Part 26 (1/2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

I have no idea where I drove for the next hour and a half.

Sometimes I was in town, sometimes I was on county roads.

A couple of times, I even drove by the police station.

a”I want to report a murder. I can even tell you who the murderer is.

a”Oh, you can, can you?

a”Yes, sir, it's one of your own officers. Garrett.

a”One of our own officers, eh? Well, now, isn't that interesting? You're accusing one of my own men of murder?

That's how the cops would react about Garrett.

They wouldn't believe me, they wouldn't want to believe me.

But Garrett wasn't my concern. Cindy was.

Even if she'd done nothing more than watch, she would also be charged with murder.

There was no way I could go to the police.

I stopped at an all-night gas station, its white tiles and bright lights making it look like a huge alien s.p.a.ce craft that had just landed in the middle of the rolling dark prairie.

I went in the john and tried to puke.

I couldn't.

I went back to my car and drove away.

And then I made a U-turn on the empty highway and drove right back.

This time, I didn't have any trouble puking at all.

I ate.

That was the funny thing.

After all the terror, and all the puking, I was suddenly, almost giddily hungry.

I pulled into a truck stop and sat at a counter with several grizzled drivers popping Benzedrine and eyeing the two hookers who were working this particular stop tonight. These were hookers who specialized in truck stops and truck drivers.

They were both pudgy, both barely out of their teen years, and both badly bleached blondes. One of them had a right eye that strayed and almost no b.r.e.a.s.t.s at all. I couldn't help it, I felt sorry for her. Being a hooker was a tough life, made even worse with a queer eye and a flat chest.

I ate six pancakes, two orders of hash browns, and a cheese omelet.

I also managed to listen to around twenty-five country western songs, which is no easy task, let me tell you.

I decided to top off my meal with a slice of apple pie and a fourth cup of coffee.

That was a mistake.

Two bites into the pie, I clamped my hand over my mouth and raced to the bathroom.

A couple of hairy truck drivers standing at the urinal watched me dive for a stall.

When I came out, and went to the sink to wash my face and hands, they were still at the urinal, pa.s.sing a joint back and forth.

”You better learn to hold your liquor a little better,” one of them said solemnly. ”You ain't gonna get no p.u.s.s.y with puke all over your s.h.i.+rt.”

”Thanks for the advice,” I said.

When I got home, around two, Josh sat at the kitchen table nursing a Pepsi and eating a donut. The kitchen smelled of coffee and spices.

”How you doing?”

”Pretty good,” I said. ”Tired, I guess. I went to the late show out at the Cineplex and then I just drove around.”

”What'd you see?'

”Oh, that new Kevin Costner movie.”

”Any good?”

I shrugged. ”Nothing special.”

I yawned, exhausted.

”Well, I'm going to head up to bed.”

”I'll be up in a little bit,” Josh said.

Then I made my mistake.

I stood up from the table and took my jacket off.

I didn't think anything of it until I saw Josh's face harden, and a kind of panic come into his eyes. You didn't see Josh panic very often.

”Wow. Are you all right?”