An Eye for Death Page 3

  Robert turned his head back over the seat and answered with a grin, “Well, Dad, we're in Kansas and no one's home.”

  Everyone laughed. The family was on vacation, a cross-country trip to the West. Having left Georgia the night before, Barry drove all night, turning the driving over to his daughter as the sun was rising. She took them across most of Kansas.

  He turned to the window. The endless plains passed by outside. Robert was right. No one was home.

  He would think of the trip often in the future, a happy family on their adventure. Denver, then across the continental divide on US 40, exploring the mountains, over to Salt Lake City and the Great Salt Lake, the Mormon temple, down to Bryce Canyon and on to the Grand Canyon, Flagstaff, Arizona and then east on I-40 to head back home.

  They stopped in Winslow, Arizona for a night. Tam and Barb rested in the motel, and he took Charlotte and Robert for a ride into the desert. They found a state park and an Anasazi ruin, where they picked up shards of ancient Indian pottery, leaving them in a neat pile by the trail.

  The kids laughed at him as he slid down a small butte to the desert floor and relieved himself in the sand.

  “Hey, Deddy,” Robert called using the term for daddy that made them, laugh. “The Po-leese are coming. Better hurry.”

  They laughed again as he climbed back up the butte, sliding and scrambling and getting sand down his pants and in his shoes.

  Driving out of town the next day, they stopped on the main drag where a sign over a corner bar said, “Standing on the corner in Winslow, Arizona, the Eagles,” apparently meaning this was the corner mentioned in the song 'Take it Easy.'

  They debated whether the corner could be the actual corner or not, but eventually, he and Tamara stood under the sign, smiling while Charlotte snapped a picture. It was a happy moment. He wondered where the photo was now.

  After two weeks on the road, they made their way back to Georgia, following the interstate through Amarillo, Oklahoma City, Little Rock, Memphis and finally east on U.S. 78 back to Atlanta. He remembered the vacation as a happy time. Did they? He didn't know.

  After the trip, the fighting with Barb continued, about the most insignificant of things or the most serious. It didn't matter. They were home. It was what they did; they fought. It was as simple as that. They required no other reason.

  *****

  A Harley rumbling by pulled him from his reverie. Shaking his head to clear it, he focused on the asphalt passing under the front tires. Forget, he told himself…best to forget memories that left him feeling alone and empty.

  Outside the dusty window, the landscape blurred. He settled back on the plastic seat. The miles ground by.

  9. The Whistling Stopped

  The humming had stopped. Now he whistled and whistled and whistled, driving her a little more crazy with every note.

  “Why don't you cut me loose? I won't run.” She turned her head toward him and smiled. “Please cut me loose. My arm is killing me.”

  “Your arm, huh.” He smiled. “Better your arm than something else, I think.” He patted the knife in his belt.

  Time to try a different tactic. With a sigh like a pouty teenager who had not gotten her way, the girl turned toward the window. “Fine. I only thought we could get through this together, make some sort of arrangement. Just forget it.”

  “Together?” He turned his head away from the road. “What the fuck's that mean ... together? You pulling some little girl bullshit on me?”

  “Little girl!” Her face turned towards him again, eyes blazing. “Fuck you! I'm twenty-three.”

  She half expected the blow. Still, it surprised her. His hand left the wheel and grabbed her by the throat. He was stronger than she expected.

  “You should mind your mouth, before I cut that tongue out of your pretty little face.” Releasing his grip, he threw her back against the door. “Twenty-three my ass. You ain't a day over eighteen.”

  “I am. Check my I.D.” Her head motioned at the handbag on the floor between them.

  One handed, the man, Luther, reached down and dumped the bag, scattering the contents until he found a billfold. Opening it up, he scanned the license tucked under a clear plastic window.

  “Well?” She stared at him.

  “Lauren Pierce, huh. So you're twenty-three. So the fuck what?” He tossed the billfold on the floor. “Shitty picture.”

  “So I'm old enough to know what I want.”

  “Yeah? So what do you want?”

