The Client (Page 88)

They zigzagged at a leisurely pace through the tree-lined streets. The weather was warm and clear. At every house, people were either mowing grass or pulling weeds or painting shutters. Spanish moss hung from stately oaks. It was Reggie’s first tour of New Orleans, and she wished the circumstances were better.

"Are you getting tired of me, Reggie?" he asked without looking at her.

"Of course not. Are you tired of me?" "No, Reggie. Right now, you’re my only friend in the entire world. I just hope I’m not bugging you." "I promise." Reggie had studied the street map for two hours. She completed a wide loop, and now they were on Romey’s street again. They eased by the house without slowing, both gawking at the double garage with a pitched gable above the retractable doors. It needed painting. The concrete drive stopped twenty feet from the doors and turned to the rear of the house. A ragged hedgerow over six feet high ran along one side of the garage and blocked the view of the nearest house, which was at least a hundred feet away. Behind the garage, the small rear lawn stopped at a chain-link fence, and beyond the fence was a heavily wooded area.

They said nothing during the second viewing of Romey’s house. The black Accord wandered aimlessly through the neighborhood and stopped near a tennis court in an open area called West Park. Reggie unfolded the street map, and twisted and flipped it until it covered most of the front seat. Mark watched two heavy housewives engage in truly horrible tennis. But they were cute, with their pink and green socks and matching sun visors. A biker approached on a narrow asphalt trail, then disappeared deep into the woods.

Once again, Reggie attempted to fold the map. "This is the place," she said.

"Do you want to chicken out?" he asked.

"Sort of. What about you?" "I don’t know. We’ve come this far. Seems kinda silly to run away now. The garage looked harmless to me." She was still folding the map. "I guess we can try, and if we get spooked, we’ll just run back here." "Where are we now?" She opened her door. "Let’s go for a walk." The bike trail ran beside a soccer field, then cut through a dense section of woods. The branches of the trees met above it, giving a tunnel-like darkness. The bright sunlight flickered through intermittently. An occasional biker forced them from the asphalt for a few seconds.

The walk was refreshing. After three days in the hospital, two days in jail, seven hours in the car, and six hours in the motel, Mark could barely restrain himself as they rambled through the woods. He missed his bike, and he thought how nice it would be if he and Ricky were here on this trail, racing through the trees without a worry in the world. Just kids again. He missed the crowded streets of the trailer park with kids running everywhere and games of all sorts materializing without a moment’s notice. He missed the private little trails of his own woods around Tucker Wheel Estates and the long, solitary walks he had enjoyed all his life. And, strange as it seemed, he missed his hiding places under his own personal trees and beside creeks that belonged to him where he could sit and think, and, yes, sneak a cigarette or two. He hadn’t touched one since Monday.

"What am I doing here?" he asked, barely audible.

"It was your idea," she said, hands stuck deep in her new jeans, also from Wal-Mart.

"It’s been my favorite question this week-‘What am I doing here?’ I’ve asked it everywhere, the hospital, the jail, the courtroom. Everywhere." "You want to go home, Mark?" "What’s home?" "Memphis. I’ll take you back to your mother." "Yeah, but I won’t stay with her, will I? In fact, we probably wouldn’t even make it to Ricky’s room before they grabbed me, and off I’d go, back to jail, back to court, back’ to see Harry, who’d really be ticked, wouldn’t he?" "Yeah, but I can work on Harry." Nobody worked on Harry, Mark had decided. He could see himself sitting in court trying to explain why he’d escaped. Harry would send him back to the detention center, where his sweetheart Doreen would be a different person. No pizza. No television. They’d probably put leg chains on him and throw him in solitary.

"I can’t go back, Reggie. Not now." They had discussed their various options until both were tired of the subject. Nothing had been settled. Each new idea immediately raised a dozen probGtUSHAM lems. Each course of action ran in all directions and eventually led to disaster. They had both reached, through different routes, the unmistakable conclusion that there was no simple solution. There was no reasonable thing to do. There was no plan even remotely attractive.

But neither believed they would actually dig for the body of Boyd Boyette. Something would happen along the way to spook them, and they’d run back to Memphis. This was yet to be admitted by either.

Reggie stopped at the half-mile marker. To the left was an open grassy area with a pavilion in the center for picnics. To the right, a small foot trail ventured deeper into the trees. "Let’s try this," she said, and they left the bike route.

He followed close behind. "Do you know where you’re going?" "No. But follow me anyway." The trail widened a bit, then suddenly gave out and disappeared. Empty beer bottles and chip bags littered the ground. They wove through trees and brush until they found a small clearing. The sun was suddenly bright. Reggie shielded her eyes with her hand and looked at a straight row of trees stretching before them.

"I think that’s the creek," she said.

"What creek?" "According to the map, Clifford’s street borders West Park, and there’s a little green line that appears to be a creek or bayou or something running behind his house." "It’s nothing but trees." She shuffled side-ways for a few feet, then stopped and pointed. "Look, there are roofs on the other side of those trees. I think it’s Clifford’s street." Mark stood beside her and strained on tiptoes. "I see them." "Follow me," she said, and they headed for the row of trees.

It was a beautiful day. They were out for a stroll in the park. This was public property. Nothing to be afraid of.

The creek was nothing but a dry bed of sand and litter. They picked their way down through the vines and brush, and stood where the water once ran many years before. Even the mud had dried. They climbed the opposite bank, a much steeper one but with more vines and saplings to grab on to.

Reggie was breathing hard-when they stopped on the other side of the creek bed. "Are you scared?" she asked.

"No. Are you?" "Of course, and you are too. Do you want to keep going?" "Sure, and I’m not afraid. We’re just out for a hike, that’s all." He was terrified and wanted to run, but they had made it this far without incident. And there was a certain thrill in sneaking through the jungle like this. He’d done it a thousand times around the trailer park. He knew to watch for snakes and poison ivy. He’d learned how to line up three trees ahead of him to keep from getting lost. He’d played hide-and-seek in rougher terrain than this. He suddenly crouched low and darted ahead. "Follow me." "This is not a game," she said.

"Just follow me, unless, of course, you’re scared." "I’m terrified. I’m fifty-two years old, Mark. Now slow down." The first fence they saw was made of cedar, and -Jt)HN~ GRISH AM they stayed in the trees and moved behind the houses. A dog barked in their general direction, but they could not be seen from the house. Then a chain-link fence, but it was not Clifford’s. The woods and underbrush thickened, but from nowhere came a small trail that ran parallel to the fence row.