* * *
AFTER CLEANING UP, he decided against trying to get a ride. Although he was hurt, a minor concussion, at least, a torn scalp, bruises and scrapes from his escape, and a nasty cough from the smoke he had inhaled, he had to think, and he was still sure that his appearance, especially so close to a fire, would draw unwanted attention.
His memories were sorting themselves out and he thought he knew where he was. A little farm, a nice gentlemanly farm, on the outskirts of Riverside. He turned right and started walking along the road. Occasionally cars sped past. At first he ducked into the ditch when he saw them coming, fearing a bullet from Paula or her friend. But soon after he started out he had heard fire engines in the distance, probably on a parallel road, and figured that Paula might be busier trying to explain to the cops and the fire crew what had happened than she was trying to find him. So he walked along the shoulder of the road, squinting against the dust of passing cars, until he came to an intersection. The new road was paved, and on the other side, under a streetlamp, was an empty bus stop.
* * *
THE BUS GOT him within a block of the El Mirage Motel where, earlier in the day, he had taken a room on the second floor. He no longer had his key but the desk clerk remembered him and gave him another. The room was as he had left it just hours before. He went to the bathroom and washed his face and scalp again. Though very painful, he cleaned the wound, and that started it bleeding again. He tore strips from a towel and bound it up as best he could, the kind of pressure it needed was impossible, for the bruising was worse than the cut. He slipped out of his torn and filthy clothes and noticed that the pockets were almost empty…it was not only his room key that was gone, his wallet was missing too! He sat down next to the telephone. He should call the police.
That was simple. That was the right thing to do. And what would he tell them? Well, the truth; a woman had picked him up in her car as he left the lounge at the Mission Inn. She had said that a man was following her and that she would like him to see her home. Her husband, a local doctor, would then drive him wherever he wanted to go.
It had made sense at the time.
Once at the farm, she had asked if he wanted a drink. When he said yes, she’d suggested that he get a coaster out of the cabinet behind him. He had turned, and when he had turned back, the big man from the bar had been standing there and had hit him on the head with the cast-iron pan. He’d fallen to his knees and the man had hit him again. The last thing that he remembered was the woman, Paula, fitting his hand around a small automatic pistol…curling his fingers around it, then carrying it away in a handkerchief.
He was a patsy. The two had set him up but it hadn’t worked. He definitely should call the police.
Except that thought worried him. With his wallet gone he had no ID. No one knew him here; the year or so since leaving the service he had spent prospecting in the desert. His terminal leave pay and what he had saved financed the venture, for his expenses had been small. He’d never had an address or a job anywhere except for the Army and he’d only gone there because a judge had given him a choice, the military…or jail.
He had a record, that could be a problem. Breaking and entering with a gang of other kids from Tempe. His uncle, an old jackass prospector, had taken a strap to him many a time but it hadn’t helped. The Army had and after eight years in a ranger company he had emerged a different man.
None of which was going to help him now. He had escaped but the woman was going to have a lot of explaining to do and he was suddenly certain of what she was going to say. The very story she had tried to set up in the first place would be her best bet now. Someone had tried to rob the dead man in the house (was it her husband?), the house had caught fire just as she was returning home. He didn’t know exactly how she’d spin it but he had no doubt that she would identify him as the killer…and she probably had his wallet.
He felt short of breath and his throat was tight. Everything he had learned in the Army told him to call the police. But his childhood, the poor kid raised in an ovenlike trailer who had been chased by the cops down dusty alleys and through weed-grown scrap yards, said something else. The world he lived in now was not the world of the military. He could not count on officials being the hard but fair officers he had once known. He could not count on those around him to take responsibility for their actions or to take pride in their honesty.
In the end he split the difference. Quickly dressing in clean clothes, he packed his bag and, using a stash of money left in his shaving kit, paid the bill. He gingerly pulled his hat on over the makeshift bandage and set out for the bus station.
After buying his ticket he turned to a phone booth and, pulling the door shut, dropped a dime in the slot. After speaking with an operator and holding for a minute or so a voice responded. “Robbery-Homicide, Lieutenant Ragan speaking.”
Jackson took a deep breath. “Lieutenant Ragan, don’t think this is a crank call. I’m going to outline a case for you. Listen.…”
Without mentioning his name he outlined his story from the moment he’d been accosted by the woman on the street. He told how he was lured into her home, that he’d been knocked out, and the plans to fire the house. He ended suddenly. “Ragan, I need help. This man, whoever he was, was killed, shot, and these people are looking for a cover story…something that doesn’t implicate them. I’m not a killer, but you can see the spot I’m in, can’t you?”
“I guess so,” the policeman said. “What do you want from me?”
“Look into it from my angle, don’t just believe everything you’re told.”
“We never just believe what we’re told.” Ragan’s voice was dry, nearly expressionless. “Look, it’s not my case. All I can tell you to do is to give yourself up. Just come in and let us do our job.”
Monte Jackson hung the receiver gently on the hook.
He had done what he could. Once on his claim, it might be months, even years before they found him. But he knew too much to believe he could escape forever.
Yet he must have breathing space. He was in a trap, but if he had time he might think his way out or perhaps, the investigation would turn up something that led away from him. He had made an attempt to offer an element of doubt. The police might accept the woman’s story, yet if they had cause to look further, what might they find?
They were calling his bus, and in a minute he was moving with the line, then boarding the bus north to Inyokern. Fortunately, it was soon moving.
* * *
WHEN THE BUS stopped at Adelanto he glanced out the window and saw someone who gave him an idea. “Hey, Jack!” he called. “How far you going?”
“Bishop,” he said, walking toward Monte. “Why?”
“Look,” Monte explained. “I’ve got to call L.A. and I’ve got to leave the bus here. No use to waste my ticket, so you might as well take it and ride to Inyokern, then buy one on from there.”
The fellow hesitated briefly. “Sure thing. What do you want for it?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jackson said, turning away quickly. Now the bus driver would never realize he had lost a passenger, and if the ticket was traced it would have been used to Inyokern.
He was a tall young man with broad shoulders and he had always walked a lot. Fortunately, the morning was cool. If he remembered correctly it was seven miles to Oro Grande on Highway 66. He started out, walking fast along the intersecting road. Yet he was in luck, for when he had gone scarcely a mile a pickup slowed and the door opened. He got in.
“Goin’ far?” He was a dark-haired man in boots and Levi’s.
“Oro Grande, to catch a bus for Barstow.”