Spilled Milk, no. 1 Page 11

  “So your plan is to just keep setting off bombs until you get your way?”

  “Something like that.”

  “We can’t let you do that.”

  “And you can’t stop me, either.”

  Overhead, I saw a news helicopter fly by. So now I was on TV. I turned on the set and watch an image of my truck parked on the corner. As the camera panned out, I saw the streets out of my line of sight, all of them barricaded by cop cars with flashing lights. There was no clear way through, but that didn’t mean I was out of options.

  I still had a trump card to play.

  Chapter 18

  I started the truck and shifted into gear. I flipped through the channels, searching for different angles on the neighborhood, studying the terrain for the weakness in the net. After a moment, I finally found it.

  “Rogan,” I said. “Think I’m gonna hang up now. This conversation’s going nowhere.”

  He started to object, but I hit the End key and put the phone on the seat beside me. I shifted into gear and did a wide U-turn in the intersection, heading back the way I’d come. As expected, the police cruisers at the various roadblocks started forward, converging on my position. I hit the accelerator and careened around a corner to the left, heading for a line of cars that came toward me. The cars pulled up short and blocked the road two hundred yards ahead of me.

  I made a phone call.

  A second later, the cop car—the one with the number I’d committed to memory the other day—erupted in sudden flames. Its back end lifted clean off the ground as a massive fireball billowed out from under it. One of its tires soared skyward, crashing into a porch roof on the other side of the street.

  Men scattered away from it. One of the officers got picked up by the shockwave and thrown back against a nearby vehicle, his neck snapping to the side at an odd angle as he fell. The blast blew out the windows of the nearest houses, shattered the glass in cars, and spider-webbed my own windshield. I dropped my head out the side window and floored it. As I steered around the side of the flaming wreckage, my front bumper took out a pair of mailboxes. The truck bounced erratically as I blew past the road block.

  I pulled out the .38 and fired a couple rounds through the windshield, blasting holes in it, and then hit it with the butt of the gun, smashing it onto the hood in tiny diamonds of broken glass.

  Cold air washed over my face. I threw the heater on full blast to take the edge off the chill and kept driving. Above me, I now could clearly hear the whup! whup! of the news helicopters as they circled overhead. I didn’t doubt that a police chopper was up there somewhere, too. Glancing at the portable TV, I saw the police cars filing around the wreckage of their fellow officer. Some had stopped to help, and two of them were tackling the flames with a pair of fire extinguishers, trying to get to the front door. I wondered if there was an officer trapped inside. In the distance, fire trucks sped toward the scene.

  The image on the television screen jumped erratically, then pixilated. I was losing the digital signal. It returned briefly, but then vanished into a plain blue screen. I shook my head and focused on the road ahead. My eyes in the sky were gone, but from what I’d last seen, most of the Ontica police force followed behind me in hot pursuit. I only hoped I could get where I needed to go before they set up another road block. I doubted I’d be able to see another one coming.

  Around me, the houses, trees, and street signs flew by in a dizzying parade of shape and color. I blew through stop signs, heedless of oncoming traffic, hoping the cops had given me a clear path ahead. A glance in my mirror told me they were right on my heels. Any minute now, I expected to feel the sudden nudge against my back bumper that would throw me into an unrecoverable spin. I studied the blaze of approaching buildings, trying to anticipate when the attack would come.

  As I neared a major intersection, a jolt threw me forward and forced the back end of my truck to the right. I slammed the gear shift into neutral, yanked hard on the wheel, and turned into the spin, letting it carry my vehicle around into a full 180 degrees. As the truck came around, I dropped into reverse and floored it. The tires smoked as the pick-up surged backward. The gun was in my hand before I even thought what I was doing. I emptied the barrel at the police cars rushing toward me. They braked suddenly and veered to either side. I could see the surprise and anger on their faces as I left them back there.

