Steve had taken his boots off and was relishing the feel of the cold hard concrete under his sock-covered feet. He looked up at his partner, who was busy pulling a slice of pizza free of the cheese strands, and chuckled. "I think I know why cops get called flatfeet. I don't think I've walked this much in one day since I was a kid running around Modesto. As you would say, my dogs are barking."
Mike laughed. He nodded towards the dark leather ankle boots on the floor and shook his head. "You should get yourself a good pair of gumshoes. I know it's a cliche but they really are made for guys like you and me, you know." He stuffed the pointed end of the slice into his mouth and bit it off.
Steve raised his eyebrows condescendingly. "No thanks. Sometimes style is more important that substance."
The older man chuckled as he chewed. "Well, don't come crying to me when you develop corns and bunions and all those other wonderful problems." Grinning, they both chewed in silence for several long beats then Mike said matter-of-factly, "That's how he got his name, you know. Gummo Marx."
Steve, who had shoved the second cot against the bars in the centre of the room and was leaning against the blanket he had pushed up against the cold metal, frowned, continuing to chew. "What?" he asked through a mouthful of the combination pizza.
Mike grinned. "Gummo Marx. You know, the Marx Brothers?"
Nodding as he chewed, the younger man continued to stare, bewildered.
"He wore gum-soled shoes…"
His face expressionless, Steve swallowed. "And this is relevant… how?"
Mike glared at him through narrowed eyes as he swallowed as well. "I didn't say it was relevant, I just thought it was interesting."
"To you, maybe," the younger man muttered under his breath as he took another bite of the slice in his hand.
"I heard that," Mike snapped with feigned effrontery, picking up a piece of crust from the box beside him and, well aware of his physical limitations, rifled it across the cell as hard as he could without hurting himself.
"Hey!" Steve ducked and it sailed through the bars into the other cell. They both stared at it, Steve turning his head, Mike raising himself slightly on the cot so he could see it, looked at each other in shock then started to laugh. "You're in trouble," Steve taunted with a smug grin as he resettled himself and took another bite of his slice.
Mike snorted. "That's the least of my worries right now." He let the silence settle over them for a bit then asked softly, "So, ah, have you made up your mind about your gun?"
Looking at what was left of the slice in his hand, Steve nodded. "I'm, ah, I'm not gonna risk bringing it. I think the odds are better if I don't." He knew Mike was staring at him, and he also knew his partner didn't like what he was hearing, and he waited for the response.
The older man took a deep breath and held it, his blue eyes sliding to a space between them as he struggled with his conflicting emotions. He released the air in his lungs slowly and pointedly then met Steve's eyes. "I hope you're right," he said quietly.
Steve smiled encouragingly. "So do I." He started to push himself off the cot. "Listen, ah, I gotta get outa here. It'll be getting dark out there and I want to make sure I'm close enough to the house that I don't have far to go to get there in the dark."
Mike tossed what was left of the slice in his hand into the box and closed the lid. He started to get to his feet as the younger man stepped into his boots. "Are you going to be warm enough?" he nodded at the sports coat his partner was getting into.
Steve shrugged. "I brought a sweatshirt with me but it's back in the motel room."
Carefully, Mike bent over and reached into his duffle bag, pulling out a dark grey sweatshirt. "It's not the cleanest thing around and it might smell of fish a little bit - and it might be a little big," he chuckled, "but why don't you wear this." He held it out.
"Thanks," Steve said, taking off his jacket to put it on.
Mike watched him silently. When Steve had the sports coat back on, the older man took a step towards him. Staring soberly into the familiar green eyes, Mike put his right hand on his partner's shoulder and squeezed. He swallowed heavily. "I'm, ah, I'm not going to know what's going on until you come back here tomorrow morning… or, god forbid, something else happens…" His hand tightened as his voice caught in his throat. "Be careful… please…"
Steve smiled, suddenly unable to trust his voice. Nodding, he took a step closer to his partner and carefully wrapped his arms around him in a brief hug. "I will… don't worry…" He stepped back and turned to the door. He rattled the bars. "Doris!" he yelled.
This time Mike watched him until the outer door closed.
# # # # #
He was glad he had taken the sweatshirt; the temperature had dropped considerably and there was a stiff breeze. A reddish glow coloured the western horizon, foretelling a pleasant tomorrow; the sun had already disappeared. It was a cloudless night and the stars that had already appeared seemed particularly bright; there was only a sliver of a moon.
