Gone South (17 page)

It was the picture, he thought, of a man who’d gone south a long, long time ago.

“You have a picture of me?” Chad asked. Dan shook his head, and Chad took a folded piece of paper from the wallet. “You can have this one if you want it.”

Dan unfolded the paper. It was a picture of Chad in a football uniform, the number fifty-nine across his chest. The camera had caught him in a posed lunge, his teeth gritted and his arms reaching for an off-frame opponent.

“I cut it out of last year’s annual,” Chad explained. “That was the day the whole team got their pictures taken. Coach Pierce said to look mean, so that’s what I did.”

“You did a good job of it. I wouldn’t care to line up against you.” He gave his son a smile. “I do want this. Thank you.” He refolded the picture and put it in his own pocket, and he returned the Sears studio photograph to Chad. And now, as much as he wished it weren’t so, he had to leave.

Chad knew it, too. “You ever comin’ back?” he asked.

“No,” Dan said. He didn’t know quite how to end this. Awkwardly, he offered his hand. “So long.”

Chad leaned into him and put his arms around his father’s shoulders.

Dan’s heart swelled. He hugged his son, and he wished for the impossible: a rolling-back of the years. He wished the dirty silver rain had never fallen on him. He wished Chad had never been contaminated, that things could’ve been patched up with Susan, and that he’d been strong enough to seek help for the nightmares and flashbacks. He guessed he was wishing for a miracle.

Chad said, up close to his ear, “So long, Dad.”

Dan let his son go and got out of the car. His eyes were wet. He wiped them with his forearm as he walked to the station wagon, where Susan waited. He’d almost reached her when he heard a dog barking, a high-pitched
yap yap yap.

Dan stopped in his tracks. The sound had drifted across the park, its direction hard to pinpoint. It was close enough, though, to instantly set Dan’s nerves on edge. Where had it come from? Was somebody walking a dog in the park at
this
hour? Wherever it was, the dog had stopped barking. Dan glanced around, saw nothing but the dark shapes of pine trees that stood in clusters surrounding the parking lot.

“You all right?” Susan looked as if she’d aged five years in the last few minutes.

“Yeah.” A tear had trickled down his cheek into his beard. “Thanks for bringin’ him.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I didn’t know. You took a chance, that’s for sure.”

“Chad needed to see you as much as you needed to see him.” Susan reached into her jeans pocket. “I want you to have this.” Her hand emerged with some greenbacks. “I raided the cookie jar before we left the house.”

“Put it away,” Dan said. “I’m not a charity case.”

“This isn’t the time to be proud or stupid.” She grabbed his hand and slapped the money into it. “I don’t know how much cash you’ve got, but you can use another sixty dollars.”

He started to protest, but thought better of it. An extra sixty dollars was, in its own way, a small miracle. “I’ll call it a loan.”

“Call it whatever you please. Where’re you goin’ from here?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll head to New Orleans and sign on a freighter. I can still do a day’s work.”

Susan’s face had taken on the grave expression Dan remembered that meant she had something important to say but she was working up to it. “Listen,” she said after a moment, “you mentioned findin’ a place to rest. I’ve been seein’ a fella for the past year. He works for an oil company, and we’ve talked about … maybe gettin’ more serious.”

“You mean married serious?” He frowned, not exactly sure how he felt about this bolt from the blue. “Well, you picked a fine time to tell me.”

“Just hear me out. He’s got a cabin in a fishin’ camp, down in the bayou country south of Houma. The camp’s called Vermilion. Gary’s in Houston, he won’t be back till next week.”

It took a few seconds for what Susan was saying to get through to him. Before Dan could respond, Susan went on. “Gary’s taken Chad and me down there a few weekends. He checks on the oil rigs and we do some fishin’. There’s no alarm system. Nothin’ much there to steal. The nearest neighbor’s a mile or so away.”

“Bringin’ Chad was enough,” Dan told her. “You don’t have to —”

“I
want
to,” she interrupted. “The cabin’s two or three miles past the bridge, up a turnoff on the left. It’s on the road that’s a straight shot out of Vermilion. Painted gray with a screened-in porch. Wouldn’t be hard to get past the screen and break a windowpane.”

“What would Gary say about that?”

“I’ll explain things. There’ll be food in the pantry; you wouldn’t have to go out.”

