years, when he’d been working with Fordham Construction. His ex-wife and son lived there still, in the house on Jackson Avenue.
Right. His mouth settled into a grim line. The police would have that address too, from the bank’s records. Dan had faithfully made his child support payments every month. If he went to that house, the police would swarm all over him. And besides, Susan was so afraid of him anyway that she wouldn’t let him in the door even if he came as a choirboy instead of a killer. He hadn’t seen his ex-wife and seventeen-year-old son in over six years. It had been better that way, because his divorce was still an open wound.
He wondered what the other Snake Handlers would think of a father who had attacked his own little boy in the middle of the night. Did it matter that in those days Dan had been half crazy and suffered nightmarish flashbacks? Did it matter that when he’d put his hands around the boy’s throat he’d believed he was trying to choke to death a Viet Cong sniper in the silver-puddled mud?
No, it didn’t. He remembered coming out of the flashback to Susan’s scream; he remembered the stark terror on Chad’s tear-streaked face. Ten seconds more — just ten — and he might have killed his own son. He couldn’t blame Susan for wanting to be rid of him, and so he hadn’t contested the divorce.
He caught himself; the truck was drifting toward the center-line again as his attention wandered. He saw some dried blood between his fingers that he’d missed with the soap and rag, and the image of Blanchard’s bleached face stabbed him.
A glance in the rearview mirror almost stopped his heart entirely. Speeding after him was a vehicle with its lights flashing. Dan hesitated between jamming the accelerator and hitting the brake, but before he could decide to do either, a cherry-red pickup truck with two grinning teenagers in the cab roared past him and the boy on the passenger side stuck a hand out with the middle finger pointed skyward.
Dan started trembling. He couldn’t stop it. Sickness roiled in his stomach, a maniacal drumbeat trapped in his skull. He thought for a few seconds that he was going to pass out as dark motes spun before his eyes like flecks of ash. Around the next bend he saw a narrow dirt road going off into the woods on his right. He turned onto it and followed it fifty yards into the sheltering forest, his rear tires throwing up plumes of yellow dust.
Then he stopped the truck, cut the engine, and sat there under the pines with beads of cold sweat on his face.
His stomach lurched. As the fire rose up his throat, Dan scrambled out of the truck and was able to reach the weeds before he threw up. He retched and retched until there was nothing left, and then he sat on his knees, breathing sour steam as birds sang in the trees above him.
He pulled the tail of his T-shirt out and blotted the sweat from his cheeks and forehead. Dust hung in the air, the sunlight lying in shards amid the trees. He tried to clear his mind enough to grapple with the problem of where to go. To Texas and Mexico? To the Gulf and New Orleans? Or should he turn the truck around, return to Shreveport, and give himself up?
That was the sensible thing, wasn’t it? Go back to Shreveport and try to explain to the police that he’d thought Blanchard was about to kill him, that he hadn’t meant to lose his temper, that he was so very, very sorry.
Stone walls, he thought. Stone walls waiting.
At last he stood up and walked unsteadily back to his truck. He got in, started the engine, and turned on the radio. He began to move the dial through the stations; they were weaker now, diminished by distance. Seven or eight minutes passed, and then Dan came upon a woman’s cool, matter-of-fact voice.
“… shooting at the First Commercial Bank of Shreveport just after three-thirty this afternoon …”
Dan turned it up.
“… according to police, a disturbed Vietnam veteran entered the bank with a
Right. His mouth settled into a grim line. The police would have that address too, from the bank’s records. Dan had faithfully made his child support payments every month. If he went to that house, the police would swarm all over him. And besides, Susan was so afraid of him anyway that she wouldn’t let him in the door even if he came as a choirboy instead of a killer. He hadn’t seen his ex-wife and seventeen-year-old son in over six years. It had been better that way, because his divorce was still an open wound.
He wondered what the other Snake Handlers would think of a father who had attacked his own little boy in the middle of the night. Did it matter that in those days Dan had been half crazy and suffered nightmarish flashbacks? Did it matter that when he’d put his hands around the boy’s throat he’d believed he was trying to choke to death a Viet Cong sniper in the silver-puddled mud?
No, it didn’t. He remembered coming out of the flashback to Susan’s scream; he remembered the stark terror on Chad’s tear-streaked face. Ten seconds more — just ten — and he might have killed his own son. He couldn’t blame Susan for wanting to be rid of him, and so he hadn’t contested the divorce.
He caught himself; the truck was drifting toward the center-line again as his attention wandered. He saw some dried blood between his fingers that he’d missed with the soap and rag, and the image of Blanchard’s bleached face stabbed him.
A glance in the rearview mirror almost stopped his heart entirely. Speeding after him was a vehicle with its lights flashing. Dan hesitated between jamming the accelerator and hitting the brake, but before he could decide to do either, a cherry-red pickup truck with two grinning teenagers in the cab roared past him and the boy on the passenger side stuck a hand out with the middle finger pointed skyward.
Dan started trembling. He couldn’t stop it. Sickness roiled in his stomach, a maniacal drumbeat trapped in his skull. He thought for a few seconds that he was going to pass out as dark motes spun before his eyes like flecks of ash. Around the next bend he saw a narrow dirt road going off into the woods on his right. He turned onto it and followed it fifty yards into the sheltering forest, his rear tires throwing up plumes of yellow dust.
Then he stopped the truck, cut the engine, and sat there under the pines with beads of cold sweat on his face.
His stomach lurched. As the fire rose up his throat, Dan scrambled out of the truck and was able to reach the weeds before he threw up. He retched and retched until there was nothing left, and then he sat on his knees, breathing sour steam as birds sang in the trees above him.
He pulled the tail of his T-shirt out and blotted the sweat from his cheeks and forehead. Dust hung in the air, the sunlight lying in shards amid the trees. He tried to clear his mind enough to grapple with the problem of where to go. To Texas and Mexico? To the Gulf and New Orleans? Or should he turn the truck around, return to Shreveport, and give himself up?
That was the sensible thing, wasn’t it? Go back to Shreveport and try to explain to the police that he’d thought Blanchard was about to kill him, that he hadn’t meant to lose his temper, that he was so very, very sorry.
Stone walls, he thought. Stone walls waiting.
At last he stood up and walked unsteadily back to his truck. He got in, started the engine, and turned on the radio. He began to move the dial through the stations; they were weaker now, diminished by distance. Seven or eight minutes passed, and then Dan came upon a woman’s cool, matter-of-fact voice.
“… shooting at the First Commercial Bank of Shreveport just after three-thirty this afternoon …”
Dan turned it up.
“… according to police, a disturbed Vietnam veteran entered the bank with a
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