Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [70]
Rolf tosses the guns from his day pack into the stash space.
—Even if they search us, there’s a good chance they won’t find you in there.
—Let’s just turn around.
The lights are bright now. Sid’s shaking his head.
—Too late for that, dude. They see us flip a bitch here and we’ll have to pull a Smokey and the Bandit in this thing. No way.
Rolf is holding the pad up.
—In, dude.
—Maaan.
—Dude, who’s the professional people smuggler?
I climb in, kick the guns to the bottom of the space, and try to make myself flat. Rolf stuffs a couple sweatshirts around my head.
—What the hell are those for?
—In case a cop decides to sit on you.
—Oh, fuck you, man.
He laughs and drops the pad.
I’M NOT claustrophobic, but I do a pretty good impersonation of someone who is. It’s not so much small places that I’m afraid of as being restrained. I wasn’t born with this fear, it’s just that it reminds me of being gagged with a dirty sock, pinned to a bed, and tortured. That is something I have experience with, and I don’t expect to be getting over it. Ever. I looked it up once. There’s no name for my specific association, but there’s something called merinthophobia: the fear of being bound or tied. Being packed into a shallow depression and having a foam pad stuffed on top of you may not count as binding or tying, but it will do in a pinch. So I think skinny thoughts, try not to breathe too much, and eke what oxygen I can through the foam.
I HEAR the engine vibrating right under me and the squeak of the brakes as we stop. There are some sounds that might be voices, and then the bus is moving again, pulling forward. Fuckin’ A, that wasn’t too bad. We’re through.
The bus swings to the right, stops, and the engine cuts out.
My heart starts trying to slam a hole in my chest. I suck air, oxygenating my blood like a diver, knowing what’s coming.
The weight in the bus shifts. I hear two bangs: Sid and Rolf climbing out and slamming the doors. A gliding shiver, another bang, another lurch of the bus: the side door being pulled open and a cop climbing in. I stop breathing.
One. Two. Three. Four.
I’m counting. That’s a bad idea. Counting will just make me think about how long I’m holding my breath. I should think about something else. Calm thoughts. The beach. I picture my place at the beach. Palm trees waving, waves lapping. One wave. Two waves. Three waves.
Stop it.
Voices now.
—Mumble mumble in that cabinet?
Has to be a cop.
—Mumble here.
Rolf.
How close are they if I can tell what they’re saying? One foot? Two feet? Three feet? Stop it!
—In that bag mumble?
—Mumble laundry mumble mumble.
—Under mumble there mumble?
Under? Under what? The rug? Are these guys looking for a fugitive or just hassling Rolf and Sid? Under? Fuck! The bench/bed is the top of a low cabinet.
—Mumble look mumble in there?
—Sure, dude.
Fuck you, Rolf.
I can hear it, I can feel it: the cop kneeling on the floor inches from me, popping open the cabinet doors, shining his flashlight inside, digging around right under me, trying to find something that will make his evening more interesting.
He’s digging and digging. One. Two. Three. I need to breathe. I have to move. I can’t be held down like this. I shift a quarter inch to the left and something pokes me in the side. Pictures in my head: being forced facedown on my bed, a man sitting on my legs, pulling out surgical staples, digging holes in my back. One. Two. Three. Stop! Please stop!
I feel pressure on top of the pad. Two hands on my stomach as the cop uses the bed to push himself up. All the remaining air is forced from my lungs.
—Thanks mumble.
And I open my mouth wide and suck and gasp.
Out! I need out!
—No mumble worries.
I shove the pad off. It flops silently to the floor as the door slides shut and bangs tight behind the exiting officer. Rolf glances back at me as he climbs in the front seat and we drive away from the roadblock. The highway patrol cops wave us on.
Up front, Rolf and Sid slap hands and laugh while I hyperventilate and ask myself just what the fuck