gun and shot Emory Blanchard, the bank’s loan manager. Blanchard was pronounced dead on arrival at All Saints Hospital. We’ll have more details as this story develops.
In other news, the city council and the waterworks board found themselves at odds again today when …”
Dan stared at nothing, his mouth opening to release a soft, agonized gasp.
Dead on arrival.
It was official now. He was a murderer.
But what was that about entering the bank with a gun? “That’s wrong,” he said thickly. “It’s wrong.” The way it sounded, he’d gone to the bank intent on killing somebody. Of course they had to put the “disturbed Vietnam veteran” in there, too. Might as well make him sound like a psycho while they were at it.
But he knew what the bank was doing. What would their customers think if they knew Blanchard had been killed with a security guard’s gun? Wasn’t it better, then, to say that the crazy Vietnam veteran had come in packing a gun and hunting a victim? He kept searching the stations, and in another couple of minutes he found a snippet: “… rushed to All Saints Hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival. Police caution that Lambert should be considered armed and dangerous …”
“Bullshit!” Dan said. “I didn’t go there to kill anybody!”
He saw what would happen if he gave himself up. They wouldn’t listen to him. They’d put him in a hole and drop a rock on it for the rest of his life. Maybe he might live only three more years, but he wasn’t planning to die in prison and be buried in a pauper’s grave.
He engaged the gears. Head to the bayou country, he decided. From there he could go either to New Orleans or Port Arthur. Maybe he could find a freighter captain who needed cheap labor and didn’t care to ask questions. He turned the truck around and then he drove back to Highway 175. He took a right, southbound again.
The truck’s cab was a sweat box, even with both windows down. The heat was weighing on him, wearing him out. He thought about Susan and Chad. If the news was on the radio, it wouldn’t be long before it hit the local TV stations. Susan might already have gotten a call from the police. He didn’t particularly care what she thought of him; it was Chad’s opinion that mattered. The boy was going to think his father was a cold-blooded killer, and this fact pained Dan’s soul.
The question was: what could be done about it?
He heard an engine gunning behind him.
He looked in the rearview mirror.
And there was a state trooper’s car right on his tail, its blue bubble lights spinning.
Dan had known true terror before, in the jungles of Vietnam and when he’d seen Blanchard’s gun leveling to take aim. This instant, though, froze his blood and stiffened him up like a dime-store dummy.
The siren yowled.
He was caught.
He jerked the wheel to the right, panic sputtering through his nerves.
The trooper whipped past him and was gone around the next curve in a matter of seconds.
Before he could think to stop and turn around, Dan was into the curve and saw the trooper pulling off onto the road’s shoulder. A cherry-red pickup truck was down in a ditch, and one of the teenage boys was standing on the black scrawl the tires had left when he’d lost control of the wheel. The other boy was sitting in the weeds, his head lowered and his left arm clasped against his chest. As Dan glided past the accident scene, he saw the trooper get out of the car and shake his head as if he knew the boys were lucky they weren’t scattered like bloody rags amid the pines.
When the trooper’s car was well behind, Dan picked up his speed again. Dark motes were still drifting in and out of his vision, the sun’s glare still fierce even as the afternoon shadows lengthened. He’d had not a bite of food since breakfast, and he’d lost the meager contents of his stomach. He considered stopping at a gas station to buy a candy bar and a soft drink, but the thought of pulling
In other news, the city council and the waterworks board found themselves at odds again today when …”
Dan stared at nothing, his mouth opening to release a soft, agonized gasp.
Dead on arrival.
It was official now. He was a murderer.
But what was that about entering the bank with a gun? “That’s wrong,” he said thickly. “It’s wrong.” The way it sounded, he’d gone to the bank intent on killing somebody. Of course they had to put the “disturbed Vietnam veteran” in there, too. Might as well make him sound like a psycho while they were at it.
But he knew what the bank was doing. What would their customers think if they knew Blanchard had been killed with a security guard’s gun? Wasn’t it better, then, to say that the crazy Vietnam veteran had come in packing a gun and hunting a victim? He kept searching the stations, and in another couple of minutes he found a snippet: “… rushed to All Saints Hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival. Police caution that Lambert should be considered armed and dangerous …”
“Bullshit!” Dan said. “I didn’t go there to kill anybody!”
He saw what would happen if he gave himself up. They wouldn’t listen to him. They’d put him in a hole and drop a rock on it for the rest of his life. Maybe he might live only three more years, but he wasn’t planning to die in prison and be buried in a pauper’s grave.
He engaged the gears. Head to the bayou country, he decided. From there he could go either to New Orleans or Port Arthur. Maybe he could find a freighter captain who needed cheap labor and didn’t care to ask questions. He turned the truck around and then he drove back to Highway 175. He took a right, southbound again.
The truck’s cab was a sweat box, even with both windows down. The heat was weighing on him, wearing him out. He thought about Susan and Chad. If the news was on the radio, it wouldn’t be long before it hit the local TV stations. Susan might already have gotten a call from the police. He didn’t particularly care what she thought of him; it was Chad’s opinion that mattered. The boy was going to think his father was a cold-blooded killer, and this fact pained Dan’s soul.
The question was: what could be done about it?
He heard an engine gunning behind him.
He looked in the rearview mirror.
And there was a state trooper’s car right on his tail, its blue bubble lights spinning.
Dan had known true terror before, in the jungles of Vietnam and when he’d seen Blanchard’s gun leveling to take aim. This instant, though, froze his blood and stiffened him up like a dime-store dummy.
The siren yowled.
He was caught.
He jerked the wheel to the right, panic sputtering through his nerves.
The trooper whipped past him and was gone around the next curve in a matter of seconds.
Before he could think to stop and turn around, Dan was into the curve and saw the trooper pulling off onto the road’s shoulder. A cherry-red pickup truck was down in a ditch, and one of the teenage boys was standing on the black scrawl the tires had left when he’d lost control of the wheel. The other boy was sitting in the weeds, his head lowered and his left arm clasped against his chest. As Dan glided past the accident scene, he saw the trooper get out of the car and shake his head as if he knew the boys were lucky they weren’t scattered like bloody rags amid the pines.
When the trooper’s car was well behind, Dan picked up his speed again. Dark motes were still drifting in and out of his vision, the sun’s glare still fierce even as the afternoon shadows lengthened. He’d had not a bite of food since breakfast, and he’d lost the meager contents of his stomach. He considered stopping at a gas station to buy a candy bar and a soft drink, but the thought of pulling
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