Free Blues in the Night by Dick Lochte Page A

and dove through the door.
    He pulled his arms close to his chest and let his legs go limp, hitting the mud and scrub grass hard. When his body settled, before the pain could take over, he forced himself to get to his feet and run into the foliage.
    The limo seemed to be driving on, the door still hanging open, leaving a cloud of dust.
    Groaning, he weaved through the bushes and high grass. He barely thought about the other living creatures that might be sharing the canyon with him. Snakes. Wildcats. Cougars. He’d survived a boyhood among coral snakes, water moccasins and alligators. He’d take any or all over having to stand within arm’s distance of Timmie.
    He figured the limo driver was probably looking for a place where he could turn around. Then they’d drive back, maybe searching for him, maybe not. His plan was to hunker down within earshot of the road, wait for them to pass and then hike out.
    It wouldn’t be pleasant.
    He wasn’t dressed for a hike and his shoes were not made for it. And there was some pain. His right shoulder ached. Right elbow. Left knee.
    He rotated the shoulder, straightened his right arm. No breaks.
    So far, so good.
    He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he heard the limo returning.
    He ducked down, well out of sight and listened as it drew closer.
    And stopped.
    He held his breath.
    â€˜MR MASON?’ It was Thomas. Surely he didn’t expect a reply.
    â€˜WE ONLY WANT TO TALK!’
    They waited a minute or two, then the limo’s engine revved and rolled on.
    Mace stood up slowly, in time to see the mustard-colored vehicle moving away, raising a wake of dust.
    Only want to talk? He hoped to hell that was a lie. Otherwise he’d put himself through a lot of crap for nothing. It was definitely bullshit, he decided. They didn’t have to drive up a deserted country road just to talk. And he’d already had a sampling of Sweets’ way with words.
    He decided to screw caution and save himself some scratches and tears by using the road. But there was the possibility that he might hike around a curve and find them parked, waiting for him. So he decided to rest for an hour or so. He figured the childlike Timmie wouldn’t let them sit still any longer than that.
    He found a comfortable spot on the ground beneath a tree and went to sleep.
    He woke over an hour later, sweaty, filthy and sore. He stood, stretched and worked his limbs, then started walking. He was surprised that there wasn’t more pain. Tomorrow, probably.
    He paused to slap dust from his coat, but that didn’t improve anything, so the hell with it. He draped the coat over his shoulder, Sinatra-style, and continued walking until he hit Sorrel Canyon Road. There he tested the generosity of drivers on their way in the direction of the ocean.
    He didn’t see the mustard limo again.

TWELVE
    N ight fell before he was offered a ride by a big Hawaiian with a Charlie Chan moustache-soul patch combo and heavily muscled arms that extended from a wife-beater sweat that read ‘He IS The Way.’ The rear of the man’s dust-caked, powder-blue van was filled with yellow pamphlets that Mace guessed carried some religious pitch since the driver had holy pictures stuck to the dash, along with plastic statues of, if he remembered his catechism correctly, Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
    Another clue came from the van’s radio, a music show that billed itself the Christian Top Twenty Countdown.
    During the short run to Wildlife Road, Mace was amazed by the facility with which Christian songwriters were able to find rhymes for ‘Jesus,’ though, for the most part, ‘sees us,’ ‘frees us’ and ‘please us’ filled the bill.
    â€˜That yo’ cah?’ the Hawaiian asked, indicating the Camry parked by the side of the road.
    Mace could see no limo of any color lurking anywhere in the vicinity. He told the Hawaiian that it was indeed his car.