Grand Tour, copyright 2006, by Etienne. All rights reserved.
If the idea of two men loving each other and expressing that love in a sexual manner offends you, then you have clearly come to the wrong place. Feel free to leave.
-3-
The door opened and the young Officer came into the room. Henry and I assumed fighting stances, and I said, “back for more, are you?”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t want any part of what they were doing, I thought you saw that.”
“Maybe,” I said. “What are you here for, then?”
“To get you guys out of here before they come back and kill you. They took J. W. to an Emergency Room in Florence, which is almost fifty miles up the Interstate. They did that because there’s no way they want word of his injury filtering back here. That gives you a few hours to get out of town.”
“And what will you be doing while we are running?”
“You guys are going to overpower me, knock me out, and tie me up.”
“Can’t we just go to the County authorities here and file a complaint?” I asked.
“Not on your life. Everyone in this town and nearly everyone in the County is either related to or intimately acquainted with everybody else. If you went to the County Sheriff, you would wind up in a cell right back here in this jail for sure.”
“So, Officer,” I said, “do you think that you can convince them that we overpowered you, as you put it?”
“My name is Bobby Perdue,” he said. “Please call me Bobby.”
“Okay, Bobby, I repeat my question.”
“I don’t have much choice. You don’t want to know what I suspect has been going on around here for years.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply this. Over the past year, I have figured out from bits and pieces of conversation, that J. W. and Starling made a regular thing of picking up hitchhikers of either sex and using them for the own purposes, before killing them and disposing of the bodies.”
“I didn’t believe it at first,” he continued, “but occasionally when I would be at a Bar with Starling he would talk a little too freely. I think it has been going on for a very long time. I couldn’t really bring myself to believe it until today.”
“Did you ever learn how they disposed of the bodies?” I asked.
“I’m not certain,” he said, “but there was something Starling once said about a cave and an underground lake. That’s all I know, and frankly, that’s more than I want to know. Right now, what I want is to forget that I ever heard of this town. If my wife wasn’t eight months pregnant, I would haul ass tonight. As it is, I need to hang around until the baby is born, and then find some excuse to quit and go somewhere far away from here.”
“Okay,” I said, “I can accept that. What do you want us to do?”
“First, we need to wipe this room down so that there won’t be any fingerprints. Dampen some paper towels and wipe down the table and chairs and anything else you might have touched.”
We hastened to comply, and after a few minutes we were satisfied that all available surfaces were clean.
“What about Starling’s Cruiser,” Bobby asked, “do you remember touching anything in it?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, and Henry nodded in agreement.
“Good,” Bobby said. “All you have to do now is tie me up and hit me over the head.”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
“What?”
“If we are going to overpower you, why don’t we grab your gun and force you to drive us a few miles up the road. Then we can tie you up.”
“I can live with that,” he said.
I rummaged in my backpack and found a tee-shirt. He handed me his gun, and I wrapped the shirt around it so that there would be no prints. The three of us slipped quietly out the back door of the building, and he led us to his personal vehicle. Henry got in the front passenger seat, and I slid in behind the driver’s seat.
“Where to?” Bobby asked, when he was behind the wheel.
“What is the nearest large town?”
“That would be Sumter.”
“How far away is it?”
“About twenty miles.”
“Then let’s go to Sumter.”
Thirty minutes later, we were on the outskirts of Sumter. “Any place in particular, now that we are here?” Bobby asked.
“Stop at that Wal-Mart up ahead,” I said.
He pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot, and I handed Henry the shirt and the gun wrapped up in it.
I said to Bobby, “I need to make a couple of purchases, then we can find a place to leave you and the car.”
I hurried into the Wal-Mart, quickly found the items I was looking for, and made my purchases. I went back to the car and got in.
“Take us to the nearest Truck Stop, and that will do it,” I said.
“There is a big one out on US-76,” he said.
“Good, let’s go there.”
A few minutes later, we pulled up behind a large Truck Stop. The parking lot was full of eighteen-wheelers with their motors idling.
“What now?” Bobby asked.
“You are free to go back to Manning,” I said. “I guess we should hit you over the head hard enough to leave a small bump so you can tell a convincing story. Maybe you can convince them that we forced you to take us South on I-95.”
“I can do that,” he said.
Henry and I got out of the car, and I took the shirt-wrapped gun.
“I really don’t like to do this,” I said, “but I guess there is no choice.” I hit him pretty hard with the butt of the pistol.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry man.” I felt the back of his head. “There is a nice little bump forming there. If I were you, I would muss my clothes up a bit to suggest signs of a struggle.”
“Good luck, guys,” he said, and he drove away.
“What now?” Henry asked.
“Now we clean up. A place like this will have shower facilities. We need a shave, we need haircuts, and we need to change clothes.”
“Truck stops don’t have Barber Shops,” Henry said.
“We don’t need a Barber Shop. I purchased a set of electric hair clippers in Wal-Mart. We’re going to give each other a nice buzz cut.”
Half an hour later, we bore no resemblance to the two bearded men with long shaggy hair that had entered the Police Station only a few hours earlier. We stood in front of the mirror admiring our handiwork. “I like it,” I said.
“So do I,” Henry replied. “Now what?”
“We get a bite to eat, and then we get the hell out of Dodge.”
Henry and I had a quick sandwich in the Truck Stop Café, and then I went to the bank of telephones near the entrance to the Rest Rooms. For the first time since we had left Boston, I regretted having left our Cell Phones at home. I found a couple of Taxicab companies listed, and called one of them. The price for a trip to Columbia was high, but worth it.
It was a long anxious wait, but our Taxi finally pulled up in front of the Truck Stop entrance. I told the driver that we wanted to go to the Airport in Columbia.
“That’ll cost you,” he said.
“Your dispatcher told me the amount, and it is no problem,” I said.
“Got to have at least half of it up front for a trip like that.”
Wordlessly, I handed him a wad of cash, and we were on our way. Mercifully, Truck Stops come equipped with ATM machines, and Henry and I had both withdrawn large amounts.
The driver of our Taxi was a garrulous old man, who talked non-stop for the entire trip. He did not require our participation in his conversation, an occasional sound from us would keep him going.
He dropped us at the Departures sign, and I gave him the rest of the fare, along with a generous tip.
I scanned the monitors and said, “there is a late flight to Atlanta in thirty minutes, I’ll bet we can make it.”
“Atlanta!”
“Yes, Atlanta. I have an idea, just wait and see.”
The flight to Atlanta took just over an hour. From Hartsfield Airport in Atlanta, we took a Taxi to the Ritz-Carlton at Lenox Square, where we were able to secure a room with a King-size bed. By then, it was nearly midnight, and we were more than ready for a snack. One of the advantages of a luxury Hotel is 24-hour Room Service, so we ordered a light Dinner and a bottle of wine.
-To be continued-
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Writers live on feedback, good or otherwise, and this one is no exception. The Story and the Characters will continue until I get tired of it or them or the readers get tired of it or them, whichever happens first.