Scratch Fever (20 page)

“Drizzling,” Julie said. “Cold. Icy. Maybe snow, I don’t know. Listen, that kid.”

“What about him?”

“I’m going to have to go away for a while.”

“Yeah?”

“But I’ll be back. I’ll be back for you, Ron.”

“You will?”

“I’m dumping that asshole Harold, and we’re going to be together, you and I. But first I have to go away for a while.”

“I don’t understand. . . .”

“I’ll have five thousand dollars in cash for you, in just a few minutes. I’m going to the club to get it, before I leave.”

“Five thousand dollars? . . . For me? Why?”

“It’s time.”

“Time?”

“You said you could make that kid disappear for me, any time I wanted. Well, it’s time. And I want it.”

“What?”

“You to kill him, what do you think?”

“Kill him? I don’t know . . . I don’t mind sitting on him for you, but . . .”

“Ron! What’s the matter with you? You said last night you’d as soon cut his throat as look at him! Since when did you care whether some goddamn man lived or died?”

There was silence.

“I want more,” Ron said.

“What?”

“I want more than five thousand. I want ten.”

“Well, Ron . . . we’ll be together . . .”

“Maybe we’ll be together and maybe we won’t. I want ten.”

“Okay. You got it.”

“You go get the money. It’ll be done when you get back.”

“No. You do it now, Ron. I want it done now.”

He could hear the shrug in Ron’s voice. “All right.”

He struggled with the cuff his wrist was in, as he heard her footsteps on the stairs, but it didn’t do any good, it didn’t do any goddamn fucking good, and then she was in the doorway, with a .38 in her hand.

She shut the door behind her.

“You bitch,” he said, his free hand a fist.

He didn’t have to swing it: his words struck her like a blow.

“Please, no,” she said. Whispering. Her eyes looked wet.

She set the gun on the nightstand.

She fumbled in her front pocket The jeans she wore were tight; she had trouble finding it but then she brought it out: a small key.

She unlocked the cuff at his wrist.

“We’re only one floor up,” she whispered. “There’s just ground under the window, not cement or anything. Hang out the window and drop.”

“Ron . . .”

“I’m going to tell her you got away. I came up here and you were gone. I’m going to tell her I had you tied, and you got loose. She doesn’t have to know about the cuffs.”

She was undoing the cuff at his ankle.

He got up; she helped him. He was dizzy. Hard to keep balance. He started unsteadily toward his shoes.

“Never mind that,” she said irritatedly, pushing him toward the window.

He grabbed her by the small of one arm. Looked at her. Touched her face.

“Get out of here,” she said.

She opened the window for him, and he climbed out into the darkness, hanging by the sill, facing toward the house, and the night air felt cold, the drizzle felt good. He dropped.

The ground was hard, and one of his ankles gave, twisted. Fuck! He fell backward but was up in a second, and hobbled across the cold ground, wishing he had his goddamn shoes. This wasn’t as clear a night as last night, but he could still make out the general shape of things. The old two-story farmhouse. The bare yard going back to what was apparently a plowed cornfield. Trees off to the left, which he was heading toward now.

His ankle hurt like hell, but he was so glad to be out of there and maybe, just maybe get out of Julie’s grip, that the pain felt good, as good as the cold, wet air. The pain meant he was alive.

Then he was in the trees, and he could see the road: there were trees on either side of it, so it would be easy enough to head for cover if a car came. And since a car could mean Julie again, he didn’t dare flag one down, so he hobbled in the road, because with his turned ankle it was better than moving through the trees and bushes and high grass. And he heard a noise behind him, back at the farmhouse. Something that could have been a shot.

He stepped up the pace, coming as close to running as a guy with a bum ankle can get; sort of a drunken jog.

Pretty soon headlights were coming up behind him, and he headed to the right, into the trees, and dropped to his stomach in the tall, wet grass; the car slowed, as if the driver had thought she (and this was certainly a she: Julie) had seen something moving in the road ahead but wasn’t sure. Then moved on.

He waited what seemed forever and was possibly a couple minutes.

Then he made his way back to the road. He listened very carefully before he started his drunken jog again, listened for an idling motor, in case Julie had pulled over and cut her lights up ahead. He heard nothing, except the sound of the rain—the drizzle had already turned to rain—against the ground, the trees, the road.

He started moving again.

