Read Cross Country Murder Song Online
Authors: Philip Wilding
Cross Country Murder Song (26 page)
Chorus
Why were you running? Jack said to the driver. You terrified me when you came bursting through the trees like that.
Sorry about that, said the driver.
Where you headed? he asked, ignoring the question.
West, I guess, said Jack.
What's there? said the driver.
I don't know, Jack replied and tensed up as he saw a stop sign up ahead. Though he unstiffened when he saw the driver slow down to acknowledge it. The driver let the car idle at the junction and looked both ways down the quiet road. It was getting late in the afternoon and the sky was starting to change colour and the driver suddenly felt tired.
Aren't you curious? he asked Jack.
About what? he said.
The cop's shirt I'm wearing, the stains on my clothes. He looked down at the black smears on his clothes.
I figured you don't want to talk about it, said Jack.
The driver pulled the car out on to the road and pressed down on the accelerator. He opened the window to let the wind play on his face.
Do you know where your journey's going to end? he said to Jack. He shrugged. He didn't know what the driver was talking about.
I'm coming to the end of mine, said the driver.
The two patrolmen were studying the video footage captured from the camera set up on the dashboard of the wrecked patrol car.
The crazy bastard, said one of the cops as he rewound the tape and pressed play. Images of the car backing quickly into the police car flashed up. They saw a figure running towards the car firing his gun and then the slow way he executed the officer trapped between the two cars. The cop's head recoiled with the explosion of smoke from the gun, rising and falling as the bullet entered and exited his skull.
That fucker, said the other cop quietly. We've got him now though, pressing play again, the figure running, screaming towards them firing his gun again and again.
How long did you gamble for? the driver asked Jack. They'd fallen into a stilted kind of conversation as the day wore on, eating up mile after mile of the quiet roads they were travelling on.
Two years maybe? said Jack, it made him uncomfortable to think about it let alone talk about it.
Your dad a gambler too? said the driver. Jack nodded. That's all he was.
Won't he be missing his car? asked the driver. Jack nodded, he guessed so. What did your dad do? he asked.
Spread his pain around, said the driver. He really did, we were all tainted by it.
He looked at the blood. Still am, I guess, he said.
Were you ever a winner? he asked Jack.
Sometimes, at first. I was good at it, I guess. I liked the affirmation, you know, and it came pretty easily to me, and then one day I just stopped winning and that's when I started seeing things, stuff . . . He tailed off, feeling self-conscious and stupid.
What stuff? asked the driver, looking across at him.
Road signs, stop signs, he said, staring down at his hands.
Stop signs, no fucking way, said the driver and let out a low whistle. Is that why you seize up every time we're near a junction? he asked.
I guess, said Jack. They drove in silence for a moment.
I used to keep people in boxes to stop from getting lonely, so I'd always have someone to talk to, said the driver. Kept them down in the basement as if that old fucking house wasn't already filled with enough ghosts.
You're kidding, right? said Jack and he looked at the driver for a change in his expression.
Yeah, said the driver and he laughed. What do you think I am, nuts? And for a moment as he felt the day fading, he missed his friends in the boxes and he wondered what Mona must have thought when she went down into the cellar and let them back into the world. He hoped that they could forgive him.
I'm sorry about the stop signs thing. That's messed up, said the driver.
I ended up going through intersections because I didn't think the stop signs were real, he said. Man, other drivers got really pissed at me. That's why I'm glad you showed up. I don't know how long I could have kept going. I thought it might have stopped when I left home and gave up on the cards, but I still see them, just out of the corner of my eye sometimes, but they're still there, rows and rows of them lining the road, waiting for me.
The driver looked across at him. Are you seeing them now? he asked. Jack nodded and kept his eyes down. The driver patted him on the leg. It was the first time he'd touched another human being in what seemed like an age.
Do you see them on the highway? asked the driver.
Not so much, said Jack. It's like I'm going too fast for them, you know. The driver didn't but he agreed with a nod anyway.
Then let's get on the fucking highway, the driver said. No point putting this off any longer. Let's head home.
The patrol car idled on the highway, the engine's deep thrum the only constant as cars slowed to a halt. He'd spotted it first and then called it in.
