L is for Lawless (Kinsey Millhone 12)

It was still dark when she bumped me at 5:45 a.m. "You want to shower first?" she asked.

"You go ahead."

The light blasted on in the bathroom, slanting across my face briefly before she closed the door. She'd opened the drapes, admitting illumination from the lights outside in the parking lot. Through the wall, I thought I could hear the shower next door, which meant Ray was awake. In prison, he'd probably always risen at this hour. Now a shower would be a luxury, since he'd have it to himself and wouldn't have to worry about sexual assault every time he dropped the soap. I raised up on one elbow and looked out at the auto body shop across the street. A forty-watt bulb burned above the service bay. Monday morning and where was I? I checked the printed match packet in the ashtray. Oh, yeah. Whiteley, Arkansas. I remembered the road sign outside of town claiming a population of 523. Probably an exaggeration. I felt a sudden surge of melancholy, longing for home. In the crazy days of my youth, before herpes and AIDS, I used to wake up occasionally in rooms like this one. There's a certain horror when you can't quite remember who's whistling so merrily behind the bathroom door. Often, when I found out, I couldn't help but question my taste in male companionship. It didn't take long to see morality as the quickest way to avoid self-loathing.

When Laura cleared the bathroom, fully dressed, the belly harness in place, I brushed my teeth, showered, and washed my hair with the diminishing sliver of soap. My blue jeans, while dry, were still suggestive of ashtrays and cold campfires, so I donned Laura's denim dress again. Just being clean gave me an enormous lift. I retrieved my hanging garments from the closet and took them out to the car.

The drive had been taking us on a steady line to the north. Here, the cold was more pronounced. The air felt thinner and the wind more cutting.

Ray had pulled on a fleece-lined denim jacket, and as we got in the car, he tossed a sweatshirt to each of us. Gratefully, I pulled the sweatshirt over my head and wore my blazer over that. With the bulk of the sweatshirt, the fit was so tight I could hardly move my arms, but at least I was warm. Laura draped her sweatshirt across her shoulders like a shawl. I got in the backseat, waiting in the car while Laura dropped off the keys and Ray poured loose change into the vending machine around the corner from the office. They came back to the car with an assortment of snacks and soft drinks that Ray distributed among us. After Laura had pulled onto the highway, we ate a breakfast that consisted of off-brand cola, peanuts, chocolate bars, peanut-butter crackers, and cheese snacks completely devoid of nutritional value.

Laura put the heater on and the car was soon filled with the soapy scent of Ray's aftershave. Aside from the battered face and splinted fingers, both of which looked vile, he was meticulous about his grooming. He seemed to have an endless supply of plain white T-shirts and chinos. For a man in his mid-sixties, he seemed to be in good physical shape. Meanwhile, both Laura and I were looking more bedraggled by the hour. In the close quarters of the rental car, I could see that her dark auburn hair had been dyed to that flaming shade. Her part was slowly growing out, a widening margin of gray. The strands bordering her face showed a rim of white like the narrow matting on a picture frame. I wondered if premature graying was a family trait.

The sun rose from behind a mountain of early morning clouds massed on the horizon, the sky changing swiftly from apricot to butter yellow to a mild clear blue. The land around us was flat. Looking at the map, I could see this portion of the state was part of the Mississippi flood plain, all the rivers draining east and south toward the Mississippi River. Lakes and hot springs dotted the map like rain splats, the northwest corner of the state weighted down with the Boston and the Ouachita Mountains. Laura kept her foot pressed firmly to the accelerator, maintaining a steady sixty miles an hour.

We were in Memphis at seven. I kept an eye out for a pay phone, intending to call Henry, but realized California was two hours behind. He tended to rise early, but five a.m. was really pushing it. Laura, sensing my train of thought, caught my eye in the rearview mirror. "I know you want to get home, but can't you wait until Louisville?"

"What's wrong with Nashville? We'll be there by midmorning, which is perfect for me."

"You'll slow us down. Check the map if you don't believe me. We'll be coming in on 40, taking 65 North across the state line. The Nashville airport is over on the far side of town. We'll lose an hour." She passed the map back to me, folded over to the section she was talking about.

I checked the relative distances. "You won't lose an hour. You're talking twenty minutes max. I thought you didn't want to go to Louisville, so what's the big hurry now?"