Эд Горман - Blood Moon

So much for the two detox programs.

“Did he get somebody pregnant again?”

“Your husband? Not that I know of.”

“Good, because the last time he did, it was really a mess. The mother dragged her daughter — who was all of fifteen — into the church and made a scene during a Sunday service. It was something out of a bad movie. A very bad one.”

“Didn’t he get in trouble with the church members?”

“Oh, he did a Jimmy Swaggart. You know, one of those big, teary, dramatic spectacles on the altar. They loved it and they forgave him.”

“Did you forgive him?”

She smiled. “Don’t start looking at me like a victim. If I counted up all the men I’ve screwed on the side, I could probably fill a small stadium. I’m no prize, believe me.” The smile again, only sadder. “Oh, back in high school I was a prize. I was a real doll. I really was. And these were the stuff of myth.” She delicately indicated her breasts with a long, graceful hand. “The reverend could never keep his hands off them. After we were married, he used to feel me up even when I was asleep. He just couldn’t get enough of them. But then we went through some very bad years — eight or nine of them, in fact. He got run out of two different churches — the other thing he couldn’t keep his hands off was teenage girls — and we never had any money and my drinking started to be a real serious problem. I wanted him to get a real job. I mean, in his heart he’s no reverend, not the way he violates the Ten Commandments, I mean nobody could be that much of a hypocrite. But he enjoys pretending he’s a reverend. He likes all the corny stuff, the weddings and the christenings and the funerals. He gets so caught up in them, he always cries. It’s pretty amazing, when you think about it. I mean, I’ve seen him bury people that he despised, but there they were, these huge silver tears, streaming down his cheeks. He really is amazing.”

I hadn’t known until about halfway through her little speech how drunk she was. It took an awful lot of wine coolers to reach her present state of intoxication. I assumed she must have had something a little stronger earlier in the evening.

“You ever think of leaving him?”

“You know something?”

“What?”

“You haven’t told me your name.”

“Jim Hokanson.”

“Oh, the famous Jim Hokanson.”

“Famous?”

“A lot of people in town are wondering who you really are.”

“Just another pilgrim.”

“You still want to know if I ever think of leaving him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, actually, I have left him three times, but he always brought me back.”

“He loves you, then.”

“No, but he needs me for a front. I don’t make scenes, I really play the part of the dutiful wife whenever I need to, and I don’t cost him all that much money when you come right down to it. I’ve even made him money. Me and my cancer.”

“You have cancer?”

“No. Or at least I hope I don’t. But he tells people I do. It’s one of the ways he raises money.”

“He seems to be awfully successful. I saw his matching white Lincolns. One of which you’re driving tonight, I believe.”

“Yes, luckily I was able to get to it before Mindy was.” A lurid smile this time. “I shouldn’t be saying all this, but I’m a little drunky-poo, and right now I don’t care.”

I wasn’t sure what she was talking about but before I could answer, the bartender had come over.

“There’s a phone call for you, Mrs. Roberts.”

“Tell him I’m not here.”

“I already told him you were.”

“I thought we had an understanding, you and me.”

“Mrs. Roberts, I don’t want to get in the middle of somebody’s family argument. Now, why don’t you come over and get the phone?”

He walked away.

“This place is really a pit, isn’t it?”

“I guess I could agree with that notion,” I said.

“This is the kind of place I used to drink in before we came into money.”

“And when was that?”

She thought a moment. “Four years ago.”

“Is that when his ministry really took off?”

“His ministry? Honey, his ministry has never taken off.”

Then where did he suddenly get money, I wanted to ask.

But the bartender was shouting above the jukebox for her.

She put down her drink and walked over to the bar, still a good-looking woman as all the appreciative male eyes indicated.

She didn’t do much talking, just held the phone to her ear for a minute or so and then handed the receiver back to the bartender.

Sliding into the booth again, she said, “I’m not supposed to talk to you. I’m supposed to get out of this dive and get home.” She looked at her watch. “I really better go.”

“I was hoping we could talk a little more.”

“He knows you’re here and he knows we’re talking. And that’s what he’s so upset about.”

“How’d he find out I was here?”

“Lou.”

“The bartender.”

“Uh-huh. Lou keeps the reverend clued in, and the reverend gives him money.”

“You going to be all right to drive?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You were going to tell me about your husband coming into money suddenly.”

She stood up, grabbed her purse. “Call me some other time. We’ll talk. Right now I just want to get home and get all his yelling and swearing over with, and just go to bed.” The killer smile again, the one that broke all those hearts in those misty days of yesteryear, when we were young and optimistic and immortal. “Dream about me tonight, Mr. Hokanson, because I’m sure going to dream about you.”

Then she was gone.

The escape didn’t go so well.

Number one: the getaway car, a new rental Chevy, had an overheating problem, which put the three hoods that Rosamund had hired fifteen minutes late getting to the road parallel to the soybean field.

Number two: he himself had come down with a cold and sore throat that made him miserably ill the night before the planned escape. Even worse, he’d had an impossible time sleeping, waking up every fifteen minutes with an image of the guards shooting him dead. He was scared. So many things could go wrong with this kind of setup.

Number three: one of the guards was a new guy and a real cowboy to boot, all chewing tobacco and long, lazy drawl and mean bronc-buster soul, eager as hell to kill somebody so he’d have a good story when he played bumper pool down to one of the nearby taverns.

Given all these problems, the escape went about as you’d expect.

The Chevy appeared, driving slow.

He sees it, starts drifting toward the highway.

The cowboy’s way the hell down the row, shouldn’t be any trouble.

But as soon as he cuts and runs, heading for the highway, the cowboy sees him and comes running.

The cowboy starts shooting.

Sounds like WWIII.

All he can do, running toward the highway, is weave left and weave right as he runs, hoping he’s eluding the bullets.

Reaches the highway and trips.

Trips.

Down on his hands and knees.

Three guys in ski masks are now standing in the middle of the highway, returning the cowboy’s fire.

He’s a little outgunned, the cowboy, with his CAR 15. They’ve got semiautomatic weapons.

Not until he crawls halfway across the highway, the air exploding with gunfire and gunsmoke and cursing, does he realize he’s been wounded.

That’s why he tripped.

He’s bleeding badly.

God, is he going to make it?