Prodigal Blues (18 page)

I
f the girl at the drive-thru window noticed the dried blood on my shirt, she gave no indication of it.
 
I paid for the pies with money Christopher handed to me, then accepted the pizzas, cinnamon sticks, and already-chilled 12-pack of Pepsi, thanked her, and drove off without getting the change.

"You owe me six bucks," said Christopher.

"Sue me."
 
I doubted he'd hit me since I was the one driving.

He gave a short, sharp whistle.
 
"My, my, my—everyone's growing a set of brass ones around here all of a sudden.
 
Fine, Pretty Boy—take the on-ramp coming up on the right.
 
After that, we're going in a straight line for a while."

"How long?" I asked.

"Why do you need to know that?"

"If you're going nap-out, then I need to know how long I'll be driving before I have to take an exit, and if you don't
tell
me how long then I'm either gonna get us lost, run out of gas, or will have to look at a fucking map and if I have to look at a fucking map
then
I'm gonna know where we are and it's my understanding that my knowing our location would irk you somewhat."

"Listen to my man go!" said Arnold, laughing.
 
"I didn't know anyone could talk that fast."

"You yammer on like this every time you're scared or nervous?" asked Christopher.

"Not since the last time I was kidnapped and held at gunpoint."
 
For some reason, this struck me as funny, and I laughed.
 
Then Arnold joined in.
 
Then Thomas, then Rebecca, and pretty soon Christopher was laughing, as well.
 
We were all laughing so hard I almost missed the on-ramp.
 
Then we laughed about that.

"Pizza's getting cold," I said.

"Let 'er rip," Arnold said, and the boxes were opened, the Pepsi passed around, and everybody got a couple of the cinnamon sticks and at least three slices of pie.
 
It was the best meal I'd ever eaten.
 
For those ten or fifteen minutes as the food was being inhaled and the CD player kicked in with The Marshall Tucker Band again, I don't think I was nearly as scared as I'd been up until now; the sun was almost gone, but not quite—a bit of purple twilight still hung around near the horizon, not quite finished with the world and the road yet.
 
The highway itself looked clean and uncluttered, like an endless sheet on a clothesline, caught in the wind and stretching back toward the still-purple horizon.
 
Damn, it was almost
nice
.

"Ninety minutes," said Christopher, stretching back in the seat, propping his knees up against the dashboard, and covering his face with a captain's cap he pulled from his shoulder bag.
 
"If I'm not awake in ninety minutes, give me a jostle."

"One question."

"Make it fast."

"How do you know that once you're good and asleep I'm not going to just get off at the next exit I see and find the nearest police cruiser?"

He tilted back his head, peeking out from under the cap.
 
"I can give you four good reasons why you won't do that:
 
One, you know that the last guy we grabbed who tried to pull something is dead—and by the way, the only reason you're not keeping him company right now is because I missed back in the room; two, I know where you live, so even if you did manage to get away, we'd be seeing each other again real soon and I don't think Tanya would appreciate the surprise visit; three, whether you've admitted it to yourself or not, you
want
to help us; and, four, you want to know what we've got back in the trailer, and the only person who's going to let you see it is me.
 
So be a good Pretty Boy and drive for a while and let me catch forty winks.
 
I might even be more pleasant once I've gotten some rest."

"How long's it been since you guys slept?"

"Three days, at least.
 
Are we done now?"

"Yes."
 
I checked my watch; 9:15 p.m.
 
"I'll wake you up at a quarter till eleven."

He was asleep in five minutes.
 
After that, it took less than fifteen minutes more before I could hear the soft, warm sounds of sleep from behind me.
 
I chanced turning around in the seat once and saw that all of them were down for the count, then turned my attention back to the road.

Christopher nailed it on all counts, including my curiosity about whatever was in the trailer; but mostly he was right about my wanting to help them now.
 
Jesus—even a complete stranger could read me.
 
Had I become that tiredly predictable over the last ten years?

My dad would have called it "being dependable."
 
And he would've known; the man worked the factory line for over thirty years, never called in sick even when he was undergoing radiation treatments, almost never complained, paid his bills faithfully, squirreled some away for a rainy day, always checked to make sure Gayle and I were doing fine (even after we both married and moved out), did the dishes every night so Mom could rest, and retired just in time to discover the prostate cancer we'd all thought had been taken care of years ago had returned, only this time it brought along family who took up residence in his liver, right lung, stomach, and brain.
 
He died in hospice sixteen months after he clocked out at the plant for the last time; he never got to go fishing near Buckeye Lake (he'd splurged and bought himself a new rod and reel), never got to see an OSU football game in person, never got to take my mom out for a "night on the town" like they used to have when they'd first been married and didn't have any kids to drain their energy and bank accounts.
 
He went from the factory floor to the chemo ward and then into the ground.
 
I don't think he experienced a truly happy day in all the years I knew him.
 
Mom died in her sleep ten months to the day after we buried Dad.
 
Every time I thought about it, I still cried.
 
They'd both been gone for a little over two years, and I still missed them so much it hurt like hell.

I have no idea how long I'd been driving or how long I'd been crying when Christopher said, "What's wrong?"

