First blood, p.21
First Blood, page 21
He wondered if he had gone crazy. The fumes must have affected him more than he knew and this was just quiet giddiness. Or maybe, having given himself up for dead, he was just overwhelmingly glad to be alive. Having gone through that hell, maybe he had to find everything else full of pleasure.
But you won’t feel it much more if you let them come across you here, he told himself, and he stood in the dark, testing the emptiness above him so as not to bump his head against a shelf. Even then, he spiked his head, jerked down, and realized that what he had struck was the end of a branch. It was a bush up there, and when he put out his hands, he touched the rim of the basin, waist high. Out. He had been out all this while, the night sky clouded, fooling him that he was yet underground.
Careful of his ribs, he drew himself up under the bush and gulped air, tasting its freshness, smelling the woody bark of the bush. Down from him, quite a distance, there was a small fire in the trees. After the total darkness of the caves, the fire was bright and rich and alive.
He tensed. Someone had spoken muffled down near the fire. Someone else moved in the rocks nearby, and there was a vivid scratching sound that he saw now was a match being struck on its folder’s abrasive paper. Then the flare of the match went out and he saw the gentle glow of a cigarette.
So they were out here waiting for him. Teasle had guessed why he went down into the fissures and caves. Teasle had deployed men around the hill in case he found an exit. Well, they could not see much in the dark, and after being underground, he was at home in the dark, and as soon as he had rested more, he would slip down past them. It would be easy now. They would be thinking he was still in the caves, and he would be miles off on his road. No one had better get in his way. Christ, no. He would do anything. What he had come to feel, he would do anything to anyone to keep.
13
It was dark again, and Teasle did not understand how he had come to be in the murk of the forest. Trautman, Kern, the truck. Where were they all? What had happened to the day? Why was he stumbling so urgently through the solid shadows of the trees?
He leaned breathless against the black trunk of a tree, the pain in his chest rousing from its numbness. He was so disoriented that he was afraid. Not directionless. He knew he had to keep moving straight ahead, he had to go, somewhere ahead, but he did not understand why, how.
Trautman. He remembered this. Trautman had wanted to take him to a doctor. He remembered lying on his back on the wood floor of the truck. He grasped for an explanation of how he had come from there to here. Had he struggled with Trautman not to go to the doctor? Maybe he had broken loose, had grappled from the truck across the field into the woods. Anything not to give up his vigil before it was time. To get closer to the kid. Help catch him.
But that was not right. He knew it was not right. In his condition he could not have fought off Trautman. He could not think. He had to hurry forward in spite of his chest and the terrible sense that someone was after him, or would soon be after him. The kid. Was it the kid who was after him?
The cloud cover melted, the quarter moon shone through, lighting the trees, and all around him were the hulks of relic cars, piled atop each other, stacked against the trees, hundreds of them, broken, amputated, and decayed. It was like a graveyard, grotesque, moonlight on the oval outlines, reflecting.
And soundless. Even when he moved, through leaves and crumpled fenders and broken glass, he made no noise. He was gliding. And somehow he knew it was not the kid who was after him, but someone else. But why was he afraid at the sight of the road through the ghostly carcasses? Why was he afraid of the row of Guardsmen trucks parked along the road? Christ, what was happening to him? Had he lost his mind?
No people there. Nobody near the trucks. Fear draining. A police car empty, the last in the line, nearest town. Ecstatic now, creeping from the derelicts, doorless, seats ripped, hoods raised, into the field, silent, close to the earth, toward the car.
A sudden noise disturbed him, fracturing glass that split finely in his eardrums, and he blinked. He was on his back once more. Had somebody shot him in the field? He felt his body for the wound, felt a blanket, no earth beneath him. Soft cushions. A coffin. He started, in a panic, understood. A couch. But Christ where? What was going on? He fumbled for a light, knocked a lamp, and switching it, blinked, discovering his office. But what about the forest, the wrecks of cars, the road? Christ, they had been real, he knew. He looked at his watch, but it was gone, glanced at the clock on his desk, quarter to twelve. Dark outside through the Venetian blinds. The twelve must be midnight, but the last he remembered was noon. What about the kid? What’s happened?
He faltered to sit up, clutching his head to keep it from throbbing apart, but something had raised the floor of his office, tilting it high away from him. He cursed, but no words came from his mouth. He wavered uphill to the door, grabbed the knob with both hands and swung it, but the door was stuck, and he had to tug with all his might, the door jolting open, almost reeling him downhill to the couch. He threw out his arms, steadying himself like a tightrope walker, his bare feet off the soft rug of his office onto the cold tile of the corridor. It was in gloom, but the front office was lit; halfway there he had to put a hand against a wall.
“Awake, Chief?” a voice said down the corridor. “You O.K.?”
It was too complicated to answer. He was still catching up to himself. On his back on the bright floor of the truck, blearing up at the greasy tarpaulin that was the roof. The voice from the radio: “My God, he isn’t answering. He’s run deep into the mine.” The fight with Trautman to keep from being carried to the cruiser. But what about the forest, the dark—
“I said are you O.K., Chief?” the voice said louder, footsteps coming down the hall. There was an echo enveloping.
