No Man's Land (16 page)

This time he kept talking, forcing the reporters to keep it down
if they wanted to hear. “
As many of you recall, Mr. Driver’s
chief demand was the appearance of one Frank Corso. No middle
name. Mr. Corso wrote a best-selling novel about Mr. Driver.
Unfortunately, Mr. Driver made good on his threat to murder a
correctional officer every six hours until Frank Corso was delivered
to
him. Mr. Corso entered the facility at midnight on the day
before
last and has not been in any type of communication with
the outside world since that time, at least not to our knowledge. Mr.
Corso’s role in this incident is unknown at this time.”
Asuega
neatened up his file cards and half turned to the row of dignitaries
lined up behind him. “
At this time I’d like to introduce
Special Agent Ronald Rosen from the Phoenix office of the
Federal
Bureau of Investigation. Special Agent Rosen will fill you
in
on the current state of the search for these three . . .”
For
the first time he fumbled for a word. “
. . . for the missing,”
he finally blurted.

Rosen was a stocky specimen in the standard FBI gray suit. His
thick black hair was cropped close to his head. His eyebrows joined
each other on the bridge of his nose. He thanked the crowd for
nothing in particular and began. “I’m going to keep this brief,”

he said. “In conjunction with police departments in a
seven-state area, the Bureau is now conducting an all-out manhunt for
the three fugitives. Although our investigation is in its initial
stages, we have reason to believe the three escaped Meza Azul
Correctional Facility in the back of a delivery vehicle.” When the
buzz in the room threatened to swallow his statement, Rosen waited
calmly for it to subside. “At this stage of the investigation, it
would be counterproductive to provide specific details. Suffice it to
say we have strong reason to believe that this was their method of
egress from the prison.”

Rosen gave the crowd a minute to chew on the information, then
continued. “We have further reason to believe these fugitives were
responsible for a double homicide that took place this morning in
Phoenix.” He held up a quieting hand. “At this time, we wish to
strongly caution the public not to interfere with these fugitives in
any way. Mr. Driver and Mr. Kehoe are serving life sentences without
the possibility of parole. They have absolutely nothing to lose by
any of their actions whatsoever. Anyone who thinks they may have
spotted these fugitives . . . please dial the number at the bottom of
the screen. We have set up a special hotline for the purpose of
dealing with leads in this matter.”

He paused. Shouted questions filled the air. He pointed at the AP
reporter.

“Yes sir,” he said.

Driver rose from the bed, walked to the adjoining door and knocked
three times. The stream of grunts and squeals and groans that had
been leaking through the wall for the past twelve hours finally
stopped. After a minute the door opened wide enough for Kehoe’s
head to pop through the crack. Driver pointed to the TV, where three
mug shots and the phone number for the FBI hotline filled the screen.

“I think we better get out of here,” Driver said. Took Kehoe a
while to realize what he was looking at. Once he zoned in on the
screen a crooked smile crossed his face. “I expect you’re right,”
he said. “Gimme a few minutes.” He turned to the other room.
“Best find your drawers, darlin’. This here party is definitely
over.”

“Aw sweetie,” she could be heard to coo.

Whatever she said next was lost among the rustling of bedclothes.

Driver turned to Corso. “Get your stuff together. You can stow
it in the ammo bag.” He disappeared into the bathroom for an
instant and reappeared with an armload of towels. In a matter of two
minutes he’d broken both guns down, wrapped the vari-G.M. Ford ous
component pieces in towels and packed them in the larger of the two
Nike gym bags. By the time he got the ammo arranged in the other bag,
Corso was ready. He handed Driver everything except the bottle of
Aleve, which he emptied into the inside pocket of his jacket before
tossing the empty bottle into the trash can. Kehoe came bursting back
through the door. “What’d they say on the tube?”

Driver told him.

“Shit,” said Kehoe. “I figured it’d take ’em a whole
’nother day.”

“Me too,” said Driver.

“Probably means they made the truck.”

“Yes. It does.”

“We gonna have to do somethin’ about that.”

“Yes. We are.”

Kehoe cast a glance at Corso. “Let’s kill this faggot
motherfucker and be done with that shit.”

