Street."
Blanchart opened the Hummer's tail gate and inspected the empty cargo space. "Morallen doesn't know his head from his ass. Try again."
"That's all I got. I swear."
Blanchart advanced along the driver's side. "I need a name."
Parr slid his finger on the trigger. "I got your name right here." He fired twice with a jerky trigger finger and missed his target completely. A third shot glanced off the rear quarter panel and embedded itself in the pavement.
Blanchart dove for cover behind the driver's door and turned the key in the ignition. He gunned the engine and slammed the transmission in drive.
The three-ton truck steamrolled over Parr with a sickening crunch.
Blanchart drove in reverse and got out.
Parr embraced his mangled arm bent backwards at the shoulder joint. A broken collar bone protruded through the skin. A tread mark impression stained the front of his pants and shirt. His face looked pale.
"I need a name," said Blanchart. He scooped the .25 semi-auto from the ground beside Parr's body.
Parr gurgled blood. His eyelids twitched. "Lll... Lee... Leeland..."
"Leeland who?"
Parr lolled his head and hissed, "Mrkssss."
Blanchart fired two shots at the Hummer. Then he tossed Parr's gun for the crime scene weenies to find.
Chapter 10
Liberated from the confines of the halfway house tyranny, Lloyd rode the Triumph with the wind in his hair and the morning sun on his face; the drone from the vertical twin motor a constant companion propelling the vintage bike and its rider at the posted speed limit.
He relished the thrill of two-wheel travel, his mind telepathically linked to the bike's handlebars, which responded to the slightest downward pressure on either side. He pressed left, and the bike leaned left. He pressed right, and the bike responded accordingly, its four-hundred-pound weight moving with the grace and agility of an all-star running back.
Miles of hot pavement rolled under the Triumph's wheels and tingled Lloyd's senses with sweet persuasion. Above him, tattered wisps of foamy white clouds hovered on a boundless canvas of azure sky more breathtaking than anything he had ever seen. Or anything he'd ever imagined in prison.
Never ride faster than your angel can fly , his dad would preach in his brain-bowl helmet with a broken chin strap. And in a way, Lloyd felt like maybe his dad was riding with him—or at least keeping tabs on his prized possession from somewhere beyond the grave.
Despite the turbulent airflow swirling about his chest and head, Lloyd enjoyed the sensory overload from his immediate surroundings.
He applied the brakes when he reached a pock-marked stop sign tilted sideways by the edge of the road—a victim of shotgun joyrides and gale force winds from a tropical storm the year before.
Throughout the residential area, ubiquitous blue tarps sheltered damaged roof tops with missing shingles and exposed plywood panels. Corrugated shutters covered windows of vacant homes built on tiny parcels carved side by side on prickly, sun-baked lawns while their snowbird owners enjoyed the cooler weather up north until the first autumn chill drove them back to their seasonal retreats.
He turned right and continued in low gear until he found the familiar entrance to the trailer park community he once grew up in.
He rode to Josh's unit and killed the engine. A pair of sandhill cranes squawked above him as they flew over the property.
He dropped the kickstand and leaned the bike toward a blue Geo Metro with missing hubcaps and a broken antenna. He swung his right leg over the seat and unzipped his leather jacket. A light breeze greeted the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his muscular physique.
A woman's silhouette appeared behind the trailer's screen-door, her long hair draped on the front of her shoulders. Thin bands of smoke ascended from the cigarette between her fingers.
"Can I help you?" Sheila Jarvis asked behind the screen. She drew a long breath from the
Blanchart opened the Hummer's tail gate and inspected the empty cargo space. "Morallen doesn't know his head from his ass. Try again."
"That's all I got. I swear."
Blanchart advanced along the driver's side. "I need a name."
Parr slid his finger on the trigger. "I got your name right here." He fired twice with a jerky trigger finger and missed his target completely. A third shot glanced off the rear quarter panel and embedded itself in the pavement.
Blanchart dove for cover behind the driver's door and turned the key in the ignition. He gunned the engine and slammed the transmission in drive.
The three-ton truck steamrolled over Parr with a sickening crunch.
Blanchart drove in reverse and got out.
Parr embraced his mangled arm bent backwards at the shoulder joint. A broken collar bone protruded through the skin. A tread mark impression stained the front of his pants and shirt. His face looked pale.
"I need a name," said Blanchart. He scooped the .25 semi-auto from the ground beside Parr's body.
Parr gurgled blood. His eyelids twitched. "Lll... Lee... Leeland..."
"Leeland who?"
Parr lolled his head and hissed, "Mrkssss."
Blanchart fired two shots at the Hummer. Then he tossed Parr's gun for the crime scene weenies to find.
Chapter 10
Liberated from the confines of the halfway house tyranny, Lloyd rode the Triumph with the wind in his hair and the morning sun on his face; the drone from the vertical twin motor a constant companion propelling the vintage bike and its rider at the posted speed limit.
He relished the thrill of two-wheel travel, his mind telepathically linked to the bike's handlebars, which responded to the slightest downward pressure on either side. He pressed left, and the bike leaned left. He pressed right, and the bike responded accordingly, its four-hundred-pound weight moving with the grace and agility of an all-star running back.
Miles of hot pavement rolled under the Triumph's wheels and tingled Lloyd's senses with sweet persuasion. Above him, tattered wisps of foamy white clouds hovered on a boundless canvas of azure sky more breathtaking than anything he had ever seen. Or anything he'd ever imagined in prison.
Never ride faster than your angel can fly , his dad would preach in his brain-bowl helmet with a broken chin strap. And in a way, Lloyd felt like maybe his dad was riding with him—or at least keeping tabs on his prized possession from somewhere beyond the grave.
Despite the turbulent airflow swirling about his chest and head, Lloyd enjoyed the sensory overload from his immediate surroundings.
He applied the brakes when he reached a pock-marked stop sign tilted sideways by the edge of the road—a victim of shotgun joyrides and gale force winds from a tropical storm the year before.
Throughout the residential area, ubiquitous blue tarps sheltered damaged roof tops with missing shingles and exposed plywood panels. Corrugated shutters covered windows of vacant homes built on tiny parcels carved side by side on prickly, sun-baked lawns while their snowbird owners enjoyed the cooler weather up north until the first autumn chill drove them back to their seasonal retreats.
He turned right and continued in low gear until he found the familiar entrance to the trailer park community he once grew up in.
He rode to Josh's unit and killed the engine. A pair of sandhill cranes squawked above him as they flew over the property.
He dropped the kickstand and leaned the bike toward a blue Geo Metro with missing hubcaps and a broken antenna. He swung his right leg over the seat and unzipped his leather jacket. A light breeze greeted the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his muscular physique.
A woman's silhouette appeared behind the trailer's screen-door, her long hair draped on the front of her shoulders. Thin bands of smoke ascended from the cigarette between her fingers.
"Can I help you?" Sheila Jarvis asked behind the screen. She drew a long breath from the
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