DISCLAIMER: Carnivale and its canon characters are the property of HBO and the show's producers; no copyright infringement is intended.
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Ruthie cursed under her breath as the trailer hit the granddaddy of all potholes, and Ben moaned.
Is Samson pickin' the worst damn roads in the state o' California? she wondered. An' why's Ben layin' on a mat on the floor, anyway? Didn't Management have a bed in here?
She knew that wasn't a legitimate gripe. Samson had been acting as if Ben was now in charge of the carnival. So it was probably Ben himself who'd gotten rid of the previous owner's furniture.
I'm frettin' over everythin' 'cause I'm nervous, she recognized.
She'd never been in the Management trailer before, let alone this bare inner room. That in itself would have made her antsy. But today, it was the least of her worries. Four hours out of New Canaan, she still feared hearing police sirens at any moment - and Ben still hadn't regained consciousness.
Ruthie loved Ben Hawkins, however hopelessly. She hadn't known how much she loved him until she feared he was dead in that cornfield. When he was found alive, it was she who'd bandaged his abdominal wound; then she'd insisted on staying in the trailer to watch over him.
She hoped she wouldn't have to tell him, in his weakened condition, that Sofie and Jonesy were missing and presumed dead. She'd made up her mind that while she'd answer his questions truthfully, she wouldn't volunteer any bad news.
But why ain't he comin' to?
Hovering over him, she took another look at the bandage. Thankfully, there was no fresh blood on it - that strange, blue blood that marked him as a creature inconceivably different from herself. She wondered if there was still a wound. Perhaps he'd only regain consciousness when it was fully healed?
The trailer hit another pothole.
Ben gasped - and opened his eyes.
He looked up at the woman bending over him, struggled to focus, and then murmured, "You...Ruthie."
For the first time in days, she smiled. "Yeah."
He tried to sit up - too quickly. Clutching his head, he looked as if he was about to pass out again. "Whew! The room's spinnin' -"
Ruthie eased him back down on the mat. "Just relax."
When he'd had time to collect himself, he asked, "Wh-where am I?" His voice was stronger, but he still seemed dazed. And he wasn't risking another attempt to sit up.
"In the Management trailer," she told him. "Samson's up front in the lead truck, like always."
"The Management trailer," he repeated. "The carnival. Wh-why are we movin'?"
"We're headin' back east," she explained. "That seems like the safest thing to do, right?"
"Uh, yeah." He was silent for a minute or two, getting his thoughts in order. Then he said quietly, "But, Ruthie, it's risky for all o' you to have me here. The law's gonna be after me. I killed a man."
She grimaced. "I know. I hope the law won't be after you, or at least won't find you. No one else here is worried for ourselves - we've got this trailer smack in the middle o' the convoy, to give you all the protection we can. But if they do get hold o' you, you can argue it was self-defense."
"Self-defense?" he echoed dubiously. "Yeah, it was, sorta. But I did have other reasons for killin' him -"
"O' course you had reasons. He was a monster! An' there's gotta be witnesses to what he did."
Am I tryin' to convince Ben, or myself? Dozens must o' seen Crowe kill them folks with a scythe - but except for Samson an' Stumpy, they were all New Canaanites. What if Crowe's goons still have them intimidated?
Ben was apparently thinking the same thing. "Witnesses, yeah. But I can't see 'em testifyin'. I reckon they'd be too scared."
"Well, there ain't gonna be no trial," she said firmly. "I can't believe it'll come to that. You won't be arrested -"
But as she spoke, the trailer came to a sudden stop.
Ben sat up, this time successfully. "Cops!"
"Can't be." Ruthie was shaking her head. "We ain't heard sirens."
"Not cops chasin' us," Ben said urgently, "cops ahead of us! They don't need sirens if they've set up a roadblock. How the hell could a carnival get around it?"
"Shit, I never thought o' that," she admitted. "So it could be cops. But it could also be that Samson's heard some news on the radio, an' he's stoppin' the convoy to let everyone know." She still thought that was more likely.
"I say it's cops!"
Ruthie hesitated. Ben was wounded, he'd been out cold until a few minutes ago - she didn't want him getting agitated. At last she said, "Maybe I could find out for you, faster than if we just wait. If I can't see what's goin' on when I step out o' the trailer, an' our driver don't know, I can walk up front a ways."
"Oh, yeah. Would you, please?"
"Will you be all right here? Lay down an' rest?"
"Yeah, I will," he assured her. "I promise."
She bent and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. "Okay. I'll hurry back."
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As soon as he was alone, Ben got unsteadily to his feet.
I know it's cops. If -
Then he looked down at himself in bewilderment. Huh? The carnies took my clothes while I was passed out?
He could understand - sort of - someone's having taken his clothes to wash them. The shirt and pants he remembered had been filthy. But why would they have dressed him in things that looked even worse? This shirt was in tatters!
An' why does it have all these stains on it, that look like ink?
More surprising still was a bandage on his belly. He yanked it off without stopping to think - and found no wound under it, not even a bruise. But his skin was smudged with that mysterious blue ink. What have these people been doin' to me?
He'd already decided to leave the carnival; a man on foot could easily circle around a roadblock. These creepy developments seemed to scream, "Hurry!"
I do regret leavin' Ruthie. I'm sure she warn't doin' nothin' out o' line - she's the kindest person I've ever known. I'm glad I remembered her name. I think that pleased her.
He only recalled hearing the name once, in the minutes after the burial of his mother. He'd been impressed by Ruthie's caring enough to play the concertina and lead the singing, out of respect for a woman she'd never met. And the last thing he remembered, from before he'd passed out, was her insisting to the dwarf carny boss, "Can't just leave him!"
I s'pose that dwarf is the "Samson" she's been talkin' about. She forgot I didn't have no way o' knowin' his name.
It was Ruthie's own knowledge that had convinced him the police were closing in. She could only have learned the details of his killing that brutal chain-gang guard from radio reports. And that much publicity meant that his escape was being taken very seriously. Radio audiences might have heard about the guard's abuse of prisoners, but prosecutors would pick a trial jury that hadn't heard - and make sure it never did.
I'll remember you, Ruthie.
Heading for the door, he realized he was no longer hobbled by a leg iron. Okay, he thought with a crooked grin. I'll forgive the carnies for the crummy clothes-swap, as long as they took that too.
He paused in the doorway, puzzled by the appearance of the surrounding countryside. How far could we have come while I was passed out? It don't look like the Dust Bowl at all!
But it looked like an area that would provide better hiding places for a fugitive, so who was he to complain?
He wavered, thinking of Ruthie.
Can't just leave her...
Yeah, I can.
A quick check to make sure the coast was clear - then he ran down the steps, plunged into the brush, and was gone.
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The End