Prodigal Blues (36 page)

His lower lip trembled.
 
"He made her… cut it off and… and…?"

"Yeah."

He shook his head.
 
"The news reports ain't saying the extent of the disfigurement on either of them, except some about the colored boy—Arnold?
 
Says his face was deliberately scarred in patterns."

"
Ta Moko
," I said.
 
"It's a traditional method of facial scarring among ancient Maori warriors.
 
To hide a boy's age and show his place amongst the hierarchy of the tribe."

Uncle Herb wrote that down in pencil on the back of a bar ticket, then looked at me, considered something, and set out two more beers.
 
"You want something more to eat than them rings?
 
Beth could fix us up a couple of mean burgers."

"You still buying?"

"Why not?
 
Can I see that driver's license of yours again?"

"Then you'll know my last name."

"I'm gonna trust you not to bolt when I step away from this bar, then you gotta trust me."
 
He held out his hand.
 
"Your license."

I handed over the wallet; he did not open it; instead, he slid back the lid of the beer cooler, tossed it inside, then closed the lid.
 
"I'll go put in our order, make a call or two."

"I'll wait right here."

"I believe you.
 
How many burgers you want?"

"Two.
 
One for here, one for the road."

"Sounds like you're assuming that Big Bad Bubba isn't still lurking in your future."

I did not blink.
 
"I like to assume the bright side whenever possible."

He said nothing to that, only smiled, shook his head, and disappeared through the swinging doors.

I sat there staring at the rings of condensation made by the beer bottles on the marble of the bar.
 
I have no idea what I thought about, or for how long I sat there doing so; all I remember is that I was scared half out of mind, the rings kept spreading out toward each other, and that I really truly seriously didn't want to know anyone named Bubba or Brutus or even Bruce.
 
Especially not Bubba.
 
Bubba was a name you saw on
Wanted
posters in post office lobbies.
 
And they were never smiling.
 
Bubba the Unsmiling One.
 
Meet Mark, your new cellmate.
 
No thank you.

"Who'd you get the badge from?"

His voice startled me.
 
I shuddered from my thoughts, cleared my throat, had to pause for a moment to remember what he'd just asked me, then said:
 
"From them.
 
They stole it from Grendel, who I guess got it from an actual U.S Marshal."

Uncle Herb's face turned into a slab of granite.
 
"That's the only way he
could've
gotten it.
 
I've seen the phonies—some of them damned good and expensive phonies—and what you flashed there was the real thing."

I took it out of the wallet and handed it to him.
 
"Is there any way that badge can be traced back to the man who originally had it?"

"You damned well better believe it.
 
And if it turns out the guy's dead, they have ways of finding out the who and how of stuff like this.
 
If the guy isn't dead, he'll soon enough wish he were."
 
He looked at the badge, then blinked.
 
"Silly me—I went and smudged it."
 
He took the towel he'd used on his hands and began wiping off the badge, then winked at me as he slipped it into his shirt pocket.
 
"But the two kids are gonna be fine.
 
Seems to me you might be something of a hero, Mark."

"So you got hold of someone…?"

"Yeah.
 
A friend of mine with the Indy State Police.
 
He's damned curious how it is I know about Rebecca's breast when that information hasn't been released.
 
He was also glad to know the term
Ta Moko
.
 
Seems several of the guys have been trying to remember what that type of scarring is called."

"But the kids are all right?"

"They're both in real good shape, Mark.
 
And their families are there with them."

I exhaled, dropped my chin onto my chest, and started crying.
 
"Oh, God… oh, you have… you have no idea how worried I was about them, that… that…"

He patted my shoulder.
 
"I understand.
 
If it's any consolation, you did the exact right thing, considering the circumstances."
 
He handed me some napkins so I could blow my nose (gingerly, and it still hurt like hell) and wipe my eyes, then tossed my still-unopened wallet back onto the bar.
 
"All right, then.
 
What happened after all of you left the motel room?"

I filled him in on most of it—excepting the murder and what we had stashed in the trailer.
 
While I spoke, Uncle Herb's eyes narrowed into slits, grew hard, then sad.
 
As I was finishing, he polished off the rest of his beer, did not call Andy and Barney over, then pulled a pack of smokes out from behind their hiding place near the cash register.
 
"Beth and Larry been lecturing me for years to quit these things.
 
I know they're bad for you, but dammit, they taste good sometimes, you know?
 
Especially right after hearing a story like yours."
 
He lit up, offered me one, and I took it.

We smoked in silence for a moment.

"Are you going to have me arrested?"

"I'd've done that by now if I was going to."

"What are you going to do with me?"

"I'm going to give you your burgers and let you leave here.
 
I don't know your last name, so all I can give the State Police boys from Indiana is your description—by the way, lose the nose-splint as soon as you can."

"Your friend's
that
curious how you came to know about Rebecca?"

"He's downright perplexed.
 
I hung up soon as I could, but it's not gonna take him too long to realize what's happened and get someone over here."
 
A bell sounded from back in the kitchen.
 
"Food's up.
 
Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Mark No-Last-Name-To-Speak-Of?"

"Yes—did you buy this place from John and Ellen Matthews?"

"I bought it from the Matthews family, yes."

"Then can you please,
please
tell me where I can find them?"

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, brushed something off his sleeve, then looked at me and said, "I certainly can."

I
walked toward the bus with a slip of paper in my hand.
 
Written on it was an address which, according to Uncle Herb, wasn't all that far from where we were now.
 
The rain was coming down a lot heavier, and rumbles of serious thunder were getting louder and closer.
 
I pulled up the hood on my jacket and ran the rest of the way to the bus.

Once inside, I pulled down the hood and handed Christopher a brown paper bag.
 
"I got us some hamburgers.
 
I figured maybe we ought to eat something."

"Thanks," he said, taking the bag from me.

I looked at him for a moment, then at the slip of paper in my hand.
 
"Christopher—"

"No fries?"

"What?"

He closed the bag and looked at me.
 
"How can you order hamburgers and not get any fries?"

"I'm… I'm sorry, it didn't occur to me."

He sniffed the air around me.
 
"Do I smell onion rings?
 
Is onion rings what I'm smelling?"

"I had some, yeah, but—fuck that, you need to—"

"
You
need to calm down, Mark."

"I'm… what're you talking about?
 
I'm fine.
 
Listen to me—"

"I said
calm down!
"

"Jesus Christ, will you shut up for a second and listen—?"

He reached across the seat and zapped me in the neck with the
Taser
and that was it for me for a while…

…u
ntil I opened my eyes to almost total darkness.
 
My body was still thrumming from the
Taser
and movement came in slow degrees.

I took in the entirety of the mess, then broke it down into bite-sized pieces of disorder.

Disorder first:
 
I was alone in the bus, which was still running.

Disorder second:
 
wherever we were, it was fairly enclosed, because I could smell the exhaust fumes growing stronger by the minute.

Disorder third:
 
if the scene illuminated by the headlights was for real and not some leftover images from a dream I didn't remember having, then we were parked deep inside a cave—

—or the entrance to a mine.

Shit, shit, shit.

I did not so much turn toward my door as I did flop in its general direction.
 
Getting a solid grip on the handle was one of the supreme accomplishments of my life, because my arms and hands were still half-numbed, but I got a grip; I then
lost
it, got it back, and had the door opened before it occurred to me that my legs might not be up for walking or standing.
 
By the time this did occur to me, I was already face-down on the soggy ground.
 
I pushed myself up, reached into the bus, thought I had a grip on the lower part of the seat, and tried to pull myself up only to slip and fall once again.

I'd grabbed the gun.
 
I looked at it, cursed, then slipped into the back of my pants and grabbed the running board, managing to balance myself enough to stand with the aid of the door, which I clung to like a life preserver.

I could see the entrance in the distance, framed by timbers as Christopher said it would be.
 
Outside it was deep gray, the rain pounding down and the thunder so loud I expected it to rip through the roof and bring all that limestone crashing down on my head.
 
I took several slow, deep breaths, feeling some strength return to me, hesitantly, like a child afraid it was about to be scolded or punished.

Christopher was just inside the entrance, fiddling with a barrel.
 
A barrel strapped to a dolly.
 
A barrel strapped to a dolly with all sort of wires running around it.

Shit, shit, shit.

He checked all the connections, checked a device I assumed was the timer, then set it aside and started walking back toward me.

He stopped by the door to the trailer, his face expressionless.
 
"You okay?"

"What… what the hell did you do that for?"

"You were pretty out of control there, dude.
 
If I'd realized that just stopping to use the toilet and get some food was going to cause you to flip out, I'd've made you take dump in one of the coolers."

I shook my head, which was a mistake because it sent a wave of dizziness and nausea rolling through my entire body.
 
"…didn't have to use the goddamn bathroom… I found out about your—"

He opened the trailer's door.
 
"In a minute, Mark.
 
Hold that thought."

Light from inside the trailer spilled out against the walls.
 
They were wet, and dark, and raggedly uneven; if it weren't for the supports around us, I would have sworn we were deep inside a grave.

Christopher emerged a few seconds later pushing—of all things—a fairly-expensive motorcycle, a wide one made for long travel, complete with windshield, side compartments for storing small pieces of luggage, and a small rack across the back of the seat.

"Where'd you get that?" I managed to say.

"Saving up cigarette coupons—where do you
think
I got it?
 
I stole it from one of the rest stops we made before we picked you up.
 
Arnold and me painted it and changed the plates—that's where he got the bright idea about painting the trailer.
 
You gonna be all right there for a minute?"

"But your family—"

"—is going to be real glad to see us.
 
I hope you're hungry, because you can bet that Mom's going to make you eat something.
 
No guest ever leaves our home unfed.
 
You stand warned."
 
He rolled the motorcycle up to the entrance and leaned it against the wall.
 
I noticed for the first time that he had some other things up there, as well; a duffel bag and several shoulder bags which held, I assumed, the computers.