Lost in the frenzy1 of the departure was the issue of money. When he paid six bucks2 for Boyette's feast at the Blue Moon Diner, Keith realized he was low on cash. Then he forgot about it. He remembered it again after they were on the road and needed gas. They stopped at a truck stop on Interstate 335 at 1:15 a.m. It was Thursday, November 8.
As Keith pumped gas, he was aware of the fact that Donte Drumm would be strapped3 to the gurney in Huntsville in about seventeen hours. He was even more aware that the man who should be suffering through his final hours was, instead, sitting peacefully only a few feet away, snug4 inside the car, his pale slick head reflecting the overhead fluorescent5 lights. They were just south of Topeka. Texas was a million miles away. He paid with a credit card and counted $33 in cash in his left front pocket. He cursed himself for not raiding the slush fund he and Dana kept in a kitchen cabinet. The cigar box usually held around $200 in cash.
An hour south of Topeka, the speed limit increased to seventy miles per hour, and Keith and the old Subaru inched upward to seventy-five. Boyette so far had been quiet, seemingly content to sit crouched6 with his hands on his knees and stare at nothing through the right-side window. Keith preferred to ignore him. He preferred the silence. Sitting next to a stranger for twelve straight hours was a chore under normal circumstances. Rubbing shoulders with one as violent and weird7 as Boyette would make for a tense, tedious trip.
Just as Keith settled into a quiet, comfortable zone, he was suddenly hit with a wave of drowsiness8. His eyelids9 snapped shut, only to be reopened when he jerked his head. His vision was blurred10, foggy. The Subaru edged toward the right shoulder, then he moved back to the left. He pinched his cheeks. He blinked his eyes as wildly as possible. If he'd been alone, he would have slapped himself. Travis did not notice.
"How about some music?" Keith said. Anything to jolt11 his brain.
Travis just nodded his approval.
"Anything in particular?"
"It's your car."
Yes, it was. His favorite station was classic rock. He cranked up the volume and was soon thumping12 the steering13 wheel and tapping his left foot and mouthing the words. The noise cleared his brain, but he was still stunned14 by how quickly he had almost collapsed15.
Only eleven hours to go. He thought of Charles Lindbergh and his solo flight to Paris. Thirty-three and a half straight hours, with no sleep the night before he took off from New York. Lindbergh later wrote that he was awake for sixty straight hours. Keith's brother was a pilot and loved to tell stories.
He thought about his brother, his sister, and his parents, and when he began to nod off, he said, "How many brothers and sisters do you have, Travis?"
Talk to me, Travis. Anything to keep me awake. You can't help with the driving, because you have no license16. You have no insurance. You're not touching17 this wheel, so come on, Travis, help me out here before we crash.
"I don't know," Travis said, after the obligatory18 period of contemplation.
The answer did more to lift the fog than anything by Springsteen or Dylan. "What do you mean, you don't know?"
A slight tic. Travis had now shifted his gaze from the side window to the windshield. "Well," he said, then paused. "Not long after I was born, my father left my mother. Never saw him again. My mother took up with a man named Darrell, and since he was the first man I ever remembered, I just figured Darrell was my father. My mother told me he was my father. I called him Dad. I had an older brother and he called him Dad. Darrell was okay, never beat me or anything, but he had a brother who abused me. When they took me to court the first time--I think I was twelve--I realized that Darrell was not my real father. That really hurt. I was crushed. Then Darrell disappeared."
The response, like many of Boyette's, raised more mysteries than it solved. It also served to kick Keith's brain into high gear. He was suddenly wide-awake. And he was determined19 to unravel20 this psycho. What else was there to do for the next half day? They were in his car. He could ask anything he wanted.
"So you have one brother."
"There's more. My father, the real one, ran off to Florida and took up with another woman. They had a houseful of kids, so I guess I have outside brothers and sisters. And there was always this rumor21 that my mother had given birth to a child before she married my father. You ask how many. Pick a number, Pastor22."
