Bradley Denton - Blackburn

As the door opened, Blackburn saw that the cops were young, in their early twenties. They looked grim. "Sorry to bother you at such a late hour, sir," the closest one said. He didn't sound sorry. "But we had a disturbance downstairs, and we were wondering if you might have seen or heard anything that could help us with our investigation."

"I'm afraid not," Blackburn said. "I had the air conditioner on, and I didn't even wake up until you were putting the guy into your car. I did see that."

"You slept through the disturbance, sir?" the cop asked.

"I guess so."

The other cop pointed at Blackburn's feet. "Do you sleep in your shoes, sir?"

Blackburn looked down at his new running shoes. "No," he said. "But I couldn't get back to sleep, so I thought I'd go for a jog to tire myself out."

"Jogging at night isn't advisable, sir," the first cop said. "You might be hit by a motorist."

"Oh," Blackburn said. "I won't do it, then."

"Maybe you could watch TV instead," the cop suggested.

"I'll do that."

"And if you happen to remember anything that might help us, please call the Palestine Police Department. Or tell the front desk here at the motel."

The old woman rattled her keys. "I'm sorry about the ruckus," she said. "I hope you can get back to sleep."

"Not your fault," Blackburn said.

The cops and the old woman moved on toward the next room. As Blackburn closed the door, he saw the second cop look back at him and scowl. But there was no recognition in the look, only the normal aggressive distrust of a young male.

Blackburn turned on the television so the cops would hear that he had taken their advice. He couldn't leave until he was sure they were gone anyway. As he sat down on the bed, the television screen brightened into an artist's rendering of Jay Pinkerton lying strapped to a gurney. According to the voiceover, the execution was taking place at that moment.

Blackburn got up and turned off the television. He went into the bathroom, took his plastic bags from the tub, and returned to the bed. He pulled the Python from his jacket and cocked it. Then he sat with his back against the headboard and waited.

Several minutes later he heard the cops' voices in the parking lot, and then a car starting and driving away. He waited ten more minutes before uncocking the Python and replacing it in his jacket in the sporting-goods bag. Then he picked up both bags and left the room. The sky was covered with clouds again.

Blackburn walked behind the motel and out to a tree-canopied side street. There was no traffic. He headed east, away from the highway loop, until he came to a small apartment house with a ripe parking lot. There he wrapped his polyester courtroom shirt around his meat-tenderizing mallet and broke the driver's-side wing window from an old Dodge Coronet sedan. He reached in and unlocked the door, then opened it and tossed his bags inside. He glanced at the apartment house to be sure no lights were coming on, then squirmed under the car's dashboard.

When the engine started, Blackburn came out from under the dashboard and looked at the apartment house again. There were still no lights. He settled into the driver's seat, pulled out of the lot, and drove back toward the highway loop. The Coronet's engine stumbled, but he thought it would get him to Oklahoma.

As he turned north onto the highway loop beside the Best Western, he saw that the police car was back again, parked in front of the motel. The two cops were coming out of the office. One of them seemed to stare at Blackburn as he drove past.

Blackburn watched his rearview mirror and saw the police car pull onto the loop and also head north. But it was half a mile behind him, and its flashing lights weren't coming on. Blackburn turned west at a stoplight, and although the police car turned west there too, it dropped back even farther. By the time Blackburn was out of the city, accelerating northwest on U.S. 287, there were no headlights in his mirror. It had been thirty-six hours since he had escaped from the courthouse in Houston, and he was still alive and free.

That put him two up on a lot of people. Including, by now, Jay Pinkerton.

The Coronet died soon after he turned off U.S. 287 onto Texas 19, before he could find one of the back roads that he preferred. There was a grinding noise, and then the engine quit. Blackburn let the car coast into the ditch and stopped it under an overhanging tree. God was still trying to get him to believe in Him, and had decided that he should wander on foot for a while longer.

Blackburn didn't think that would have to be for long. After turning onto Texas 19, he had passed a gravel road with a sign beside it that said Palestine community forest, and he had seen red taillights wink off among the trees. At least one car was parked in there.

He took his two plastic bags and trudged back toward the gravel road. The ground was moist rather than muddy, so he knew the rain had not been as heavy here. A car passed by on the highway, and he lay down in the grass at the bottom of the ditch so its occupants wouldn't see him. When he stood, his clothes were damp, and he felt bugs, probably ticks, crawling on his skin. He stopped and set down his bags to brush himself off, but it was too dark for him to see whether he was successful. The sensation of things crawling on him didn't go away, so he had to walk on and try to ignore it. He couldn't wait to get out of Texas.

When he could see the flat shadow that was the mouth of the gravel road, he climbed the slope of the ditch and entered the forest, weaving his way between the trees. The woods were alive with chirps, clicks, and scrabblings, some of which ceased as Blackburn passed by. He didn't want to think about all the ticks he was rousing, so he thought about snakes instead. Snakes could be shot.

A few hundred yards into the forest, an automobile appeared among the trees. It was a Nissan Z car that, in the darkness, appeared to be a dull gray color. It was parked in a clearing at the end of a dirt track that Blackburn assumed led back to the gravel road. The Nissan's windows were down, and as Blackburn approached, he heard slurping sounds from within. Kids making out.

Blackburn's plan was simple. He would force the Nissan's occupants out of the car and take it. But he would have to be careful. In Texas, even people in sports cars were often armed. Blackburn set down his bags among the roots of an elm, removed the Python from his rolled-up suit jacket, and stepped into the clearing.

At that moment, another man emerged from the trees on the opposite side of the clearing. This man's shirt, like Blackburn's, was white, and his legs, like Blackburn's, were bare. He stood out so sharply against the dark trees that he seemed to glow. Blackburn stopped and stared, thinking at first that he was seeing a reflection of himself, a terrestrial gegenschein. Then, as the other man continued to approach, Blackburn saw that he was small and walked in a stoop, and that his shirt was in fact a gown that stopped at mid-thigh. His gray hair was long and matted, and his beard touched his chest. He was not a reflection of Blackburn.

The man raised his hands above his head and shouted in a high-pitched, cracking voice: "Fornicators! Repent!"

Two heads popped up in the Nissan. Blackburn hissed "Shit" and stepped back into the trees. He didn't know if the people in the car had seen him or not.

The long-haired man continued to shout. "The wages of sin is death!" he cried. He was standing beside the car now, pounding its roof with his fists. "At least use a rubber!"

The Nissan's engine started, and its headlights came on. The beams stabbed into the woods and pinned Blackburn against a tree trunk. He dropped to the ground, hoping the kids were too intent on getting away to notice him. The Nissan spun its rear wheels, backed up in a half circle, and scraped against a cedar. Metal squealed as it lurched forward onto the dirt track, and then it was gone. Blackburn heard it turn onto the gravel road and roar off toward the highway.