She's here . . . he knows she is . . . somewhere . . .
It was happening to him even as he stood there, the wind running icy, gritty fingers of sand down his jacket and along his spine. The inky black of the night giving way to even darker clouds as shadows danced over the Utah landscape. Shadows only he could see
Donielle is Dead,
it said
Donielle is Dead
I know he's dead, he thought. I killed the son-of-a-bitch. First I cut off his fingers and mailed one to each of his cronies, just for hell of it - to let them know. His prick went to his ex-wife. She was his ex - twice - and should have stayed his ex but didn’t.
When the little weasel tried to run, I drilled him in the back of the head with a 30.06 Remmington, 148 gram, hollow point. Shit! I had wanted to keep his head intact. That was to go to a special place…but what the hell. That son-of-a-bitch was better off taking that hollow point than staying alive with me.
Yeah, I knew he was dead. I killed him. He deserved to die. Horribly - but his was just too easy.
He flipped his cigarette over the embankment and into the desert night. Its ash sparked up momentarily, the only points of illumination for miles around, then quickly disappearing as the wind got them, blowing them brighter until they too were dead and gray, lost in the wind and the desert and the ashes of dead people hidden in the who-the-hell-knows-where desert.
He opened the door of the beat-up old Dodge and settled into the driver's seat. The overhead light refusing to come on when he opened the door - thirteen years, umpteen thousand miles, three lives, and what must have been a thousand damn bulbs - no matter how much he tried to fix it, all he could get it to do was blink! and instantly blow every new bulb he put in it. He lived in darkness, he was used to it.
He sat there, trying to remember if he had left the keys to the car in the ignition or had he taken them with him when he got out to… to… to what? Damn he had to whiz! Oh . . . that’s what he'd stopped for. He'd become so intent on the shadows and the sound of the wind that he'd forgotten all about it. He hoped he wasn’t losing it ... not yet anyway.
The door opened and the seat creaked as he got back out and walked to the edge, his back to the car. While he did his business, the overhead light in the car blinked on ever so briefly, then went out. It did this four times, then stayed off.
He never noticed.
***********************************************************
You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Johhansen thought as he sat in the airport bar, eyes hidden by the sunglasses permanently attached to his face, and starred at the woman across the room at the corner table So regal, your back straight, hands daintily folded in you lap. You’re the one. I’ve been searching for you. God Almighty, and now that I’ve found you, you’re never leaving my sight.
While Johhansen watched her, she on the other hand, never took her eyes off the tall dark gentleman waiting in line at the bar. Whenever their eyes met, a small we’ve -got-a-secret smile came sneaking into her eyes and lips. Lovers, perhaps, or maybe even happily married, although that seems a remote possibility since there really aren’t any happily married people, only those too tired to fight anymore.
Lovers then.
Two tables away and totally unnoticed by the man, the woman, or Johhansen sat a short, fat, slob of a man. He didn’t seem to notice anyone as he hungrily wolfed down the huge hamburger and greasy french fries, pausing between bites only to grab the long neck of the beer bottle and guzzle down two or three gulps before continuing. Every so often he’d stop and relieve gas buildup by letting out a loud belch or rolling over on one cheek of his ass and grunting out a wet, rolling fart. He was hungry, and all he could think of was satisfying the primal urge to kill the pain in his belly. He was fat, going bald, and knew exactly the day he was going to die- Thursday, November 25. He really wasn’t sure about the dying part, but that date had come into his head and had become a Really Important Date and the only thing he could associate with it would be his death. Besides, at the rate he was going a heart attack could occur any second. What else could it be? He just hadn’t gotten around to looking up the next time November 25 occurs on a Thursday, but he thought it would certainly be within the next year or so.
Finishing off the last bit of onion and licking the hamburger grease off his fingers, he stood and gathered his single battered bag. He paused, looked around to see if anyone might have recognized him, and feeling like they hadn’t, shuffled off in the direction of the Really Nice Looking Lady at that next table, pausing halfway there to shift the bag and do another fart.
