Honeymoon for Three (15 page)

***

The red light that appeared in Alfred’s
rearview mirror was quickly followed by the sound of a siren. Shit.
It was a cop. For the last half hour he’d been driving south toward
Wyoming as fast as he could navigate the roads at night, hardly
slowing down for the villages along the way. He was going through
one now.

He considered trying to outrun the cop but
quickly rejected the idea. That would bring the whole state of
Montana down on him. He needed to get this resolved quickly. He
slowed down, pulled off the road, and stopped. The red light
stopped behind him. His heart was pounding again. He took a quick
look around the car and saw the stack of bills sitting on the seat
beside him. He opened the glove compartment and shoved them inside.
Then he remembered the gun. He took it out of his pocket, threw it
into the glove compartment, and slammed the door shut.

Through his outside mirror he could see the
cop approaching, looking large and dark and menacing in his
broad-brimmed hat. Alfred cranked down his window and tried to
compose himself. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket.

The cop came up to the window and said, “Do
you know how fast you were going?” He spoke slowly, with a
drawl.

“No sir.”

“Thirty miles over the speed limit. May I
see your driver’s license?”

Alfred handed it to him. He unhooked his
registration from the steering column where he kept it because
California law required it to be visible. He gave that to the
officer, on request.

The policeman studied the documents. “You
Californians think you can come out here and drive any way you
like. We got laws here, you know. It’s not just cowboys and
Indians.”

His head was right at the window. Alfred
heard him sniff the air. He smelled the vomit. Alfred had driven
for a while with the window open, trying to get rid of the smell,
even though he froze doing it.

“Would you step out of the car please?” the
officer asked, but it wasn’t really a question.

Alfred complied. The cop asked him to walk a
few steps.

“Have you been drinking?”

“No sir.”

“You don’t look drunk. But that’s a healthy
odor in your car. Actually, more of a nauseating odor. I don’t see
how you can stand it.”

“I…I was feeling sick. Something I ate.”
Actually, he hadn’t eaten. His hunger pangs had returned.

“I’m going to have to ask you to follow me
to the station. Here are your options. Since you’re from out of
state, we can’t just let you go. You can post bail and then leave.
Or you can stay the night and go up before the Justice of the Peace
in the morning.”

Alfred knew he’d better be on his best
behavior. The officer went back to his car and made a U-turn.
Alfred followed him. Five minutes later they were at the police
station. Alfred took some of the money from the glove compartment
and placed it in his wallet before he got out of the car. The
station was located in a small building. Inside, one other officer
sat at a desk. The cop who had stopped Alfred explained the
situation to the other one.

The second officer grinned amiably and spoke
to Alfred. “Well, son, bail is fifty dollars. You can pay that now
and go merrily on your way. Or you can stay with us tonight,
courtesy of the Bozeman Police Department, and talk to the JP in
the morning. We got a spare cot in the room there.”

He indicated a small room with an open door.
Alfred could see an army cot through the doorway.

“What will the fine be?”

“Probably about twenty dollars.”

So he could save thirty dollars and have a
free place to stay tonight. That was tempting. Reality intruded.
The man at the store had undoubtedly been found by now. Some kind
of a bulletin must have been issued. Didn’t cops trade information
with each other? Since he was coming from the direction of the
shooting, he would be a natural suspect.

A teletype machine started clanking next to
the seated officer. Alfred could read some of the words that were
printing on roll paper from his side of the counter. He saw the
word “store” and the word “robbery.” He made out the word “murder.”
My God, the man was dead. He had killed him. He had to get out of
there. Fortunately, the officer was ignoring the teletype at the
moment. But he would be reading it soon enough.

“Well, I’ve got an appointment in Billings
tomorrow.” Alfred tried to look casual and sound important. “I’ve
got a deal going. I’ll post bail.”

He produced his wallet and counted out fifty
dollars. That was a good chunk of his take. He chafed while the
officer took his time about completing the paperwork, trying not to
get sick again. When it was finished, he forced himself to walk,
not run, to his car and drive away at a moderate speed.