Dan grasped the door’s handle, but he wasn’t yet ready to leave. The police would be out there, hunting him in the night, and he was going to have to be very, very careful. “I could use a day or two of rest. Figure out what to do next.” He hesitated. “Is this fella … Gary … is he good to you?”

“He is. He and Chad get along real well, too.”

Dan grunted. It was going to take him some time to digest this news. “Chad needs a father,” he said in spite of the pain it caused him. “Somebody who takes him fishin’. Stuff like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Susan said. “I wish I could do more for you.”

“You’ve done enough. More than enough.” He pushed the money into his pocket. “This is my problem, and I’ll handle it.”

“Stubborn as hell.” Her voice had softened. “Always were, always will be.”

He opened the station wagon’s door. “Well, I guess this is good —”

A flashlight clicked on.

Its dazzling beam hit Dan’s eyes and blinded him.

“Freeze, Lambert!” a man’s voice ordered.

T
HE SHOCK PARALYZED DAN
. Susan caught her breath with a harsh gasp and spun around to face the intruder.

“Easy, easy,” the man behind the flashlight cautioned. He had a whispery, genteel southern accent. “Don’t do anythin’ foolish, Lambert. I’m armed.”

He was standing about twenty feet away. Dan expected to be hit by a second light, and then the policemen would rush in, slam him against the car, and frisk him. He lifted his hands to shield his face from the stabbing white beam. “I’m not packin’ a gun.”

“That’s good.” It was a relief to Flint Murtaugh, who had crept up from the edge of the parking lot by keeping the woman’s car between himself and the fugitive. He’d been standing there for a couple of minutes in the darkness, listening to their conversation. In his left hand was the flashlight, in his right was a .45 automatic aimed just to Lambert’s side. “Put your hands behind your head and lock your fingers.”

It’s over,
Dan thought. He could run, maybe, but he wouldn’t get very far. Where were the other policemen, though? Surely there wasn’t just the one. He obeyed the command.

Susan was squinting into the light. She’d talked to the policemen in charge of the stakeout on her house and to the one who’d followed her to the Holiday Inn; she hadn’t heard this man’s voice before. “Don’t hurt him,” she said. “It was self-defense, he’s not a cold-blooded killer.”

Flint ignored her. “Lambert, walk toward me. Slowly.”

Dan paused. Something was wrong; he could feel it in the silence. Where were the backup policemen? Where were the police cars, the spinning bubble lights and the crackling radios? They should’ve converged on him by now, if they were even here.

“Come on, move it,” Flint said. “Lady, step out of the way.”

Lady,
Susan thought. The other policemen had addressed her as
Mrs. Lambert.
“Who are you?”

“Flint Murtaugh. Pleased to meet you. Lambert, come on.”

“Wait, Dan.” Susan stepped in front of him to take the full force of the light. “Show me your badge.”

Flint clenched his teeth. His patience was already stretched thin from the hellish drive with Pelvis Eisley and Mama. He was in no mood for complications. Flint had never cared to know the names of all the characters Elvis Presley had played in his wretched movies. Trying to make Eisley cease jabbering about Presley was as futile as trying to make that damn mutt stop gnawing at fleas. Flint was tired and his sharkskin suit was damp with sweat, Clint was agitated by the heat and kept twitching, and it was long past time for a cold shower and a glass of lemon juice.

“I’d like to see your badge,” Susan repeated, the man’s hesitation fueling her doubt.
Flint Murtaugh,
he’d said. Why hadn’t he said
Officer Murtaugh?

“Listen, I’m not plannin’ on a long relationship with you people, so let’s cut the chatter.” Flint had taken a sidestep so the light hit Lambert’s face again. Susan moved to shield her ex-husband once more. “Lady, I told you to step out of the way.”

“Do you have a badge, or not?”

Flint’s composure was fast unraveling. He wanted Lambert to come to him because he didn’t want to have to pass the woman; if she grabbed for the flashlight or the gun, things could get messy. He wished he’d circled around the other side and crept up on Lambert from behind to keep the woman from being between them. It was Eisley’s fault, he decided, for screwing up his concentration. Flint had a small spray can of Mace in his inside coat pocket, and he suspected that he might have to use it. “Lady,” he replied, “that man standin’ there is worth fifteen thousand dollars to me. I’ve come from Shreveport to find him, and I’ve had a hard night. You really don’t want to get yourself involved in this.”

“He’s not a policeman,” Dan said to Susan. “He’s a bounty hunter. You workin’ for the bank?”

