Boggs was looking at her, trying to figure this all out. "But, naw, it was always just a menu. And I'd go back to sitcoms and commercials. But ups and downs - that's what makes life what it is." She thumped her chest. "I'm from Ohio peasant stock." Boggs said, "There's one thing I'd like to say . . ."
Rune had been wondering if he'd bring up the sleeping arrangements, which is what this sounded like it was going to be about. But just then Courtney called, "I want juice." "Say 'please.'" "I want please." "Very funny." Rune called, "One minute, honey." To Boggs, she said, "I'm hungry for some real food. I've got a couple leftover Whoppers in the fridge. You interested?" "Sure. Heat me one up too."
Rune started into the houseboat. Suddenly Boggs stopped. He turned and twisted his head, like a dog hearing an ultrasonic whistle. He lifted his face to the sky. His nostrils flared wide as he inhaled. "How 'bout that?" "What?" "The smells," he said. "Yeah, we aren't exactly talking perfume in New York." "No, I don't mean that. What I mean is there're a bunch of them. A thousand smells." She sniffed then shook her head. "I can't make out too many." Boggs inhaled again. "When you're Inside there are only a couple smells you smell. Disinfectant. Onions or grease from the kitchen. Sweat. Spring air. Summer air ... It's like you get used to them. But here - What do I smell?" "Rotten fish and dog doo and garbage and car exhaust." "Nope. What I smell is freedom."
One potato, two potato, three potato four . . .
Jack Nestor, walking slowly along the old docks on the Hudson River, was thinking: In Florida people ought to be on boats. Especially in south Florida, close to the 'Glades, you realize that even on land there's water everywhere and it's a part of your life. Houses are raised up on stilts and everybody's got a boat of some kind in the yard.
But in New York, it seemed pretty weird to live on a boat.
Five potato, six potato, seven potato, more . . .
Nestor had parked on Tenth Street not far from the river. He'd rented the car, which he didn't like doing because that left a record. But he knew that after what was about to happen there was a pretty good chance his description would go out citywide, including to the Port Authority police at the airports and bus and train stations. But nobody could ever stop you from driving out of New York. The sun was down by now and the sky was a shade of blue it never was in Florida. It was a gray-blue, metalblue, junkyard blue. Nestor was thirsty but didn't want to look for a deli - that many more people to see him. So he sat on a bench facing the city and waited for more darkness to fall. He stubbed out his cigarette, after taking one long final drag, deciding that the menthol made him less thirsty.
Eight potato, nine potato, no cops anymore . . .
The blue-and-white that had been parked on the highway near the houseboat, the cops eating sandwiches, drinking coffee, pulled away, made a lazy U-turn, then headed north.
Time to go to work. He pulled out his gun and eased slowly toward the houseboat. "I learned a lot of law for one thing. They had a mess of law books Inside. Some of the fellows write their own appeals. They do pretty good at it."
Rune nodded. Boggs was working on his Corona -he still wasn't drunk, or even tired, it seemed - and Rune was sipping herbal tea and eating Twinkies. She'd wanted to tape him and ask him more questions about what life was like in prison. But he'd begged off. He was tired. Tomorrow, he said. Shoot me all you want tomorrow.
Courtney had gotten cranky; it was a little early for bed but she'd had a busy day helping get prisoners released from jail and playing the role of a convict's daughter so Rune gave her a bath then put her to bed. She fell asleep almost at once. Rune bounded back into the living room portion of the cabin and saw Boggs sitting on the couch, looking uneasy, nervous.
He cleared his throat and looked at her for a long moment, then away. Something was on his mind and she wondered if this was the moment when he was going to bring up sleeping arrangements again or even make a move. As in, a man and a woman alone together. As in, a man who's been behind bars for three years suddenly alone with a woman.
But no propositions were forthcoming. Boggs got another beer and kept up a nervous chatter. They talked about life in the city for a few minutes, about Atlanta, about politics and Washington (he seemed to know a surprising number of facts for someone who appeared so redneck). Rune, expecting the line at any minute: You know, I was thinking I might have me some trouble getting a room . . . But just as that was going through her head Boggs yawned and looked at his watch. He said, "I ought to be finding a room for the night."
