Red Highway Read Online Free Page A

“misery?” He shook his head, clearing it of all speculation. He’d find out, one way or another, what was going on. He feigned unconsciousness and allowed the rocking motion of the car to lull him into a state of semi-trance.
    A white light burst in his face and remained. Virgil raised his head, blinking and shielding his eyes from the blinding glare. Somebody was waving a flashlight in his face.
    â€œHe don’t look so good. You reckon he’ll make it to trial?” A strange voice, low and gravelly, like coal sliding down a metal chute.
    â€œHe’ll make it,” sneered the ferret. “He’s tougher’n he looks.”
    Virgil was dragged out of the car, two hands supporting his legs while another held him around the waist. He cleared the running board and slammed down on his back on hard concrete, knocking the wind out of his lungs.
    It was dark outside. Virgil could just barely make out the tall buildings by their lighted windows, stretching high into the moonless sky. Now and then a horn tooted some distance away, and the swish of tires on pavement was unmistakable. A city, then. A big one, judging by the height of the buildings. But which one?
    Somebody got behind him and lifted him to his feet. He was being supported on the shoulders of two men; the brute on his left and a strange man in a blue uniform on his right. They helped him up a set of concrete steps and through the door of a brightly lit building.
    It was a big barn of a room, illuminated by six rows of circular lights running vertically along the ceiling from the door to the opposite wall. The old-fashioned wooden benches along the right wall were deserted, which wasn’t surprising, since the big clock on the wall above them read 12:30. A heavy wooden counter stretched across the back of the room, with a stout, balding man in uniform standing behind it. A few more uniformed men were scattered about the room, most of them watching the strange procession Virgil and his entourage made as they approached the counter.
    Once they had stopped, the man in uniform who had been supporting Virgil on his right, left him to the brute’s care then circled the counter.
    Virgil could now see the man clearly. He was tall, with a long, rugged face, tanned to a hue like old leather, with crisp blue eyes that stared from beneath the shiny black bill of his cap. Only the lines around his eyes and mouth, and the silver in his temples dared to give some idea of the man’s real age. He seemed to be pointedly ignoring Virgil’s injury, a fact that was not lost on the newcomer, who knew something of Nelson Garver’s influence with the police. The man nodded to the balding sergeant, who flipped open a long flat book on the counter and placed the point of a fountain pen against the creamy page.
    â€œWhat’s your name, son?” growled the older man in his rough voice.
    Somebody, probably the ferret, dug Virgil in the back. “Ballard. Virgil Ballard.”
    The sergeant jotted this down.
    â€œAge?”
    â€œTwenty-one.”
    â€œEver been arrested before?”
    â€œNever.”
    The old man rubbed the side of his nose with a tanned finger. “Empty your pockets, son.”
    After a moment’s hesitation, Virgil obeyed, reaching into his pants pockets and placing the contents on the counter. Out of his left came his pocket knife, some change, and the key to the Mack truck he had left in Southwest City. He felt for his right pocket—and felt a chill creep through his system. The lump was unmistakable. He stole a sideways glance at the brute who was helping support him, but he seemed to be watching the proceedings disinterestedly. Virgil reached into his right pocket, drew out the ugly black revolver that had been taken away from him by Ferret Face earlier, and placed it on the counter.
    The old policeman’s face grew stern. He leaned across the counter, slid the gun out of Virgil’s reach,