"How many are you in contact with?"
"I wouldn't call it contact, but I've written some letters to my brother. He's in Illinois. In prison."
What a surprise. "Why is he in prison?"
"Same reason everybody else is in prison. Drugs and booze. He needed cash for his habit, so he broke into a house, wrong one, ended up beating a man."
"Does he write back?"
"Sometimes. He'll never get out."
"Was he abused?"
"No, he was older, and my uncle left him alone, far as I know. We never talked about it."
"This was Darrell's brother?"
"Yes."
"So, he wasn't really your uncle?"
"I thought he was. Why are you asking so many questions, Pastor?"
"I'm trying to pass the time, Travis, and I'm trying to stay awake. Since I met you Monday morning, I have slept very little. I'm exhausted23, and we have a long way to go."
"I don't like all these questions."
"Well, what exactly do you think you're about to hear in Texas? We show up, you claim to be the real murderer, and then you announce that you really don't like questions. Come on, Travis."
Several miles passed without a word. Travis stared to his right, at nothing but the darkness, and lightly tapped his cane24 with his fingertips. He had shown no signs of severe headaches for at least an hour. Keith glanced at the speedometer and realized he was doing eighty, ten over, enough for a ticket anywhere in Kansas. He slowed down and, to keep his mind going, played out the scene in which a state trooper pulled him over, checked his ID, checked Boyette's, then called for backup. A fleeing felon25. A wayward Lutheran minister aiding the fleeing felon. Blue lights all over the road. Handcuffs. A night in jail, maybe in the same cell with his friend, a man who wouldn't be the least bit bothered by another night behind bars. What would Keith tell his boys?
He began to nod again. There was a phone call he had to make, and there was no good time to make it. The call was guaranteed to engage his mind at such a level that sleep would be forgotten momentarily. He removed his cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed Matthew Burns. It was almost 2:00 a.m. Evidently, Matthew was a sound sleeper26. It took eight rings to rouse him.
"This better be good," he growled27.
"Good morning, Matthew. Sleep well?"
"Fine, Father. Why the hell are you calling me?"
"Watch your language, son. Look, I'm on the road headed for Texas, traveling with a man named Travis Boyette, a nice gentleman who visited our church last Sunday. You may have seen him. Walks with a cane. Anyway, Travis here has a confession28 to make to the authorities in Texas, a small town called Slone, and we're dashing off to stop an execution."
Matthew's voice cleared quickly. "Have you lost your mind, Keith? You've got that guy in the car?"
"Oh yes, left Topeka about an hour ago. The reason I'm calling, Matt, is to ask for your help."
"I'll give you some help, Keith. Free advice. Turn that damned car around and get back here."
"Thanks, Matt, but look, in a few hours I'll need you to make a couple of phone calls to Slone, Texas."
"What does Dana say about this?"
"Fine, fine. I'll need you to call the police, the prosecutor29, and maybe a defense30 lawyer. I'll be calling them too, Matt, but since you're a prosecutor, they might listen to you."
"Are you still in Kansas?"
"Yes, I-35."
"Don't cross the state line, Keith. Please."
"Well, that might make it rather difficult to get to Texas, don't you think?"
"Don't cross the state line!"
"Get some sleep. I'll call you back around six, and we'll start working the phones, okay?"
Keith closed his phone, punched voice mail, and waited. Ten seconds later it buzzed. Matthew was calling back.
They were through Emporia and bearing down on Wichita.
Nothing prompted the narrative31. Perhaps Boyette was getting sleepy himself, or maybe he was just bored. But the more he talked, the more Keith realized he was listening to the twisted autobiography32 of a dying man, one who knew no sense could be made of his life, but wanted to try anyway.
