Alligator Park (9 page)

Damon pushes Will away, attacks
him like a kick-boxer. Will backs off momentarily, then with the elegance of a
Karate master, spins Damon around and smashes his head into the wall. Damon
drops to the floor, doesn’t move. Will picks up the Bible, dusts it off, kisses
the cover.

“Amazing little book. Always
comes through in my time of need,” he says.  

Damon lies on the floor, eyes
closed, doesn’t move. Will approaches me, helps me off the floor. I creep
around the lifeless body maintaining as much distance as possible. Will follows
close behind. As we approach the door, I glance at Damon one more time.

“Is he dead?” I ask.

Will stoops down, feels his
pulse.

“No. Just knocked out. He’ll
be okay. 

“Maybe we should call 911.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Will strolls to the back wall,
tears off a paper towel from one of those wall dispensers, and then, uses it to
pick up the switchblade. He carefully folds the knife back together and then wraps
the paper towel around it.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“You’ll see. Come on; let’s get
out of here, before he comes to.” He takes my hand and then leads me out the
door.

The parking lot is dark now
except for a few areas illuminated by yellow sodium lights. I can see the black
T-Bird, but there’s no one else around. I guess hardly anyone stops here on
Sunday, at dinnertime, on a cold December night. I’m certain Damon knew that,
and planned this, and we fell into his trap. If it wasn’t for Will, who knows
where I’d be right now.

“Will... how’d you learn to
fight like that?” I ask.

“I don’t want to talk about
it right now.”

“Later then?”

“Yeah, later.”

Will takes the knife wrapped
in the paper towel and drops it down a drain.

“These toys belong in the
sewer,” he says.

I nod in agreement and we
retreat to the Cruiser. Will opens the driver’s door, slides into the seat, and
then starts the engine. As I reach for the passenger door, the wind whips at
the tear in my blouse exposing my bra. Suddenly I become disturbingly cognizant
of the impression it would project if a stranger saw me in this tattered condition.
I open the door, retrieve my jacket, and then struggle to put it on, still
shaking from the incident. Will nervously revs the motor.

“Come on, we got to get out
of here,” he barks.

“Okay!” I say gruffly, and
then plop into my seat slamming the door.

Will backs out the Cruiser
then speeds away onto the interstate.

“We’re lucky,” he says. “No
one saw us.”

“Yeah,” I say, but then think
about others that might be victimized by this psycho’s game, unsuspecting
college students or retirees traveling to their winter retreats. Who knows
where it could lead next time.

“Shouldn’t we file a police
report?” I ask.

“I’d rather not.”

“Why not?”

“There’s something strange
about this guy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, this is
not your typical hood,” he says. “He’s got a late model car, expensive clothes,
and talks like he’s well educated.”

“Crooks come in all shapes
and sizes,” I say.

“Yeah, but he’s got local
tags so I got a hunch he lives around here. And that could mean he’s well
connected.”

“Well connected?”

“Yeah, like he’s the son of a
politician or judge or something. We file a police report and next thing you
know, we’re the ones being charged with a crime.

“We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sure, but suppose the kid comes
up with a story, says we tried to rob him or something. If you’re the Justice
of the Peace, who you going to believe, the son of your best friend, or a
couple of drifters?”

“I never thought of that.”

“Better just let it lie.
Hopefully, someday, he’ll make a mistake and get his due.”

Will had a point. We were on
a tight schedule and didn’t have the time or resources to prove our innocence
should something bizarre happen. Being held up in a no-name town, where the
locals had all the good cards, and we would be treated as the hostile intruders;
it was not something I wanted to deal with right now. And even if everything
went right, it could still end up costing us hundreds of dollars for food and
lodging. Will was right; we had to let it lie.

But it bothered me to no end
that this crazy guy was out there, stalking the public, and there wasn’t a damn
thing we could do about it. Even an anonymous phone call could be traced, and that
wacko might have the resources to do it, especially if his father was a judge
or politician. He didn’t seem like the type that would just walk away from this.
His honor, or whatever his warped mind considered honor, was damaged. I’m
certain, given the opportunity, he would evoke revenge in the most destructive manner
he could conceive. And the thought of ever having to face him again frightens
me. I remind myself that in a couple of hours we will be out of this state and
beyond his influence. This whole dirty mess will be behind us; I will never
have to deal with this again. And that makes me glad.

“How’s your lip?” Will asks.

“Hurts.”

“Wrap an ice cube in a napkin
and press it against your lip. It’ll keep the swelling down.”

I reach into the cooler,
retrieve an ice cube, then do as he says.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yeah, much better.”

I settle back, close my eyes,
and try to get some much-needed rest. But it’s not to be. Will breaks the
silence with the last thing I want to hear.

“I think that’s a cop car
behind us.”

I sneak a peek and can
clearly see the outline of the lights on the roof.

“Probably just happens to be
going in our direction,” I say. “Nothing to worry about.”

But I was worried. Who knew
where he came from or what his motives were? I check again and notice the
police cruiser is getting closer. The whole thing is making me nervous, but I
keep telling myself there is no problem, just a coincidence. Then the police
lights go on lighting up the entire highway and the cruiser pulls up right
behind us. Will looks at me and shrugs: “I have to stop.”

I knew he was right; there
was no chance we could outrun a police car, nor would it be wise to. It would
give them a reason to arrest us and that would mean a trip to the police
station, bringing us right back into that psycho’s grip.