  “I already said. I thought we could be in this together.”

  “What the fuck does that mean ... together?”

  “You know ... together ... partners.”

  Luther snorted out a laugh. “Well girl, there's some things I might want to do with you ... things I'm gonna do with you, but being partners ain't one of them.”

  “We could do those things and still be partners.” She shrugged and turned back to the passenger window. “That's all I was saying.”

  “Now why would a little girl from Kansas want to partner up with me and leave everything behind?”

  “I already left it.”

  “What's that mean? Your license says you're from Kansas. You ain't left shit. You're still here. You don't know what leavin' is.”

  “Left yesterday.” She looked him in the eyes. “Syracuse in Hamilton County, out west by the Colorado line. That’s where I come from.”

  “Yeah, so why'd you leave?”

  “Had to.” Looking down at her hands as if in confession she said, “There was a boy. I got pregnant. We couldn't have a baby, not now, so we got rid of it.”

  “Cut it out?” Luther turned his head showing actual interest.

  “Drugs. We went to a clinic, and they gave me something that made me abort the baby.” Turning her head back to the window, she said quietly, “It's gone.”

  “Too thin.” His mouth twitched up in a snarl. “You want to partner up with an outlaw because you had an abortion? You're gonna have to do better than that.”

  “That was just a symptom, getting pregnant ... the abortion. I had to get away or suffocate, die in that little shithole. I was dying there. I'm young. I want to see things, do things. I don't want to turn into an old woman in Syracuse, Kansas. I saw what it did to my mother and her mother before.” Her head bent low. “The thought of that happening to me ...” She shook her head.

  Several minutes of silence passed before Luther spoke again. “So if we was partners ... not that we're gonna be.” He stared hard into her eyes to send the message that they were not partners. “But if we was, what's in it for me?”

  “We share everything.”

  “Why do I need to share? Way it is now, I don't need to share anything with you.”

  “Some things are better if you share them.” She turned her face back towards him and smiled. “There are things I have, things I can do that are better if we share them, if you let me do them for you.”

  “I can take all those things from you.” His eyes narrowed. “You know that don't you? I don't need you to give me nothing.”

  “You can take what I have if you want.” She met his stare with a smile. “Would be better if I gave it to you ... trust me, it would be much better. You take it, you won't ever know what it could be like.” She smiled. “Besides, I'm smart. I might even be able to help you.”

  “Ha.” The laugh came out loud and sharp. “Like I need any help from some little bitch that ran away from home.”

  They drove in silence for a long while. At least the whistling had stopped.

  10. Better to be the Dumb Ass

  Pulling up the exit ramp, he slowed, turned right, rolled bumping into the lot of the small gas station and up to the pumps. Barry didn't realize how much gas the old thing would use. He traveled on a budget. Always frugal, the settlement with Barb forced him to watch his expenses even more carefully, but his needs were small, and he didn't mind the tight budget.

  Filling the tank, he leaned against the fender an
d looked around. Located on a country road off the interstate, the station was old, like one from his childhood. There was a garage bay where a car being serviced sat up on the lift but no convenience store with coolers, snacks, odds and ends, and wrapped sandwiches. The place was like something out of the fifties. It even smelled the same as Barry remembered, grease and oil mingled with gas fumes.

  He went inside and bought a candy bar and two small bags of peanuts from an old machine that had a knob to pull out under each item. Yanking the knob and waiting for the peanut bags to fall, he was a kid again, transported back to a simpler, more peaceful time in his life.

  Walking back outside, he breathed deeply, relishing the thick oily odors as he climbed back behind the wheel. At that point, he realized there was not enough clearance between the small building and the pump for him to pull the truck and the car carrier through. He tried to back up, and then stopped embarrassed.

  The car carrier's wheels pivoted on their axles. Consequently, it would not back like a standard trailer. As soon as he tried to back up, the carrier's wheels turned in the opposite direction, the trailer jackknifed, and he was stuck.

  After several tries, he sighed and got out muttering, “You’re a complete idiot, Barry.”

