Ed Gorman - Voodoo Moon

"That's the one Sandy always looked at."

"Sandy?" I said.

"Yeah, the girl that got killed by Rick Hennessy."

"Really?" I said, setting the baby photo down. "How do you know that?"

"This was where she was working when she died. She had my job. Saving for college. She broke me in. You know, showed me around my first week. Right after that, she got killed."

I hadn't known about her job here.

And then I thought of her other job. The one with Claire Giles.

"She ever say anything about the baby picture of the chief?"

"Don't think so. She'd just pick it up and look at it a lot. It's kind of a cute picture, for a little kid, I mean. She'd just keep staring at it."

"What the hell you doing?" Fuller said, bursting back into the office.

"Where's Chief Charles?" I said.

"For somebody who's gonna spend the night with us, you sure ask a hell of a lot of questions, you know that?" Wide face sweaty, angry, frustrated. Then, "Get the hell out of here, Ronnie. Payne and I need to talk."

"Where's Susan?" I said.

I was pushing him to the edge. I didn't have any choice.

"Some personal business came up, if that's all right with you. She told me to take over and do as I saw fit. Is that good enough for you?"

"She told me she'd ask you to let me go back to my motel tonight."

"She didn't say anything to me."

The way he said it, I knew he wasn't lying.

But why wouldn't Susan have kept her word and asked him to let me go, at least for tonight?

But I already had a good idea.

And now I had no choice but to run.

I was quick enough to surprise him. He cursed, jumped in my direction, slamming his knee hard against the edge of the desk.

Then he got entangled with Ronnie and his dry mop. Ronnie moved in sync with Fuller, and Fuller couldn't get past. Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny executing a routine.

I was several feet down the hall by the time Fuller burst out with "Stop him! Stop him!"

And then he was running down the hall after me.

And then the whole jail was waking up from its rainy slumber.

More shouts. Slapping footsteps.

My chances of escaping weren't much better than those of Fuller letting me go back to my motel room.

Back door. Opening just now. Patrolman coming through in rain poncho. Smelling of cigarettes and cold air. Didn't see me at first.

I shoved him out of the way. He bounced off the doorframe back at me. I had to shove him again. Ran into the night.

Rain was so hard it was like soft bullets exploding on my head, shoulders, and back.

Running out of the circle of light in the rear of the police station. Darkness. Had to reach the darkness.

Asphalt alley. Splashing through pooling water in the sloping center of the asphalt.

Garages. Tiny loading dock. Dumpsters. Two, three back doors of businesses. None offered much hope of a hiding place. They'd comb the alley for sure.

I needed a car. But hot wiring didn't happen to be a specialty of mine. I could do it, but it would take a long time. Too long.

The street. Small dark businesses on either side. Wind whipping signs and trees and overhead traffic signal viciously.

Had to have a car. And that meant Tandy. The car she'd rented would be at the motel. I couldn't take mine. Too easily spotted. The motel was seven, eight blocks from here.

I jogged three blocks over. If I stuck on a straight course, they'd find me for sure.

I wanted to stop and get out of the rain. Just for a second. There's an old Ray Bradbury story, one of my favorites in high school, about a couple of astronauts marooned on a planet where there's no escape from the rain. Eventually, they go mad. I knew the feeling. I hadn't been out in this stuff ten minutes yet and I was already starting to feel disembodied. Soon, I'd be nothing more than another puddle.

Night. Cold. Rain.

Alleys. Backyards. Streets.

Backed-up sewers. Wind tearing off tree branches. Lightning surgically severing the black sky with a shining silver blade.

Running. A hitch in my side. Slowing down. Gasping. Until this moment, I would have said that I was in reasonably decent shape for a man my age. That's what I told the ladies in the bars when they remarked on my slim body. Now I knew better. Slim wasn't the equivalent of healthy. It just meant you did a better job of hiding your unhealthiness.

And then it was there.

I was just coming out of another alley when it appeared, apparition-like. Big, hot, heavy, throbbing in the rain.

A squad car. Fuller driving. Aiming a spotlight back and forth across the front of the alley. He must have glimpsed me. Or thought he had.

I dove behind three garbage cans set into a wooden frame. I had developed a nose bleed and the blood was flooding hot into my mouth. I was shaking all over.

I peeked up just enough to see the spotlight whip back and forth, forth and back a few more times.

Was he going to pull into the alley and search it?

The nose was becoming a problem.

I ripped a piece of my shirt off, wrung it out as well as I could, and then pressed it to my nose. Teach me not to carry handkerchiefs.

Fuller still sat at the head of the alley.

Why?

Then I was able to hear the squawk of the radio. He was talking to the dispatcher. I couldn't catch most of the words. But I did get a sense of the exchange.

I lay against the ground. I was already so wet, so cold, it didn't matter. I was so close to the garbage cans that the sweet, fetid stench of last week's dinner leavings were starting to gag me.

I had to get a car. I was sure I knew what was going on. But I needed proof. Fuller wouldn't be easy to convince.

And then he left.

Just as wraithlike as his sudden appearance had been, so was his leaving.

No siren. No quick acceleration. He just left. All that heat and power of the souped-up Ford just vanished.

I got up and started running again.

For a block or so, I got disoriented and had no idea where I was in relation to the motel.

But then I saw a small radio tower that was a block west of the motel and that set me right again.

Sirens in the distance. Probably for me-what could be more exciting than an honest-to-God manhunt for an escaped prisoner? — but then again maybe not. This was perfect fire weather, cops and firefighters alike often converging on the same scene.

I ran.

I was a block from the motel, in an alley, when the dog found me.

Wind, rain, and a ripped branch had worked together to knock down the fencing that was the only protection the civilized world had from him.

His barking was terrifying. All sorts of images of me as his dinner flooded my mind. I was paralyzed.

My fear, of course, was that he'd attack me. But just as the mutant Rottweiler-or whatever the heck he was-started to think about moving on me, I saw a flashlight beam cutting faintly through the mist and rain.

And then a male voice calling, "Gretchen! Gretchen!"

He hadn't taken time to dress properly, a beanpole of a bald guy in a robe and pajamas, slipping and sliding over the muddy grass of his backyard to get to his precious dog.

"Gretchen! Gretchen!"

Gretchen was out to impress him. Demonstrate just how bloodcurdling her bark could be. If he had any sense, he would have been afraid of it, too.

I was pinned against a garage on the other side of the alley. The flashlight beam found my face.

The rain hissed and hummed and hammered away. Soft bullets. "Who're you?"

"My name's Payne. Robert Payne."

"What the hell you doing in my backyard this time of night?"

"I wasn't in your backyard. I was walking down the alley to my motel."

"On foot on a night like this?"

"My car got caught in a little flash flood. Sewer backed up. Couldn't get it started again. So I was walking back to my motel."