Part 5 (1/2)

Boog turned back and gestured for me to get off. Reluctant but desperate, I dismounted. He got on and kicked the starter a few times, harder than I could, but Peggy Sue still refused to start.

The siren was getting louder.

Boog whanged on the fuel valve and carburetor with his crescent wrench. I began to like him.

”A bike gets old, c.r.a.p flakes off in the tank,” he said as he whanged. He didn't seem to have noticed the siren. ”You gotta start using better gas, make sure you don't get none of that alcohol junk, and change the filter screen a couple of times a year. It's like when people get old, they're supposed to eat more broccoli and bran flakes, but their a.s.ses get clogged up anyhow so they gotta take Ex-Lax.” He stopped pounding, then gave the starter three King Kong-cla.s.s kicks, twisting the throttle hard.

Peggy Sue roared. Boog dismounted, letting the engine idle down, but stood in my way as I tried to take his place. ”They ain't here yet,” he said, ”so give me a f.u.c.kin' minute. You're heading south, right?”

I nodded. ”I've got to get to-”

Boog thunked me upside the helmet with his wrench. ”Don't tell me where you're going. If the fuzz ask me, I want to say I don't know. Now listen up: Head west on fifty-four and blast through the first five stoplights. At the sixth light, hang left. That'll get you out of town quick. It turns into a country road that'll take you clear the f.u.c.k to Winfield, and from there it's less than twenty miles to the state line.”

He moved aside, and I got onto the bike. ”You hand out silver bullets too?” I asked. I would have sped away then, but he still had a hand on the handlebars.

”That ain't the way it is,” Boog said. ”I got no altruistic impulses.” He looked off toward the heart of the salvage yard. ”But I was seventeen when that G.o.dd.a.m.n plane went down. Maybe a guy young as you don't know what that means. But the first time I ever felt really good, I was listening to 'Oh, Boy.' I stripped down and rebuilt my first bike listening to 'Tell Me How.' I got to home plate with my first chick listening to 'Maybe Baby.' ”

”I understand,” I said, and maybe I did. He was the same age as Mother would have been.

”You owe me now,” Boog said, fixing his eyes on mine. ”You owe me, and you're gonna f.u.c.kin'-A pay me back.”

Should have known,I thought. ”How much?”

He scowled. ”f.u.c.k that.”

The siren was no more than a half mile away now. ”What, then? What?”

Boog took his hand off Peggy Sue. ”Help him,” he said, and stepped back.

I sat still for an instant, thinking that I should say something. Then Peggy Sue went into gear and we ripped past the motel, spraying gravel all the way out to U.S. 54.

As we accelerated westward, a wailing patrol car pa.s.sed us heading in the opposite direction. In my mirrors, I saw it swerve into the driveway of the FIFTY-FOUR MOTOR INN REASONABLE RATES. I cranked the Ariel's throttle and ran two red lights. The next four were green. We turned south.

The town gave way to bare hills and dead trees, and a mile from the turn we pa.s.sed an oil refinery.

White tanks like humongous aspirin tablets hulked along the east side of the road, and in their midst stood a complicated tower, all pipes and girders and incomprehensible shapes. A smoking yellow flame burned at its apex, making the thing look like an inverted stars.h.i.+p. This was the source of El Dorado's distinctive smell.

Less than a quarter mile past the refinery, the ramshackle screen of a drive-in movie theater stood with its ribbed back turned to the road, displaying a white marquee with red letters that spelled SKYVUE. On the dead gra.s.s between there and the ditch, satellite dishes sprouted like c.o.c.keyed mushrooms. A sign leaning against one of the dishes read ”SkyVue Drive-in Theater and Earth Station Emporium/Theater Closed for the Season/Buy a 200-Plus Channel Dish to Cure the Winter Blahs/All Antennas Built on the Premises/Inquire at Snack Bar.” I let up on Peggy Sue's throttle. I was driving past the place from which Mother had ordered the dish that had relayed Buddy Holly's image to my Sony. My chest felt hollow. My head hammered as if with sympathetic vibrations.

I didn't know how or why, but the SkyVue Drive-In Theater and Earth Station Emporium was important to my quest. I downs.h.i.+fted and hit the brakes.

I had just begun the left turn into the theater's driveway when I glimpsed a car with flas.h.i.+ng red and blue lights approaching fast from the city. It wasn't using a siren, and it was still far behind, but I was sure that the Authorities inside had seen me.

