Capital Offense

At that thought, he gave a short laugh. Right, he would just walk up to a door in the middle of the night, naked, with a bloody, distorted face, and ring the doorbell. Sure, the residents would be delighted to assist him. In fact, when he told them he’s Jack Rudly, they’d probably ask for his autograph. Jack shook his head.

He needed to develop a feasible plan of action: first, establish his location; second, clothe himself; and third, set the hell out of there. Jack continued through the brush, branches smacking his face and arms, the cold accentuating his pain.

Jack stumbled upon an old gas station, closed for the night. There must be a way in, he thought, longing for the warmth it could provide. The front doors were padlocked. Jack walked around to the back. He studied the rear door, which had the old push-button type lock.

He knew what he needed to do, although he couldn’t summon much enthusiasm for the task. Damn, he wished he wasn’t so sore. Still, he didn’t have much of a choice. Jack stepped back, held his breath, then threw his shoulder against the door. He gasped, clutching his side as he doubled over in agony.

“Shit, shit fucking shit!”

Tears formed in his eyes. When the pain subsided, he looked up and watched the door swing open. Jack stepped over the threshold and ventured into what appeared to be the garage office. The warmth of the building provided him with instant relief. He sat on a chair and began rubbing his feet. He felt the urgent need to formulate a plan, and then move on.

Jack got up and began to explore. In the garage portion of the gas station, he found a blue work suit, stained with oil and grease, hanging on a door. He grabbed it and put it on. The suit was huge, but he felt immensely better with clothing over his body.

He continued to rummage around the shop. Jack didn’t want to turn on any lights and risk drawing attention to himself if a car happened to pass by the station. Far in the back corner, among a pile of old tires and cans, lay a pair of rubber boots. They too were large, but at least they promised protection for his feet.

Jack walked into the office and sat at the desk. There was a telephone, but whom could he call? He assumed he was still in Missouri, but barely knew anyone anymore. Who could he trust?

Erma Miles. Wonderful Erma, the lady who had told him the story of the people killed in the plane crash. She lived alone. In his heart, he knew that she would help him. Jack dialed information, got her number, and called her. Even though it was the middle of the night, Erma sounded alert when she answered the phone.

After a quick hello. Jack described his location.

“You’re just outside of Jerome, in the Mark Twain National Forest,” Erma said. “I know where that gas station is, we used to vacation there.”

“I’m really sorry to ask, but can you pick me up?”

“Sit tight and I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” she said. “You know, I told you to be careful. Doesn’t sound like you listened.”

“I’ll tell you the whole story when I see you, but please hurry. I’ll be waiting about a half-mile closer to town on the right-hand side of the road, hiding in the trees.” Jack explained. “I can’t risk staying put. Someone may show up. and I’m not feeling real sociable right now. How long will it take you to get here?”

“About an hour this time of night. You just keep your head down, and I’ll look for you. I’ll be driving a yellow Ford Zephyr with an orange Styrofoam, Union 76 ball on the antenna.”

“I’ll be watching for you.” Jack replied “and, Erma, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me until we get you out of there, it’s bad luck.”

“Okay, see you soon then.” He hung up the phone and headed out the rear door, pushing in the lock as he left. He shook the handle of the door to be sure it was secured. The door jamb was slightly cracked, but the lock held. There was no obvious reason for anyone to suspect he had stopped there.

Jack made his way down the road. About a half-mile from the garage, he hid in a cluster of bushes to wait for Erma.

The minutes crawled by. He shivered in the cold, the sound of the gusting wind his only companion. No cars passed by. He crossed his arms and leaned back against a tree.

What if Erma was being watched and now they’d caught her? What if-? Stop. He knew the late-night hours were a haven for paranoia and exaggeration. It hadn’t been much more than an hour since he’d spoken to her. Besides, she was an old lady, and old ladies didn’t drive fast.

At that moment, he heard the sound of a car engine.

He peered up over the large clump of bushes. It couldn’t be Erma, he thought. The car was coming too fast, at least seventy. Damn, they knew he’d gotten away. He wondered if the thugs who’d drugged and beaten him were returning to make sure the animals had finished what they had started.

Jack ducked down, concealed behind branches thick with leaves as he observed the vehicle. The car slowed. The orange ball glowed on the antenna. Erma. He straightened up.