extended from the open door out onto the concrete landing, down the two steps, and out onto the asphalt walk. From where I sat in the passenger seat, now faking my unconsciousness, I spotted Lana standing in the doorway of the pleasantly illuminated home. From what I could also make out, she was handing out cookies from off a silver platter to the children who were scarfing them down as fast as they could get their hands on them. She was wearing an apron over a pink and baby blue dress, and her hair surrounded her face beautifully. It was as if overnight she’d become a happy domestic Holly Homemaker.