Unspeakable (32 page)

Jack read the words as they appeared on the blue computer screen. "You're going to leave, aren't you?"

He signed his answer. " Yes. "

Her eyes moved from his hand up to his lips, then to his eyes.

It might be less than an hour, or a day or two, maybe a week at the outside, before the Herbolds were either captured or killed. Whenever it was, Jack would leave. Leaving was a foregone conclusion. He couldn't stay.

He didn't look forward to it. When he came here, he hadn't counted on getting so personally involved. He wouldn't trade the experience of knowing Delray, Anna, and David. Collectively and individually they had made an impact on him, no denying that. They had given him some good memories to take with him. To most folks that wouldn't seem like much, but to Jack Sawyer it was a lot, a hell of a lot. It was the best he could hope for. Anna signed a single-word question. He didn't recognize the sign, but it was safe to guess.

"When? Soon, Anna."

She cast her eyes down, but only briefly. One corner of her lips twitched slightly with what he took for regret. Then, turning back to the keyboard, she wrote, "Will you do something for me before you go?"

"Of course. I won't leave you high and dry. You make up a list of projects, and I'll see that they're all finished before—"

She stopped him with a wave of her hand. "No, a favor," she typed. "A personal favor."

CHAPTER THIRTY–TWO

"H
ere's what I think." Cecil speared a dill pickle with his pocketknife and pulled it from the jar.

"I think we ought to lay low for as long as we can."

"How long do you figure is long?"

"Several days. Maybe even a week."

"A week? Jesus! Are you stupid or just plain crazy?"

"Hear me out, Carl. We ought to let things cool down before we venture out. You want one?" Cecil offered the harpooned pickle to Carl, who actually recoiled. "Fuck, no. It smells like dirty feet. Who planned our menu, anyway?"

"Connie and me have been stocking up on groceries when they came on sale. Anything nonperishable. Because we didn't know how long we'd be here, and there's no refrigeration."

"No shit," Carl muttered as he drank from a can of lukewarm Budweiser. Throughout the day his mood had gone from foul to fouler. The hideout cabin belonged to somebody Connie knew, a cousin's brother-in-law or some such nonsense. Carl had tuned her out as she explained the lineage.

Her description hadn't sounded very promising. He'd held out little hope that he was going to be charmed by the accommodations, but he had clung to a sliver of a chance that he would be pleasantly surprised.

Unfortunately, the structure lived up to his low expectations and then some. They had arrived late last evening, but even darkness couldn't conceal the cabin's defects. It wasn't much more habitable than the hut he'd shared with Myron for the last few days leading up to the bank robbery.

That was the only thing he felt good about—the robbery. At least that much of Cecil's planning had panned out. Not every bill had been counted, but they had left the bank with more cash than Carl had anticipated.

What a damn shame that it had to be split four ways.

Sitting on that much cash was making him antsy to spend some. He was rich now. Money bought power, respect, and fear. People were going to know who Carl Herbold was. From here on, folks would sit up and take notice of him. Enemies old and new would shiver in their shoes whenever they heard his name. Cash in hand was as good as a sword. Carl planned to wield it mercilessly, hacking down anyone who opposed him. All his life he'd had to answer to other people, assholes for the most part. Not anymore.

But it was hard to accept that he was a rich man who left fear and trembling in his wake. Look at him. He was eating unheated pork'n'beans from the can in a hot, dirty one-room cabin in which a varmint had died not too long ago and left an indelible odor. He was cut out for a better life than this, and he wanted it sooner rather than later.

He crumpled the empty beer can in his hand. "Why wait so long, Cec?"

"Because every cop within a five-hundred-mile radius is on the lookout for us."

"The car's clean," Carl argued. They had switched cars fifteen miles from the bank. Connie had left the second car parked at a twenty-four-hour truck stop, where vehicles came and went at all hours, the theory being that it would go unnoticed. "They won't be looking for this car, Cec. Unless you lied to me."

