Rock Island Line David Rhodes (ereader iphone .txt) 📖

his exterior was as rough and crude as he could make it. His spirit was greater than his mind, and it swung him like a whip around the whipman’s arm. Trapped under a fallen tree, he once went five days without water or help. In a Mexican jail he had dug himself out with just his hands. Though not the best fighter, or runner, or lifter, or shooter, or swimmer, or thinker, or even that much braver then the next guy, he simply never gave up, and refused to accept that he was beaten. It was the simple, unimpeded drive to stay alive at whatever cost, for no great purpose or need that he could understand because it wasn’t to be understood, that burned in him like a comet, and it wasn’t joy that lit his face now but an expression that July almost couldn’t fathom: he was at once grim, determined and frightened. (This was his last chance: they had all been last chances.)

Coming by the porch, both horse and rider turned their eyes on July and he backed against the side of the house. From both, the look was the same: compassionless strength—the quick, naked bones of survival. When all else was torn away, there was only this to carry on, and it worked well enough. In the next instant they were gone from the yard, over the wooden picket fence, beyond the barn and out of sight. Then the gray creatures were in the yard and all of them as they ran turned to face July. It was the ugliest moment in his life, but with the cold eye of the legendary outlaw in him, he glared back at them and thought, Get me now, you blood demons, the chance won’t come again. They passed on and were gone as quickly as they had come. The storm folded back over the house, barn and fields. The rain fell like silence. July prayed, Dear God, why must we live alone?

FIFTEEN

Halfway through Iowa, just off Highway 6 outside of Des Moines, Wally Cobb, Leonard Brown and Billy Joe Brighton pulled into a hamburger stand, went inside the glassed-in partition and ordered sandwiches, fries and Cokes. Billy Joe had an orange drink. They ate at a little table and watched across the street where several men were trying to start a white Oldsmobile, jumping it from another car’s battery.

They were out of money now and a kind of tension seemed to hold them together. When Leonard, after finishing half his Coke, went over to the water fountain and poured in an inch of water to make more, he couldn’t free himself from it and moved stiffly and self-consciously. The manager watched them from behind the stainless-steel counter with suspicion.

“You sure you know the address?” said Wally.

“Fourteen ninety-one Edgeway.”

“Why can’t you give them a call?”

“They don’t have a phone. But they got to be there.”

“Now, my idea is that we stay for a couple days, no longer than a week, and move on to . . .” Wally saw Billy Joe’s face turn white and he whirled quickly around. Two policemen stood in the doorway. Two others were outside.

“All right, boys, take it easy. You’re under arrest. Slowly now, stand up. Keep your hands on the table.”

“Let me go,” said Wally. “Please let me go. I’ve never been in any trouble before. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“With what?” said the nearest policeman, holding out the opened handcuffs. They took them outside and put them in the back seat of the patrol car parked at the side of the building.

From the time the three boys had left the hotel to when Ollie was ready to leave two days later, Earl had hardly left their small room. Once he’d gone down to the barroom below and sat by himself at one of the far back tables, eating, chewing the tough meat automatically and without enjoyment as he stared into the dark tabletop, as though hypnotized by a swinging pendulum inside his mind, not looking up even when called to from the bar. Betty May, an old prostitute who lived in the Shamrock, came silently to his table, pulled up a chair and began to be friendly.

“Hey, Earl, I seen you from across the room and wondered to myself why of Earl was sittin’ way back here in the dark, so I come over, ‘n’, hey, somethin’ the matter, Earl?”

He lifted his head and let his blank eyes fall on her face as though she were no more than one of his own thoughts.

“Hey, Earl, you don’ look so good. Maybe you need a drink. Let me get Bobby to bring you over one. What’s the matter? Tell ol’ Betty May about it. You know we always been good friends as can be.”

Earl’s expression hadn’t changed, and he automatically cut off another corner of meat and chewed it. Betty May became a little frightened, and decided it would be best to go back to the bar—after one more try. She reached out and took hold of his shoulder.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Earl, it’s Betty May. You all right? You remember me. We done a lot of tricks together. We was together that night—”

“Who are you?” said Earl, looking at her now with a fierce intensity, and she quickly took her hand back and moved to the edge of her chair, ready to jump, knowing that if she were caught back here in the corner she could scream for all she was worth and no one would come but to watch. There was no recognition in his eyes, only a bitter hostility at being interrupted.

“It’s Betty May,” she said. “You know me.”

He stood up and put a dollar bill on the table. “I don’t know you,” he said flatly, and wandered through the bar and into thelobby, where he mounted the stairs, stepping slowly and deliberately, each step an individual decision, like one