“I see him!” she shouted, giving the wheel a thump with the heel of her hand. “And that isn't no rug on the top of the car. That's something lumpy wrapped in garbage bags. I'm not even gonna tell you what I think is on top of that car.”
I'd had the same thought, and the possibility that Elliot Harp was going for his last ride evoked a desire to drive in the opposite direction. I didn't want to find any more dead people. My emotional stability was approaching meltdown. I was doing a pretty good job of denying the attack in the candy store. I was having less success with flashbacks of murdered men.
Mo turned at Slater, and Lula took the corner with two tires touching pavement.
I had my foot braced against the dash. “Slow down! You're going to kill us.”
“Don't worry,” Lula said. “I know what I'm doing. I've got perfect reflexes. I'm like a cat.”
Mo was coming up to Wells Avenue, and I knew where he was going. He was heading for Route 1. No problem, I thought. He can't outrun us with whatever he has on top of his car. Although probably he didn't care much about his cargo by now.
Lula followed Mo onto the ramp, momentarily fell behind when Mo merged into traffic. We caught him easily enough and stuck to his tail.
The dark green plastic was furiously flapping in the wind. Mo had bound the package to the roof of the car by lacing what looked like clothesline through the windows. He changed lanes and the long lumpy object swung side to side under the ropes.
“He don't watch out, he's gonna lose that sucker,” Lula said. She beeped her horn at him. “Pull over, Peckernose!” She gave the Firebird some gas and tapped Mo's rear bumper.
I was braced against the dash, and I'd begun chanting under my breath. Holy Mary, mother of God . . . please don't let me die on Route 1 with my hair looking like this.
Lula gave Mo's back bumper another whack. The impact snapped my head and caused Mo to fishtail out of control. He swerved in front of us, a cord snapped loose and a garbage bag whipped off and sailed over our car.
Lula moved in one more time, but before she could make contact the second cord broke, another garbage bag flew away and a body catapulted off Mo's roof and onto the hood of Lula's Firebird, landing with a loud WUMP!
“EEEEEeeeeeh!” Lula and I screamed in unison.
The body bounced once on the hood, and then smacked into the windshield and stuck like a squashed bug, staring in at us, mouth agape, eyes unseeing.
“I got a body stuck to my windshield!” Lula yelled. “I can't drive like this! I can't get my wipers to work. How am I supposed to drive with a dead guy on my wipers?”
The car rocked from lane to lane; the body vaulted off the hood, did a half flip and landed faceup at the side of the road. Lula stomped on the brake and skidded to a stop on the shoulder. We sat there for a moment, hands to our hearts, unable to talk. We turned and looked out the back window.
“Dang,” Lula said.
I thought that summed it up.
We looked at each other and did a double grimace. Lula put the Firebird in reverse and cautio
usly inched back, staying to the shoulder, out of the traffic lane. She stopped and parked a couple feet from the body. We got out of the car and crept closer.
“At least he's got clothes on,” Lula said.
“Is it Harp?”
“That would be my guess. Hard to tell with that big hole where his nose used to be.”
The drizzle had turned to a driving rain. I pushed wet hair out of my eyes and blinked at Lula. “We should call the police.”
“Yeah,” Lula said. “That's a good idea. You call the police, and I'll cover the body. I got a blanket in the back.”
I ran back to the car and retrieved my pocketbook. I rummaged around some, found my cell phone, flipped it open and punched the on button. A dim light flashed a lowbattery message and cut off.
“No juice,” I said to Lula. “I must have left the phone on all last night. We'll have to flag someone down.”
A dozen cars zoomed past us, spraying water.
“Plan two?” Lula asked.
“We drive to the nearest exit and call the police.”