Out of his peripheral vision Johhansen saw the fat guy get up from his table and look around. He didn’t pay him any other attention until he realized that the fat man intended to cross over in front of his vision of the lady. Damn it to hell, I just said I was never going to let her out of my sight and now this? The guy moved slowly between the tables and chairs, deliberately, in the direction of the lady and her table. Is he going over to talk to her? He’d better not be. That boyfriend of hers would kick his fat ass from here to Santa Fe if he tried hitting on her. But I’ll take care of Mr. Lover before I make My Move he thought. Yes Sir!
The fat man didn’t appear to even notice the lady. She never notice him because she never took her eyes from the man at the bar, who had yet to be waited on. The fat man passed in front of the lady, beginning to block Johhansen’s view. Johhansen sat, not a muscle twitching, waiting for the fat guy to go ahead and get by so that the purest vision of loveliness he had ever seen would reappear and lighten his otherwise dull and lifeless existence. And he waited. And he waited.
What the hell was this, he thought. Where is she? What’s happening here?
The fat man was now one step past the table where the lady had been sitting. At the table was an empty seat. Johhansen could swear that he could still see her shadow on the wall behind the fat man’s image. But it too faded and disappeared into nothingness.
She hadn’t moved or I would have seen her. She’s somewhere in here, she has to be. Johhansen waited until the fat bastard was completely out of his line of sight to the table.
She’s not there. Johhansen stood up and quickly looked around the room. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She had been sitting there when the guy walked by her and now she was gone, just like that.
Like a shadow when you turn off the light, thought Johhansen. Instantly gone. Or was it? Was the shadow always there, just waiting for the light to go on again?
The man at the bar had finally gotten waited on and turned around with two glasses of wine in his hands. When he didn’t see the lady at the table a quizzical look crossed his face and he glanced around the room, his eyes momentarily resting on Johhansen - as if he intended to ask him where she went. Not seeing her, he went back to the table, sat down along with the two glasses, and waited.
I think you’re going to be waiting for a long, long time thought Johhansen, as he saw the man sit down. She’s not here, and I don’t think she’s coming back. He looked around to see where the fat man had gone. He was nowhere to be seen.
***********************************************************
William Salida Cortez, Willy to his friends, but he didn’t have any so it didn’t matter, felt the weight of the beat up old blue bag in his hand as he picked it up and made his way toward the woman sitting at the table. She didn’t see him, she didn’t see anybody but that hunk of meat at the bar. He briefly wondered how much she was paying him to hang around but the thought left his mind almost as fast as it entered it. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have to wait on her much longer anyway. He shifted his weight to his left and let out another wet fart, hoping it would be silent but knowing it wouldn’t be. It wasn’t.
“I’ve got to lay off those onions,” he told himself. “I don’t eat that damned much and I still look like shit. Smell like it too.” Willy slowly made his way around toward the table where the lady sat. She was still staring at the hunk at the bar and nothing else. He moved the bag to the left side, the side nearest her. He never looked at her, he knew exactly where she was. As he walked by he made sure that she was blocked from the view of anyone glancing at her, even casually. It helped that they had chosen a table in a corner. As he came near he could feel the bag move, undulating against his body, like it contained a snake. As he walked by the table he could also feel the weight of the bag increase. Just ever so slightly, only ounces perhaps. But it was enough. He knew it was done. He stepped quickly into the main corridor of the airport waiting lounge and headed immediately for the Men’s toilet.
He entered one of the stalls and locked the door. A moment later, a tall, thin man wearing a great suit and with impeccable posture came of the Men’s toilet and strolled easily and slowly down the concourse toward Gate 52B. He carried a beat up old blue bag, the only thing seemingly out of place. If anyone had bothered to look in that Men’s room for Willy Cortez, they wouldn’t have found him.