Should he stop at a farmhouse? There’d surely be one soon.
He didn’t know if he could come up with a story that could get him safely out of this area without the cops getting into it. A guy with no shoes, looking bruised and beat-up, coming to a farmer’s door for help? Assuming he didn’t get shot first, what could he say?

Better to get to a town, if that didn’t take forever; if luck had headed him the right direction down this road, he might end up at Gulf Port before long. A tavern there would ask no questions about his appearance, and he might even be able to bum a dime to try to call Nolan again.

But he felt sure Nolan would be on the way. He just didn’t know how to connect up with him.

Up ahead there was a curve in the road. He got off to the side, so he could make a quick move off into the trees if a car came unexpectedly around it. And just as he jogged around the bend, the beams of headlights hit him like a spotlight, and he knew he’d never make the trees in time.

16

WHEN NOLAN
got back to the motel room, the girl was asleep.

He sat on the bed next to her and watched her. She looked young. Very peaceful, her breasts rising, falling, with an easy rhythm. He hated to wake her. He hated to let her in on what had just happened. But he couldn’t think of any way around it.

For one thing, it wasn’t fair to her not to let her know what was going on here. She had to know just how rough it was getting, so she could have the option of getting out He hoped she’d decide to stay; he could use her help.

He shook her, gently.

“Oh,” she said, scratching her head, her brown hair a pleasant mess. “I was dreaming.”

“What about?”

“I don’t remember. But it wasn’t a nightmare.”

“That’s something, anyway.”

“Right. Didn’t you go to get me a Coke?”

“Yeah. I forgot it.”

“That’s all right. I probably shouldn’t be putting any caffeine in my system anyway, not if I want to get some sleep. What’s that on your shirt?”

Nolan looked down at the front of his turtleneck. “Blood,” he said. “Powder burns.”

“Jesus. What’s going on?”

“There are some things you need to know. Sit up.”

She did, and he told her about Sally and Infante breaking into his house, how they tortured Sherry, how he came in on them, killing Sally. She listened with a wide-eyed expression that tried to be interest but was mostly fear.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she said. No anger, just curiosity.

“I didn’t want to scare you off,” he said. “I thought I could use you.”

She managed a smirky little smile, smoothing a hand over the bed. “I see.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

“I know it isn’t.”

“Telling you about my killing Sally makes you an accessory after the fact,” he said. “That’s the main reason I didn’t tell you. There’s always a chance, in a situation like this, that you can end up in the hands of the cops. So you were better off ignorant. I wanted your help, but I wanted to protect you, too.”

“You didn’t get blood on your shirt from killing Sally. That’s new.” She reached her finger out and touched the front of his shirt, like a kid checking if paint was dry. “That’s wet.”

He told her about spotting Infante’s car, about the confrontation in the motel room.

She looked ill.

“This screws things up a little,” he said. “I didn’t intend killing Infante—not at the moment, anyway. I wanted him alive, so I could use him, to get to Jon, and handle Julie, as well. Dead, he’s a problem.”

“Why?”

“When Julie tries to contact him and finds him gone, she may figure I’m in town, which takes away the edge I need.”

“What can we do about it?”

“Well, if Julie finds Infante’s body in his room, we’re as dead as he is.”

She nodded. “And so is Jon.”

“Right. We’re better off if we get rid of the body.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“There isn’t much to it, really.”

She shuddered. “Yeah, I know. It’s the second body you’ve dumped today, after all.”

Nolan shrugged. “It’s got to be done.”

“Well, give me a second.”

“It’s almost five. We better get this done while it’s still dark.”

She got out of bed and followed him out of the motel room. Neither one wore a coat, and it was cold. There was no one around; the sky was just hinting at dawn.

Nolan handed her some car keys. “These are to that little Mazda over there. It’s Infante’s. Back it around, right up to the edge of the sidewalk in front of the door to his room, and open the trunk.”

She nodded, and went to the car, and did as she was told.

Nolan unlocked Infante’s room, silenced 9 mm in hand; it was faintly possible that Julie might have showed up in the few minutes he’d been back at his own room, explaining things to the girl.

But there was no one in the room except Infante, and he was just a sprawl of leaking flesh on the carpet by the bed. Nolan took the spread off the bed and rolled Infante up in it; it was harder than it sounds. Then he went to the doorway, and the girt was standing by the open trunk.

“Nobody’s around,” she said, glancing from side to side, her breath visible in the air. “You need any help in there?”

“No.”

“Good,” she said, hugging her arms to herself, shivering, only partially from the cold.