American Criminal (28 page)

    “Sorry about this,” Ray said, reaching into Tom’s back pocket and pulling out his wallet. He rifled through it and took all the cash – sixty-two dollars. Ray folded up the cash, placed it in his pants pocket, and returned the wallet to Tom’s pocket.

    Ray helped Tom into the cab and circled around to the rear compartment. Ray made sure the rifle was safely stowed away, closed the back of the truck, and circled around to the driver’s seat. True to Tom’s word, the keys were in the ignition. Ray turned the key and started the engine. He tapped the gas and pulled out of the campsite.

    The truck did a better job navigating the rough dirt trail than the ambulance did. The truck’s shocks kept the jolts to a minimum and Burnside was able to reach speeds of 40 mph. Tom sat quietly and Ray kept track of him in his peripheral vision. Ten minutes later, they reached a dirt parking lot near the riverbank. Ray parked the truck and got out. He circled around, opened the passenger side door, and guided Tom out.

    “Where are you taking me?” Tom asked.

    “Not far,” Burnside said, guiding Tom toward the river.

   
If I kill him, they won’t find his body for weeks and I’ll be long gone. If I let him go, he could walk back to the main road in an hour. He’ll report me to the cops and they’ll search all the highways. There must be another way.

   
Burnside wracked his brain for another way to incapacitate Tom. He didn’t want to start a pattern of killing innocent people. If he tied the guy to a tree, would he end up starving to death or being eaten by a wild animal?

   
Wait a second. He has a cell phone in the glove compartment. I can use it to alert someone when I’m safely away.

    “Change of plan. Do you have any rope?”

    “What are you going to do? Tie me up and drown me?” Tom asked in a panicky, quavering voice.

    “Negative. I’m just going to tie you to a tree.”

    “No one will find me for weeks. I’ll starve to death,” Tom argued.

    “In twelve hours I’ll use your cell phone to notify the authorities that you’re here.”

    “What if a bear or wolf comes along? I’ll be defenseless.”

    “Animals are generally afraid of humans. If you shout at them, they should run away. Also, I’ll leave you some room to kick your feet. My only other option is to shoot you and throw your body in the river. I can’t have you walking to the main road in an hour, flagging down a car and calling the cops.”

    “I have some spare rope in the back of the truck,” Tom said, dismally.

    “All right, we’re backtracking.”

    Ray led Tom back to the truck, opened the rear compartment and retrieved the rope. He led the fisherman to a thick tree trunk at the edge of the dirt parking lot and went to work. Ray ran the rope between Tom’s handcuffed arms and tethered him to the tree, which allowed for several feet of movement in case a wild animal came along. He tied the rope securely around the tree – high enough so Tom couldn’t reach it with his handcuffed arms. Ray supposed Tom could potentially use the metal chain to create friction on the rope and cut away at it, but the operation would take hours and by then he would be long gone. Either way, it was a win-win scenario.

    “Okay, pal, you’re on your own. Twelve hours from now I’ll alert the authorities that you’re here.”

    “What if you’re lying? I’ll die here.”

    “Look, you’re obviously a resourceful guy,” Ray said “The rope is only half an inch thick. If you work hard enough at it, you could create friction with the handcuff chain and free yourself eventually. Either way, you’ll be fine. Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience, but it beats the alternative of shooting you and throwing you in the river. Good luck.”

    Burnside turned his back on Tom and strode toward the truck. He entered the driver’s seat, hit the gas pedal, and kicked up a cloud of dust in his wake.

    Twenty minutes later, Burnside pulled the truck onto East Carmel Valley Road. He backtracked over the bridge and continued past the unmarked road where the prison was located. He passed more ranches to the left with horses and cows in corrals. Forested hills and mountains loomed on his right. Ray checked the speedometer to make sure he wasn’t speeding. Getting pulled over by the cops was not an option, although he still had the Taser in his riot belt. Of course, that would require getting up close and personal with the cop. He didn’t consider the rifle an option. Yet.

    Burnside tensed up when he saw flashing blue lights approaching on the horizon.

   
Oh God, they couldn’t have found me already!

   
Ray felt adrenaline kicking in as he checked the speedometer again to make sure he was going the speed limit. The flashing blue lights approached and he saw they belonged to a pair of police cruisers speeding toward him from the opposite direction. They passed him without slowing.

    They must be looking for me, but they’re looking for an ambulance, not a truck. Also, they would never expect me to drive back toward the prison!

    Burnside cracked the window to get some fresh air and turned on the radio. He heard the obnoxious crooning of a country music singer and quickly changed the station. AC/DC’s
Highway to Hell
blasted through the truck’s state-of-the-art speakers. He had to consciously stop himself from slamming down the gas pedal and speeding up to 110 mph. Instead, he played it safe at the speed limit – 45 mph. It wasn’t easy driving slow, but he smiled as he recognized the raucous lyrics. He couldn’t remember the last time he heard rock music.