And she surprised herself by saying, "You want, you can sleep in the living room. Courtney's got the futon but we could fix up something." But he was shaking his head. "No, it's funny, I can't explain it, but I'd really be inclined to spend the night by myself, you know?" "Sure." Not understanding at all, but feeling relieved that he wanted to do this. "Let me pack up the rest of the beers. And I'll give you some pizza for breakfast." "Uh, no thanks. I'm pretty partial to oatmeal." "I got some packets of instant," she said. "You want a couple?" Which was a question that never got answered.
With a huge crack, the front door burst open, hitting a table and knocking over a pile of Rune's books. She looked at the fat man rushing into the houseboat, saw the big gun in his hand and instinctively leapt in front of the storeroom where Courtney was asleep. Rune pulled the door shut, standing defiantly in front of it. Staring back at the man she knew without a bit of doubt had killed Lance Hopper and Bennett Frost. This was Jimmy.
Boggs stood up fast, knocking over the beer, which chugged onto the floor. The big man stopped then closed the front door slowly, calmly, as if he'd been invited in. He stood with his arms hanging awkwardly at his side. Cautious, but confident, squinting, checking out the room and its inhabitants. Nothing he saw scared him.
Randy Boggs, his eyes wide with shock, faced the man. The way Boggs stood made him look like a soldier.
No, more like a boxer - one foot forward, turned sideways. Which was crazy because even without the gun, no way could he have taken this fat guy, who outweighed him by a hundred pounds and looked like a ball-kicker and eye-gouger. A dirty fighter.
"What do you want?" Rune whispered. He ignored her and stepped right up to Boggs. Five seconds of complete silence passed as the men seemed locked in a staring contest. No one moved. It was Randy Boggs who grinned first, then said, "Jack, you son of a bitch! Wasn't expecting you for a couple of days or so." The fat man laughed and let out a whoop. He slipped the gun into his belt and the two men embraced like long-lost cossack brothers suddenly reunited.
25
The one question on her mind: could Courtney swim? Rune could -about as well as any Midwest girl who never saw a body of water with waves until she was ten.
Hell, she could just hold on to Courtney -picturing her now, screaming and waving her arms in panic -and kick to the far pier. How many yards was that? Maybe thirty or forty? And, God, the Hudson was gross and yucky . . .
But that didn't matter. If they didn't get out now they'd be dead in three minutes. She tore the door to the storeroom open and lunged, vaguely aware of a sudden rush of activity behind her in the living room. Footsteps, voices. She slammed the door and turned the skeleton key lock. "Court, wake up." The little girl didn't stir. Rune pressed her back against the thick wood and began to untie her boots, which were laced up tight through dozens of eyelets. She knew she'd drown if she didn't get them off. She shouted, "Courtney." "Juice," a weak voice said. "Wake up!" Maybe some of the toys would float. There was an anemic balloon tied onto the wall. Rune grabbed it and looped it around the girl's wrist. "I'm sleepy," Courtney said. Rune had one boot off. She started on the second.
With a huge snap of cracking wood the door crashed inward, catching Rune on the shoulder. She flew into the far wall and lay still. Jack Nestor stepped into the room, narrowing his eyes against the darkness. He looked around and walked toward Rune. When he got to her she sprung. It wasn't much of an assault. The only damage: Her shoulder caught him in the cheek, and he jerked back, blinking in surprise, as a tooth cut into his tongue or the flesh of his mouth. "Little shit!" he muttered. She pounded him with her hands, knotted into small fists. But he was resilient as hard rubber. And strong too. He just picked her up, stuffed her under his arm and carried her out into the living room.