We've got a jumper on an overpass on the highway, he'd told dispatch. He looked up at the man clinging to the bridge above him. There was another patrol car on the bridge itself as someone stood close to the edge trying to talk the man down. The traffic had come to a halt, a bottleneck of cars creating a multi-coloured trail along the grey and black of the road. The radio murmured constantly as the patrolman sat there with one door open and his legs stretched out on the road. He wasn't even sure the jump would kill the guy, break his back maybe, but he would have needed speeding cars to get the job done properly. But then imagine the mess they would have to clear up. He'd been working when some lunatic had shot up the highway, but had got there long after he disappeared and the highway had been quiet and empty as the ambulances stood around on the tarmac and people were cut out of their cars with the jaws of life pulling back the bodywork like someone unwrapping a gift. The machine looked prehistoric and dangerous to him. He imagined it running wild, suddenly throwing cars around the freeway.
The voice on the radio cautioned him about a possible suspect, provided him with a description and told him to remain alert. He barely took the information in. He couldn't imagine the guy would be stupid enough to be out here on the highway. They didn't even know if he was on foot or in a car any more anyway.
What the fuck, said the driver as the traffic slowed to a standstill in front of him. They'd only been on the highway a matter of minutes before they'd come to a complete stop. He leant on his horn, but stopped when he saw that Jack was staring at him.
Sorry, he said, old habit, it's one of my favourite sounds. He realised how strange that sounded once he'd said it.
And we came on here to avoid the stop signs, said Jack and he smiled.
The driver's shirt was starting to stink and he debated taking it off and tossing it away when he noticed the patrol car behind them and off to one side. He couldn't be sure, but he felt like the cop knew who he was.
Relax, he said, as he looked in the rearview mirror. Jack turned and looked behind him.
Did they make us? asked the driver. He felt sick and the smell of blood was making him nauseous.
I don't think so. The police after you? he asked.
Yep, said the driver. I'd give you the option of getting out, but it's your car and you'd only ended up stranded on the highway. The cars inched forwards and the driver watched the police car moved closer. The cop kept his sunglasses on and stared across at the car and its passengers.
Think he's clocked the blood? The driver sounded quiet and frantic like a cornered animal. I'm wearing a dead cop's shirt.
Jack looked at him. A dead cop's shirt? he said and the words were thick and repulsive in his mouth.
The driver suddenly pulled up onto the hard shoulder of the road and opened up the engine, cars honking their horns at him as he passed. The police siren started up behind him. For a second he was back in the kidnapper's car, locked away in a box, but then he realised that the cops had never come that day, not when he'd needed them. His father had been his saviour, strong-arming his way to his son's salvation; redemption had come in a bullet and at the end of a blade.
The cop car was coming up behind him and then someone trying to make up time pulled out on to the hard shoulder and followed in the driver's wake. But as he pulled to one side the police went careering into him, causing one of his side windows to explode on impact. It made a booming sound and Jack jumped and turned in his seat to see the patrol car pulling wildly to one side like a steer trying to unseat a rider and scale the banking that bordered the road.
The would-be jumper was slowly being helped back over onto the overpass, someone was holding him and wrapping a blanket around his shoulders.
It's not like it's fucking cold, thought the cop as he waved to the patrol car pulling away above him. He moved onto the highway and had just got the traffic moving again when the voice on his radio told him that the suspect was approaching him at speed. He moved to bring his car across the road and flipped the seal on his holster. He was just about to back up when he saw a car approaching. He jumped behind the open door and steadied his revolver on the roof and took aim. Traffic was moving slowly around him, and drivers and passengers were craning their heads to stare. He did his best to ignore them and drew a bead on the car which suddenly swerved up the grass verge and then back down again, its horn sounding a long note. The sudden noise and movement unnerved him and his gun went off with a sharp snap. He looked at his own hand in shock and then the driver's car collided with the end of his car and caused it to spin violently around, knocking him sideways into the slowly moving traffic.
The driver cheered when the patrol car spun and flipped the cop into the air. He folded awkwardly and then disappeared out of sight.
Ha, you see that? he said to the man. He was exhilarated. I fucking hate cops, he said.