  Depress the pedal, spin the wheel into a controlled skid, pop the clutch into gear, and hit the accelerator. The truck leaped forward, but I knew the cops would be closing in again as quickly as possible. I opened the glove compartment and grabbed the box inside. The cops in my mirror were getting closer, but weren’t on me yet. I pressed my knee against the steering wheel and pulled the pin on the front of the revolver. The barrel dropped to one side. I happened to glance at the speedometer as I grabbed a fistful of bullets and started fumbling them into the chamber. The needle wavered at eighty. A half laugh escaped my lips, and an utter certainty impressed itself on me just then.

  I was going to die.

  With the gun reloaded, I retook the wheel just as another jolt struck me from behind. The truck lurched on two wheels before slamming back to the pavement and jostling sharply. I swore and fought for control of the wheel. It wouldn’t be long before the suspension collapsed or I blew a tie rod—or a head gasket for that matter; I was driving the truck too hard. It wasn’t made for this abuse.

  Ahead of me, I saw my salvation. A narrow, single lane bridge spanning the river. No way two vehicles could get across. A gaggle of pedestrians crossed each other on a narrow lane beside the lane over the bridge. I put the gun down on the seat beside me and steered onto the sidewalk. My speed dropped precipitously. I didn’t lay on the horn, but people scattered before me, diving out of the way as I passed. I don’t think I hit anyone.

  As the bridge neared, I saw a cruiser pull up along side me, lights blazing as he made to pass me. He must’ve read my mind. I grabbed the gun again and fired in the general vicinity of his tire, but succeeded only in peppering his right fender with bullet holes. He dropped back.

  I bounded abruptly onto the pavement and hit the brakes, yanking the truck hard to the right. I felt the tie rod go as the back end came around. The front wheels screamed as I shoved the pick up onto the bridge, and clouds of burnt rubber and sparks choked the air in front of me. A sudden flash told me the engine had caught fire.

  The truck skidded to a stop in the middle of the bridge as flames licked the underside of the hood. I threw off my seat belt, grabbed the cell phone, and shoved the .38 and a handful of bullets into my pocket. I lifted my legs and kicked the last of the windshield out onto the hood, coughing in the toxic fumes that filled the cab. Smoke stung my eyes and burned my throat. I scrambled onto the seat and out the open windshield, heedless of the scorching metal and flames that seared my flesh. I screamed obscenities and flopped onto the road.

  My coat had caught fire. I smacked the flames with my hands, finally flinging it off. As I turned, I saw that several officers were rushing toward the truck, their guns drawn, motioning the innocents off the bridge. I couldn’t tell whether or not they saw me, but it didn’t matter. I did what I had to do.

  I threw myself to the deck with the cell phone in my hand, and dialed the one number I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to use.

  The sound and pressure was unlike anything I have ever experienced. A wave of heat flashed over me, and I felt like I’d dropped into the pit of hell. The bridge shook beneath me so violently that I bounced against the metal grid of its surface. My ears popped with the pressure and rang shrilly. I couldn’t even hear myself scream.

  It felt like hours that I lay there, but it must’ve been only seconds. When I rolled over, chunks of truck and camper still fluttered in the sky, as if suspended by invisible threads like some massive, maniacal mobile. Then, abruptly I thought, they crashed around me, pinging off the bridge’s surface and dropped smoking into the river below. As they fell, my eyes widened in amazeme
nt. One of the news choppers careened downward, pitching sideways and turning in mid air until it crashed headlong on the road where the police had stopped. It screeched as it skidded across the asphalt, the sound reminiscent of fingernails on chalkboard. A second explosion wracked the sky as a fireball burst from the broken aircraft.

  I’d spied the logo on the side of the helicopter as it hit the ground. KTPY. I wondered if Mark Durant or his cameraman had been on board.

  Sweet oxygen. I heaved air into my lungs and felt agony. It was like I’d forgotten how to breathe. I couldn’t tell if my lungs or throat were burned or if I’d simply had the wind knocked out of me. My vision blurred, a red miasma veiled my eyes. I panted and tried to stand, but collapsed.