“The kid,” he managed to say. “The kid’s in the forest.”
“What?” The voice was directly next to him, and he looked. “You shouldn’t be walking around. Relax. You and the kid aren’t in the forest anymore. He’s not after you.”
It was a deputy, and Teasle was sure he ought to know him, but he could not recall. He tried. A word came to him. “Harris?” Yes, that was it. Harris. “Harris,” he said proudly.
“You’d better come up front, sit and have some coffee. I just was making fresh. Broke a jug carrying water from the washroom. Hope that didn’t wake you.”
The washroom. Yes. Harris was echoing, and the imagined taste of coffee squirted sourly into Teasle’s mouth, gagging him. The washroom. He staggered through the swinging door, sick in the urinal, Harris holding him, telling him, “Sit down here on the floor,” but it was all right, the echoing had stopped now.
“No. My face. Water.” And as he splashed his cheeks and eyes coldly, the image flashed in him again, no longer a dream, real. “The kid,” he said. “The kid’s in the forest by the road. In that junkyard of cars.”
“You’d better take it easy. Try and remember. The kid was trapped in a mine and he ran deep into a maze of tunnels. Here. Let me have your arm.”
He waved him off, arms down supporting himself on the sink, face dripping. “I’m telling you the kid isn’t in there now.”
“But you can’t know that.”
“How did I get here? Where’s Trautman?”
“Back at the truck. He sent men with you to the hospital.”
“That sonofabitch. I warned him not to. How did I get here instead of the hospital?”
“You don’t remember that either? Christ, you gave them a hell of a time. You yelled and fought in the cruiser and kept grabbing the wheel to stop them from turning toward the hospital. You were shouting that if they were going to take you anyplace, they were going to take you here. Nobody was going to strap you into any bed if you could help it. So finally they got afraid they would hurt you if they fought with you anymore, and did what you said. Tell you the truth, I think they were just as glad to be rid of you, the racket you were making and all. Once when you grabbed the wheel, you almost hit a transport truck. They had you in bed here, and as soon as they left, you went out and got in a patrol car to drive yourself back, and I tried to stop you but it was no problem, you passed out behind the wheel before you could find the ignition switch. You really don’t remember any of it? There was a doctor came over right away, and he checked you over, said you were in half decent shape, except you were exhausted and you’d been taking too many pills. They’re some kind of stimulant and sedative all in one, and you’d swallowed so many you were flying. Doctor said he was surprised you didn’t crash even harder and sooner than you did.”
Teasle had the sink full of cold water, dunking his face in it, swabbing himself with a paper towel. “Where’s my shoes and socks? Where did you put them?”
“What for?”
“Never mind what for. Just where did you put them?”
“You’re not planning to try and go back there again, are you? Why don’t you sit down and relax? There’s all sorts of men swarming through those caves. Nothing more you can do. They said not to worry, they’d call here the minute they found a sign of him.”
“I just told you he’s not—. Where the hell are my shoes and socks, I asked you.”
Far off in the front room the phone started ringing faintly. Harris looked relieved to get away and answer it. He swung out through the door of the washroom, and the phone rang again, then again, then abruptly stopped. Teasle rinsed his mouth with cold water and spat it out milky. He did not dare swallow it in case it would make him sick again. He peered at the dirty checkered tiles on the washroom floor, thought incongruously that the janitors weren’t doing their job, and swung through the door out into the corridor. Harris was standing up at the end of the hall, his body blocking off part of the light, uncomfortable about speaking.
“Well?” Teasle said.
“I don’t know if I should tell you this. It’s for you.”
“About the kid?” Teasle said and brightened. “About that junkyard of cars?”
“No.”
“Well what is it then? What’s the matter?”
“It’s long distance—your wife.”
He did not know if it was fatigue or shock, but he had to lean against the wall. Like hearing from somebody buried. With everything that had happened because of the kid, he had gradually so managed to keep her out of his mind that now he could not remember her face. He tried but he could not. Dear God, why did he want to remember? Did he still want the pain?
“If she’s going to upset you more,” Harris said, “maybe you shouldn’t talk to her. I can say you’re not around.”
Anna.
“No. Plug it through to my office phone.”
“You’re sure now? I can as easily tell her that you’re out.”
“Go on, plug it through.”
14
He sat in the swivel chair behind his desk and lit a cigarette. Either the cigarette would clear his head or else it would cloud his head and spin him, but it was worth a try because he could not talk to her as unsteady as he was. He waited and felt better and picked up the phone.
“Hello,” he said quietly. “Anna.”
“Will?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was thicker than he recalled, throaty, a little broken in some of the words. “Will, are you hurt? I’ve been worried.”
“No.”
“It’s true. Believe it or not, I have been worried.”
He drew slowly on his cigarette. There they went again, misunderstanding. “What I meant is no, I’m not hurt.”
“Thank God.” She paused, then exhaled steadily as if she had a cigarette too. “I haven’t been watching TV or reading newspapers or anything, and then suddenly tonight I learned what was happening to you and I got scared. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes.” He thought about describing it all, but it would only sound like he wanted sympathy.