"Why don't you just lay off him?" Connie piped in.

"Why don't you just kiss my ass?" Carl shot back.

"The car's clean," Cecil quickly interjected. "So are the plates. But if we're on the road, we're exposed. Somebody is going to recognize us. The smart thing to do is reduce the risk factor."

"Pretty fancy words there, big brother. Nonperishables. Radius. Risk factor. You've been watching a lot of HBO." Carl hitched a thumb toward Connie. "Or did she teach you all those big words?"

"All I'm saying is that we should stay here until our pictures aren't showing up on TVs all over the state," Cecil replied. "You want one of these peaches, honey?" He offered a can of spiced peaches to Connie. She fished one out with a plastic spoon, then picked it up with her fingers. Smiling suggestively at Carl, she took a bite, virtually sucking the flesh of the fruit off the pit. Juice dribbled down her chin. The symbolism didn't escape him, and he realized that was her intention.

Laughing, she wiped away the sticky syrup with the back of her hand, and playfully poked Cecil in the gut with a fingernail painted the color of an eggplant. "Since I've been seeing you, my table manners have gone to pot. My mama would have a conniption fit." Carl scowled into the can of pork'n'beans. He had pretended to turn the ass-chewing he'd given Cecil into a joke, but he'd meant every word he'd said. This bitch had made herself useful during the actual holdup. Having an insider had helped, no doubt. She had also proved her mettle by blasting that cop to kingdom come; no argument there, either.

But the last thing a group of men needed when they were on the run was a Connie Skaggs throwing in her two cents' worth every step along the way. This one had a fatter mouth than most, and she wasn't afraid to speak her mind. Even more bothersome was that she wasn't afraid of him.

Cursing, Carl jammed the plastic spoon into the can of Van Camp's and set it on the table with a hard thump.

"You through with those, Carl?"

He motioned for Myron to help himself. He had scraped clean a can of ravioli and was swabbing the bowl of his spoon with his tongue. Before that, he'd polished off a tin of sardines. Now he started on the beans.

This is fuckin' great, Carl mentally grumbled. He should have a señorita with tits that would knock your eyes out straddling his lap while he swilled hard liquor and smoked an expensive cigar. Instead he was stuck in this stinking godforsaken shack in the middle of nowhere. His companions were his cowardly brother, a piece of tail that was nothing to brag about, and an idiot with the eating habits of a goat.

He didn't like the way Cecil had taken charge, either. Who had anointed him lord and master?

Connie. Yeah, she was the culprit who had filled Cecil's head with a lot of crap about who should be boss.

Carl knew how easily Cecil could be swayed. Connie had played him like a fiddle. He had been easily flattered into thinking he was braver and smarter than he was.

When the time came, Carl would set him straight.

In the meantime, he would play along. He opened a package of salted peanuts with his teeth, spit out the chunk of cellophane, and poured the nuts into his palm. "Another thing I don't get about this plan of yours, Cecil, is why we're taking this route. We're traveling due south. If my geography is right, if you start in far northeast Texas, shouldn't you head southwest if you want to bump into Mexico?"

"Not enough places to hide out there," Cecil mumbled. Connie had stuffed one of the slippery peaches into his mouth and he was talking around it.

"Can I have one?" Myron asked.

Connie hesitated, then slid the can across the table toward him. He plunged his skinny fingers into the can and fished out a peach. "Oh, Jesus," she screeched. "You whitewashed freak! You ruined them! Do you think I'd eat one of those now?"

"Shut up," Carl thundered. "Can't hear myself think when you start that goddamn caterwauling. What were you saying about places to hide?"

"If we strike out across west Texas, they can spot us by plane, helicopter."

"There're fewer towns, fewer cops."

"But nowhere to take cover. Too many wide-open spaces with nothing but tumbleweeds and jackrabbits. Besides, that's the route they'd expect us to take."