  “Come on,” I told myself, my lips forming the words with no discernable sound escaping—not that I could’ve heard it with the ringing in my ear. I tried again and caught my balance, and then dragged myself away. I felt strength return with every step. I hobbled further and further away from the wreckage, and didn’t look back until I’d cross to the other side.

  Then I collapsed into the grass and lay there a long time until darkness took me.

  Chapter 19

  I didn’t know where I was when I came to. I lay on a bed in a room filled with daylight. Pale green walls rose on the two sides that I could see. A thick curtain obscured the rest of the place.

  I tried to sit up, but pain shoved me back down again. My arms and face felt stiff, unfamiliar. I reached for the blanket that covered me, and that’s when I saw the bandages. They covered my arms from my shoulders to the tips of my fingers. I turned them over, studying them. What had happened to me?

  I pulled my hands to my face, gingerly touching the wrappings that encircled my head except for my eyes and open mouth.

  “He’s awake,” someone said. I looked in the direction of the sound, but couldn’t see who it was past the curtain. A hand reached out and grabbed the fabric, dragging it away from the bed.

  The nurse who drew the curtain smiled at me and said, “Good morning.”

  I tried to return the greeting, but all that came out was a rasp.

  She shook her head. “Here, let me get you some water.” She lifted a small pitcher up and angled a straw into my mouth. I sucked in the liquid, stunned by how good it felt, and then winced in pain as I tried to swallow.

  “Take it easy,” she cooed. “Little sips. You’ve been through a lot.”

  I meant to ask ‘Where am I?’ but all I could managed was “Where?” before agony seared my throat. It felt like someone had scoured the inside of my throat with a Brillo pad.

  She offered me more water, just a sip, and said, “You’re at Ontica General Hospital. You’re in the burn unit.”

  “Burn?” Burn Unit, I meant to say.

  “You got pretty badly singed. Toasted, if you ask me. You’re lucky to be alive. A lot of people didn’t make it.”

  “How?”

  She smiled and patted my shoulder. I was a little surprised that it didn’t hurt. “Don’t worry yourself none. The doctor will be here in a few moments. He’ll explain everything to you.”

  I pressed my head back into the pillow. A hospital. That made sense. But why hadn’t they cuffed me to the bed? Surely, there’d be a cop outside the door, keeping watch, waiting for me to heal up so they could put me on trial again and then send me away for life. I did not expect leniency.

  The nurse left, and about five minutes later a young man in a white coat strolled into the room with a stethoscope draped over his neck.

  “Good morning,” he said, sounding entirely too chipper. “How are you feeling today?”

  My throat still burned, but I tried a longer sentence anyway. “Compared to what?”

  “Scale of one to ten. Ten being the worst pain imaginable. One being perfectly fine.”

  “Seven. Nine. Eleven?”

  “Sense of humor’s a good sign.” He flashed a penlight into my eyes, back and forth between them. I winced and looked away.

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t remember? That’s okay. Pretty normal, actually. The mind likes to shut down in the face of trauma.” He sat on the edge of bed. “Six weeks ago you came in with all the others. About fourteen of you. Only half made it. You had third degree burns on your face and arms, and lost most of your hair. We’ve had to keep you in a drug-induced coma while your injuries healed. In another day or so we’ll take off the bandages and see how things look.

  “Now, I have to warn you: it ain’t gonna be pretty. You lost most of the skin on your face, and what’s left will be rather unrecognizable.”

  I snorted. “Never was much to look at.”

  He smiled grimly. “We’ve already replaced most of the damaged tissue with skin grafts from your buttocks, and it’s healing nicely.”

  “Great,” I drawled. “Now I really do look like an ass.”

  He smiled, but didn’t laugh. I guess he’d heard that one before. “You’re facing some reconstructive surgery, but it’s not something we can do until you’re fully healed. In the meantime, we have a counselor on staff you should speak to.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t need a shrink.”

  “I’ve been doing this a long time. The shock isn’t something you can really prepare for.”