********************************************************
Hank Lawton stood at the bar, waiting on the bartender to notice him. The service was slow and the prices were high. Hank didn’t mind the prices but he was getting peeved at the wait. He glanced back toward his wife and saw that she was watching him watch her. A slight smile came to her lips and he knew that she knew that he was getting antsy waiting. God, am I a lucky son-of-a-bitch or what, he thought. Twenty -five years and they were still together. They had married early and had waited a few years to have children, only to find out they couldn’t; his problem, not hers. After years of trying every remedy and home-brew treatment known to man, she had finally conceived and they had a son.
Jimmy Lawton had died on his fifteenth birthday, the result of a freak accident during a skiing trip to the southwestern US. Hank had thought it would be a wonderful time for a little snow mobiling around the Taos area. Although none of the family had ever been before, they signed up for a two-hour tour around the Emerald Trail between Santa Fe and Taos.
It had started out as a beautiful, sunny day with light winds and a temperature of 51 degrees. The six of them motoring off single file on a wide trail through the Sangre de Christo Mountains. They had driven up through Pojoaque and Espanola on the way to the Angel Fire resort near Taos. They had gotten in early and waited until after 10 am to hit the back basin... it was usually icy first thing in the morning.
Alonzo, the Arapaho guide, had the lead and was well on his way to gaining a quarter mile on the rest of the group when they first hit the copse. Hank was staying back, keeping his wife company, trying to resist the urge to hit the throttle and race after Jimmy every time he let out a whoop! and cut through between his mom and dad. He raced from side to side, wide across the clearings and around the far trees and back again, through the middle to the other side. He was having a blast. They’d been on the trail for about 90 minutes and Jimmy was really getting the hang of the snowmobile. He’s going to want one, now, thought Hank, as he saw Jimmy get sideways around one tree and hit the throttle hard to skip around a mogul and aim for another small stand of trees. The snowmobile cut a path through the powder, throwing up a rooster-tail of snow six feet high, disappearing around the small group of trees.
“Hey, hon,” his wife called out, “don’t let him get too far off the path or he’ll get lost, I know it for sure.”
“Ah, ease up on him. He’s having a great time.”
But after a few minutes Jimmy didn’t reappear as usual, cutting crazily across the path. Hank slowed and waited, looking back, expecting Jimmy to be right behind him, a big grin on his face, thinking he’d fooled the old man again. But he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere.
Hank slung the snowmobile he was riding around in a quick arc, heading back the way Jimmy had gone, following the tracks left by Jimmy’s rider. He rode around the small group of trees where he’d had last seen Jimmy and stopped dead in his tracks.
Jimmy’s tracks disappeared. They simply stopped, no evidence at all of anyone even being on this fresh, virgin snow.
Thirty seconds later Alonzo’s rider cam around the corner and slide to a stop right beside Hank. “What the hell is this?” he asked. “Where’d your boy go?”
“I don’t know. I saw him cutting around the trees, heading this way.”
They had searched the entire area for an hour, waiting for the search team from Taos to show up. It seemed impossible. The area was flat and, with the exception of the small group of trees, nothing else broke the view. Yet Jimmy’s tracks had simply stopped. He and his snow mobile gone without a trace.
It took them three days to find the crevasse. In the end they had to bring in metal detectors to search the area where the tracks had ended. It seemed stupid to Hank and his wife that no one had thought of that before. Jimmy’s snowmobile had slid sideways into a slice in the earth no larger than the width of his snowmobile, but deep. The loose powder filling the hole, combined with Jimmy’s rooster-tail, had combined to create a mini snowstorm, effectively covering his tracks for fifty feet around the spot he fell in. When Hank and Alonzo came looking, they actually parked across the hole, never knowing that Jimmy, knocked cold in the fall, was right below them. Jimmy froze to death without ever waking up.