Driver steeled himself. “I need him,” he said.

“I’m sicka draggin’ him around. His ass is dead.”

His hand plucked the boning knife from his pants pocket. Driver
jumped between the two men and grabbed Kehoe by the wrist with his
left hand. His right jammed the barrel of the automatic hard against
the underside of Kehoe’s chin. They stood, hip to hip, arms aloft
shaking like crazy, gazing into each other’s feral eyes. “I need
him,” Driver said again. “Either that or it all ends right here
in this room.”

For a second, everything was in doubt. Who was going to live and
who was going to die was settled in silence, as gleaming silver dust
motes floated through the shaft of sunshine coming through the parted
curtains. Tendon by tendon the death grip relaxed, until each man
took a hasty step back. Driver dropped his right hand, stuck the
automatic in his belt. Kehoe kept the knife steady at waist level.
Both men were gulping air.

The hot blood filling his cheeks reminded Corso of a day when he
was sixteen years old. The day when everything changed forever. Long
and lean, he’d nearly attained his adult height of sixfoot-six,
when his father, angry that they were out of beer, reached out with
those claws he called hands, grabbed the young Corso by the throat
and pinned him against the wall, in just another angry outburst in a
steadily increasing series of such acts of violence aimed at both
Frank and his mother.

Looking back, as Corso had so many times, the day was like any
other day. Nothing special, except that something broke inside of
Frank Corso that morning, and without thinking, he grabbed the
gnarled, nicotine-stained fingers clutching at his throat and bent
them all the way back until they made a noise like snapping twigs.

A great roar erupted from his father’s innards as he staggered
backward, cradling the maimed hand against his chest. His bloodshot
eyes looked up just in time to see his son’s fist on its way toward
his face. The impact drove him to his knees on the kitchen floor,
where his broken nose steadily dripped blood onto the worn linoleum.

Frank and his father never spoke another word.

“I need him for closure,” Driver said. “It’s the only way
I can bring it all the way around. The only way the journey matters
is if the story is told.”

Kehoe shook his head in disgust. “You was in that punishment
cell too long, Captainman. They done fried your brain in there, you
know that. You don’t make no goddamn sense sometimes.”

Driver flinched at the words. His eyes rolled farther back into
his head than anatomy suggested was possible. He suffered a brief fit
of shaking before coming to grips again.

He rubbed his eyes like a man waking from a deep sleep, pointed at
the two black bags on the bed. “Take the little one,” he said.
“We’ll keep Corso here between us and just mosey right out the
front door.”

“We can’t be drivin’ that truck no more.”

“No shortage of cars out there. We’ll just requisition one.”

The plan seemed to satisfy Kehoe. “Let’s go,” he said. “We
get the fuck outta here, we’ll talk about his ass again.”

Driver pulled open the door. Kehoe strode out carrying the ammo
bag in his left hand. Corso fell in behind Kehoe with Driver bringing
up the rear. The carpet was so bright and busy with color, you could
have slaughtered a hog on it and nobody would have noticed. They
marched to the trio of elevators at the end of the hall.

The clang and clamor of the casino assaulted their ears as they
stepped from the elevator car. The Dollar Drinks Promotion was
working. The casino was jammed full of low rollers, senior citizens
and the kind of sad sacks indigenous only to Vegas, sitting there on
their wrinkled asses, one-pound coffee cans in their laps, sitting in
front of slot machines pulling those handles for all they were worth,
counting their lives in quarters through a thick, blue haze of
cigarette smoke.

The bells and the whistles, the flashing lights, the shouts of the
winners and the curses of the losers followed them down the long
central aisle toward the front door in the distance. Corso began to
slow. Driver nudged him forward.

The crowd in front of them began to part like the Red Sea as one
of the casino cash carts was being wheeled up the aisle by a pair of
security guards. God knows how much money was on its way to the
counting room and the vaults beyond. Another pair of guards trailed
along behind, making no bones about their intent, hands on their gun
butts, narrow eyes sweeping back and forth across the room, looking
for any poor soul sufficiently desperate as to impede their progress.
Corso stepped aside to allow them to pass. Driver had the automatic
pressed against Corso’s side as they leaned against a slot machine
to make room for the gleaming steel cart. As the cart drew parallel,
Corso stepped out into the gap between the cart and the pair of
guards trailing along behind. Driver grabbed at his jacket but Corso
backpedaled away. Their eyes met.

