47

Chapter 47

I stuck the key into the ignition and tipped it forward. The engine turned over as if groggy from a long nap, then de-bugged itself into a mostly consistent purr. Shifting into drive, lurching toward the asphalt, I proceeded east across town, slowing as I finally reached the general vicinity of where Bufford said he had hidden the truck. Sure enough, a grove of crab apple trees soon appeared, from which sprouted a dilapidated double wooden-posted billboard advertising a specific Johnsons & Jonhsons hair product. I bumped over the culvert, circled around and backed the Suburban up to within a few feet of the moving truck's back end, and shut off the motor. Climbing out of the driver's seat, I shielded my eyes from the morning sun. I wished I'd grabbed a breakfast burrito or something. Hard, hot work was ahead of me, work that was going to probably take a while. (That's what she said).

The loading door wasn't locked, so I grabbed the handle and used the momentum to haul myself up into the cargo area. Surveying the scene, my shoulders dropped.

Like pandemonium frozen, a Guernica scene of original oils scattered every which way. A veritable scree field of angular audacity. A big messy mess of a mess. The high-speed chase had done massive violence to my careful packing job, and the results were obvious though, thankfully, largely of only an organizational type. Bleeding was at a minimum. Most of the recognizable damage was limited to scrapes along some of the frames. Only a few canvases had sustained noticeable rips or puncture wounds.

I went about transporting and re-organizing the paintings as best I could into the Suburban and after an hour or so had established a passable new order for them. It was tight, but everything fit well enough. The temperature was already unbearable--everything in my line of vision was rippling with heat waves and I was beginning to feel light-headed--so I cut short the detail work, blessed the effort, and crawled back out of the empty moving truck and onto the ground, kicking up clouds of scalding dust as my flip flops hit the grass. Sighing deeply, I made my way back to the Suburban and dug around the passenger seat for my backpack. I pulled it over and fished out a dirty white T-shirt and a Mason jar full of gasoline. Then I walked back over to the loading fender, unscrewed and tossed the lid. I immersed the t-shirt up to the sleeve and took a lighter from my pocket. I turned the jar upside-down so as to soak the shirt, and lit the sleeve. Then I lobbed the jar against the forward wall and jumped up to grab the nylon pull strap. The weight of the door lowered me down to the ground like an angel, and I struggled to click the loading door into place. Flames were already licking beneath, melting the rubber seal and destroying any evidence of my involvement.

Returning to the Suburban, I turned the key, shifted it into gear and managed back around the sign, into the culvert and, finally, onto the shoulder. The highway was coming to life for the morning commute and I blended into it all. Looking back, I saw the Tresseme billboard already consumed by a tornado of thick black smoke and flames that were ghostly invisible against the morning sun and stark white clouds. Tom Petty played in my head as I crossed the county line.


END OF BOOK I