NIGHT CRUISING (30 page)

She sat for a long
time, long enough for Cruise to grow impatient and call for her to
come out. She found brown paper hand towels to clean herself. She
washed her face, though there was no mirror, and used a minuscule
sliver of soap to get the sand and grime from her arms and hands. The
grains stung as they were washed across the scrapes on her arms. By
the time she exited the urine-splattered bathroom, she could walk
without imitating a cripple, and her kidneys had stopped hurting.

She held her head high
as she pushed open the door to confront Cruise. This time he took her
arm as if instinct told him she was in much better shape than when
she'd come into the cantina, that she needed watching now.

"Some friends you
have, Cruise," she said as they passed through the room and out
the door. She tried jerking her arm loose, but he kept his hold.

"Only the best."

"Yeah, real high
achievers with prominent IQs."

"Get in the car,
it's late. No one cares about your bitching."

She sat in stony
silence as he wove through the back streets into the middle of
Mexicali. Would he really kill her if she jumped from the car at the
border crossing and accused him of kidnapping and murder? Would he
have time? Could he take two guards, various passersby, and her all
at once?

The more she thought
about it, the less she saw she had to lose. She couldn't depend on
getting a stranger's help again. That hadn't seemed to work out; it
just got people killed. She couldn't run away. He always brought her
back.

If she wanted to get
out of this alive, she'd have to take greater risks. Nothing less
would do.

#

Mark Killany couldn't
get an audience with any police officer who would tell him anything.
They had gotten the word from Globe. They didn't believe he had a
legitimate gripe. They didn't believe his daughter might be with the
killer. And they had enough mayhem on their hands, they didn't need
him in the way. That was the message.

All he thought he could
do was listen to radio reports and follow the trail west. After
leaving the police station, he drove to the freeway and found a
restaurant. He had to eat. The sun lanced through the windshield
where he parked in the lot facing the feeder road. He searched,
couldn't find his sunglasses. He also couldn't stop yawning. He felt
sleep grabbing at him like a pickpocket. Sneaking up and putting the
touch on him, moving off a little, coming back for another try.

After breakfast, orange
juice, more coffee--a last ditch attempt to stave off sleep--he made
his way to the car and collapsed in the seat. He sat rubbing his eyes
with the balls of his thumbs. He didn't think he had enough energy to
find a motel. He could sleep in the car. Maybe he could park it
around the side in the shade.

He started the motor
and put the car into reverse. He parked next to a black van in the
lee of the building. Perhaps the occupant had decided on a quick nap
too.

He scooted down in the
seat until his neck fit comfortably against the headrest. His eyelids
came down like weighted curtains. He didn't drift into sleep; it came
over him like a crushing ocean wave, taking his consciousness with
it.

In his dreams he saw a
very large man, long hair, mustache, beard. The man was walking a
swinging bridge across a deep chasm. He herded Molly before him,
forcing her to take another step. If the rope bridge broke, Mark knew
the man would let Molly fall into the rocky depths without trying to
save her. He'd first save himself. Mark stood on a narrow path before
the bridge calling out, "Molly! Molly, come back!"

He groaned and
stuttered in his sleep, twisting in the car seat. His knees knocked
the steering wheel. His neck slid off the headrest until his face
pressed against the rolled window.

The dream renewed
itself, played over again, an old film on automatic rewind. He saw
the man, Molly ahead of him being prodded across the dangerous
swaying bridge. Below the rocks lay in velvet purple shadows,
beckoning.

He called to her,
"Molly...oh please..."

#

Cruise knew he was in
trouble. He had never before wanted to harm himself. The fresh cuts
on his arms were deep and would surely leave scars. Yet it wasn't
enough to let out his mounting trepidation. Nothing seemed to be of
help. The visit to see his father. The whores in Mexicali. His
witness.

Especially his witness.
She was less than useless to him. Just as soon as he found the right
place, he was dumping her. It was possible he didn't need witnesses
anymore--a really novel thought that left him uneasy. He might not
get lonely again. He had too much to deal with to keep a close watch
on someone else.