  He unstrapped the old, dented Nissan, backed it off the carrier, unhitched the car carrier, manually pushed it back, pulled the truck around, and reversed the process. A small group of locals hanging out at the station found his predicament extremely amusing until the owner came outside and gave Barry a hand.

  “Don't worry. Happens all the time,” the greasy old man said as he helped push the carrier out of the way. “Billy, come over here and give us a hand.”

  Billy, one of the locals enjoying the show, must have worked for the old man because he came over and helped. Barry noticed he kept looking over his shoulder at his buddies, smirking with raised eyebrows. They found this to be exceedingly funny and broke out laughing.

  “Alright,” the old mechanic said, “If you ain't gonna help, move on.”

  The group of locals shuffled away still chuckling while Barry decided this would never happen again. Better to let the old piece of shit run out of gas.

  When the car was back on the carrier and hitched up again. Barry put his hand out to the old man. “Thanks,” he said. “Owe you anything for the help?”

  “Nope, glad to help.” The old man returned the handshake and shuffled back inside the garage bay to work on the car up on the lift.

  Billy wandered off to rejoin his snickering companions. Barry heard their muffled laughs. He glanced their way and realized that the jibes were not directed at him, but at Billy. It seemed it was much better to be the dumb ass instead of the one ordered to help the dumb ass.

  Barry grinned. It was one of those little truths you had to discover for yourself.

  11. We're Elected

  “Forty-two Alpha, 10-48 on I-29 northbound at mile marker eighty-nine...possible suspect vehicle from the Kansas murder BOLO. Older model Toyota Corolla, patches of grey primer paint. White male driver. No female visible.”

  Paul Sorensen hung the mic back on the dash and turned on his emergency lights

  “10-4,” the dispatcher responded. “Starting the county sheriff as back up.”

  “Fifty-one Alpha to dispatch, I'm close, I'll back.” Trooper Stan Knudsen eased to the left lane and accelerated rapidly, closing the distance. Sorensen was about two miles ahead.

  “10-4. Fifty-one Alpha backing on Kansas suspect vehicle. I-29 north at marker eighty-nine.”

  The old Toyota pulled over almost immediately when Paul activated his lights. A favorable sign, but proved nothing. His training took over, and Paul approached the driver with caution, moving forward until he stood even with the door post, slightly behind the driver so he could see the front and rear seats.

  “Afternoon, Officer. What's up?” A grizzled old man with short-cropped gray hair and a gray stubble on his face craned his neck back around to the left, looking up at Paul.

  “Not much sir,” Paul replied. “Your driver's license and registration please.”

  “Sure, sure.” The old man reached around to his back pocket pulled out a worn, brown leather wallet and removed the driver's license. He leaned over and yanked open the glove box to retrieve the registration slip.

  Hand on the butt of his pistol, Paul watched intently, as the man opened the glove box. It overflowed with old papers, and insurance cards, assorted stuff, but no weapons. After rummaging around for a minute, the old man pulled out a tattered piece of paper and handed it to Paul.

  “Reckon this is what you want, and why you stopped me, huh?”

  Paul smiled. “Yes, sir. You have no tag on the car. This registration is kind of old wouldn't you say? Goes back five years. Is that the most current one you have?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I should have known better. I usually ride this old junker around the fields on the farm. Ain't much to look at, but I keep it running enough to check on things around the place. Even had a calf in the back seat once.”

  Paul smiled a little more. He heard a car pull up behind and acknowledged Stan Knudsen with a nod. He turned back to the old man.

  “Well, why'd you bring it out here today?”

  “Stupid I guess,” the old man said chuckling. “Friend of mine said he got a water pump that might fit. She runs hot some and the pump leaks. I usually stick to the dirt roads, but with it running hot, thought I'd take the quickest way there.”

  “Well, you should probably keep it on the farm from now on. Okay?”

  “Yes sir,” the old man said. “I'll do that.”

  Paul handed the license and registration back through the window.