    A feeling of intoxicating freedom swept through Ray’s mind. He knew he wasn’t out of danger yet – and probably wouldn’t be any time soon – but that didn’t matter.  As the road shot toward him in a linear perspective, he felt a strange euphoria he had never experienced before. As Ray turned corners, descended dips and ascended small hills on the windy rural road, his eyes swept across the fields and farms to his left and the hills and mountains to his right. Ray drank in the beautiful sights like ambrosia. Despite recent events, a fresh wave of energy swept through him. 

    Burnside was relieved that he had found an alternative to killing Tom. It was riskier keeping him alive, but murder was a precedent he didn’t want to set just yet. He had killed people in prison, but that was different. The convicts he killed were evil and would have killed him first. He wasn’t about to start murdering civilians. He would rather go back to prison than start executing people who got in his way.   

    The day was perfect. On the distant horizon, puffy white cumulus clouds resembling cotton candy drifted serenely through the azure sky. The truck was a new model and handled beautifully. The stereo system was top-of-the-line and sounded great. Burnside sang along to the music as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but was still careful not to exceed the speed limit. He wasn’t about to throw it all away by being careless. Even if the cops caught up with him eventually, escaping was worth it just to experience the freedom of the open road.

Chapter 38

Waking Nightmare

    A short time later, Carmel Valley Road became Arroyo Seco Road. Burnside continued to drive alongside ranches and farmland to the left and mountainous wilderness to the right. Occasionally, there would be a small house or cabin to punctuate the hilly green fields and forests of the wilderness.
    Burnside soon saw signs for Route 101. He cut through a small town called Greenfield to take 101 South. One-oh-one was a moderate-sized highway that had little in common with Carmel Valley Road or Arroyo Seco Road. The farms and ranches were gone. The highway was still surrounded by hills, but they had been deforested and turned into housing developments. Signs of civilization increased as he moved south. The largest of these signs was King City, which even boasted some tall buildings, although nothing approaching a skyscraper.
    Burnside continued south, passing through the picturesque towns of San Lucas, San Miguel and Paso Robles. He began to see signs for Los Angeles. Burnside stopped briefly in Paso Robles to use a gas station restroom and purchase bottled waters. He was confident that he still had plenty of time before the captive fisherman would be able to free himself. Ray had been on the road for about two hours and he doubted that his captive had enough strength to saw through the half-inch thick rope with a handcuff chain yet.
    Burnside was understandably nervous when he walked into the gas station/convenience store and asked for a key to the restroom. He knew it wasn't an ideal situation, but he had to go and he figured it would be more suspicious if he pulled over onto the side of the highway.
    Burnside got back on the road and continued past more picturesque California towns - San Luis Obispo, Pismo Beach, and Santa Maria. He frequently saw signs for Santa Barbara and Los Angeles. In Pismo Beach he saw the ocean for the first time as he drove along gorgeous, pristine, white beaches. Ray was tempted to leave 101 and take scenic route 1, which ran along California's beautiful rocky coastline, but he stayed on 101 to make better time.
    Burnside stopped at a McDonalds in Santa Barbara to use the restroom and buy a Happy Meal. He took the food on the road and enjoyed the taste of his first real burger and fries since leaving prison. The Happy Meal alone made his escape worth it.
    Burnside knew his destination - Los Angeles. He figured the chaotic urban sprawl would be the ideal place to give the authorities the slip. Ray figured he could get lost among the legions of homeless people dwelling there. He remembered reading an article in a magazine describing thousands of homeless in the city. Too many for the cops to check all of them.
    Burnside remembered reading about a place in Los Angeles called "Skid Row" where thousands of homeless people were camped out in the streets. He had been shocked by the article, which had described the sheer immensity of the homeless population and the inability of the authorities to find any practical solutions. Burnside also remembered how ironic it was that Skid Row was located only several miles away from all the glamorous Hollywood attractions on Sunset Boulevard and Hollywood Boulevard.
    Burnside continued driving southeast on 101 until he hit Los Angeles - a congested urban sprawl that reminded him of a West Coast NYC. Traffic increased and he was considerably slowed down. It was starting to get dark and it was now the tail end of rush hour. After an hour of slogging through traffic, he saw signs for Hollywood and Sunset Boulevard attractions. He kept going until he reached signs for the Wholesale District - the official name for Skid Row. He followed the signs until he reached South Alameda Street in the heart of Skid Row. 
    Burnside cruised at five mph, taking in all the sordid details. Hundreds of disheveled human beings sat or lay on the sidewalks amid a vast carpet of trash and debris. Many were lying on makeshift cardboard cots and wrapped in dirty sleeping bags. Wheelchairs and walkers were a common sight among the horde. He passed two old homeless men in wheelchairs wearing army fatigues. One of them had silver dog-tags dangling from his neck and was holding a needle in his arm. His eyes were closed and he had an ecstatic expression on his heavily wrinkled face. 
    The homeless were scattered on the sidewalks like the discarded trash of civilization. Shopping carts overflowing with clothing and other unidentifiable materials were everywhere, protectively guarded by their owners. Ray had never seen anything like it. His eyes widened with shock and horror. He had thought prison was the worst place to be, but now he wasn't so sure.
    Burnside felt like he had stumbled upon a disbanded army of defeated and wounded soldiers. It was as if someone had dumped all the people in the local mental hospitals onto the streets. Men and women brazenly smoked crack and shot up on street corners. Prostitutes and drug dealers plied their trade openly. Every inch of available sidewalk was occupied with the makeshift encampments of the homeless.
    My God, this is depressing. It looks even worse than what I dealt with in prison. How can people live like this?
 
