The network of back roads would hide them for a while but not forever. Unless they got an inconspicuous car, it was only a matter of time before somebody spotted them.
“We need a new car,” he said. “Now.”
“Way out here in the sticks, there ain’t nothing,” Duke observed. “We need a shopping center, grocery store, something like that.”
“I don’t think there are any this far in.”
Abruptly, Duke peered forward. “Well, looky there.”
Erik saw it.
“Tell me God ain’t on our side,” Duke said.
The road wound down through the woods. Up ahead was a one lane truss bridge which crossed a deep creek.
Parked off the side was a white van.
It was one of those custom jobs, cursive pinstriping, multiple coats of lacquer, Keystone mags. And lower, a guy and a girl sat at the creekside with fishing rods.
“We’re taking them with us, Duke, right? You’re not going to kill them, right?”
“No sweat, buddy. I swear on my daddy’s grave. From here on I don’t kill nobody.”
Erik pulled over. The two kids looked up the crest. Duke fiddled with some switches until the flashing red and blues popped on. “This is the police,” he barked out the window. “You two get on up here.”
The girl looked questioningly to her boyfriend. She wore white shorts, flip flops, and a maroon bikini top. The guy wore overalls. They both looked in their late teens.
“Come on, come on, I ain’t got all day.”
They rose and began to move forward. Duke fiddled with the LECCO on the console, which secured a Remington 870P. The lock was designed to prevent unauthorized removal of the weapon when the officer was out of the car and the keys weren’t in the ignition. Unfortunately, now the keys were in the ignition, and all it took was the press of a little button to remove the shotgun. Duke promptly racked a round of 12 gauge into the chamber.
“Duke—”
“Don’t worry, buddy. I ain’t gonna kill ’em. But we sure as shit ain’t gonna get their van by pointing our fingers at ’em.”
The two kids loped up the hill, approached the passenger side.
“Whuh what seems to be th the problem, sir?” the guy asked.
“The problem is this, son,” Duke explained. “We’re not really cops, we’re escaped mental patients. And we need a new set of wheels real bad.” He stuck the shotgun out the window, aiming at the kid’s head. “Now, that van there, it looks mighty nice.”
The girl’s face paled instantly. A light yellow wet spot appeared at the crotch of her pretty white shorts.
“Please don’t kill us,” the boy pleaded.
“Relax, kid. Just throw me the keys.”
“The keys are in it, sir.”
“Why, that’s just daaaaaandy, son,” Duke falsettoed, then squeezed the Remington’s trigger.
The boy’s head blew to pulpy bits. A plop of brains splashed in the creek.
“Goddamn it, Duke!” Erik shouted, and pounded the dash. “You promised you wouldn’t!”
Duke grinned. “That’s right, buddy. I swore on my daddy’s grave. Thing is, my daddy ain’t dead.”
The girl had fainted right away. The boy lay splayed on his back, his arms extended. He looked like a headless referee signaling a touchdown.
“Get them both in the van,” Erik said, now weary with disgust.
Duke stuffed the last Twinkie in his face and got out. He threw their things in the van as Erik pulled the patrol car as deeply into the woods as he could. Then he checked the trunk. A box contained shotgun and pistol cartridges, a Second Chance bulletproof vest, several flashlights, and some flares. Erik took the whole box and put it in the van.
“Hurry up!” he shouted.
Duke scratched his head over the fallen boy, whose own head was gone from the jaw up. A few cerebral arteries hung like scraps from what was left of the ruptured cranial vault. “Can’t we leave the dude?” Duke asked. “Seems silly to drive around with a dead fella.”
Erik jumped in the van and started it up. “Duke, how many times do I have to tell you? When we leave bodies, we leave clues. If the cops find a body, they’ll ID it, run the name through MVA, and then they’ll know what we’re driving. Drag ’em both in here and let’s get going!”
Duke complied, hauling the kid to the van by overall straps. He paused to chuckle. “That’s the third head I blowed off since we been out. Think that’s some sort of record? Three blowed off heads in a day?”
“Come on!”
Duke dumped the boy in back, then dragged over the unconscious girl and did the same. He slammed the rear doors closed.
Erik backed the van up, shifted, and took off down the road. He headed south.
«« — »»
Eleven minutes later, two Luntville units and a state police pursuit car, heading south on Governor Bridge road, slammed on their brakes in succession, just past the old truss bridge by the fishing dell. They’d all seen it at once, the rear end of a patrol car sticking out of the woods. The car bore the stencil along the back fender: 208.
At first it looked like it might’ve crashed. This prospect pleased one of the officers very much. His name was Lawrence Mulligan, chief of the Luntville Police Department. Yes, it looked like they’d been driving too fast over the bridge, lost control, and plowed into the woods. Aw, please, God, let it be so. Let ’em be sittin’ in front with their heads busted open.
But God, today, would not be so obliging to Chief Lawrence Mulligan.
The three cops approached the still vehicle with their weapons drawn. The state cop had an AR 15A2, which he kept trained on unit 208’s back window. A Luntville PFC edged in toward the passenger side, while Chief Mulligan squeezed through trees toward the driver’s side.
“Careful, Chief,” warned the PFC. “They might still be in there.”
Please still be in there, Chief Mulligan fairly prayed. It was a misguided prayer to begin with. One does not generally pray with a 10mm Colt automatic in one’s hand. Nevertheless, Chief Mulligan prayed again, aloud this time: “Aw, please, please still be in there.”
The eloped mental patients were not in there.
All that remained to reward Chief Mulligan for his efforts was a quick note scribbled on the back of a standard traffic complaint and citation form.
The note read: Shag my balls, Chief.
—
Chapter 9
The vast forest belt rose toward the county’s northern line.
They cruised down long, straight two lane hardtops, passing endless tracts of newly tilled soil. The air was filled with fecund scents, which seemed alien to Ann. She was used to smog. The hour and a half drive seemed to transpose worlds. Ann had almost forgotten what the country was like.
Some vacation, she thought.
Melanie sat quietly in the back, reading Kafka. Martin drove. Ann could imagine his reservations. It was never easy for him. He would always be a city person to her parents, a cosmopolite. Strangers in a strange land, she mused. But wasn’t the same true of her? She’d been born and raised out here, a product of the same sensibilities, but she’d turned her back on those sensibilities without thinking twice. It was a transposition of worlds, one of which she felt no part.
“Is Grandpa going to die?” Melanie asked.
Ann couldn’t fathom a response. Melanie was old enough now that she needed to be leveled with. It had been easy when she was younger; the innocence of children could be taken advantage of when life turned grim. Where’s Daddy? she’d asked when Mark had left. He had to go away for a while, was all Ann needed to say. He’ll be back sometime. As Melanie grew older, she put the pieces together herself. But this?