There was something
loose inside him,rattling around and causing him profound concern.
Could it be doubt? He had never doubted before, never worried that
what he did--the killing--might be unwarranted, an aberration. The
day he buried his brothers, he thought he was free to do as he
pleased. He would never again be threatened. But maybe the threat was
inside him, hiding there, always waiting. And here it was back again
despite his years of living by his own code--that threat he felt
racing toward great pain and retribution. It was as if he had found a
way to avoid it for only so long and now it had returned to mock him.
To destroy him.

The doubt, if that's
what it was, whispered about coming annihilation. Payback.

And he did not know
why.

The uneasiness ate at
him like a wildfire cancer. His arms itched intolerably. The girl at
the cantina had bandaged them for him with a torn white sheet. He
could hardly pull on his shirt over them. Now they burned and
screamed to him to reopen the wounds. Let the blood flow. Release the
ballons of grief welling beneath the taut skin before he exploded.

At the border crossing
the frenzy to do something was upon him. He squirmed in the seat and
had trouble keeping still. Looking normal. Appearing sober and sane.

"You feel okay,
buddy?" one of the border guards asked, peering in at him.

"Oh, sure. I feel
fine." The words felt like shards of glass on his tongue. He
thought he might have grimaced. He looked at Molly to keep his face
from the guard's inquisitive view. She had her hands on her thighs.
If they bothered to look very closely they would see the rope burns.
He reached over and covered her left wrist with his hand. She opened
her mouth as if to say something, closed it. Her eyes were in a
panic, gray wolves fighting to get free of traps.

He knew then what she
meant to do. His hand tightened on her wrist. Her mouth twisted and
she let out a small whimper.

"Do you have
anything to declare?" the guard asked.

"Nothing,"
Cruise said, pinning Molly with his gaze, warning her not to make a
move, not to say a word.

He glanced at the
guard. His mind was suddenly brilliantly clear. If he'd been playing
chess, he'd have been at least five moves ahead of the border guard.
"My daughter and I have been on a pleasure trip to Mexicali. We
didn't do much shopping."

"Fine." The
guard marked something on a clipboard he carried. "And where
were you born, sir?"

"Arkansas. West
Memphis."

"And you, miss?"

Molly turned to him.
Cruise bore down on her wrist. She said, "Dania, Florida."

"Okay, drive on."

Cruise let up on the
brake and eased forward in the lane. He had not let go of Molly. When
they were past the crossing station he said, "You were going to
tell them."

She whined a little,
turning her hand this way and that to free it of his grip.

"Weren't you?"

She yelped when he
applied even more pressure. He felt her small wrist bones grinding
together beneath his palm.
Little bird
, he thought.

"Don't try it
again," he said, letting her go, throwing her hand away from
him. "I'm tired of your bullshit."

She didn't speak. When
he turned on the radio to search for an AM talk radio station, she
slumped down until her knees were against the dash. Sulky little
bitch.

On the hour during the
newscast Cruise learned he was in real trouble. Not only did he need
to get rid of Molly, not only did he feel as if at any moment he was
going to fly apart if he didn't release the building pressure
building in the cauldron of his mind, but the radio informed him that
the incredible, the unbelievable, had happened. He had left behind a
living witness at a murder scene. On the lake. Where he took the fat
man's life and his diamond ring. The man's son had been in the back
seat. Why hadn't he checked? Why had he been so sloppy? It was the
rain, the tornado. He had made a mistake. And now they knew he had
been in Yuma, had killed there next.

There was a net out.
They knew his car. They knew what he looked like. They thought he
might have entered California.

For the first time in
more than two decades of murder, he was a wanted man, hounded, on the
run.

Molly had come back up
in the seat, ears primed, listening.

Cruise said, "They
won't get me."

"I think they
will," she said in an even voice.

"Don't bank on it.
Don't lay your money down."

When he reached
Interstate 8 he turned east. They thought he was headed west. He
would backtrack. He'd take minor highways where they wouldn't have
the manpower to put up roadblocks. He'd pick his way back across
Arizona and New Mexico. In Texas he'd head north, throw them off
completely.