His windshield was cracked and it was then that he realised that Jack was covered in blood. It was only his seat belt that was keeping him upright, the cop's bullet had hit him in the neck. The driver grabbed his shoulder and shook him.
Fuck it, fuck, he said and he pulled the car to an abrupt halt. He got out and ran into the traffic around him and took his gun out. He went over to an SUV
just ahead of him that was stuck in the traffic. He waved the gun in the driver's face and pulled him out of his seat and threw him on to the road.
just ahead of him that was stuck in the traffic. He waved the gun in the driver's face and pulled him out of his seat and threw him on to the road.
Fucking out! he screamed and he pointed his gun at the cowering man on the ground was almost foetal, his eyes closed and his hands held up to protect his face. It was quiet then as cars came to a halt waiting to see if he'd fire a bullet into the man on the floor. He kicked hard at the man's legs, lashing out at him wildly, throwing his arms out to maintain his balance.
He climbed into the SUV
and pulled back onto the hard shoulder, finding a speech radio station, hoping that the words would soothe him. He urged the car forward, the engine straining noisily as he clipped the wings of cars that stood in line bordering the hard shoulder. He felt light-headed and free as he raced towards the first off ramp he saw. On the radio someone was talking about the Pacific tides and he suddenly had the urge to smell the sea and watch the light playing on the water. He used to go to the beach with his family in the summer, his father would wake him early and sometimes he'd be so sleepy that his dad would load him into the car while he was still in his pajamas. He'd wake and the air would have changed. His mouth would taste salty and the car would be filled with the sound of gulls as they rode the currents overhead.
and pulled back onto the hard shoulder, finding a speech radio station, hoping that the words would soothe him. He urged the car forward, the engine straining noisily as he clipped the wings of cars that stood in line bordering the hard shoulder. He felt light-headed and free as he raced towards the first off ramp he saw. On the radio someone was talking about the Pacific tides and he suddenly had the urge to smell the sea and watch the light playing on the water. He used to go to the beach with his family in the summer, his father would wake him early and sometimes he'd be so sleepy that his dad would load him into the car while he was still in his pajamas. He'd wake and the air would have changed. His mouth would taste salty and the car would be filled with the sound of gulls as they rode the currents overhead.
Hey, sleepyhead, his father would say. Let's get you in the water, and they'd walk down to the beach together hand in hand enjoying their shadows stretching out before them.
The driver was on an ocean road, following the contours of the coast. It was quiet out here and he enjoyed the peace. He took a road down towards the beach, descending as the sun began to set. He pulled up on a platform that overlooked the water and sat in the car and looked out at the sea. He was crying as he thought he saw his father's lengthening shadow out there on the shoreline. A man walked up the beach and motioned to him to lower his window.
You can't park here, said the man. His face looked pinched like he was used to delivering bad news. Private beach, he said. You'll have to take the road back out. He indicated the single track he'd just driven down.
The driver leant forward in his seat and pulled the revolver from the back of his jeans. He held it up in profile and showed it to the man.
I have five bullets left, he said. I'd be happy for you to have all of them. Now why don't you take the long walk back up that road because I'm not going anywhere. The man's features uncoiled and he looked younger suddenly.
Walk, said the driver and the man did, backwards at first and then he turned and started to run.
Should have shot him, thought the driver, he'll be back and he'll bring people with him, he'll bring the cops. He couldn't stomach killing another man though. He wondered if his father had ever tired of the violence, of the brutality that he'd built his world upon. The times he'd seen him fight or been on the receiving end of one of his enraged attacks he'd been amazed by the buzzing, panting energy he gave off (even through his fingers, even while the air was being kicked out of him), how happily lost he had become in the violence.
Other books
The Love Song of Jonny Valentine by Teddy Wayne
Web of Everywhere by John Brunner
La trampa by Mercedes Gallego
The Keys of Solomon by Liam Jackson
Unlocked by Karen Kingsbury
Undercover: The True Story of Britain's Secret Police by Lewis, Paul, Evans, Rob
Secret Isaac by Jerome Charyn
Something Of A Kind by Wheeler, Miranda
Typical American by Gish Jen