Eldred was a quiet town, at least on this night, and as he left Main Street on his way to Elmira, he was very conscious of the crunch of loose gravel underfoot on the broken pavement of the narrow sidewalk. He stepped into the street; it was marginally quieter. He wished he was wearing sneakers.
He was taking the shortest route to the rendezvous house, hoping to get there at least ten minutes before he was expected. After all, he wasn't sure if Doris was the only person he was going to be meeting, and he wanted the upper hand, at least temporarily, if that was possible.
There were no streetlights, so the entire neighbourhood was dark, and being so close to a new moon was really helping as well.
Most of the curtains were closed in the houses he was passing, warm glows indicating the inhabitants were at home. He couldn't see any telltale silhouettes of neighbourhood busybodies, but that didn't mean he wasn't being watched. But, truth be told, there was no other way for him to approach the house so he kept his head down, listening for any sound that might be considered out of place.
He reached the corner of Elmira and crossed the street; number 7 was three houses from the end of the block. The living room lights were on in the house right on the corner but the second one was totally dark; there was no car in the driveway.
He glanced around as surreptitiously as he dared as he headed up the grass border between the dark house and the abandoned one, not really believing his luck. He would have to be just as careful leaving, he knew, but he was grateful that his arrival was proceeding smoother than he had expected.
All the windows of number 7 seemed to be boarded up as he headed towards the backyard, taking each step slowly and carefully, not being able to see where he was planting his feet. He wished he'd brought a flashlight but also knew he wouldn't've used it; a great way to call attention to yourself is wander around an abandoned house with a flashlight in hand, even if you were very careful. He was much better off going slowly and quietly.
His eyes adjusted to the dark and he began to make out shapes with a little more clarity. He turned into the backyard; there were wooden pallets stacked up against the wall, and he could make out an old rusty charcoal grill and a wooden picnic bench on the broken tiles of a small patio.
There was a door with a screen in the middle of the back wall. He opened the screen door slowly, hoping it didn't squeak. His luck held. He grabbed the knob on the wooden door with the small glass window and was surprised when it turned easily. Holding the screen door open with his other hand, he stepped into the pitch black house, easing the screen door closed behind him.
He stood in the open doorway for a few long beats, allowing his eyes to adjust as much as they could, then closed the door. He couldn't see a thing. He groped along the walls for a light switch. Finding one on his right he flipped it up but, as expected, nothing happened.
He could tell there was a entrance to his left and he took a step in that direction. He reached out tentatively, feeling a counter on his left and what seemed to be a stove on his right. He was in the kitchen.
Moving carefully, he crossed the room slowly, feeling in front of him like a blind man, more worried he would bump his head than his shin. He finally made it to the other side of the kitchen and stepped into what he assumed was the dining room. There didn't seem to be any furniture; at least none that he could feel from the doorway.
He was just about to start across the dining room when he heard the screen door open and he froze.
# # # # #
She was staring at the TV but Walter Cronkite's soothing, authoritative tones were not penetrating her despondency, not tonight at least. Almost absent-mindedly she reached up and touched her slowly healing eyebrow, her face crumbling slowly. She bit her lip, trying to stop it from trembling as tears blurred her vision and sobs started constricting her throat.
She had been battling her emotions ever since Steve had left. Telling him what had happened, putting it into words for the first time to someone who really cared, had brought everything flooding back, everything she had been trying to put out of her mind since she had woken up in the doctor's office after the accident.
She wanted all this to be over, this nightmare they were living. She wanted to leave this room. She wanted to see her father and she wanted to go home.
Very slowly, her sobs no longer silent, she curled up on the bed, clutching a pillow to her chest and finally allowing her grief and anger to escape.
# # # # #
Mike looked at his watch. 6:47. He leaned the back of his head against the wall. He was sitting sideways on the cot, both feet up, his right arm wrapped around his shins, in a kind of vertical fetal position. He was trying to find a posture that didn't aggravate his ribs but so far, other than lying flat on his back, he hadn't been completely successful.
He closed his eyes. He knew Steve would be at the abandoned house already. He could feel his heart begin to pound and knew he had to distract himself; unless the worst happened, it would be at least another twelve hours before he would find out what would transpire tonight.
He started to go over everything he had talked to his partner about, his theory that maybe the whole town wanted to get rid of Johnny Seddon and that he was their scapegoat. If that was true, just how far were they prepared to go?, he wondered. One life had already been lost; were they willing to take another to make sure their plot wasn't exposed.