Sawbones

Chapter 11

Saturday

Three in the morning and I’ve got a headache like you wouldn’t believe. The car’s been getting slower and slower all night, no matter how hard I press the accelerator. Its engine has started making clanking noises, and the effort of keeping the shuddering steering wheel straight is beginning to tell.

Jack’s asleep on the back seat with his knees curled up, snoring gently. Henry’s dozed off too, the half-bottle of Old Kentucky drained and hurled out the window about a dozen miles ago.

So now it’s just me and the rattling cough of the car as something in the engine eats itself. This God-damn thing’s going to fall to pieces long before we get to Polk County. And so am I.

I blink at the dashboard, trying to figure out what the little yellow light means. Then I tap the glass and find out as the fuel gauge needle does a rapid crash to empty. Son-of-a-bitch.

Luckily there’s a Casey’s General Store not far off the Interstate, its red and yellow signs glowing in the pitch-black night. I drive the car down the off-ramp and onto the forecourt.

Henry wakes up as I’m filling the tank. He yawns and stretches, then clambers out into the cold night. “What time is it?” he asks, blinking up at the bright lights — and when I tell him he swears. “How come it’s taking so long?”

I grit my teeth. “Because you said we had to steal this ancient, God-damned piece-of-crap Ford Crown Victoria. That’s why.”

He wipes the sleep out of his eyes. “We’ll get something faster when we hit Des Moines.”

“Sixty, seventy miles. About two and a bit hours in this piece of — ”

“OK,” he says, “OK, you don’t like the car. I get it. Fill her up and we’ll see if we can’t find something a little closer.” Henry closes his eyes and shudders. “Gotta take a crap. .” Then he starts towards the store, muttering as he goes, “God-damned morons. Fifty-four Ford Crown Victoria’s a classic. .”

I finish filling up, and pay at the pump — using my credit card in the machine — then follow Henry into Casey’s. Doesn’t matter where you go, pretty much every Casey’s General Store is the same. There’s a big fat woman, with a basket full of donuts and Diet Coke, arguing with the spotty kid behind the counter about the ‘three for two’ hot pizza slices.

I ignore her, and go for the hot filter coffee in the far corner. Maybe get some gum too; something to keep me awake for the rest of the drive. And because I’m in a shitty mood, I don’t get anything for Jack or Henry.

And then I feel guilty and get a six-pack of root beer and two big bags of tortilla chips. I’m paying for them when I realise there’s a Winnebago on the forecourt. It’s brown. I catch a glimpse of the driver as he sticks the nozzle back in the pump and pays. A man, dressed in black, glasses. .

The spotty youth behind the counter tells me to have a nice day — even though it’s half-three in the God-damned morning. He’s holding out my credit card.

Outside, the guy in black climbs back into the Winnebago. Fuck.

Probably not him, but I’m gonna have to check it out.

I’m pushing out through the door when the Winnebago’s engine starts up, its headlights sweeping across the forecourt as it turns back towards the Interstate. That’s when I get a look at the front, there’s a little statue of Jesus and a hoola Elvis on the dashboard. It’s him!

Behind me the spotty till-jockey is shouting, “Sir? You forgot the stuff you bought! Sir?”

“Henry!” I’m running for the car. “HENRY! GET YOUR ASS OUT THAT DAMN TOILET!”

No sign of him, and I can’t wait. I jump in behind the wheel and crank over that gritty, crappy engine. It clicks, groans, whines then grumbles back to life, complaining that I won’t let it die in peace.

I tell it to stop fucking moaning and put my foot down. There’s a grinding sound as I work up through the gears, swearing to God that this is the last time Henry ever gets to pick the car we steal. “Move, you piece of shit!”

“What the fuck?” It’s Jack, he’s sitting up in the back, bleary-eyed as I throw the Ford round and back onto the Interstate. Following the Winnebago. “Where’s Henry?”

“It’s HIM!” I say, pointing through the wind-shield at the little red dots in the distance — the motor home’s tail lights, “He was getting gas! I saw him, right there on the forecourt!”

“Henry was getting gas?”

“Not Henry, you moron! Sawbones!”

And suddenly Jack’s wide awake. “Fuck!” He ducks out of view, but he’s back moments later clutching that Glock nine mm of his. Then Jack’s left leg appears in the gap between the front seats.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting into the front. .”

We’re gaining on the Winnebago. It’s slow and it’s painful — and the Ford’s engine sounds like it’s about to explode — but we’re closing in.

I slap his foot away. “Will you sit your ass down?”

“God-damnit,” says Jack, “Pull over so I can swap seats.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me! Took me long enough to get this piece-of-shit up to forty the first time, I am not pulling over.”

Something goes CLANGKiGKiGKiG under the hood and I know we’ve only got one chance at this. I grip the steering wheel even tighter and say a prayer to the God of Dying Automobiles.

“Shoot out the tyres!”

“But I — ”

“Just fucking shoot them!”

I check my rear-view mirror to see if Jack’s doing what he’s told, and that’s when I notice the big cloud of grey smoke billowing out the back of our car.

“Oh, Jesus. .” Jack winds down his window and sticks his arm out. There’s a hard CRACK and a flash of light as the Glock fires.

Up front I see a little round hole edged in shiny metal appear on the back of the Winnebago. CRACK and there’s another one, slightly higher and to the left.

“I said shoot the tyres!”

“You think it’s so damn easy, you try it!” CRACK.

The Winnebago starts to pull away from us. The guy driving must have finally worked out someone’s shooting the shit out of his motor home. I go to stick my foot down, but it’s already flat to the floor. And our Ford Crown Victoria’s getting slower.

The engine isn’t going CLANGKiGKiGKiG any more, now it sounds like a waste disposal unit eating a brick.

“Shoot the damn tyres!”

Another three shots, all wide of the mark. The Ford’s knackered engine makes one last painful grinding noise and gives up the ghost. I can hear bits of crank case pinging loose and bouncing off the bodywork. Steam gushes out of the radiator, all the warning lights come on, all the gauges go dead, and I got no steering.

The car hisses its way to a full stop in the middle of the road. Steam billowing out the front, smoke billowing out the back.

And all Jack and I can do is watch the Winnebago drive away.

FUCK!