His death took a terrible toll. It took control of their lives. Blame, doubt, hurt, anger, all became a part of the everyday existence for both of them. She blamed him and he blamed her for blaming him and he knew it was his fault as well. If only he’d listened and call Jimmy back from running so far away. It almost ruined their marriage. It took two years of counseling for them to understand that neither one of them was to blame, it had occurred, that’s all. There was nothing either could have done and nothing they can do to change it.
Then therapy had ended a year ago and today they were closer than ever. They still grieved of course, but they no longer blamed each other, choosing instead to nurture their fragile psyche.
Yes. Damned lucky.
********************************************************
Yeah, I’m one lucky son-of-a-bitch, Hank thought as his eyes roamed around the bar. Today they were headed to the Mojave Desert near Inyokern, California. It was a spit of nothing in the middle of the high desert, but it provided a good jumping off point for horseback riding through the deserts of California, Arizona, and New Mexico – The Great American Blight as the British called it. Neither one of the wanted to stay home much anymore preferring to stay on the road - roughing it, camping, or resort life, it didn’t matter as long as they were together and not at home.
His eyes drank in images of the other people at the bar. He could almost see their life stories as he glanced at them, a trick he’d seemed to pick up after Jimmy’s death. He didn’t want to know anything about anybody, it was just there, sort of like a movie theater poster, behind every person, available for anybody with the curiosity to stop and read. He had learned to ignore the signs or they would have driven him crazy. He’d asked his wife once if she saw them too. She'd glanced at him but never answered. So she'd probably not seen them he thought. He was glad…maybe she could've seen his and knew what was going to happen. Come to think of it, he’d never seen hers either.
He glanced again at the bartender and back to the bar room for a moment, his eyes sweeping across the bar area, his mind automatically evaluating each individual in his field of view. He had a lawyer’s mind, quick, decisive, and astute. Able to sense another’s character and idiosyncrasies almost instantly – the movie poster behind them if he needed it for a real in-depth look. But he wasn’t a looker. He just couldn’t help it sometimes.
As his eyes roamed, they stopped and lingered a little longer than usual on the young man sitting over across the room. They watched him, scanned him up and down, and then, with a small smile appearing at the corner of Hank’s mouth, went on to the next person in the bar area. I’ll be damned, Hank thought, I think he’s in love. His wife had a way about her that made people pay attention but this went beyond that. This guy probably hadn’t taken his eyes off his wife ever since he first saw her. I need to watch that guy, Hank told himself. People like that can become dangerous in a hurry – especially if you have something they want or think you’re in their way. They can become real possessive . . .
“Here ya’ go, pardner.” The cowgirl waitress said as the bartender slid two glasses across the bar.
Hank turned at the sound of the bartender’s voice. “Oh, right.” and took a twenty from his jeans pocket and handed it to the bartender.
“It’ll be seven-fifty. Wine is a little more expensive out here than beer.” said the bartender. “I don’t know why, but it seems that more people drink this stuff than anything else.”
“Yeah? I never would have guessed.” Said Hank, as he waited for his change. He didn’t really want to talk to the girl, just wanted their drinks so he could get back to his wife. They had a plane to catch if a half-hour and he really wanted not to miss it. He took the change when it came and quickly dropped a single bill into the bowl on the counter in front of the register. Not a very obvious place to put a begging bowl, thought Hank, but what the hell, he’d indulge.
Hank turned around with the two glasses of wine to see that he wife wasn’t at the table anymore. That’s odd, he thought, she wouldn’t leave without telling me. He glanced around the bar area again, thinking he might have somehow missed her when he turned around. No, not in here. But the young man that had been staring at his wife was now standing, a puzzled look on his face. His body tense, muscles taut, ready to pounce. But on what? Hank looked around. Nothing. The kid was starring at the table where his wife had been sitting, but now all of a sudden seemed to relax and sank back into his chair. Hank saw him glance over at him and catch his eye before sliding away. For a second Hank contemplated going over and asking the kid what he had seen, maybe where his wife went, but that would be admitting that he knew the kid was watching, and for some reason, he didn’t want to do that. Beside, he thought, his wife had probably just stepped out to the ladies room. Ladies do that all the time, don’t they? Sure, they did.
