Ray retained hazy images of a man and woman there in the parking lot, the woman screaming again and again as if someone had dropped a mouse down her dress, and somebody else looking at him from the passenger side of a parked car.
He looked down at old Doc, either dead or very close to dying, with a CCI Stinger having just gone in through the face, exploding the brain on its way out, or so it appeared, Raymond shivering, not fainting after all, finding the strength to go back and put the gun on the floorboard beside a small, leather-bound book that he'd knocked off the seat.
He sat in the truck waiting to hear the siren, wondering who would show up first, Jimmie Randall or Eddie Roddenberg or some other asshole, coughing, looking at the weapon and the book, the word Lebensborn mocking him with its golden eagle and swastika.
64
Clearwater County Jail
Meara was a man deep in confusion. Hurt held him pinned. On the physical level he ached from a beating, but he'd had a few beatings before. At least one rib was broken, but he'd broken his share of ribs. The confusion—that was new: a muddy, inconscient thing that pushed at the limits of his sanity, washing across him in dirty waves of disorientation.
The man next to him whispered in a strange, hoarse voice, “—and you know, man, it ain't bad, but you're putting in all these hours and that's when you get hurt ‘n’ shit, when you don't concentrate. “Concentrate, the man whispered, and Meara, whose wrists, ankles, and waist were joined by jailhouse iron, tried to concentrate. The hurt stabbed his chest when he inhaled, held his chest like a vise, throbbed across the side of his head. His tongue found another point of soreness.
“So this big sumbitch comes back where we wuz playin’ poker ‘n’ he goes, kin I put my stuff over here? And this one ole boy, he says shit no, you cain't dump on nat, it's my bunk, shitbird. And hell, man, you know how it iz inna Navy, it's root hog or grunt!" The man laughed in his strange, whispery rasp.
The sign to Meara's left read Out Of Bounds.
“So, shit, I stand up ‘n’ say to this big dufus, we got rules here, boy. This dufus goes whatdyamean, man? And I say, hey, dufus, it's root hog or die, motherfucker!"
Behind them an authoritative flat voice barked, “No talking, assholes.” Meara filed it away for future reference.
To the left was out of bounds, and in this place there were no talking assholes permitted. As if to underscore this wisdom, heavy steel slammed behind them. Meara took a deep breath and winced from the sharp pain. A sign in front of him proclaimed Danger. Below that: Stand Clear While Gate Is In Motion.
This was more information than he could digest. The lights were dim. He fell, but there was no sensation when he smacked the hard surface, wrapped in perplexing ignominy and jailhouse iron. By the time he regained consciousness he was a news story. The front page of a sixteen-page newspaper:
BAYOU CITY MAN CHARGED IN SHOOTING
by Isabel Santora of the Bootheel-Republic staff
A Bayou City man has been charged in the attempted murder of retired physician Solomon Royal, 70, of the Royal Clinic of Bayou City.
The man is Raymond Meara, whose address is listed as Star Route, and who is said to live on a farm approximately twelve miles south of Bayou City, in the community of Bayou Ridge. Meara has been charged with attempted homicide.
He is accused of shooting Royal in front of his clinic at West Vine and Petrie streets at about 10:45 A.M. yesterday.
Sheriff Pritchett said, “From what we can tell, Mr. Meara was carrying a pistol with him and had parked near the clinic. Eyewitnesses say he walked up to Doc Royal and shot at him, point blank. Fortunately he's a lousy shot and the bullet barely grazed Doc on the side of the face. He lost a lot of blood but they got him patched up real good. Meara didn't attempt to resist arrest."
No motive has been established for the shooting, but Meara was believed to have been distressed over the Clearwater Trench Spillway project, which involves an area surrounding his farm.
The accused man was reportedly given a severe beating by inmates in the Clearwater County Jail when it was learned that he had shot Dr. Royal. A nurse, Earline Chambers, said that Meara was probably suffering from pneumonia at the time the beating occurred, and was probably ill when the shooting was committed.
Later that evening, when Ray woke up to receive medication, he had weird, remarkably clear memories of a conversation between Sharon and himself. He couldn't be sure if it was real or imagined.
“Don't be so violent in your reactions, Ray,” he could have sworn she'd said, trying to teach him. “You're not a stupid man so why react so narrowly to things? It only limits your perspectives and trashes your values in the process.” He knew he could never have made up such an elegantly turned phrase. “Life is worthless without decent values. Forget the macho rhetoric a second. Think! We live in a world of constant fighting: Muslim against Jew, Catholic against Protestant, Christian versus Christian, and so on. If we don't learn to live together we're going to kill off the human race, you know?"
“I don't agree,” he'd said, in a bullheaded mood. “Sometimes hard-core payback is the only answer. Look at your Israelis, you call them nonviolent? And I say good for them."
“Forget the vengeful stuff, Ray. The only steps that have advanced mankind in the last century were those taken by nonviolent leaders such as Gandhi and the civil rights leaders. No exceptions. The ancient moral values are the only ones that make sense: nonviolence, strong personal ethics, truth, and keeping to one's principles."
He'd sure learned that lesson well. Still, sick and hurting as he was, he realized how much he'd learned from Sharon in a short time. She'd already managed to sensitize him to deeply felt, subtle things he'd never bothered to consider before.
Meara closed his eyes and tried to visualize her there in the small cell with him: five feet, six inches of lovely woman. Dark-hued, velvety smooth skin, pale gem-green eyes, and the most provocative mouth of any woman he'd ever known.
The back page of the local newspaper stared up at him when he opened his eyes. He forced himself to pick up the paper and scan the horoscopes. There it was:
“SCORPIO (Oct. 24-Nov. 22) This is an ideal time to redecorate your surroundings. Emphasis is on authority figures. But resist the temptation to run away."
65
Sharon is walking across his front lawn. Not in high heels but sandals. Bare, tanned legs, long and sleekly muscled and inviting, walking with the insinuating hip-swinging stride that is the patented walk of sexy young women the world over. Still sophisticated looking but in a thin, flowered summer dress, and sandals. Pretty as a picture.
Her arms are bare and she has rather slender arms, and this, too, is very sexy. He remembers other girls, some of whom had large breasts and relatively small arms. Inside his head he sees the medal of a proficient marksman and the line “expert in small arms."
Sharon's hair is long, loose, a spill of sensuousness, a cascade of silky femininity that flows onto her shoulder. He might ask her to let her hair grow and to wear it hanging to her waist, like his grandmother had, and he would help her give it a hundred strokes every night.
He feels his hands on her shoulders as he comes up behind her. Sees her turn and smile into his face, her eyes wide and the color of perfect emeralds. Eyes of desire.
Did he ever know a girl like her, a mere child of the farm community, perhaps, struggling to pull her child's grass sack through the rows of cotton? Did such a beauty learn beside him, as the smaller boys and girls were taught the rigors of front and back chopping and blocking the plants? Not here.