"Darrell's brother, we called him Uncle Chett, would take me fishing, that was what he told my parents. Never caught the first fish, never wet the first hook. We'd go to his little house out in the country, had a pond out back, and that's where all the fish were supposed to be. Never made it that far. He'd give me a cigarette, let me taste his beer. At first I didn't know what he was doing. Had no idea. I was just a kid, eight years old. I was too scared to move, to fight back. I remember how bad it hurt. He had all sorts of kiddie porn, magazines and movies, sick stuff he was generous enough to share with me. You cram33 all that garbage into the head of a little boy, and before long he sort of accepts it. I thought, well, maybe this is what kids do. Maybe this is what adults do to kids. It looked legitimate34 and normal. He wasn't mean to me; in fact, he bought me ice cream and pizza--anything I wanted. After each fishing trip, he would drive me home, and right before we'd get to my house, he would get real serious, sort of mean and threatening. He would tell me that it was important for me to keep our little secret. Some things are private. He kept a gun in his truck, a shiny pistol. Later, he would show me how to use it. But at first, he would take it out and place it on the seat, then explain that he loved his secrets, and if they were ever revealed, then he would be forced to hurt someone. Even me. If I told anyone, he would be forced to kill me, and then kill whomever I told, and that included Darrell and my mother. It was very effective. I never told anyone.
"We kept fishing. I think my mother knew, but she had her own problems, primarily with the bottle. She was drunk most of the time, didn't sober up until much later, until it was too late for me. When I was about ten or so, my uncle gave me some pot, and we started smoking together. Then some pills. It wasn't all bad. I thought I was pretty cool. A young punk smoking cigarettes and pot, drinking beer, watching porn. The other part was never pleasant, but it didn't last long. We were living in Springfield at the time, and one day my mother told me we had to move. My dad, her husband, whatever the hell he was, had found a job near Joplin, Missouri, where I was born. We packed in a hurry, loaded everything into a U-Haul, and fled in the middle of the night. I'm sure there was some unpaid35 rent involved. Probably a lot more than that--bills, lawsuits36, arrest warrants, indictments37, who knows. Anyway, I woke up the next morning in a double-wide trailer, a nice one. Uncle Chett got left behind. I'm sure it broke his heart. He finally found us and showed up a month or so later, asked me if I wanted to go fishing. I said no. He had no place to take me, so he just hung around the house, couldn't take his eyes off me. They were drinking, the adults, and before long they got into a fight over money. Uncle Chett left cussing. Never saw him again. But the damage was done. If I saw him now, I'd take a baseball bat and splatter his brains across forty acres. I was one screwed-up little boy. And I guess I've never gotten over it. Can I smoke?"
"No."
"Then can we pull over for a minute so I can smoke?"
"Sure." A few miles down the road, they pulled in to a rest stop and took a break. Keith's phone buzzed again. Another missed call from Matthew Burns. Boyette wandered away, last seen drifting into some woods behind the restrooms, a cloud of smoke trailing him. Keith was walking across the parking lot, back and forth38, back and forth, trying to pump the blood, with one eye on his passenger. When Boyette was out of sight, gone in the darkness, Keith wondered if he was gone for good. He was already tired of the trip, and if there was an escape at this point, who would care? Keith would drive back home, wonderfully alone in the car, and face the music with his wife and get an earful from Matthew. With some luck, no one would ever know about the aborted39 mission. Boyette would do what he'd always done--drift here and there until he either died or got himself arrested again.
But what if he hurt someone? Would Keith share criminal responsibility?
Minutes passed with no movement from the woods. A dozen 18-wheelers were parked together at one end of the parking lot, their generators40 humming as their drivers slept.
Keith leaned on his car and waited. He'd lost his nerve, and he wanted to go home. He wanted Boyette to stay in the woods, to go deeper until there was no turning back, to simply disappear. Then he thought of Donte Drumm.
A puff41 of smoke wafted42 from the trees. His passenger had not escaped.
Miles passed without a word. Boyette seemed content to forget his past, though minutes earlier he'd been gushing43 details. At the first hint of numbness44, Keith plowed45 ahead.
"You were in Joplin. Uncle Chett had come and gone."
