The Undertaker

I found a rag under the front seat and ran it over the steering wheel, the dashboard, the door, the maps, and anything else I could remember touching. I scooped up the big wad of bills from the sheriff's coffee fund, jammed it into my pocket, and got out of the car. The trunk was the only place I hadn't looked. I popped the hood. In the dim light, I saw a spare tire and jack, a metal evidence storage box, a first aid kit, and a garment bag. The evidence box had a hasp with a big combination lock. No hope there. In the garment bag were a blue nylon windbreaker and a softball uniform with Yankee pinstripes with “Kiwanis Knights” lettered across the back and #10 on the front of the shirt. I unzipped the garment bag and found a sports coat and slacks on hangers. I stripped off my shirt, opened the first aid kit, and taped two of the big gauze pads over the scalpel cut. That should hold for a while. I put on Dannmeyer's baseball shirt and windbreaker. They were a tad big for me, but at least they were clean. They would do.

Underneath the clothes lay a long, brushed aluminum gun case. Out of curiosity, I opened it. Inside, there was a place for the hunting rifle and the shotgun and several other cut-outs for handguns, two of which were occupied. I looked at the handguns. Should I take one? No. If it came to guns, I was a dead man anyway and I didn't want to give Tinkerton an excuse, so I closed the case and pushed it back in the trunk.

That was when I noticed an old-fashioned ”Jimmy” bar lying in the corner of the trunk. It was a piece of thin spring steel with a handle, designed to slide down a car window until you could pop open a door lock. Most cop cars carried them, because there were often some very legitimate reasons for a cop to open a car door. Maybe someone had lost his keys. Maybe a kid got himself locked inside. Maybe the cops needed to move a car fast or to tow it because of some emergency. Whatever, that's why you usually see a Jimmy in the trunk of a cop car.

That was when it dawned on me that I had the perfect use for one. I needed some wheels that would get me out of Columbus without being immediately ID’d and caught. My Bronco was dead. A cab or bus? Too easy to trace and the odds of my catching either one out here at this hour were zilch. The bus station? The train station? The airport? Too obvious. Tinkerton would have people watching those. Hitchhiking might work, but it would also leave me too visible and too vulnerable. No, what I needed was a car. Stealing one might also work, but that was only a short-term solution and it would inevitably add to my problems. The only car I could think of that no one else was laying claim to at the moment was the Buick my illegitimate twin brother, “Pete” left parked under that oak tree on Sickles. With the Jimmy, I could get inside. If I could get it started, I could get well away from Columbus without constantly looking over my shoulder. Now, all I had to do was figure out how to get there.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Give the man a cigar…

Walking alone down a major commercial boulevard in the middle of the night dressed in Dannmeyer's baseball shirt and windbreaker made me fair game for every suburban cop who happened to be out on patrol, not that I had much choice. I put my feet in gear and set off around the far side of the shopping center, walking south through the parking lot to Longacre Boulevard, the next main street, putting as much distance as I could between the Campbell County sheriff's car and myself. Longacre appeared to be an unbroken string of strip shopping centers, big-box stores, big electronic stores, big sporting goods stores, and big banks, but there was very little traffic at this hour. When an occasional car did come by, I'd stick out my thumb and put on my friendliest smile. After all, I didn't look like a total derelict and this wasn't LA. Folks don't drive down the road with one hand on the wheel and the other on a .357 Magnum, waiting for some sucker to smile wrong or tell them to have a nice day. Even still, the few drivers that passed by looked away and ignored me.

My prospects were looking grim until a fat guy on a Honda Gold Wing motorcycle swung over to the curb and stopped next to me. His arms were as thick as hams and he wore a leather Viking helmet with two twelve-inch, black-and-white cow horns poking out the sides. His chinstrap was a bicycle chain. He wore a stonewashed, denim vest, and his bushy, gray beard stuck out the sides of his black, Plexiglas visor like a hairy halo. He gave me a quick once-over and pointed over his shoulder to the bike's padded rear fender.

“You want a ride bad enough, hop on,” he said in a hoarse, gravely voice.

It was a scary thought. I couldn't see his eyes through the dark visor, but my choice was Hagar the Horrible and his motorcycle or nothing. I threw my leg over the rear seat and grabbed onto his denim vest, not waiting for a second invitation.