    Burnside's previous plan of hiding out among the homeless was looking more and more untenable. He could barely tolerate the awful stench driving by in the truck, never mind sleeping among them. Many of the homeless sat on benches or on the pavement and conversed as casually as if they were in their living rooms. Mentally ill people stumbled past their brethren, ranting and raving, without receiving a second look. Some of them stared hauntingly into space as if seeing something poignant that was invisible to everyone else. Ray had to fight back the urge to give away the fifty bucks he had in his wallet because he knew he would need it later.
    Burnside saw an argument erupt between two unkempt men. He stopped the truck and was about to intervene when he saw one of them slash the other's throat with a knife and casually walk away. The victim collapsed into a widening pool of blood and was ignored.
    This place is a waking nightmare. I have to get out of here.
     
Burnside pressed the gas pedal and sped up to twenty miles an hour, slowing or stopping only when one of the disheveled inhabitants crossed heedlessly in front of him. The stench of misery and rotting trash was everywhere. Ray saw a row of five portable toilets being used like cramped hotel rooms by prostitutes and johns. He had the urge to slam down on the gas and race out of there, but there were too many people wandering around and he was bound to hit one. Ray saw a young woman rolling around on the filthy sidewalk as if she was wrestling with an invisible demon. Rats scurried through the trash on the sidewalks like household pets.
    Burnside passed by more makeshift encampments, people shooting up, prostitutes and drug dealers. He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare and was doomed to drive on the forsaken road forever. After what seemed like hours, the horde of filthy human beings began to thin out and eventually disappeared from the sidewalks. Burnside knew what he had to do now.
    He pulled into an abandoned, trash-strewn alley and parked the truck. Exiting, he circled around to the back. Burnside opened the back, took out the rifle, and walked down the alley where he was concealed from the street by the truck. He held the rifle by the barrel and smashed it against the brick wall with all his strength. The rifle stock splintered to pieces and he tossed the useless weapon under a pile of garbage. It was simply too big to carry around and he didn't want anyone using it to commit murder or God knew what else. Now he could move on.
    Burnside pulled the truck out of the alley and headed back toward Skid Row. He took the cell phone out of the glove compartment and placed it in his pocket. When he reached the outskirts of the homeless encampments, he pulled over next to the sidewalk, left the keys in the ignition, and got out. The first homeless person to investigate the truck would hit the lottery. He knew the cops would eventually find the captive fisherman and be on the lookout for a red truck. A homeless man or woman running amok through the city in the truck would be the perfect red herring to distract the cops.
    Burnside hurried away on foot as if he was escaping prison for a second time. He tried to push the haunting images of the legion of homeless people out of his mind. Jogging down the street, he didn't stop until he was a mile from the truck. He returned to an oasis-like area of pedestrians, traffic, and habitable buildings. Burnside knew the general direction he wanted to go in - northwest. Going northwest would take him toward Hollywood where he could blend in with the other freaks and rejects. He figured a tall, muscular man wearing a lumberjack shirt and black EMT pants would attract less attention amongst the late night punks wandering Hollywood Boulevard.
    Burnside turned right onto East 7th Street and headed west. He figured he could adjust his course northwards later. He continued walking along the sidewalk at a brisk pace, passing an occasional pedestrian too intent on their own business to notice him, until he reached Wilshire Boulevard. A short time later, he found a gaudy store that sold LA tourist items and went in. He found a ten-dollar pair of non-descript khaki shorts that looked like they would fit him. Taking them off the rack, he searched for an equally cheap, non-descript t-shirt. He hit pay-dirt with a plain light blue XXL t-shirt for eight bucks, grabbed it off the rack, and held it up to his chest. It was perfect. A pair of ten dollar sunglasses completed the ensemble.
    The shorts, t-shirt, and sunglasses came to $29.08 with tax, leaving him with less than twenty dollars in his wallet. He ducked into a nearby alley and changed into his new clothes behind a large dumpster. Ray quickly relocated the stolen wallet and cell phone to the pockets of his shorts. He ditched the police belt, but kept the Taser and pepper spray bottle. The bottle fit in his pocket and the Taser fit in the back of his shorts. Also, the Taser was easily covered over with the shirt. 
    Burnside tore his old clothing to pieces and distributed the shreds liberally throughout the dumpster. His black sneakers didn't go perfectly with his new outfit, but they would have to do for now. He figured he would need the rest of the money for food and didn't want to waste it on a pair of sneakers.
    At that moment, Burnside realized he had forgotten to do something important. How long had it been since he left the fisherman tied up in the wilderness? Was it twelve hours yet? He wasn't sure, but it felt like it. Checking the time on the cell phone, he found it was almost nine pm. Ray thought he was far enough away now to risk making a quick call to the cops.