Carl fell back in his chair as though flabbergasted. "Using fancy words, and an expert on what the laws think. Whew, I'm impressed, Cec. Aren't you, Myron? Aren't you impressed with how my big brother has thought this all out?"

"Sure, Carl."

"Cut it out, Carl. I just think—"

"Why don't you let him talk?" Connie was glaring at Carl, her expression cantankerous, her lips tightly pursed.

"He could explain it to you if you would shut up for just one minute." Rage bubbled inside Carl, instantly reaching a boiling point. Each blood vessel became a lava flow of fury. He could easily have wrung her neck, but he quelled the murderous impulse and deliberately kept his voice low and even. "Nobody tells me to shut up. Especially a cunt. And especially when I'm talking to my own brother."

Unfazed by his insult, Connie crossed her arms and harrumphed. "This is supposed to be fun. An adventure. I don't see why you have to be so pissed off all the time."

"I'm not pissed off," Carl argued quietly. "Myron has seen me pissed off plenty of times before, and this isn't pissed off. Myron, do I look pissed off?"

Myron spat a peach pit onto the table. Taking Carl's question seriously, he gazed at him thoughtfully. "Sort of, Carl."

Cecil jumped in. "For Christ's sake, knock it off. Both of you. Connie, cool it. Carl, just listen to my plan. Then if you don't agree, we can discuss it. Fair?"

"Oh, yeah, fair. Just like the United fuckin' Nations." Carl held his hands out to his sides, indicating that his older brother had the floor.

"I say we go straight south till we reach the coast. Hug the coast all the way to Corpus Christi, then hook a hard right, go in somewhere in the neighborhood of Laredo."

"Drive through East Texas?"

"We might slip across the Louisiana state line some."

"I don't like East Texas, big brother. You ought to know why."

"On account of our stepdaddy and that McCorkle bullshit?" Laughing, he looked at Connie and winked. "Should we let him in on our secret?"

Carl braced himself, knowing in his gut he wasn't going to like what was coming. "Secret?"

"Delray is in the hospital, bad off. Could die any minute now if he hasn't already." Cecil hadn't grinned this big since he busted the cherry of his first virgin.

"How do you know?"

"I went to see him."

"What? When?"

"The day before the robbery."

"Why?"

"Just to throw everybody off," he chortled. "It worked, too. Like a charm." He proceeded to tell Carl about his escapade, re-creating the scene he had made in the hospital.

"They fell for it, too. Every frigging word. Even had me a female parole officer." Again he winked at Connie. "This cop called the number on the card I gave him and got Connie on the phone. She filled his ear with what a good boy I am. Guess he knows better now, huh, sweetheart? Guess he—"

"You dumb fuck."

"Huh?" Cecil whipped his head around to look at Carl, who was glowering at him.

"I told you he'd be pissed," Connie remarked as she studied a chipped fingernail.

"It worked out great, Carl."

"It put every lawman between here and Brownsville on the alert!" he shouted. "I wanted them to think we'd forgotten all about Blewer and Delray and all that shit. Now you... Ah, Jesus, you're stupid!"

"Don't call him stupid."

"Shut up, Connie," Cecil shouted. Rounding on Carl, he said, "I'm your older brother, and I'm goddamn sick and tired of you talking down to me. It was a brilliant plan and it worked."

"It worked to rally everybody around Delray and Dean—"

"Dean's dead."

"Dead?"

"Long time now. His widow and son live with Delray."

"She can't hear." Carl looked sharply at Connie. "That's right," she said with a know-it-all inflection that made him want to slap her. "She's a deaf mute." Carl mentally gnawed on the information. "What about Hardge? Hear anything about him?"

"Nothing. He's probably dead by now. So, see? No harm done."

"You forgot about the undercover guy." Cecil looked at Connie as though he now shared Carl's desire to slap her. In her own defense she said, "He might just as well know everything, Cecil."

"What about an undercover guy?" Carl demanded.

"He was at the ranch, trying to pass himself off as a cowhand."