Fuckin' Lie Down Already Read Free

picket fence, and an enormous bird bath you could set a helicopter down in.
    Still had a while to go before he hit Saratoga. Nothing out here but fields, orchards, meadows, and bumpkin cops laying in wait behind billboards.
    The air conditioner roared against his knees, the constant thrum of the fan cooling his fever some, but the thick fluids leaking from his stomach had begun to ice up. Clay kept chewing his tongue, wondering why he’d never bothered to try and leave Brooklyn and make a run for a better life. What it was that kept him rooted in the Heights when he could’ve just as easily moved Kath and Edward up here, gone for hay rides in wagons every Saturday afternoon. Raked his lawn and trimmed the hedges and gone cherry picking in summer.
    It sounded like it might’ve been all right, so long as he didn’t go shit-smearing insane from boredom.
    Clay didn’t wait in his seat for the cop to come right up.
    With a groan, he shifted sideways, grabbed his service revolver from under the seat, and pocketed it. The obscenely colorful frost on his torn shirt and exposed stomach cracked loose and disintegrated. He zipped up his jacket knowing he had to make some kind of play before the cop ran his plates.
    There was still a little time left, maybe just enough for him to finish the job. He patted Kathy’s hand, rubbing at the small rosebud tattoo on her wrist and upsetting the flies. “Nice place up this way. You can smell them cooking cider in the valley. This could’ve worked for us, I think. Christ, Kath, they got oak trees all lined up and down the roads like an estate.”
    It was tough leaning over into the passenger seat, but he had to snatch another wad of paper towels before he did anything else. Clay wiped his sweaty face down with them, and then jammed a handful up under his jacket against his rotting belly. The stink of his own shit oozing over his belt buckles gave him the dry heaves again but there was nothing left to bring up. Straining, he managed to clamber out of the car without letting loose a scream.
    The cop couldn’t have been more then twenty-one at the outside, rail-thin but trying to puff his chest out, showing off the badge with pride. Bet he polished it every night before his bedtime prayers. Tremendous shoulders that proved he did plenty of military presses in the gym, spent at least four days a week on the machines. The kid was new enough on the job that he still chased after every small street infraction he found on the road. It was a pretty good way to buoy your manhood, Clay remembered, until you saw your first shotgun victim. You quit worrying about writing up tickets for loose mufflers right around then.
    Crew cut, blonde hair, but with a touch of Asian in his features. He had no radio on his belt, and Clay had watched him park and get out. He hadn’t called in the stop. The hell kind of county was this? What sort of training program did they give the rookies up here before sending them into the sheriff’s department or the state patrol? The kid didn’t even unsnap his holster, didn’t place his hand on his gun.
    They were five hours out of Brooklyn, and it was a whole other world.
    “Please get back into your car, sir. I need to see your license and registration.”
    “Sure, Officer,” Clay said. “Gotta make the streets safe.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice-amazing how the old habits could bubble up even now, with Edward eyeing him from the back seat.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Never know when those produce smugglers might come through and try to filch a few apples.”
    “Sir, there’s no need to take that tone with me.”
    “You’re right. Sorry.”
    “License and registration please, sir.”
    “Just take a second.”
    Only a slight breeze stirred the treetops, and the grass of the meadows gently rippled as if some unnamable sorrow or beauty were slowly shrugging closer. The kid hadn’t even looked inside Clay’s car yet. These people up here weren’t