But first he had to
ditch the Chrysler. A car he had driven for ten years. A car he
loved.

"Goddammit,"
he swore, tapping the wheel with the heel of his hand. Molly jumped
in her seat.

Where was he going to
find another car?

A semi-truck overtook
and passed them in the left fast lane. Cruise stared at the rectangle
of lights that outlined the rear doors.

Would they be looking
for a truck driver?

He started laughing,
positively overwhelmed with his new idea. Molly wanted to try out as
a Lot Lizard, didn't she? Wasn't that what she was up to when he
found her in Mobile?

He sped up to trail the
semi. He had to drive a steady sixty-five or seventy to stay in the
game. The semi was perfect. A cab, independently owned, hauling a
container trailer for a company. He could tell by the logo on the
driver's door.

"I'm going to want
you to do something," he said when he could stop the laughter
bubbling out.

"What?"

She was right to sound
cautious. She wasn't going to like it. He saw that since he was
driving faster, she had begun to grip the top of the door where the
window had been rolled down.

"Wait and see."

"You can't tell me
now?"

He shook his head. His
hair moved and the Velcro patch pulled at his scalp. When he touched
the knife to make sure it was secure, Molly crouched closer to her
side of the car.

No. She wasn't going to
like it at all.

#

It took some talking to
get the driver pulled over at a rest area. He had to do it before
they reached Yuma. Already he was taking chances driving the Chrysler
on Interstate 8 in California. From the corners of his eyes he kept
seeing ghost images of patrol cars coming close to him in the fast
lane, readying to pull him over. When he looked square out the side
window the ghost cops disappeared.

Again Cruise thumbed
the CB mike. "She's a sweet girl, man. You won't be
disappointed."

The trucker said, "Aw,
I don't know. I got this load to deliver all the hell the way to
Florida by Friday. I don't really have the time for much recreation,
come back."

"Hey, tell you
what," Cruise said, sounding jolly as a pimp with the john in
his pocket. "We pull over at the next pickle park we come to and
if you don't like her, fine, man, be on your way. If you do like her,
what's a few extra minutes in the sleeper? You can add it anywhere in
your logbook. And I ain't asking half what she's worth," he
added.

"Forty. I dunno.
That's steep." Static returned to the channel. There weren't any
other truckers on the road right now. The driver was bored, seemed
tempted by the impromptu offer from a four-wheeler.

"Let you have her
for thirty then, what you say?" Sweat had popped out on Cruise's
forehead. He probably shouldn't have done that, could have blown the
whole deal. Driver might wonder what was wrong with her, lowering the
price that way. It was costing Cruise plenty to sound buoyant and
trustworthy. It never had before. He didn't know what was happening
to him, what was going wrong. He felt like a man diving from high
cliffs, aiming for the boulders below. He felt he might be on his way
down
.

A rest area sign leapt
past in the headlights. Cruise didn't notice the mileage. "There,
you see?" he asked over the CB mike. "Gotta be fate, man.
There's a pickle park up ahead not far."

"She of legal
age?" the trucker asked. "I don't want no jail bait."

Cruise said, "She's
fine, don't worry. We just need the dough, man, or I wouldn't be
offering her in this sleazy way over the CB where God and everybody
could hear. I just been a trucker, you know, and I trust you guys to
do right."

"Yeah, awright.
Let me check her out." The semi drifted off the exit ramp for
the rest area. The Chrysler followed.

Cruise lowered the
knife from where he had it resting close to the skin on Molly's
throat to keep her from talking. He didn't trust her since the border
crossing. She was out to fuck him. He'd seen that in her eyes. They
got to this point, his witnesses, and they were more danger than they
were worth. He had to spend too much time threatening to get his way.

He replaced the knife
underneath his hair. He transferred the mike from his left driving
hand to his right and hung it in the slot. "You don't have to do
much," he said to her. "Look properly seductive. When he's
out of the truck and standing nearby, that's when I'll take over."