“Independent contract. Keep your fingers locked, now; let’s don’t cause anymore trouble.”

“You mind if I ask how you found me?”

“Time for that when we’re drivin’. Come on, real slow and easy.” It had been a lucky break, actually. Flint had driven along Jackson Avenue and had seen the police surveillance teams, one at either end of the block. He’d parked two streets away and sat beside a hedge in someone’s yard, watching the house to see what developed. Then the woman had pulled out of her garage, followed by another policeman in an unmarked car, and Flint had decided to tag along at a distance. At the Holiday Inn he’d been on the verge of calling it quits when her watchdog had rushed off, obviously answering a radio summons, but then the woman had emerged again and Flint had smelled an opportunity.

“Don’t do it,” Susan said before Dan could move. “If he doesn’t work for the state of Louisiana, he doesn’t have any right to take you in.”

“I’ve got a
gun!”
Flint was about ready to snort steam. “You understand me?”

“I know a gun’s not a badge. You’re not gonna be shootin’ an unarmed man.”

“Mom?” Chad called from the car. “You need some help?”

“No! Just stay where you are!” Susan directed her attention at the bounty hunter again. She took two steps toward him.

“Susan!” Dan said. “You’d better keep —”

“Hush.
Let somebody help you, for God’s sake.” She advanced another step on Flint. “You’re a vulture, aren’t you? Swoopin’ in on whatever meat you can snatch.”

“Lady, you’re tryin’ to make me forget my manners.”

“You ready to shoot a woman, too? You and Dan could share the same cell.” She moved forward two more paces, and Flint retreated one. “Dan?” Susan said calmly. “He’s not takin’ you anywhere. Get in your car and go.”

“No!
No, goddamn it!” Flint shouted. “Lambert, don’t you move! I won’t kill you, but I’ll sure as hell put some hurt on you!”

“He’s empty talk, Dan.” Susan had decided what needed to be done, and she was getting herself into position to do it. She took one more step toward the bounty hunter. “Go on, get in the car and drive away.”

Flint hollered, “No, you don’t!” It was time to put Lambert on the ground. Flint jammed the automatic into his waistband and plucked the small red can of Mace from inside his coat. He popped the cap off with his thumb and put his index finger on the nozzle. The concentrated spray had a range of fifteen feet, and Flint realized he was going to have to shove the woman aside to get a clear shot at Lambert. He was so enraged he almost fired a burst into her eyes, but he’d never Maced a woman and he wasn’t going to start now. He stalked toward her and was amazed when she stood her ground. “To hell with this!” he snarled, and he jabbed an elbow at her shoulder to drive her out of the line of fire.

But suddenly she was moving.

She was moving very, very fast.

She clamped a wiry hand to his right wrist, stepped into him with her own shoulder, and pivoted, her elbow thunking upward into Flint’s chin and rattling his brains. His black wingtips left the pavement. His trapped wrist was turned in on itself, pain shooting up his arm. Somewhere in midair he lost both the flashlight and the Mace. As he went over the woman’s hip, one word blazed in Flint’s consciousness:
sucker.
Then the ground came up fast and hard and he slammed down on his back with a force that whooshed the breath from his lungs and made stars and comets pinwheel through his skull. Susan stepped back from the fallen man and scooped up the flashlight. “Way to go, Mom!” Chad yelled, leaning out of the Toyota’s window.

“Damn” was all Dan could think to say. It had happened so quickly that his hands were still locked behind his head. “How did you —”

“Tae kwon do,” Susan said. She wasn’t even breathing hard. “I’ve got a brown belt.”

Now Dan understood why Susan hadn’t been afraid to meet him. He lowered his hands and walked to her side, where he looked down the flashlight’s beam at the bounty hunter’s pained and pallid face. A comma of white-streaked hair hung over Flint Murtaugh’s sweat-glistening forehead, and he’d curled up on his side and was clutching his right wrist.

Dan saw the automatic and freed it from the man’s waistband. “Brown belt or not, that was a damn fool thing to do. You could’ve gotten yourself killed.” He removed the bullet clip, threw it in one direction and the gun in another.

“He had somethin’ in his other hand.” Susan shone the light around. “I couldn’t tell what it was, but I heard him drop it.” She steadied the beam on Murtaugh again. “I can’t figure out where he came from. I thought I made sure nobody was follow—” She stopped speaking. Then, her voice tight: “Dan. What is
that?”