The tic, five, ten seconds, then, "Yes, uh, we were living in a trailer out from town, a poor section. We were always in the poor section, but I remember being proud because we had a nice trailer. A rental46, but I didn't know it then. Next to the trailer park, there was a little road, asphalt, that ran for miles into the hills south of Joplin, in Newton County. There were creeks47 and dells and dirt roads. It was a kid's paradise. We'd ride our bikes for hours along the trails and no one could ever find us. Sometimes we'd steal beer and booze out of the trailer, or even out of a store, and dash off into the hills for a little party. One time a kid named Damian had a bag of pot he'd stolen from his big brother, and we got so stoned we couldn't stay on our bikes."
"And this is where Nicole is buried?"
Keith counted to eleven before Boyette said, "I suppose. She's somewhere in there. Not sure I can remember, to tell you the truth. I was pretty drunk, Pastor. I've tried to remember, even tried to draw a map the other day, but it'll be difficult. If we get that far."
"Why did you bury her there?"
"Didn't want anybody to find her. It worked."
"How do you know it worked? How do you know her body hasn't been found? You buried her nine years ago. You've been in prison for the past six years, away from the news."
"Pastor, I assure you she has not been found."
Keith felt assured. He believed Boyette, and the fact that he believed so much from this hardened criminal was frustrating48. He was wide-awake as they approached Wichita. Boyette had retreated into his sad little shell. He rubbed his temples occasionally.
"You went to court when you were twelve years old?" Keith asked.
The tic. "Something like that. Yes, I was twelve. I remember the judge making some comment about me being too young to launch a new career as a criminal. Little did he know."
"What was the crime?"
"We broke into a store and loaded up all the stuff we could carry. Beer, cigarettes, candy, lunch meat, chips. Had a regular feast in the woods, got drunk. No problem until somebody looked at the video. It was my first offense49, so I got probation50. My co-defendant was Eddie Stuart. He was fourteen, and it was not his first offense. They sent him to reform school, and I never saw him again. It was a rough neighborhood, and there was no shortage of bad boys. We were either making trouble or getting into trouble. Darrell yelled at me, but he came and went. My mother tried her best but couldn't stop drinking. My brother got sent away when he was fifteen. Me, I was thirteen. You ever been inside a reform school, Pastor?"
"No."
"Didn't think so. These are the kids nobody wants. Most are not bad kids, not when they first get there. They just didn't have a chance. My first stop was a place near St. Louis, and like all reform schools it was nothing but a penitentiary51 for kids. I got the top bunk52 in a long room crowded with kids from the streets of St. Louis. The violence was brutal53. There were never enough guards or supervisors54. We went to class, but the education was a joke. You had to join a gang to survive. Someone looked at my file and saw where I'd been sexually abused, so I was an easy target for the guards. After two years of hell, I was released. Now, Pastor, what's a fifteen-year-old kid supposed to do when he's back on the streets after two years of torture?" He actually looked at Keith as if he expected an answer.
Keith kept his eyes straight ahead and shrugged55.
"The juvenile56 justice system does nothing but cultivate career criminals. Society wants to lock us up and throw away the key, but society is too stupid to realize that we'll eventually get out. And when we get out, it ain't pretty. Take me. I'd like to think I wasn't a hopeless case when I went in at thirteen. But give me two years of nothing but violence, hate, beatings, abuse, then society's got a problem when I walk out at fifteen. Prisons are hate factories, Pastor, and society wants more and more of them. It ain't working."
"Are you blaming someone else for what happened to Nicole?"
Boyette exhaled57 and looked away. It was a heavy question, and he sagged58 under its weight. Finally, he said, "You miss the whole point, Pastor. What I did was wrong, but I couldn't stop myself. Why couldn't I stop myself? Because of what I am. I wasn't born this way. I became a man with a lot of problems, not because of my DNA59, but because of what society demanded. Lock 'em up. Punish the hell out of them. And if you make a few monsters along the way, too bad."
