Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [57]
CSM is tucked between a John Deere dealership and a U-Haul. I unlock the office door, go in, close it behind me, head into the shop, and flick on the lights. And there’s my car, wheels removed, up on jack stands. Right where Dad left it so he could start replacing the brake pads first thing in the morning. Thanks, Dad. Then the alarm goes off because I didn’t enter the code within thirty seconds of opening the door.
DANNY WAS wearing an America’s Most Wanted shirt, which means he’s a fan, which means he recognized me when I beat him up, because, according to The Man Who Got Away, I have my very own episode of America’s Most Wanted. Even a dildo like him could hop online and do enough research to find out where my parents live and come here looking for me. He probably thinks catching me will earn him a reward and make him some kind of hero. And it would, it would.
The sheriff and his deputies know who my folks are. They know Mom because they frequently dealt with her students at the continuation school and, after my shit went down, they spent a fair amount of time staked out in front of the house, helping to deal with the media and such. Danny or Leslie or one of their cronies are going to pop out with my name. How long till that happens? How long after that till one of the deputies remembers how close my folks live to Wade? How long till they get a report on the alarm at CSM and remember my dad owns it? How long will it take for these podunk cops to connect the dots and really be after me? And how long after that before the state cops and the FBI are involved?
Leslie is hysterical. Danny was unconscious when I last saw him. Ponytail Boy had two broken limbs and is probably in shock. Mullet Head? He didn’t look like he’d be talking to anyone soon. Fat Guy. Will he talk? Will he say, “Yeah, we spun up here after a wanted murderer instead of calling the cops because he beat up my friend and we crashed our truck here and . . .”? He’ll keep his mouth shut. That’s what he’ll do. That’s what he has to do for me to have a chance.
I’M PULLING tarps off of cars while the alarm continues to ring, calling to deputies who are otherwise engaged. The ’53 ’Vette is way too visible. Likewise the ’73 Jaguar XLS. The 1970 Mercedes 280 SL has no engine. The ’50 Studebaker Commander is buried at the back of the row. But the ’85 Monte Carlo SS is just right. I grab the keys from the rack on the wall and hit the ignition. Nothing. Of course, because no one has driven it lately and the battery is dead. I wheel the charger over, pop the hood, and stare at the big block 502; 450 horses and over 500 lbs of torque. I hook up the charger.
While the car is juicing I go back in the office and dig around the shelves until I find a greasy road atlas. I limp back toward the shop and trip over something. A box of CSM jackets, each one wrapped in plastic. My jacket! The jacket that Leslie had pressed to her daughter’s forehead. That’s the kind of clue that will get the cops here in a hurry.
I try the key again and the Monte Carlo rumbles to life, almost as loud as the alarm. I disconnect the charger, drop the hood, and hit the button to roll up the garage door. It’s almost one in the morning. Outside, the heavy San Joaquin fog is starting to muffle the valley. I ease between the other cars, hoping that Dad’s insurance is up-to-date. I stop the car just outside, go back, reach in, and hit the button, dropping the door. No reason to invite trouble. I’m behind the wheel, seat belt on. I take a right out of the drive directly onto Highway 33, and gun the engine, popping from first to second to third. The fucker is so loud I don’t hear the siren of the sheriff’s car until it bursts off of Poppy Avenue, right in front of me.
My left foot jacks the clutch while my right heel-toes the brake and the gas.