Will eases the PT Cruiser
onto the shoulder and turns off the engine. The highway is dark and foreboding
save for an occasional car racing by in the passing lane. The patrol car pulls
up behind us and directs a spotlight onto our vehicle. The officer in the driver’s
seat gets out and strolls over to Will, all the time shining a flashlight
around the inside of our vehicle as if he is searching for something. Will
rolls down the window. I catch a glimpse of the officer’s badge as a passing
car’s headlights reflect off it. He’s a North Carolina State Trooper and
thank-goodness for that. I’m glad he’s not one of those local cops. I don’t
know if it’s true, but up north, southern cops have a reputation of bending the
law any way it suits them, all in the interest of law enforcement of course. The
state police, on the other hand, have little interest in local issues and go
pretty much by the book.

The officer approaches the
window and addresses Will.

“License and registration,”
he says.

Will hands him what he asks.
The cop studies it for a moment.

“So you’re an exterminator.”

“No, not really,” Will says.

“Then how do you explain this?”
he says, pointing to the door.

“Oh, the sign. The car came
like that.”

“I see, impersonating an
exterminator.”

“Is there a law against it?”

“Could be, if you’re
deceiving someone.”

“We’re just passing through. Ain’t
no time to deceive anyone.”

The cop gazes at Will for a few
seconds.

“Okay, let’s keep it that
way,” he says, and hands Will back the license.

The other cop approaches my
window and then stands right outside the door, repeatedly slapping the
flashlight against his free hand, as if he were holding a night stick. I stare
straight ahead pretending not to notice.

Suddenly I realize I’m still
holding the ice cube and napkin against my swollen lip. As inconspicuously as
possible, I allow my hand to slowly slide down my chest and onto the seat. I then
relax my grip allowing the napkin and ice cube to slip through my fingers and onto
the floor. It would be a big mistake to draw any attention to the cut on my
lip.

The officer shines his
flashlight through the window and onto my face. I continue to stare straight
ahead, avoid looking at him. He taps on the window so I turn to face him. He motions
me to roll down the window so I do what he asks.

“I need to see your license
ma’am.”

“But I wasn’t driving.”

“Doesn’t matter, I need a
positive ID.”

I reach into my purse and
hand him my license. He glances at it and then does the unimaginable.

He places it into his shirt
pocket!

I feel my heart pounding and
my hands begin to shake.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

“We have reason to believe
you and your friend just came from that rest stop about twenty minutes up the
road.”

Thoughts race through my
mind. If we denied it, and he had an eye witness, he would know we were lying,
and that would give them grounds to bring us in for questioning. But if we
admit it, then that would open us up to more questioning, and who knows where
that would lead.

A lawyer friend once gave me
some good advice. He said, “Never lie to a police officer. But there’s no need
to give out more information than what he’s asking for.” I decide to follow his
advice.

“Yes, we were there.”

“Did you notice anything
unusual at the rest area, specifically in the ladies room?” he asks.

I think to myself, what does ‘unusual’
mean exactly? If someone were raised in a high-crime area, violence would be a
daily occurrence and not at all unusual. It all depends on perspective. I
decide the question is too vague, and a vague question deserves a vague answer.

“No, nothing unusual.”

“When you entered the ladies
room, did you see anyone lying on the floor?”

“When I entered the ladies
room, I was the only one in there. I’m certain of that. All the stalls were
open and I didn’t see or hear anyone else in there,” I respond.

“And what about the grounds,
did you see anyone there?”

“There was a young man
standing by a black car. He was smoking a cigarette. I only caught a glimpse of
him; he was minding his own business so I paid him no mind.”

“Was he still there when you
left?”

“The black car was still
there, but he was gone.”

The officer suddenly shines
his flashlight onto my face, studies it for a moment.

“I see you cut your lip. Would
you like to tell me about it?”

Oh shit, he would have to say
that. Now he’s going to want to know how I cut it and then one question will
lead to another. And then there’s the tear in my blouse. If he makes me get out
of the car, he’ll want me to remove my jacket. He’ll see the tear and ask me
how that happened. One thing will lead to another and suddenly we’ll be taken
to the police station for more questioning. And then they would fill out a
police report. If Damon is as well connected as Will believes, he would have
the means to check it out, and it would give him all the personal information
he needs to track us down. I need to defuse this now. I’ve got to play it cool.

“It’s really nothing
officer,” I say. “I just accidently bit my lip.”

The officer moves closer,
shines the flashlight on my mouth.

“Looks bad. Your lip’s all
swollen.”

“It’s not that bad. Hardly
hurts at all.”

He thinks for a moment, then
says, “Don’t go anywhere,” and then strolls to the back of the car. The other
officer joins him and I can see them talking, but they are too far away to hear
what they are saying. Then the first cop, the one from the driver’s seat, strolls
back to the police car and starts talking on the radio. A couple of minutes pass
and I see him nod to the second cop, the one that was beside my window. He saunters
back to me, shines his flashlight into the car, and then hands me my license.

“You can go now,” he says.

And then I let my curiosity
get the better of me.

“Excuse me officer, did
something happen at the rest stop?”

I didn’t really expect
him to answer—officers never give out confidential information—but then he
surprises me and says,
“We
got a report that a young man was in the ladies room lying unconscious on the
floor. The EMT’s treated and released him, but we’re trying to figure out how
he got there in the first place. The man claims he got dizzy, wandered in there
by mistake, and then passed out. The whole thing sounds a little fishy to me. From
the bump on his head, it looks like he hit the floor pretty hard.”