He said, “Name’s Alan Taylor, Route 5, Necaise, Mississippi, over in Hancock County. You know the place?”
“Afraid not,” the nurse replied as she scribbled officially.
From the phone directory, Taylor had found a bunch of Taylors around Necaise and figured he could blend in. His concussion still made him groggy and the meds didn’t help, but he was beginning to think with some clarity. He was an inch away from getting busted for murdering a district attorney and it was imperative to get out of town.
He was horrified when two Biloxi city cops walked in an hour later. One stayed by the door as if guarding it. The other walked to the edge of his bed and asked with a big smile, “So how you doing, Mr. Taylor?”
“Okay, I guess, but I really need to get outta here.”
“Sure, no problem, whenever the doctors say go, you can go. Where are you from?”
“Necaise, over in Hancock County.”
“That makes sense. We’ve got this abandoned Dodge pickup down by the courthouse, Hancock County tags. Wouldn’t be yours, would it?”
Now Henry was in a helluva fix. If he admitted the truck was his, then the cops would know that he stole the license plates. However, it was Saturday, the courthouse was closed, and maybe they couldn’t track the stolen plates until Monday. Maybe. But, if he denied owning the truck, then they would tow it away, impound it, whatever. The truck was his only way to freedom. Because he was from Tennessee, he figured the cops in Mississippi were pretty stupid, and he had no choice.
“Yes sir, that’s mine,” he said, grimacing as though he might yet again lapse into semi-consciousness.
“Okay, would you like us to bring it over here to the hospital?” asked the policeman with a pleasant smile. Anything to help their out-of-town guest. The semi-private room had been cleared and Mr. Taylor was all alone. His hospital phone was bugged, and another team of FBI technicians was preparing to enter his home 475 miles to the north, just outside Union City.
“That’d be great, yes, thanks.”
“You got the keys?” The keys were in the pocket of Special Agent Jackson Lewis, who was in the hallway trying to listen.
“Left them under the floor mat.”
Right, not too far from the Tennessee license plates hidden under the seat.
“Okay, we’ll drive it over for you. Anything else we can do?”
Taylor was relieved and couldn’t believe his good fortune. The locals were not the least bit suspicious. “No, that’s all. Thanks. Just get me outta here.”
The FBI was leaning on the doctors to reset the cast and reduce its size so Taylor could drive away. They were eager to follow him.
* * *
Agnes stayed in her dark bedroom and refused to see anyone but her children. She knew her friends wanted to get their hands on her, for a long fierce hug, a good cry, and so on, but she simply wasn’t up to it. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow when some of the shock had worn off.
But she couldn’t say no to their priest, Father Norris, and he did not linger. They held hands, prayed, and listened to his comforting words. He suggested a funeral mass next Saturday, a week away, and Agnes agreed. He was gone in thirty minutes.
By mid-morning there was a steady flow of friends and neighbors stopping by with food, flowers, and notes for Agnes and the family. They were greeted at the front door by one of the Pettigrews, relieved of whatever gifts they’d brought, thanked properly, then turned away. Cousins, aunts, and uncles were allowed inside where they sat in the den and living room, eating cakes and pies and sipping coffee while they whispered and waited for Agnes to appear. She did not, but Keith and his sisters emerged from the darkness occasionally to say hello and thanks and pass along a word or two from their mother.