“Half an hour,” Corso said. “I’ll give you half an hour.”

Driver growled with rage and reached for his belt. Corso cringed.
Seemed like the scene would surely end right there and then. Like the
last sound he was ever going to hear was going to be the flat crack
of gunfire. The last sight muzzle flashes. The last smell gun smoke.

Corso snapped a glance to the right, looking for a place to dive.
Nothing but a little alcove barely big enough for the slot machine
and the ancient woman pulling the handle. When he switched his
attention back to Driver, Kehoe had stepped into the breach, putting
his back between Driver and the passing parade. The nearest of the
rear guard started for Corso. He’d unsnapped the safety strap on
his holster. “Move it, buddy,” the guy said. Corso showed him
both hands and stepped into the alcove, tripping over a purse and
nearly losing his balance. The woman smelled of lilacs.

“Sorry,” Corso said.

“Gwnagetout ahere,” said the old lady at the keno machine. On
his way by, the guard fixed Corso with his most baleful stare. Corso
kept his hands in sight as the cart continued up the central aisle.

“I’m tellin’ you, buster,” the old woman rasped, “get
lost.”

Corso peeked out into the aisle. Driver and Kehoe were nowhere in
sight. He held his breath. Took his time looking around, then stepped
fully out into the aisle and craned his neck. Gone . . . both of
them. When he turned back, the old woman was missing too.

He resisted the urge to run and instead followed along in the wake
of the cash cart until he got to a serious casino thoroughfare, where
he turned right, then right again, and left, trying to lose himself
among the hoard of blackjack and craps gamblers. His chest felt like
he hadn’t taken a breath in an hour. He inhaled half a dozen times,
then took another moment to compose himself. For the first time in
nearly two days, he wondered what he looked like. The thought caused
him to run his hands through his hair and make adjustments to his
clothes.

He was about to consider what came next when a powerful hand
clamped onto his shoulder. He stood paralyzed, waiting for the soft
sound of the knife puncturing his coat, the prick of the sharpened
tip on his skin and the feeling of cold steel as it entered his body.
He tried to shout but nothing came out. His mouth hung open as he
turned his head.

“The logo’s crooked,” Melanie said.

She was right. The American Eagle looked like it was battling a
strong wind.

“Goddammit,” Marty yelled. “Fix that friggin’ bird. You
got any idea what it cost to FedEx that thing from L.A.?”

“Are we supposed to guess?” asked Sheldon, the stagehand who’d
flown in with the eagle. “Is this like the jellybeans in the jar
kind of thing?”

“Me first. Me first,” taunted another. He brought a single
finger to the cleft in his chin. “Nine hundred fifty bucks.”

Marty thought about opening his mouth but changed his mind. They
were in a race against time, trying to turn the Musket Community
Center into a replica of the
American Manhunt
set in Santa
Monica. Bad enough they had to borrow a desk from the local real
estate office. In just over an hour, people were going to begin
arriving for the purpose of turning the room into a bake sale for the
local Cub Scout troop. No time for banter.

The makeup people were smoothing Melanie’s hair around the mike
cord. The lighting crew were taking a final reading, G.M. Ford
shouting numbers at the impromptu control board they’d set up out
in the center of the space.

“Time to do it people,” Marty shouted above the din. “Unless
you want old ladies with brownies walking onto the set, we better get
going.”

“Oooh, brownies,” said Sheldon. “I like ’em gooey.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Marty growled.

Sheldon arched an eyebrow. “Careful now,” he chided. Marty
smiled and turned to Melanie. “You ready?”

She gave him the okay sign with her fingers.

“Places,” Marty yelled.

The lights dimmed, leaving Melanie and the desk and the logo alone
in the glare. Her eyes followed the green lights on the lone
teleprompter. “
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Melanie
Harris.”
Saucy tilt of the head. “
Welcome to another
Special Edition of
American Manhunt
.”