Page 56 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. V #3

len up from fear. “I shoulda shot you, back there, the old man and the kid a couple times and then when I had the chance. Stole your truck and lit nodded.
out.” He held the gun with his finger on the trig- ger, the barrel angled up at the old man’s head. Behind them the cruiser door slammed.
Farnham’s registration card was expired. “That’s the old one. The other one’s to home.”
“I swear I’ll fucking do it!” the kid said, his voice rising hysterically.
“Okay, but I’ll need you to step out, sir, and ac- company me to my car.”
“You hush and be calm! Hide that gun, now, fella. You ain’t in trouble yet. Maybe he’ll give me a warning and that’s that.”
The old man didn’t move, just stared straight ahead with his hands on the wheel.
The kid swallowed hard and scowled to himself and slipped the gun back into his windbreaker pocket.
“Did you hear me, sir? I said step out of the car. Now, sir!”
The old man rolled down his window and waited.
Farnham turned his face toward the kid and caught his eye. The old man’s pupils behind the lenses were large and very somber. He shook
his head slightly. Then he turned back to the
cop, and began to ease his door open. It groaned and creaked as he climbed out. His movements were extremely slow and laborious, as if he were underwater. Finally he was standing on the tar
The trooper was tall and young and somewhat pear-shaped. He had a mustache and small, alert brown eyes. He wore his green Smokey the Bear hat tall on his head.
He leaned over with his hands on his hips and pavement with the door shut, his back to the kid, looked in the cab. “Going a little slow up this hill, his suspenders forming a large red X on the back wouldn’t you say, mister?” of his green shirt. He ducked his head slightly and
“Ay-yuh.”
brought both hands up to about ear level, as if he were surrendering.
He gestured toward the road, where cars were still going by. “Quite a parade you’re leading. You had ‘em lined up all the way back to Rumney Pond.”
As they walked toward the cruiser, the trooper said to Farnham, chuckling, “You really don’t need to do that, sir. You can put your hands down now.”
“Ay-yuh. Gonna give me a ticket?” the old man asked.
Benson sat with his eyes closed for a minute and tried to think and feel nothing, his heart was pounding so. There was nothing to think about anyway; he was screwed. What would happen was plain: the old man would tell the cop, the cop would take away his gun and arrest him and he’d be sitting in jail by nightfall. His father would bail him out in the morning and then beat the crap out of him as soon as they got back to the trailer.
“Let’s just see your license and registration, to start with.”
He looked over to Benson who was sitting per- fectly still, staring straight ahead and down, his hands jammed in his jacket pockets. “You, too. Let’s see some ID.”
Maybe he’d even be chained to the toilet for three days and three nights, like that other time, squat- ting naked, breathing in filth. The nights were bad enough, but the days were even worse because
“He’s with me,” the old man said.
The cop flicked his eyes back and forth between
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