  “All right then. Take the next exit off the interstate,” Paul said, “and be careful.”

  “I'll surely do that. Thanks.”

  Paul turned away, and the old Toyota clattered forward, merging slowly onto the highway.

  Knudsen waited at the front of Paul's car. “Nothing?”

  “Nope,” Paul replied, “Only an old farmer with an old farm car.”

  Stan smiled. “Yep. A lot of old junkers like that around the farms out here. We could be real busy checking them all out.”

  Paul nodded. “Well, the BOLO is pretty thin.”

  “It is for a fact.” Knudsen nodded and turned back to his car, smiling. “A shitty job, Sarge, but we're elected.”

  “Guess so,” Paul said to himself, sliding behind the wheel. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

  A quick note on his activity log and he reached for the radio mike. “Forty-two Alpha, 10-8.”

  “10-4, Forty-Two Alpha, 10-8.” The dispatcher sounded way too cheerful. Paul figured they had a bet going in dispatch, whether any of the Toyotas being stopped by the troopers were the suspect car from Kansas. She must have won this one. You could almost see her beaming through the radio.

  12. Crashing Waves

  The rest stop restroom had the strong smell of pine disinfectant and stale urine. The floor was sticky, and Barry was glad to step back out into the southern Illinois sunshine. Traffic on I-70 hummed by continuously.

  Walking to a picnic table near the restrooms, he wondered who came up with that design idea. Probably, some brainchild civil engineer who never tried to eat his tuna sandwich to the sound of flushing toilets and the smell of pine disinfectant.

  Sitting on the table with his feet on the bench seat and facing his rental truck out in the parking lot, he reached for his cell phone. He was nervous. He was always nervous when he called Barb. Nothing good ever seemed to come from their conversations, just guilt, pain, and the incessant fighting. Taking a breath, he pulled up her number on the screen and hit the call button.

  One ring…two…three…he started to breathe easier. She wasn’t going to answer.

  “Hello”

  Shit.

  “Hello Barb. This is Barry.”

  “Barry, where are you?”

  “That’s w
hat I’m calling to tell you. I’ve left Georgia. I’m moving to South Dakota.”

  “What?”

  “I’m moving to South Dakota. I wanted you and the kids to know that.”

  “What…but where are you?”

  “I’m out on the interstate, at a rest stop in Illinois.”

  “What…are you crazy?”

  He had to chuckle at that. That was the very question he had asked himself a thousand times in the last year.

  “Well, I don’t know. Maybe I am. Anyway I’m moving to South Dakota.”

  “Just like that? How can you? Your family is here. Your children…me.”

  My family, my family, he thought. He felt himself sinking into one of their interminable, circular discussions that always ended in anger and accusations. He had promised himself he wouldn’t let that happen this time. He took a deep breath.

  “Well, I just wanted you to know.”

  “Just wanted us to know?” Her voice was rising. “Just wanted us to know what? That you are a coward, that you are running away.”

  He was sinking into the whirlpool. Felt it swirl around him. It took hold and dragged him under, trying to drown him.

  “No. I just…I just thought I should call.

  “You son of a bitch! You deserted me. You turned your back on your children. And now you just call to say you are moving to South Dakota .” She was sobbing.. You bastard!”

  “Barb don’t do this. We’ve been through this so many times.” The waves were swirling around him, clutching at him to drag him under and into the fight.

  “DON’T DO THIS?” she screamed. “You cowardly piece of shit! You abusive, self-righteous bastard!”

  The last wave crashed over his head, forcing his head under. He felt the whirlpool clutch at him and dragged him deeper under. He couldn’t breathe. His vision blurred to red. He was drowning.

  Trying to fight his way to the surface, he spoke calmly. “Barb, I was there, remember? In twenty-nine years, you must have said you hated me ten thousand times. You were living upstairs, and I was downstairs. That was your decision. You weren’t my wife. You weren’t even my friend.” He took a deep breath, and spoke more softly, fighting for control. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. If that makes me weak, a coward, so be it.”