Cage Of Night Part 33

Don't bother to find out if he's really guilty.

Don't bother to listen to his side of things.

Even as a little boy, I'd always had that fear of groups of people. Whenever I approached them, I sensed that they were a unit, one that would never include me, one that could turn on me and take my life because I was not like them.

A long time later, I opened the trunk.

It squeaked.

I froze.

What if the old woman was still in the yard?

But no, at least an hour had pa.s.sed since the posse had been here.

The old woman would be inside.

I opened the trunk even more, so I could look out through the dirty window of the garage.

The sky was even more overcast now. And snow was starting to fall. The snow would help me. The dogs wouldn't be able to track me as well through snowfall.

Then she was there, in the window, glaring at me.

She had an old-fas.h.i.+oned Colt .45 in her hand and it was pointed right at me.

"You come out of there," she said, "and if you make a move I don't like, I'm going to kill you on the spot. You understand?" I understood. I came out of there.

I tried real hard not to make a move she didn't like.

CHAPTER THREE.

The interior of the shack was an explosion of dusty overstuffed furniture, knickknacks, piles of aged magazines, a kitchen that smelled of rancid grease, and a living room that was just big enough to contain a black and white television console that had been new before I was born. The prize piece was the purple velveteen recliner. Next to it was a wobbly pressed wood end table upon which sat a gla.s.s and a bottle of Old Grandad. And next to the bottle were two small ceramic coffee mugs, one a Jack O'Lantern, one a Santa Claus. She was ready for any holiday you cared to push at her.

My claustrophobia was back. Not only did the oppressive clutter get to me, so did the sense of the life lived herea"the life of a hardscrabble isolated packrat. In my romantic world, people shouldn't live this way.

She waggled her Colt .45 at me.

"Hands up."

"I didn't kill her."

"s.h.i.+t," she said. "If you didn't kill her, why'd they find that knife in your car?"

"Somebody put it there."

"s.h.i.+t." Then: "She was one of the few friends I had." Her tears were quick and plentiful, softening the hard lined face into a semblance of beauty. You could see the young woman she'd been. A sad strange history had probably led her to this shack.

"I'm sorry she's dead."

She snuffled tears. "You're sorry for yourself. Sorry you're on the run, and sorry they'll put you to death up at the state prison. That's who you're sorry for."

There was a black dial telephone, much older even than her TV set, sitting on the far arm of the couch.

"If you move, I'll kill you."

"I know. You told me that already."

"I could probably get away with it, just sending you over right here and now. Self-defense. And who could prove it wasn't?"

The queasy coldness seized my bowels again.

"Could you not point that at me?"

"You think I don't know how to handle this?"

"I'm sure you do, ma'am. But it could still go off accidentally."

"Can that 'ma'am' s.h.i.+t. I hate it."

She walked backward across the living room to the far edge of the couch. Then she eased herself down and with her empty hand lifted the receiver.

"They should have operators the way they did when I was a girl. All you had to do was say 'Mavis, get me Mrs. Mally' and ten seconds later Mavis would have you connected."

She leaned over awkwardly. She had to hold the gun in one hand and with the other dial O.

I had already figured out my last best hope. If I could pick up the Santa Claus mug fast enough, and throw it hard enough, there was a chance I could jump her and tie her up.

She leaned further, as if she were doing some kind of hip exercise, and that was when I grabbed the mug and hurled it at her.

When she yelped, I felt sorry for her. I'd thrown harder than I'd intended, and the mug caught her in the eyebrow.

She fired but by that time, I was ducking down and charging at her.

I tackled her, grabbing her hips, slamming her back into the couch, s.n.a.t.c.hing the gun from her hand.

For a long moment, we just sat there, me in her lap like a favorite grandchild, both of us panting, the air harsh with gunsmoke.

"You're bleeding," I said.

"Screw yourself."

"G.o.d, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I been hurt a lot worse than that." She looked beyond me a moment, and I could tell she was staring down the long corridor of time. "Lost my husband and two babies in a car accident. I was in the hospital for eleven months."

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

The sentiment was gone from her eyes now. She was once more the hard prairie loner. "What'd I tell you about that 'ma'am' s.h.i.+t?"

"Excuse me."

I got up, gripping her .45 in my right hand as I did so.

"I'll have to do some things I don't want to do."

"Like what?"

"Like tie you up and tear your phone cord out."

"And you say you didn't kill her."

"I didn't. But n.o.body believes me so I don't have much choice except to act like I'm guilty."

She didn't look especially swayed by my argument.

There was some clothesline rope on the kitchen sink. I cut off two long pieces and went back and got her wrists and feet tied. Then I went over and ripped the phone cord out of the plug.

"There's one more thing," I said.

Before she could ask what it was, I went into the tiny toilet, which smelled surprisingly sweeta"some kind of lilac perfumea"and a few moments later I was leaning over her with a Band-Aid and a bottle of iodine and a clean hot soapy wash cloth.

"What the h.e.l.l you doing?"

"I'm going to clean out your cut from where I hit you."

"Don't bother."

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

She watched me in a kind of disbelief as I treated her small wound.

"You're crazy, you know that?" she said.

"Look who's talking."

When I finished up, the Band-Aid too big for the job and giving her an injured look that was at least a little bit comic, she said, "You really didn't kill her?"

"I really didn't kill her."

"Then who did?"

"A guy named Garrett."

"The cop who works for the Chief?"

"Right."

"Why would a cop kill Mae?"

"I don't have time to explain. But he killed her all right." I went to the window, looked out past dusty red curtains. "When's the next time you're expecting somebody?"

"Tonight, I guess. Why?"

"I just want to make sure you'll be all right."

She stared at me a long moment. "Kid, I sure as h.e.l.l don't know what to make of you."

I smiled bleakly. "Sometimes I don't know what to make of me, either."

I stepped out of the living room, into the narrow little room where the sleeping cot lay. I picked up the comforter and brought it back to the couch and spread it over her.

"Don't want you to get cold," I said.

I took a last peek at her wound.

"Headache?"

"Not any more."

"Good. Your eyes look fine. I didn't give you a concussion or anything."

"A lot of them men looking for you, you know they'll kill you the minute they see you."

"I know."

"Aren't you scared?"

"I can't tell you how scared."

"So you're gonna keep running?"

"I don't have any choice."

I went to the window, looked out again. The sky was grayer and lower than before. There was no sign of the men but overhead, in the distance, I could hear the choppers. That meant they'd brought in the state police to help with the search.

I needed to head for the timber. Fast.

"I'll get your gun back to you some way," I said. "I'm sorry to have to take it."

She nodded to the kitchen. "On top of the refrigerator's a box of bullets. Take 'em, kid."