Play Dead (Parat 34)

I’m Fixin’ To Play Dead (Part 34):

I took Louise’s advice and got off of I-65 one exit up from where all the fireworks had taken place. The plan was to get back on the interstate going south, the direction we had escaped from, and get off across the bridge on the opposite side from where I had accosted Red and retrieved my money and set Louise free, and take the back roads to avoid being apprehended by the law.

After we did that and took a right, heading west away from the scene, on Highway 84, I saw one lone pay phone, something you didn’t see much of anymore, at the side of an abandoned fireworks store, or shed.

I pulled the truck up next to it and said to Louise, “Hey, there’s something we have to do before any more time goes by. We got to report Leon’s death and implicate Red as the murderer.”

“How in the world are we going to do that?” she replied.

“With that phone right there,” I told her. You just dial 911. When they answer tell them you want to report a murder. Tell them the body of Leon Martin is in room 2012 at the Beau Ravage in Biloxi, and that he was murdered by Alan Sexton, a taxi driver from Atlanta. That’s Red’s real name.

And tell them where he was last seen, that exit we just left, and that he’s driving a taxi with Georgia plates. And oh yes, one other thing, tell ‘em they’ll find the evidence in the trunk of the taxi.”

She had the door open and one foot on the ground when she said, “I don’t think I can remember all that.”

I stepped out with her, and after she had connected with a 911 dispatcher, I fed her information when she faltered. After we had reported everything she took the phone away from her ear, covered the mouthpiece with her hand and said, “They want to know who is providing this information.”

Gently, I removed the receiver from her hand, hung it up and said, “Get in the truck. We got to go!”

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We got back on the road, heading west, leaving it all behind us. It was a narrow highway, but it was scenic and safe. I kept the old truck at the speed limit. After traveling about 10 miles a sign informed us we were entering the city limits of Repton. That’s when Louise told me to slow down.

“Don’t go over the speed limit through here. This little town would dry up and blow away if they stopped handing out speeding tickets.”

As I slowed down to well below the speed limit I asked Louise, “How come you know the roads around here?”

“Cause I was raised up down in these parts.”

We exited the city limits of the town, consisting of not much more than a church, a school and a convenience store, I asked Louise how she was feeling?

“I feel kind of numb and scared, but not as scared as I did before you showed up.”

“Did Leon tell you anything about me?”

“Yeah, he told me the whole story about finding you after the plane crash and of how he took you to Atlanta, and how you told him what your real name was and how you was gonna play dead and be somebody else. He didn’t say much more about what happened after that, but I could tell he liked you a lot.”

“Yeah, he liked me so much that he stole all my money.”

“I think he was sorry about that. He just couldn’t help himself ‘cause thieving was bred into him.”

“I know. He told me and I forgave him before he died. I liked Leon, too. He reminded me of an uncle who raised me. But if he hadn’t stole my money, probably, he and I would be on a beach somewhere instead of him being dead and me on the run.”

“Look here, Sonny Boy, Ralph Cooper, Todd Prescott, or whatever name you want to go by,” Louise said, “I ain’t had a bite to eat since last night and I’m getting kind of light headed.”

I grinned and said, “There’s a shrimp po-boy in the glove box. I got two before I left Biloxi and saved one. Help yourself.”

“You got to be kidding me!” she said as she attacked the glove box. “First you saved me from a mad killer and now you’re feeding me my favorite sandwich in the world!”

While Louise was moaning with pleasure as she munched on the po-boy, she picked up the copy of USA Today that I had grabbed at McElroy’s while I was waiting on my to-go order, and began scanning the story on the front page about interviews with the next-of-kin of all the victims of the jet plane crash I had walked away from a few days ago.

Suddenly she gasped, dropped the remains of her po-boy, and blurted out, “My God, you really are a dead man!”