She screamed and twisted and kicked. Nestor was laughing hard. "Whoa, this one's a hell-cat." He dropped her into a wrought-iron butterfly chair. She kicked him in the thigh. Flinching, he said angrily, "Settle down." "You son of a bitch!" She leapt out of the chair, making for Boggs. Nestor roared, "Settle down!" He grabbed her like a receiver snagging a sixty-yard bomb and tossed her into the chair again. She bounced once, the breath knocked out of her. She wiped at her tears. "You bastard." Looking into Randy Boggs's evasive eyes. Boggs said to Nestor, "You got yourself wheels?" "Sure do. Some kind of Hertz shit. But it'll do. Damn, you look good, for somebody who ain't seen but prison sunlight for three years." Boggs said, "You look ugly as you ever did." Nestor laughed and the men did a little good-natured sparring. Boggs landed a left hook on Nestor's chest and the fat man said, "You prick, you always were fast. You hit like a pussy but you're fast." "You'll see a bruise the shape of my knuckles there, come morning." Nestor looked around. "We gotta blow this joint." "I'll vote for that." Rune said to Boggs, "You did it? You really did it?" Nestor was speaking to Boggs. "Let's take care of business and get on our way." He pulled the gun out of his waistband and glanced at Rune.
The smile left Boggs's face. "Whatcha aiming to do?" Nestor shrugged. "Pretty clear, wouldn't you say? Don't see we have much choice." Boggs was looking down, avoiding both their eyes. "Well, Jack, you know, I wouldn't be too happy, you did that." Rune stared at the gun, afraid to look into Nestor's face. He seemed to be the sort who would kill you sooner if you looked him in the eye. "Randy, we gotta. She knows everything." "I know, but, hell, I wouldn't want that to happen. It just wouldn't be right, you know?" "'Right'?" Her hands were shaking. Sweat popped out on her forehead, and she felt a trickle run from under her arms to her waist. Boggs said, "The thing is, she's got a kid. A little girl" Nestor's face darkened. "A baby?" "This little kid." "In there?" Nestor looked at the storeroom. "I didn't see her." "You can't do the kid, Jack. I won't let you do that." Meaning it's okay if he shoots me! Rune began to cry more seriously. Nestor was saying, "I wouldn't do a kid anyway. You know me better than that, Randy. After all we've been through, I hope you do." "And what's the kid going to do without a mother? She'd starve to death, or something." "She's pretty young to be a mother." From somewhere Rune found the voice to say, "Please, don't hurt her. If you ... do anything to me, please call the police or somebody and tell them that she's here. Please."
Nestor was debating. Boggs said, "I really gotta ask this one, Jack. I really gotta ask you to let her be." Nestor sighed. He nodded and put the gun into his belt. "Shit, that's the way it is, that's the way it is. Okay. I'll do it for you, Randy. I don't think it's a good idea, I just want to go on the record and say that, but I owe you so I'll do it. But . . ." He walked to the chair and took Rune's face in his onion-scented fingers. "You listen up good. I know who you are and where you live. If you say anything to anybody about us I'll come back. I get to New York all the time. I'll come back and I'll kill you."
Rune nodded. She was crying - in pure fear, in pure relief. And from the worst pain of all - betrayal. You believe him? Piper Sutton had asked Rune such a long time ago, as if she was talking to a chid. You believe him when he says he's innocent? Nestor said brutally, "You hear me?" She couldn't speak. She nodded her head.
They used lamp cord and tied her into the chair and gagged her with an old wool scarf. Boggs knelt down and tested the wires. He smiled shyly. "I suspect you're right upset and I don't blame you. You helped me out and I repay you this way. But sometimes in life you've gotta do things just for yourself. You know, for your own survival. I'm sorry it worked out this way but you saved my life. I'll always be thankful for that."
She wanted to say Fuck you! or Go to hell! or Judas! A thousand other things. But the gag was tight and, besides, no words could convey the undiluted anger she was feeling for this man. So she stared into his eyes, not blinking, not wavering a millimeter, forcing him to see how much hate welled up and overflowed between them. How she wished Prometheus was still chained to rock, being eaten by birds.
Boggs squinted for an instant. He swallowed and finally looked away. "Lessgo, boy," Nestor called. "We got a date with the road." Then they were gone. Man, man, man, there's nothing like driving, Randy Boggs was thinking. There's not a goddamn thing in the world like it.
The way the tires make that hissing sound on asphalt. The way the car dances over beat-up pavement. The way you know the road'11 always be there and that you can drive forever and never once cover the same spot twice, you don't want to.
The Ford Tempo, Jack Nestor driving, had left Jersey and Pennsylvania way behind and was cruising down the highway into Maryland. Heading south.