“Honestly, I would have called earlier if I’d only found out. I didn’t want you to think I don’t care what happens to you.”
“I know.” He looked at the rumpled blanket on the couch. There were so many important things to say, but he could not bring himself to do it. They did not matter to him anymore. The pause was too long. He had to say something. “Do you have a cold? You sound like you have a cold.”
“I’m getting over one.”
“Orval’s dead.”
He heard her stop breathing. “Oh. I liked him.”
“I know. It turns out I liked him even more than I knew. And Shingleton’s dead and so is that new man Galt and—”
“Please. Don’t tell me anymore. I can’t let myself know anymore.”
He thought about it longer, and there really was not much to say after all. The quality of her voice did not make him long for her the way he feared it might have, and at last he felt free, at the end of it. “Are you still in California?”
She did not answer. “I guess that’s none of my business,” he said.
“It’s O.K. I don’t mind. Yes, I’m still in California.”
“Any troubles? Do you need any money?”
“Will?”
“What?”
“Don’t. I didn’t call for that.”
“Yes, but do you need any money?”
“I can’t take your money.”
“You don’t understand. I—I think it’s going to be all right now. I mean, I feel a lot better about everything now.”
“I’m glad. I’ve been worrying about that too. It’s not as if I want to hurt you.”
“But what I mean is I feel a lot better, and you can take some money if you need it without the idea that I’m trying to make you beholden and have you come back.”
“No.”
“Well at least let me pay for this call. Let me accept the charges.”
“I can’t.”
“Then let me put it on the office bill. It won’t be me paying, it’ll be the town. For crissake, let me do something for you.”
“I can’t. Please stop it. Don’t make me regret calling. I was afraid this would happen and I almost didn’t.”
He felt the telephone sweaty in his palm. “You’re not coming back, are you?”
“This is all wrong. I didn’t want to go into this. It’s not why I called.”
“But you won’t be coming back.”
“Yes. I’m not coming back. I’m sorry.”
All he wanted was to hold her, not do anything but hold her. Slowly he crushed out his cigarette, lit another one. “What time is it there?”
“Nine. I’m still confused about the time zone shift. I slept fourteen hours when I got here, getting used to the different time. For them it was eleven o’clock, and for me it was already two hours after midnight. What is it, midnight now, where you are?”
“Yes.”
“I have to go, Will.”
“So soon? Why?” Then he caught himself. “No. Never mind. That’s none of my business either.”
“Are you positive you’re not hurt?”
“They’ve bandaged me up, but it’s mostly scratches. Are you still living with your sister? Can you at least tell me that much?”
“I moved out into an apartment.”
“Why?”
“I really have to go. I’m sorry.”
“Keep me in touch with what you’re doing?”
“If it’ll help you. I didn’t know it would be this hard. I don’t know how to say this.” She sounded like she was sobbing. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
He waited, trying to be with her as long as possible. Then she broke the connection and the dial tone was buzzing and he sat there. They had slept together four years. How could she make herself a stranger? Not easily. Her sobbing. She was right, this was hard for her too, and he was sorry.
15
It’s over. Do something. Move. Get your mind on the kid where it belongs. The kid. Behind the wheel of a car. Driving fast.
He saw his shoes and socks by the file cabinet and hurriedly put them on. He took a Browning pistol from his gun case, slipped a full magazine into the handle and strapped on a holster, slanting it backward he noticed, the way Orval always had told him to. As he came down the hall, through the front room toward the door, Harris looked at him.
“Don’t say it,” he told Harris. “Don’t say I shouldn’t go back out there.”
“Fine, then I won’t.”
Outside the streetlights were on, and he breathed the fresh night air. A cruiser was parked at the side. He was just getting in when he glanced to the left and saw the side of town light up, flames reflecting in waves across the night clouds.
Harris was shouting on the front steps. “The kid! He got out of the caves! They just called that he stole a police car!”
“I know that.”
“But how?”
The force of the explosions rattled the windows in the police station. WHUMP, WHUMP, WHUMP! A string of them from the direction of the main road into town. WHUMP, WHUMP!
“Christ almighty, what’s that?” Harris said.
But Teasle already knew and he was ramming the car into gear, racing it out of the parking lot to get there in time.
16
Roaring deeper into town, swerving to pass a motorcyclist who was stopped looking back astonished, Rambo saw in his rearview mirror the street behind him flooded with fire leaping high into the trees that bordered it. The fierce red flames radiated into the cruiser. He pressed the accelerator to the floor, whipping down the main street, explosions flaring in the night behind him, bursting the pattern of the fire. Now they would have to waste time going around. Just in case, he needed to do it again. The more diversions, the more they would be confused. They would have to put off chasing him and stop to control the fire.
One of the streetlights ahead was burned out. Under it the brake lights of a car flashed on, its driver opening his door to stare back at the flames. Rambo sheered into the left lane, bearing down fast on the low headlights of a sports car. It swung into the right lane to avoid him just as he swung into his own lane too, and he continued sweeping toward it until it leapt up onto the sidewalk, snapped off a parking meter and crashed through the front display window of a furniture store. Sofas and chairs, Rambo thought. Here’s to a soft landing.