  I glared at him, and he pursed his lips. “We’ll table that for now. In the meantime, get some rest, and when you feel up to it, you have some visitors.”

  “Visitors?”

  He rose from the bed. “The police want to speak to you. Get your statement. That’s all.”

  With that, he turned and left the room. I watched him go, and then turned my face to the wall, uncertain.

  They don’t know who I am!

  ***

  The police showed up later that day. My face was still wrapped in bandages, and the questions were perfunctory. I feigned amnesia when they asked me my name or address, or where I was going when I was on the bridge. I even suggested they check my wallet, knowing full well that I hadn’t been carrying one since escaping the courthouse that day. Naturally, they informed me that I’d been found without any identification at all. Imagine my surprise.

  “Why wouldn’t I have a wallet?”

  That’s when the doctor pulled them to one side and reminded them that I’d been found on the far side of the bridge without so much as a coat, let alone a wallet. I had no fingerprints left, and without a “memory,” I was an utter non-entity.

  “So why don’t I have a wallet?” I asked again when they came back to the bedside.

  The two officers exchanged glances, and one of them said, “We think your wallet may have been stolen.”

  “Stolen? Who’d do that?”

  “There was a fugitive…”

  “Fugitive?”

  “Gerrold Smith.”

  I shook my head, staring quizzically at them.

  “He’s a domestic terrorist. For about three days there he was on a major crime spree.”

  “In Ontica?”

  “Hard to believe,” one of them said.

  “What was he doing?”

  “He was what we call a serial bomber. Kinda like Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber. They claim to have some kind of political or social agenda, and then they use explosives to spread mayhem, fear. Guys like that get off on the chaos they create. It’s really about power. Comes from deep seated anxieties, often sexual in nature.”

  “Really. Sounds like a nut job.”

  “Totally,” the other said. “He blew up a shopping mall, a middle school, and a police car. Killed a lot of innocent people, including some good cops.”

  “Started when he shot that judge,” said the first.

  The other nodded. “Yeah. And then it all ended on the bridge. We’ve lost track of him. He hasn’t done a thing in a month and a half.”

  “Maybe he was just trying to get away,” I suggested.

  The first shook his head. “Nah. He was trying to get his kids back. They got taken
away from him ‘cause, well, obviously ‘cause he was…” He made a “hoo-hoo” sound. “Anyway, this is all about his kids.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Foster care’s got ‘em. They’re safe. Guy’s a killer.”

  “Dear God,” I whispered. “I could’ve been killed.”

  “Well, like we said, if anybody’s got your ID, it’s probably him. Sure would help if you could remember your name. Might help us put a trace on him. You know, credit cards, that sort of thing.”

  I stared at the ceiling. “Bastard stole my identity. I don’t even know who I am and he stole my identity.” I didn’t know how much more I could play it up. I’ve never been much of an actor, and it was about all I could do to hold it together just then. Not that I found the situation humorous or anything. Far from it. I was more scared now than I think I’ve been since this whole thing began.

  The two officers left with promises to come back and check on me, see if I remembered anything. I thanked them for the visit and watched them go. When they left I let out a long breath. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it.

  I still couldn’t believe my luck, if luck is what it could be called. Here I was, a sitting duck, literally trapped in a room with them, hiding in plain sight. And my name and face were completely hidden. On the other hand, I was facing potentially months of recovery with painful reconstructive surgery in my future. And if they successfully gave me back my face—then there’d be no hiding from them then.

  Still, that was a hurdle I could worry about later. My present concern was to construct a believable identity, one that would pass muster with the police who remained extremely curious about me. I had to become someone utterly nondescript.

  Of course, I’d been planning for something like this all along. The only problem was that the fake ID I had and money I’d stashed were on top of a ceiling tile in a truck stop on the interstate. Far out of my reach. They might’ve well have been in China, for all the good it would do me now. Somehow, I’d have to find a way to get to the truck stop and recover the package, and then modify the identification so that both the photo, gender, and name matched whatever it was I selected.