"What about the other 50 percent?"
"And who might those be?"
"Half of all inmates60 paroled from prison stay out of trouble and are never arrested again."
Boyette didn't appreciate this statistic61. He re-shifted his weight and fixated on the right-side mirror. He withdrew into his shell and stopped talking. When they were south of Wichita, he fell asleep.
The cell phone rang again at 3:40 a.m. It was Matthew Burns. "Where are you, Keith?" he demanded.
"Get some sleep, Matthew. Sorry I bothered you."
"I'm having trouble sleeping. Where are you?"
"About thirty miles from the Oklahoma state line."
"Oh yes. He's sleeping now. Me, I just nap on and off."
"I've talked to Dana. She's upset, Keith. I'm worried too. We think you're losing your mind."
"Probably so. I'm touched. Relax, Matthew. I'm doing what's right, and I'll survive whatever happens. Right now, my thoughts are with Donte Drumm."
"Don't cross the state line."
"I heard you the first time."
"Good. I just wanted to be on record as warning you more than once."
"I'm writing it down."
"Okay, now, Keith, listen to me. We have no idea what might happen once you get to Slone and your buddy there starts running his mouth. I'm assuming he'll attract cameras like roadkill attracts buzzards. Stay out of the picture, Keith. Keep your head low. Don't talk to any reporters. One of two things will definitely happen. Number one, the execution will take place as scheduled. If so, then you've done your best, and it'll be time to scramble63 back home. Boyette has the option of staying there or catching64 a ride back. Doesn't really matter to you. Just get back home. There's a decent chance no one will know about your little adventure in Texas. The second scenario65 is that the execution will be stayed. If so, you've won, but don't celebrate. While the authorities grab Boyette, you sneak66 out of town and get back home. Either way, you gotta stay out of sight. Am I clear?"
"I think so. Here's the question: Where do we go when we get to Slone? The prosecutor, the police, the press, the defense attorney?"
"Robbie Flak. He's the only one who might listen. The police and the prosecutor have no reason to listen to Boyette. They have their man. They're just waiting for the execution. Flak is the only one who might believe you, and he certainly appears capable of making a lot of noise. If Boyette tells a good story, then Flak will take care of the press."
"That's what I thought. I'm planning on calling Flak at six. I doubt if he's sleeping much."
"Let's talk before we start making calls."
"You got it."
"And, Keith, I still think you're crazy."
"I don't doubt it, Matthew."
He put the phone in his pocket, and a few minutes later the Subaru left Kansas and entered Oklahoma. Keith was driving eighty miles an hour. He was also wearing his clerical collar, and he'd convinced himself that any decent trooper wouldn't ask too many questions of a man of God whose crime was nothing more than speeding.
收听单词发音 |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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fluorescent
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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steering
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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collapsed
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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autobiography
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cram
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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indictments
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| n.（制度、社会等的）衰败迹象( indictment的名词复数 )；刑事起诉书；公诉书；控告 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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aborted
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| adj.流产的，失败的v.（使）流产( abort的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）（某事物）中止；（因故障等而）（使）（飞机、宇宙飞船、导弹等）中断飞行；（使）（飞行任务等）中途失败 | |
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generators
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| n.发电机，发生器( generator的名词复数 )；电力公司 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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42
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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44
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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45
plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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46
rental
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| n.租赁，出租，出租业 | |
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47
creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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48
frustrating
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| adj.产生挫折的，使人沮丧的，令人泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的现在分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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49
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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50
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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51
penitentiary
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| n.感化院；监狱 | |
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52
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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54
supervisors
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| n.监督者，管理者( supervisor的名词复数 ) | |
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55
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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56
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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57
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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58
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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DNA
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| (缩)deoxyribonucleic acid 脱氧核糖核酸 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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61
statistic
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| n.统计量；adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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62
buddy
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| n.（美口）密友，伙伴 | |
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63
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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