***

Alfred knew he had to ditch his car and get
another one. He hated the thought, but he had to do it. And he had
to do it damn fast, before he turned south toward Wyoming and gave
away his direction. The cops had recorded his license plate, and
the two-tone Ford Fairlane was too distinctive, anyway.

The car was paid for and it was his. He had
a lot of good memories associated with this car. It had always been
faithful to him, unlike the people he knew. But now it had to go.
It would be a magnet for the cops now that they had his license
number and description. He hadn’t meant to kill the man. If only
the fellow hadn’t acted so suspiciously…

Alfred cruised slowly through the next town,
wondering how to go about acquiring another car. He wasn’t skilled
at breaking into cars, and he didn’t know how to hot-wire one. He
drove into a residential area where cars were sitting on streets
and driveways in profusion. He parked the Ford. Taking the gun and
the rest of the money with him, he strolled along a street.

Even though it was Friday night, all was
quiet. A few of the houses had lights showing through their
curtains. He kept looking up and down the street for signs of
people as he cautiously tried a few car doors. They were locked.
Even if he got into a car, he wouldn’t know what to do next.

Maybe it would be enough if he switched
license plates. That would be easy to do; he had a screwdriver in
the toolkit in his trunk. That would enable him to keep his car, at
least until he got back to Los Angeles. Then he would worry about
the next step.

He turned around and was walking back toward
his car when he saw lights coming down the street toward him. He
assumed the appearance and pace of a casual stroller as the car
went by him. It turned into a driveway just a few doors past Alfred
and immediately stopped. The driver’s door opened, and a teenage
boy got out. He walked around the car and opened the passenger
door. He handed a girl out of the car. At least he had manners.
They walked together up to the front door. He could see them
kissing.

The girl opened the door to the house. She
was saying goodnight. Alfred was about to turn back toward his own
car when he saw the boy follow her inside. The door closed behind
them. What impressed Alfred was that the driver’s door of the car
was still open.

He had to check. This might be too good an
opportunity to pass up. He strolled across the street, keeping his
eyes on the door of the house. He walked quickly up the driveway to
the car and glanced inside. He saw the key in the ignition. This
must be a low-crime area.

He glanced at the house again. If the boy
came out now, he would say he was shutting the car door. There was
no movement from the house. Alfred quickly got into the car. It was
a Ford Falcon with a manual, three-speed transmission. Fortunately,
Alfred had learned to drive in a car with a manual
transmission.

He put the gearshift into neutral and
released the brake. The car coasted backwards down the inclined
driveway and into the street. Alfred turned the steering wheel and
stopped the Falcon when it faced the direction in which he wanted
to go. He started the car, shifted into first gear, and drove
slowly away, hoping that the engine noise wouldn’t arouse the
suspicions of the owner.

He made several quick turns and then headed
out of town. After a few minutes, he stopped behind another car in
a deserted area. He would make this a foolproof operation. He got
out and opened the trunk. He found a small toolkit, mostly by feel.
With the help of the car’s dome light, he located a screwdriver
inside the kit. It took him five minutes to switch his plates with
those of the parked car.

Now he had Montana plates, but not the ones
the police would be looking for. The aluminum-colored plates with
the outline of the state of Montana blended in nicely with those of
the other cars on the road. They wouldn’t attract the attention
that California plates would in this part of the country. The
parked car from which he had taken the plates had the dirty windows
of a vehicle that hadn’t been driven for a while. It might be days
or weeks before the switched plates were discovered.

Alfred had to do one more thing. He headed
out of town on the highway and stopped where there were no houses
in sight. He took his gun out of the glove compartment and wiped it
off with his handkerchief. That would get rid of the fingerprints.
He wrapped the gun in the handkerchief and slid it into his
pocket.

