not moved and did not move for several beats and the car held its course down the highway.
But it was just for a moment. Then the body relaxed, the left hand let go and the right pulled slowly, released, pulled down and steered the car—still doing close to sixty—off the road.
In this part of North Dakota there were no ditches. That was all that saved the boy. The road went to shoulder and then to prairie and the car hit the tall grass, then crossed that into a plowed field, slamming into the furrows and ruts so hard the boy was thrown against the ceiling.
“Goddamn!“
He was thrown up and down, from side to side amid flying doughnuts, coffee, feathers and pheasant guts and blood as the car slammed through the plowed furrows in flying dirt and dust to finally, finally come to a stop.
The boy realized he had closed his eyes and he opened them now. The inside of the car was a mess and he wanted more than anything to get out but the driver was leaning back against the doorjamb, his face a pulp.
“Goddamn goddamn goddamn…” It was a whisper and he didn't know he was saying it, knew only that he had to do something and didn't know what or how or anything.
He reached across the car and touched the Hungarian's arm, pushed with his finger, but there was no response and he saw now that the driver wasn't breathing anymore and knew that he was dead.
“God—”
The motor was still running and he turned the key off, amazed at how incredibly silent it became. Somewhere nearby he heard a meadow-lark call from a fence post, then nothing and he thought, What am I going to do?
Help, he thought. I need to get help. But he didn't know why. The man was clearly, awfully, messily dead-—there was nothing to be done for him. And the boy was a wanted man; he thought that way, not as a wanted boy but as a wanted man.
He pulled down on the door handle, opened the door slighdy, sick now at the sight and smell ofthe mess that the inside of the car had become; wanting to puke, he stood out of the car, away from it.
A pattern came into his thinking. Not so much ideas as a pattern of what had to be done. He would have to leave. There was nothing of him in the car and it would help nobody if he was found. He would have to leave and when he came to a place with a phone he could call the police and tell them of the accident and they would come and, well, do whatever they did. That didn't matter.
What mattered, what he saw in the pictures in his mind, was that he had to leave and he slammed the door and moved away from the car and looked back to the road and saw that no cars were coming. He trotted to the side of the road and began walking and for the first time looked down at his clothes. The pants were all right but the T-shirt was spotted with a little blood.
“Damn!“
Well, nothing for it. He had no other clothes, had nothing. The sheriffs deputy had taken him from Bill's without his clothes. He took the T-shirt off and thought his face must be spattered too.While walking, trotting really, he spit on the shirt and used it to clean his face.
Shirt still off, he had moved along the road for ten minutes, then another five, a good mile west of the wreck, maybe more, when he heard the sound of a car coming, the slick whine of tires on asphalt. He wondered if he should try to hide but there was nowhere to go-—the fields went flat away from the road, nothing higher than a dirt hump for at least a mile, maybe more.
So he kept walking. Whoever it was must not have seen the car off in the field—how could they miss it?—or if they saw it didn't care and he tried to make himself what he wasn't, tried in his mind to be neither part of the wreck nor a fugitive.
The car slowed. He didn't turn but it slowed and came to a stop next to him.
“Going to Clinton?”
The boy turned. An ancient woman wearing a pair of bib overalls arid a work shirt sat in the front seat of an old Dodge—the boy guessed a '34 or '35: one of the old black
But it was just for a moment. Then the body relaxed, the left hand let go and the right pulled slowly, released, pulled down and steered the car—still doing close to sixty—off the road.
In this part of North Dakota there were no ditches. That was all that saved the boy. The road went to shoulder and then to prairie and the car hit the tall grass, then crossed that into a plowed field, slamming into the furrows and ruts so hard the boy was thrown against the ceiling.
“Goddamn!“
He was thrown up and down, from side to side amid flying doughnuts, coffee, feathers and pheasant guts and blood as the car slammed through the plowed furrows in flying dirt and dust to finally, finally come to a stop.
The boy realized he had closed his eyes and he opened them now. The inside of the car was a mess and he wanted more than anything to get out but the driver was leaning back against the doorjamb, his face a pulp.
“Goddamn goddamn goddamn…” It was a whisper and he didn't know he was saying it, knew only that he had to do something and didn't know what or how or anything.
He reached across the car and touched the Hungarian's arm, pushed with his finger, but there was no response and he saw now that the driver wasn't breathing anymore and knew that he was dead.
“God—”
The motor was still running and he turned the key off, amazed at how incredibly silent it became. Somewhere nearby he heard a meadow-lark call from a fence post, then nothing and he thought, What am I going to do?
Help, he thought. I need to get help. But he didn't know why. The man was clearly, awfully, messily dead-—there was nothing to be done for him. And the boy was a wanted man; he thought that way, not as a wanted boy but as a wanted man.
He pulled down on the door handle, opened the door slighdy, sick now at the sight and smell ofthe mess that the inside of the car had become; wanting to puke, he stood out of the car, away from it.
A pattern came into his thinking. Not so much ideas as a pattern of what had to be done. He would have to leave. There was nothing of him in the car and it would help nobody if he was found. He would have to leave and when he came to a place with a phone he could call the police and tell them of the accident and they would come and, well, do whatever they did. That didn't matter.
What mattered, what he saw in the pictures in his mind, was that he had to leave and he slammed the door and moved away from the car and looked back to the road and saw that no cars were coming. He trotted to the side of the road and began walking and for the first time looked down at his clothes. The pants were all right but the T-shirt was spotted with a little blood.
“Damn!“
Well, nothing for it. He had no other clothes, had nothing. The sheriffs deputy had taken him from Bill's without his clothes. He took the T-shirt off and thought his face must be spattered too.While walking, trotting really, he spit on the shirt and used it to clean his face.
Shirt still off, he had moved along the road for ten minutes, then another five, a good mile west of the wreck, maybe more, when he heard the sound of a car coming, the slick whine of tires on asphalt. He wondered if he should try to hide but there was nowhere to go-—the fields went flat away from the road, nothing higher than a dirt hump for at least a mile, maybe more.
So he kept walking. Whoever it was must not have seen the car off in the field—how could they miss it?—or if they saw it didn't care and he tried to make himself what he wasn't, tried in his mind to be neither part of the wreck nor a fugitive.
The car slowed. He didn't turn but it slowed and came to a stop next to him.
“Going to Clinton?”
The boy turned. An ancient woman wearing a pair of bib overalls arid a work shirt sat in the front seat of an old Dodge—the boy guessed a '34 or '35: one of the old black
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