A Blind Eye by G. M. Ford Page A

familiar. A hymn maybe. “Jesus Loves Me.” That’s it. “’Cause the Bible tells me so…. Jesus loves me.”
    The tune moved closer now. Corso took a deep breath, put on his most nonchalant and friendly face, and started down. Just another guy carrying his bag down the back stairs. He was four steps above the second landing when the stranger came into view. Richardson. Red ears, funny hat and all. Their gazes met. The tall cop’s jaw worked twice, but nothing came out. His eyes became slits. He smiled as much as the chin strap would allow and then reached for the gun on his hip.
    He had the revolver halfway out of the holster when Corso tossed him the bag. Not hard. Just a soft underhand lob. Just as Corso had hoped, Richardson forgot about his weapon and instinctively caught the bag in both hands. Guy thing. Somebody throws you something, you catch it. Period.
    Corso launched himself from the step. Landed in Richardson’s arms. Right on top of the bag. Nose-to-nose. The impact sent the cop staggering backward into the wall, driving the breath from his lungs, banging his head off the surface with a sound not unlike that of a ripe melon landing on concrete. Richardson’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body went slack. Only then did Corso hear the sound of the gun clattering down the stairs, end over end. Corso ducked and winced, waiting for the bouncing weapon to discharge. Nothing. For a moment his head swam and he could see the reflection of flames on Sissy Warwick’s ceiling. He gulped air and looked around. Silence.
    Gathering his wits, Corso put two fingers on Richardson’s throat. He felt the steady drum of blood. Satisfied, he rolled the unconscious cop over, pulled up the thick winter coat, and removed a pair of handcuffs from their black leather case. Took him a minute, but he eventually got the big man’s hands manacled behind his back, then rolled him over again and removed his tie, which he wound around Richardson’s ankles and then threaded through the handcuffs. Hog-tied. Feet pulled up behind him. Corso felt the man’s throat again. Pulse still strong and steady. His scalp tingled from the adrenaline rush. He grabbed his suitcase and started down the stairs.
    The gun lay wedged in a corner of the first-floor landing, pointing at the ceiling as if in surrender. Corso picked it up, jammed it in the pocket of his coat, and jerked open the door.
    A blast of arctic air raked his face as he crossed the parking lot toward Dougherty and the idling car. He shuddered inside his coat. Looked around. From his hospital room above, it had appeared that the snow, which was piled up on the perimeter of the parking lot, was perhaps waist deep. From ground level, he could see how wrong he’d been. Here in the land where the temperature doesn’t rise above freezing until May, the snowblowers had piled the stuff up fifteen feet in the air, creating the feeling of being inside a massive igloo. He pulled open the car door and threw himself into the seat.
    “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
    She sat staring at him.
    “Let’s go,” he said.
    “Are you okay?” she asked.
    “Sure.”
    “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    “Just get me out of here.”
    She pushed the shift lever into Reverse and backed quickly out into the center of the lot. “Where to?” she asked.
    “Anyplace but hell or Texas,” Corso said.

11
    T he moon’s silver fingers poked and probed until Corso finally cracked an eye. He blinked several times and then squinted up at the night sky. Big old silver moon, hanging low like a dull nickel, standing sentinel above the frozen fields and skeletal trees that lined the narrow two-lane road. He pushed himself upright in the seat. Stretched and groaned. Ran his hands over his face.
    “Where are we?” he asked.
    “I’m not sure,” Dougherty said, without taking her eyes from the road. “Somewhere in Iowa. I turned south on Iowa 76 about an hour ago. Last sign I saw said Cedar