I leaned back out of the turn, and Peggy Sue accelerated hard, nearly jerking me from the seat. Boog and his crescent wrench had done a good job. If the Authorities behind us were locals, they would have to give up soon because we would be out of their jurisdiction. I hoped.

My att.i.tude had changed from that of a law-abiding citizen to that of a law-breaking fugitive in less than a day. ”It's so easy,” I told Peggy Sue, amazed.

SHARON.

Notes on client Oliver Vale, continued...

2/3/89; 6:22 P.M.: I gave myself the day off and have slept almost seven hours, so I'm thinking more clearly than I was in the early morning. I believe I know what to do.

I have an advantage over the authorities who are searching for Oliver. I know his psychology, which means that I should be able to predict his actions.

Oliver was last seen heading south. But all of his friends are here in Topeka, and his few remaining relatives live in Des Moines. According to the most recent radio news report, the Kansas Highway Patrol believes that Oliver traveled south only a short distance, then doubled back and slipped into Topeka, where he is now supposedly hiding out. In my opinion, the highway patrol is trying to save face because they haven't caught him yet. If Oliver were in Topeka, he would have come here. Because I asked him to.

He has not come here, which means that he is still heading south. The reason the KHP hasn't captured him is because he's in Oklahoma by now.

Oliver is heading for Lubbock, Texas, the birthplace-and gravesite-of his hero and father figure.

The one thing I can't predict is the route he will take. The only way I can help him, then, is to get to Lubbock first and meet him when he arrives.

It isn't as simple as that, of course, because I also have to get there secretly. I'm sure that I'm being watched, and my telephone might even be tapped. If I were to buy plane, train, or bus tickets, I would be pointing a bright red arrow right at Oliver.

So I'll have to drive, and I'll have to take a route as tortuous as the one Oliver is probably taking. If I canpersuade Bruce to come along-without telling him where we're going, or why-then we can use one of his firm's two Chevrolets, and the authorities might not even realize I've gone until I've reached my destination.

Bruce has just come into the apartment. He's had a tough Friday with a difficult lawsuit, but he says that he is in a good mood because he's taking the weekend off to be with me. He ignores the fact that Buddy Holly is still on our (and everyone else's) TV. He thus also ignores the fact that my client and friend is still in trouble.

I can deal with this, however. I'm no longer fatigued, so I'm not susceptible to useless anger. Bruce is simply being Bruce. And that's fine.

”Let's go away for the weekend,” I'll tell him.

”Sounds great,” he'll say. ”Where to? Chicago? Minneapolis? Denver?”

We'll snuggle on the divan. ”Let me surprise you,” I'll murmur.

I knowhis psychology too.

RICHTER.

A woman wearing a black sweatsuit met him at the Kansas City International Airport, handed him a keyring with two keys, and walked away without speaking. Richter appreciated that. A slip of paper taped to the keyring was printed with the words ”Lot F, Row 17, sixth s.p.a.ce from the fence. Perpetrator has fled area, but investigate residence.” Richter tore off the paper and ate it for practice.

The automobile was a black two-door Jaguar equipped with a compact disc player, a police-band scanner, a telephone, and a computerized map display. In the glove compartment Richter found directions to Oliver Vale's home, a driver's license photograph of and fact sheet on Vale, and a leather card case with a card identifying ”S. I. Richter” as an agent of the Federal Communications Commission.

Richter skimmed the fact sheet and then started the Jaguar to begin the eighty-mile trip. The disc player filled the compartment with Chuck Berry songs. Richter smiled. If one had to work in the Midwest, this was the way to do it.

He arrived at Oliver Vale's home in the late afternoon, feeling refreshed. His mood soured, however, when two policemen emerged from their cruiser, which was parked in the driveway, and told him that he would have to leave. They looked at the Jaguar suspiciously.

”FCC,” Richter told them, and produced identification from an inner pocket of his suit coat.

The shorter officer opened the card case and scowled. ”This ID says FBI,” he said.

”Yes,” Richter said, careful to mask his anger with a calm, measured tone. He was furious with himself for having blundered. He had always been the kind of man who neither made mistakes nor tolerated the mistakes of others. The FCC card case lay heavy in his pocket.

”Oh, you're with both, huh?” the officer said, looking him over. ”Guess you're about big enough to betwo people.”

”Not enough hair for one, though,” the taller officer said out of the side of his mouth.