Tom sagged back against the sofa pillows, his mind drifting. “There are different kinds of love. That’s one thing I’ve learned in this life. I don’t know if concepts like more come into it.”
“Yes, they do,” Melba said earnestly. “Sooner or later, it always comes to a choice. My Roderick made his, and I learned what a fool I was.”
“Well, I made my choice, too.”
Melba’s luminous brown eyes and peered deeply into his. “Did you?”
Tom nodded. “I did. I don’t want to say more than that.”
“All right, then.”
Tom rubbed his eyes to break the spell of remembrance. “Are you planning to spend the night here or what?”
“I think we’re both legal,” Melba said, smiling again. “And it’s not like Quentin’s short of space. Are you sleepy yet?”
“Actually, I feel pretty good. Thanks to the drugs, the sleep, and your nursing.”
“How about we watch some TV then?”
“Fine by me.”
“What you want to watch?”
“Anything but a medical show. What about you?”
“Anything but the news or reality TV. I’d love to see one of them old shows that takes my mind off things, like The Rockford Files.”
Tom couldn’t hide his amazement. “The Rockford Files? You’re a fan of that show?”
Melba tucked her chin into her chest and fanned her face with her hand. “I love me some James Garner, now. That’s one handsome white man.”
Tom laughed so hard that he thought he might have to take another Vicodin.
“Go back and watch him in The Great Escape,” Melba said, “when he was young and pretty. Even my mama thought so.”
“Well, let’s see what we can find.” Tom picked up the remote control and clicked on the widescreen television.
Before he could press the GUIDE button, a news crawl at the bottom of the screen scrolled: Three-state manhunt continues for accused cop killers Walter Garrity and Thomas Cage, M.D. Both men are considered armed and extremely dangerous. Do not approach these fugitives or seek to apprehend them. They may appear elderly, but are suspected of murdering an armed Louisiana state trooper. If you have any information, contact the Louisiana State Police or dial 911 Emergency. . . . The crawl went on to announce a severe thunderstorm alert in northeast Mississippi.
“Dear Lord,” Melba said. “What you gonna do, Doc?”
Tom swallowed hard and made himself press the buttons on the remote. “Wait for Walt. That’s all I can do, at this point.”
“Do you really believe he’s still alive?”
“His message said he’s okay.”
“Are you sure that was real?”
Tom sighed and gave her a pleading look. “Please go home, Melba. You don’t have any business being here for whatever the next act is.”
“And you don’t have any business being here alone. Find us a TV show. I told you I didn’t want no reality.”
WALT GARRITY HAD NOW lain beneath the bed for so long he was worried about getting a blood clot. At some point he was going to have to try to get out, because it didn’t look like the Valhalla lodge was going to be empty for a long time.
He was about to switch on his burn phone to test for reception again when he heard a metallic thunk outside, and then the big turbo sitting atop the helicopter began to spool up. With painful effort Walt dragged himself out from beneath the bed and pulled himself up to the curtained window. This time he saw the scene he’d watched earlier played in reverse. Black-clad SWAT troopers ran from the far building to the chopper’s door, their German shepherd alongside them. Every man carried at least one assault weapon.
Gut-churning fear awakened in Walt. He saw no reason for this kind of action unless someone had located Tom. Every fiber of his being told him the time had come to bolt and find someplace with cellular reception, but it would be stupid to try before the chopper left. Worse, he could see the goddamn pit bull leaping and barking at the cops as they boarded the helicopter.
Walt rubbed his forehead and cursed quietly, thinking of his wife back in Texas. If he were ten years younger, and single, he would make his break as soon as the chopper departed. He’d kill the dog if it made a sound, and then rely on his wilderness skills to get him to his vehicle ahead of any pursuers. But there was no point kidding himself. He wasn’t that man anymore. He would have to make the best of the situation and the skills he still had.
And Tom would have to do the same.
CHAPTER 41
THE EMOTIONAL TRANSITIONS I’ve made today have left me shaky and hypersensitive to almost all stimuli, but the past few minutes have gone a long way toward healing that. Annie and I are eating sandwiches and watching TV in the bedroom she commandeered in our makeshift safe house, the Abramses’ old place on Duncan Avenue. My mother made the sandwiches: tuna fish with apple slices, like those she used to make for my friends and me when we were kids. Since Annie was unable to find an episode of Grey’s Anatomy or House, M.D., she settled on Logan’s Run, the sci-fi movie starring Michael York and a boyhood crush of mine, Jenny Agutter.
“How come they chose thirty to be the oldest you could get?” Annie asks, munching on a triangular half of her sandwich. “I mean, you turn thirty, and then you walk into this thing where they kill you?”
“The people in the bubble city don’t know they’re going to die. They think they’re going to be recycled, sort of.”
“But the people who run don’t believe that.”
“Right. The writer probably chose thirty because at that age you still feel pretty much like you did as a teenager. Also, there used to be a saying: ‘Never trust anyone over thirty.’”
Annie knits her brows. “Huh. Weird.”
Despite all I’ve been through today, I can’t help but laugh.
While a young Farrah Fawcett welcomes Michael York to a plastic surgeon’s office, Annie says, “This no-school deal is pretty sweet.”
“Don’t get too used to it.”
“I know. But I miss talking to my friends. Are you sure I can’t call anybody? Just for a couple of minutes?”