He got out of the car and walked into a
patch of woods by the light of the moon. The trees were far enough
apart that the moonlight marked a path through the trees, perhaps a
path used by animals, or perhaps it was just his imagination and
there wasn’t really a path at all. But he liked to think that the
moon acted as his ally and showed him the way to safety and
success.

He walked until he was far enough from the
road that a casual stroller or someone having to pee wouldn’t come
this far. He picked up a branch that had a sharp point where it had
snapped off a tree in a windstorm. With a grunt he shoved it into
the dirt. The forest floor was soft from the recent rains, and he
was able to penetrate it.

Using the branch, sometimes as a pick,
sometimes as a shovel, he dug a hole. It was hard work. Soon sweat
was streaming down his face, despite the coolness of the evening.
He had to stop and rest several times. When the hole reached the
depth of a foot or so, he dropped the gun into it and covered it
with the accumulated dirt. He stamped on the dirt to pack it down
and then used the other end of the branch, which still had twigs
attached to it, as a rake to smooth out the ground in the vicinity
of the hole.

Satisfied with his work, he tossed the
branch away. The gun was the only evidence that connected him with
what had happened at the market. May it rest in peace. Alfred
thought about erecting a small cross to mark the spot and smiled at
the idea. He wasn’t just your garden variety dumb criminal. He knew
how to cover his tracks. He returned to the Falcon and drove toward
Wyoming.

CHAPTER 17

Penny had promised to call her mother
several times during the trip, so she took advantage of a pay phone
at the Wildlife Museum in Mammoth, just inside the north entrance
to Yellowstone National Park. It was Sunday afternoon in
Connecticut. Her mother answered on the third ring.

When Penny said hello, her mother said, “Did
the police find you?” She sounded excited.

“The police? Mom, what are you talking
about?”

“They called me this morning. They said that
boy from your class shot a clerk in a food store.”

“What boy in my class?” Penny’s mother
didn’t always make sense when she was excited.

“You know, the boy with the big head and
ears and the potbelly.”

“Alfred? Are you talking about Alfred
Ward?”

“Yes, Alfred. He’s the one. I remember that
he always seemed to be a little bit out of step with you other
kids.”

“Mom, tell me again what Alfred did.”

“He shot somebody. A clerk in a food store,
I believe. Anyway, the man is dead.”

Alfred shot somebody? He was weird, but
Penny didn’t consider him to be dangerous in a physical sense.
“Where was this?”

“Somewhere in Montana. The police called
from Montana.”

The conversation was unreal. Penny looked
for Gary. He wasn’t in sight. She said, “Did Alfred get
arrested?”

“No. They don’t know where he is, but they
think he might be looking for you.”

It was getting more and more confusing. “Why
did the police call you?”

“Because Alfred had your yearbook picture in
his car. You know, the one in your cheerleader uniform.”

“I thought you said they didn’t know where
Alfred is.”

“They don’t, but they found his car.”

Okay, she would accept that. “So he had my
picture in his car? And they traced the picture to Fenwick High
School?”

“That’s right. Please be careful, Penny
dear. Alfred is a dangerous character.”

Maybe her mother was right. Their meeting
with Alfred in Seattle couldn’t be just a coincidence if he had her
picture. She didn’t want her mother to worry. “We’re safe, Mom.
We’re in Yellowstone. He’ll never find us here.”

“The police want you to call them collect. I
wrote down the number. I put it here somewhere. Just a minute.”

While her mother was searching for the phone
number, Penny spotted Gary buying postcards. When she caught his
eye she waved frantically for him to come to the phone. He took his
time coming, which made her mad, almost the first time she could
remember being mad at him. Then she realized it was because of the
tension she was feeling.

Her mother came back on the phone. “I’ve got
the number. Do you have a pencil and paper? The police want you to
call them right away.”

Penny wrote down the number. She didn’t want
to hang up abruptly on her mother, so she chatted about where they
were and what they had done. She told a couple of funny stories
about their experiences, but she didn’t mention that they had been
with Alfred. She didn’t want her mother to worry about her. When
her mother seemed calmer, Penny said good-bye and hung up.