I looked at him for a moment, waiting for either the smartass remark or the threat; when he said nothing more, I turned my attention back to the road.
 
"Go back to sleep.
 
I'm doing what you told me to."

He pushed back his cap and sat up.
 
"What time is it?"

I checked my watch.
 
"Five after eleven."

"Damn.
 
I feel like I've been asleep for hours."

"I'm surprised you don't feel hung-over."

He shook his head.
 
"No.
 
I feel pretty good, in fact."
 
He turned down the volume on the CD player; I'd already had it pretty low.
 
Now I couldn't hear it at all.
 
And "Can't You See" was just about to start, too.

"So what's wrong?"

"What the hell does it matter to you?"

"I like to keep my hostages happy.
 
Which is more than can be said for our former keeper."

I wiped my eyes.
 
"Not that it's going to mean shit—since my sympathy's a little late, as you pointed out—but I'm really sorry for what happened to all of you."

"Thanks.
 
Seriously."

"Did you really kill the last guy?"

"Yeah, I did.
 
We didn't exactly grab him like we did you.
 
He hired himself out to us."

"Who was he?"

A shrug.
 
"Some drifter we met at a rest stop.
 
He was trying to bum a ride from anyone who'd take him, but he wasn't exactly the cleanest or most cordial of people.
 
He needed a ride, we needed a normal face.
 
He said he'd help us for five hundred dollars.
 
I gave him half up front.
 
We stopped at a gas station outside Topeka so he could wash up and I followed him in.
 
As soon as we were through the door he jumped me and tried to get the gun.
 
I shot him and he stumbled outside and fell right in front of Denise—Rebecca was taking her to use the ladies' room.
 
I was madder than hell and just kept shooting until Denise shrieked and tried to run away.
 
Pissed away a good silencer for nothing.
 
Lucky that Grendel kept two spares of everything.
 
Did you know most silencers are only good for about six to eight shots if you're lucky?"

"I was unaware."

He laughed at that.
 
"Arnold and me dragged his body back into some bushes behind the gas station and then we took off.
 
I never once saw an attendant or another customer."

"Lucky for you—this outfit you're traveling in isn't exactly inconspicuous."

"That's the whole idea."

I looked at him.
 
"What do you mean?"

He sighed, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles.
 
"Grendel, he liked his red wine.
 
Liked to drink it almost all the time.
 
Sometimes he'd drink a little too much and get chatty.
 
Whenever that happened, he'd start going on about his 'methods,' about his 'modus operandi.'
 
Sick fuck actually thought the way he did things was admirable….

"When you first spotted us, what's the first thing that registered?"

"Silver," I said.
 
"The first thing was how bright the finish is.
 
Then I noticed that it was a VW Microbus.
 
Then I noticed the trailer."

"Right.
 
Now answer me this; if we hadn't slowed down so you could get a good look at Denise—be honest—would you have even noticed anyone inside?"

I thought about it for a moment.
 
"No, I don't think I would have."

"Which is exactly what Grendel counted on.
 
You know the two best ways
not
to get noticed?
 
Either be so bland you're invisible or stick out like a sore thumb.
 
This bus sticks out.
 
If people see anything, it's the bus, not who's driving."

"But that doesn't make sense.
 
A vehicle like this draws all kind of attention to itself.
 
You'd have to be stupid to use this for—oh, hang on…"

"Is that a light bulb I see over your head, Pretty Boy?
 
You already know the punchline, don't you?
 
That's right—any cop or Highway Patrol officer sees this thing, they think something like you just did:
 
'Anybody who'd drive something like that must be a damned careful motorist, it's not like they could blend into the traffic.'
 
They decide that someone would have to
be stupid
to break the law while driving this contraption, so they automatically dismiss it."

"Grendel couldn't possibly depend on that being the case every time he went out."

Christopher laughed quietly.
 
"Then you want to tell me why he was never caught or so much as pulled over?
 
These are the only wheels he used.
 
Every time he ran one of his 'errands,' it was in this.
 
Fifteen
years
, Pretty Boy.
 
Thirty-seven kids.
 
Six different states that I know of.
 
Any cop runs these plates, this thing is cleaner than a nun's fantasies—I got that line from an old Robert Ryan movie.
 
Everything's registered in the name 'Beowulf Antiquities, Inc.'—which also explains the trailer to them, as well as why the windows are covered up on the inside; after all, if you're moving valuable antiques, you don't want the wood finish to be harmed by harsh sunlight, do you?
 
So this thing sticks out like nobody's business and draws all kinds of attention to itself and yet somehow never got noticed.
 
As crazy as it sounds, it works."

"God," I said, shaking my head.
 
"Is that also why all of you dress the way you do?"

"Bingo.
 
I blend into to any background, completely forgettable.
 
Rebecca's an average-sized teenage girl with lots of long, dark hair.
 
And Arnold is just a black kid in a white shirt."

"You learned all of this from Grendel?"

"No, we signed up for correspondence courses.
 
I got a 'B.'"

"Sorry.
 
Dumb question."

"Anything else on your mind?"

"I have to call my wife.
 
I promised I'd call her.
 
If I don't call, she'll call the motel and when I don't answer the phone—"