46

Fischer parked near the back of the lot. As he had done on his last visit to the hospital, he studied the building and the surrounding grounds. A security guard with a German shepherd on a leash appeared around the corner of the building. Fischer muttered. He felt certain that he could avoid the guard; the dog, however, was another matter. He put the transmission in drive and coasted out of his parking spot. He followed the pavement to the rear of the building where the emergency room was located. He found a vacant spot, parked the truck, and reached for the door handle.

You nuts, boy? All these years, I knowed I raised a fool. Now I learn you’re a babblin’ idjut . . .

Fischer cocked his head to better hear the voice only he could hear. “What the hell you want, old man?”

What was you gonna do, shit-for-brains, just stroll in there like it was friggin’ Kmart or something? Every cop in three states is huntin’ you, moron.

“Ain’t nothin’ I can do about that. I got to see Mum. She’ll tell me what to do next.”

Like that Bible-totin’ ol’ bitch has a clue. Now listen to me, retard. You only got one choice, and gettin’ your ass caught visitin’ that looney toon ain’t it. Your problem is them women. You got to fix them—one way or th’other.

“You ain’t as damned smart as you think you are, old man. I heard on the news that the bitch that got away is some kind of fucking cop . . . I’ll never get close enough to fix ’er.”

Nobody said nothin’ about doin’ it right now. What you got to do is lay low for a while, get the fuck out of Dodge.

“Dodge? I ain’t in no place called Dodge, I’m in Brunswick.”

Then get the fuck out of Brunswick—way out. Go up to Aroostook County, the place your uncle left you on Square Lake—it ain’t been used in years. Only way in is on loggin’ roads. Ain’t never been a cop in there.

“I remember it. How long do I got to stay?”

How in hell do I know—as long as it takes, you friggin’ idjut. For once, stop being like your nutcase mother and listen to me. You stay around here, they gonna get’cha sure as there’s a tide tomorrow. Go to a gas station or a bookstore and get one of them map books—one that shows the back roads. Stay off the turnpike and interstates, the cops watch ’em.

“Who’ll take care of Mum?”

Who cares? She sure as hell don’t—she ain’t been aware of shit for ten years, maybe longer.

“You lie, you ol’ bastard—she’s aware of things. She talks to me all the time.”

So do I, dummy—an’ you killed me almost twenty years ago.

Fischer sat in his van and watched the hospital for several minutes. He ignored the old man’s cursing tirade. He touched his shoulder where the gaff had gored him; the wound had gotten infected. He reached under his shirt and squeezed the puncture wound. When the scab over the laceration split open, he ground his teeth against the pain—one more debt for which the bitch would have to pay. A small stream of pus flowed out of the open sore, covered his fingers, and made them sticky. He turned back and wiped the noxious stuff on Cheryl’s shirt. A slow sinister smile looked back at him from the rearview mirror, and he felt excitement cause a strange tickling sensation in his stomach. He was going to enjoy getting even with her—no one could hurt him and get away with it.

Satisfied that Cheryl was still secure, he drove US 1 north on his way to Aroostook County.