The Client

VII - City That Care Forgot

           

Two days later, the sun rose over a mid-two-thousand-something Jeep Cherokee which was parked, pointing south, on the shoulder of Highway 66, two miles from the city limits. It was a rental; I'd picked it up the night before, having requested a reliable, non-smoking, older model vehicle. I was successful on two out of three. The windows were still down and luckily the smell of my coffee was at least partially covering up the stale smell of old cigarettes.

Over an hour earlier I'd driven through the neighborhood where Ronald's trailer was located. Okay, not a neighborhood—a trailer park. Even in the dim light of six a.m. I could make out Ronald's silver Impala in front of the trailer Eddie had described to me—fifth on the left with a rotting couch in the front yard. There was only one outlet onto the highway and I was situated so I could see any vehicle going in or out. If Ronald turned south toward New Orleans, I would follow him. If he turned north toward Coles Creek, I'd have a decision to make.

I was pretty sure I could follow Ronald to New Orleans without a hitch. It was four-lane highway most of the way, which should make it easy to stay undetected. Following him around Coles Creek, even during the early morning hours, was a different story. I could easily be spotted that way, rental car or not. If I stayed put, I could possibly pick him up again on his way out of town. However, if he happened to take one of the several smaller roads that bypassed this part of the highway, I'd lose him. His next run wouldn't be for another two weeks and I couldn't stand to wait that long. Lester's trial loomed at the edge of my senses. I could feel it coming, like a freight train barreling through grey fog. It was now or never.

I 'd just made my mind up to follow him either way—all the way to Hell itself if that's what it took—when I saw the Impala creep onto the highway and turn south. After it crested the first hill I took a deep breath, put the Jeep into drive, and fell into line with the light traffic that was now flowing in both directions. Mississippi highways soothed me—always had—but highway 66, which ran from Baton Rouge all the way to Port Gibson, was something special, with its vast fields of cotton and corn, rusted grain silos, and decaying barns which rose up out of the fields like ghosts of days long since passed. Vestiges of a simpler time.

Forty-five minutes into the trip we'd crossed into Louisiana and were moving through a small town, stop light to stop light, when I realized the Impala was a bit farther ahead of me than I was comfortable with. When I passed the last light and the speed limit increased to sixty-five again, I hit the gas, finally catching up to the vehicle I'd had my eye on for the last ten minutes. It wasn't Ronald's—newer model, same make and color, different tail lights.

Had he gotten farther ahead of me than I thought? I had a tendency to daydream when I was driving—the kind where you suddenly "wake up" and realize you've driven the last ten miles on auto-pilot—and I wondered if that's what had happened. I went back and forth in my head as the precious miles ran backwards under the wheels: stop or turn around? Before I made a conscious decision, I found myself whipping the Jeep across the four lane in a wild U-turn and heading back toward the last town. All I could think was: he hadn't gone into town for food or gas. Maybe he had to pee.

I scoured the first gas station I passed, rolling down the tinted windows to get a better view. He wasn't there, or at the McDonald's next door. The next gas station passed by and still no silver Impala. Then, another stop light. I loosened my grip on the steering wheel when I felt my hands starting to throb. I could see the final gas station ahead of me, but all of the pumps were empty. I'd already begun to curse myself when I caught a flash of silver off to my left. I turned to see Ronald's Impala parked in front of the air pump on the right side of the building.

A man stood beside it, staring straight in my direction.

I spun forward as quickly as I could, my heart thumping in my chest. The man's skin hadn't seen the sun in what looked like months and his long faced seemed to melt away from his balding head, ending in the sharp point of his chin. There was something wrong with the way he stood, too, like his legs were uneven. It caused him to hunch forward, his arms dangling in front of him like stretched taffy. Was it one of Ronald's junkie friends?