Max Collins - Scratch Fever

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.

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.

Nolan went back and lifted the mummylike Infante into his arms, carrying him like a bride over a threshold, only Infante was going out, not in. When the girl saw the bundle in Nolan’s arms, she covered her mouth.

“Shut the door,” he said.

She shut the door to Infante’s motel room.

“Go get the other car.”

She walked down toward the Datsun. Briskly.

He laid Infante in the Mazda trunk, which was empty except for a spare tire. He had to stuff Infante in there, and bend parts of him around, as though he was fitting a piece into a puzzle, but the wrong piece. Infante would have been uncomfortable, had he been alive. Nolan shut the trunk.

The girl was there with the Datsun. It had frost on it, as did the Mazda.

He went over to where she was leaning out the rolled-down window and said, “Just follow, me,” and got behind the wheel of the Mazda.

He led her down a country road lined with trees on either side. About fifteen miles out of Gulf Port, Nolan pulled the Mazda into an access inlet to a cornfield. The field was flattened and desolate looking. There were no farmhouses or barns in sight. Nolan took a handkerchief and wiped everything he’d touched: steering wheel, trunk lid, even the car keys, which he pitched out into the field. Then he left the Mazda where it was and joined the girl in the Datsun, waiting in the road nearby, motor running.

“Turn around as soon as you can,” he said, “and head back to the motel.”