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Perry drank. You got something you got to do?
Im doing it, Dew said. Margaret asked that we stay here a little longer, give you a chance to rest. So until we leave, getting you to be more cooperative is kind of my main job.
Perry looked at the chair. Dew wasnt sure, but he thought the kid turned a little red. Like he was embarra.s.sed or something.
You, uh . . ., Perry said. You want to . . . sit down and . . . shoot the s.h.i.+t?
Perry offered the bottle again. Dew took it, sat down and had another long swig.
UNKIE DONNY HAS HAD BETTER DAYS
Donald Jewell, or Unkie Donny, as Chelsea liked to call him, did not feel good. Perhaps it was more accurate to say that he felt like a tainted can of boiled elephant a.s.s.
The fever had picked up steam. It came nicely packaged with an overall ache, as well as annoying shooting pains in his left arm. Far worse was that Betty seemed just as sick. She was slumped in the pa.s.senger seat, head against the window, eyes closed. And she was sweating.
But that wasnt the worst of it.
Someone was following him.
He couldnt be sure who it was; there were so many cars on the highway. But hed seen cars behind him, the same cars, several times. Who was it? What did they want?
Hed been on the road for over two hours. He had at least six to go, more like eight or nine if the weather didnt let up. Freezing rain made driving a royal b.i.t.c.h. All the traffic on I-75 moved along at forty-five miles an hour. At least up north, people knew how to drive in winter: it was a safe bet that the cars in the ditch belonged to downstaters or people from Ohio.
He was hot, he was sleepy, the conditions were c.r.a.pnot a good combination when his whole life sat in the pa.s.senger seat next to him.
Who was following him? Who?
Donald pulled off the highway into a rest stop near Bay City. He exited slowly, seeing which cars behind him did the same. None did. They must have known he was onto them.
Or maybe he was acting crazy. . . . No one was following him. That was just nuts.