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She holds Miller’s hand all the way from the interview room to the front vestibule and the guard sergeant’s desk. She insists her mother is coming for her. And when the weary middle-aged woman arrives to claim her daughter, she bursts out in tears.
“Why don’t you listen to me, Lana?” the woman cries, her long dark hair streaked with strands of stark gray that seem more like battle-scars than the result of the organic aging process. “Look what happens when you sneak out at night? You can get yourself killed.”
Lana lowers her head, stares at the scuffed linoleum flooring, but in her young brain she runs through the faces of the men and boys she’s killed over the years, beginning with her stepfather. She sees that funny look their faces assumed the moment they knew their throats were about to be cut not by a big bad man, but a beautiful, young, blonde teenager. How could they have been so stupid, so naïve, so trusting?
“You should listen to your mom,” Miller says, releasing her hand. “She knows best. She loves you.”
“I will,” Lana smiles, shifting her now empty hand to her mother’s trembling hand. “From this moment on, I will listen to my mom.”
Miller locks eyes on Lana’s crying heart tattoo as she exists the APD building. It’s a mark he will never forget for as long as he lives.
57.
Bad idea: riding a heavy-duty dump truck all the way into Albany.
I might as well ride a helium balloon back into town, a brass band playing in the whicker basket as I floated over the downtown sky rises and the asphalt roofs of the outlying suburban homes. I didn’t want take the same route back that I’d taken out here, either. Nassau alone would be crawling with cops and troopers. Truth is, I didn’t care about getting caught, necessarily. That wasn’t the real issue here. The cops were going to catch up to me sooner or later. Probably sooner.
What I really wanted was to buy enough time to get back to Albany and to Lana and Susan. Once I managed that, I’d find a way to extract a confession from one or both of them. A confession wouldn’t keep me out of prison, but it might keep me off Death Row. Hell, a full confession might allow me the leverage to strike up a deal with Miller, potentially reducing any charges he was dying to lob at me.
Of course, he’d have to believe me when I told him I acted out of self-defense when I hit the old clerk over the head with the shotgun stock. That might take some doing, and the talents of a savvy lawyer. Miller might be an Albany cop, but he wasn’t stupid. If forensic and circumstantial evidence existed of my having acted in self-defense, he would not be blind to it. I had to believe that.
My only other choice would be to lie down and die now.
As Walt and I approached Route 90, the east/west highway that would lead me directly back into the city, I instructed him to take the entrance marked West Albany. But as soon as he got on the three-lane interstate, I made him pull over onto the shoulder to let me out. Funny thing is, he didn’t seem all that excited and relieved over getting rid of me. Instead he pulled off onto the wide shoulder and turned to me with an expression best described as concerned. As though during the short time we spent together, we’d become solid friends.
“Listen Walt,” I said, “I need something else from you.”
He nodded.
“I need your clothes. The cops have a make on what I’m wearing.”
He sort of looked himself up and down.
“I’m wearing jeans same as you,” he said. Then, “I got an idea though.” He reached behind the seat, pulled out a pair of overalls. “I wear these sometimes when I’m dumping fine sand. Stuff gets in your hair, your ears, your nose, your pores.”
I locked eyes on the dark blue acrylic overalls.
“They’ll have to do,” I said, as I proceeded to slip them on, zipping up the front.
“I can take you where you’re going,” Walt said, after I was dressed.
“You definitely do not want to do that,” I said. “The place will be crawling with cops. They’ll shoot us on sight. You need to get rid of me and then head to the nearest police station. Tell them everything.” I opened the door, grabbed the shotgun, gingerly stepped out onto the running board, all the time wincing in pain. “Remember, tell them everything. Don’t lie or withhold. Tell them the absolute truth about how this little ride went down. They’ll believe you and let you go.”
He nodded, the brim on his straw cowboy hat waving up and down like a Japanese fan.
“It’s been quite the adventure,” he said, trying to work up a grin.
“Glad I could break up your day,” I said.
“Take care of that foot,” he said.
Stepping off the running board onto my good foot and onto the shotgun stock, which I once more used as a crutch, I closed the truck door. I stepped out of the way as he pulled away from the curb and proceeded back onto the highway. Turning, I moved away from the roadbed and hid myself in a patch of woods where I would wait until nightfall. I also turned off my cell phone to save the battery. Under the cover of darkness, I’d get myself back to the city for a final showdown with my two lost loves.