Hank turned his eyes from the kid, but kept him in his pherpiherial vision and made his way over to his table. He sat the wineglasses down on the table and sat across from where his wife had sat. He would wait, as he always did. She’d be back soon, he knew.
***********************************************************
Johhansen sat, waiting, but not patiently. Life was too short for this shit, he thought. He stood and headed for the door without looking at the lover. In the hall outside the bar he stopped and looked left and then right. Which way did that fat som-bitch go? He wondered. He must have seen her.
He wanted to find that asshole and ask him just that question.
Not this way. Not that way either. Ummmm… maybe the fat shit went to the head, man he thought. Should be easy, nobody around, after all – that’s why he had selected this part of the airport for his little payday.
He turned and strolled over to the men’s room, just knowing that he’d find that fat ass stuck in a toilet. He entered the washroom silently, walking on the balls of his feet like a cat. He was in the groove now, on the prowl.
There were two rows of toilet sets, one on each side of the room. He went to the right because nobody goes right when you first enter. They always go left but then always seem to end up on right side anyway. He stopped about two inches from the first stall and looked down at the shine on his shoe to look under the door. Nothing. He did the same for the next one. Nothing. On the third he got lucky.
Johhansen walked slowly around the restroom to see if anyone else was there. It was empty – and no one in the corridor either. Good. He went back around to stall three. It was the fat guy. He just knew it. God, this was going to be fun.
He lowered his shoulder and hit the door like a linebacker, ripping the piddly-ass little lock off its hinges and right into the face of Alvin Murach. The now-free lock entered Alvin’s left nostril as it swung up and around by the force of the slam and continued its journey through the bridge and into the left nostril and then out the left side and along his cheek, leaving an open bloody path in its wake.
Alvin Murach, a 50 year old traveling repair technician for a major defense company, had just spent the last three weeks supporting the General of some small third-world back-water country set up and demonstrate a highly sophisticated (and highly priced) radar system. He was tired, dirty, and had one hell of a case of dysentery. He hadn’t been off the plane twenty minutes and this was the third trip to the head…and he’d been lucky to find it in time. Real lucky.
Johhansen followed the door with his foot to the head of the sitting man, slamming it against the wall of the cubicle. He grabbed the flailing arm and yanked it up and forward, propelling Alvin off the seat and around. Quickly grasping the rear collar of Alvins shirt, Johhansen stood to the side and shoved Alvins head down into the toilet.
"ALRIGHT SHITHEAD!! WHERE IS SHE?!! HUH, WHERE IS SHE????!! WHAD ‘CHA FUCKIN’ DO WITH HER??!!"
Alvin couldn’t hear a word Johhansen was yelling. He really had no idea what was happening – all he knew was that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get a breath of air. Every time he tried, all he could seem to get was water and lumps. Where the hell was he anyway? What the hell had happened? Man, did he hurt… he felt himself being yanked backwards, where he could suddenly see the lumps and toilet water. With a clarity that comes from practical experience at such things, Alvin knew he would soon be bathing again.
"COME ON MUTHER! TELL ME NOW. WERE”S SHE GO??!"
He tried to tell whoever it was that had a hold of him that he didn’t know what he was talking about, but his mind caught up with his sight and identified those lumps, causing him to start gagging, unable to speak.
Johhansen was pumped. Adrenaline flowing strong now. He was invincible. The fat fuck was trying to talk but was having a hard time doing it with a mouth full of his own crap. He thought about hitting him on the back of the head to help clear the old windpipe, but realized as soon as he thought of it that this wasn’t the fat fuck at all. This was just some asshole that had stopped in for a friendly seat before departing for locations unknown. Well now… how very unfortunate… but not for Johhansen. If this isn’t the fat fuck, then where in the hell is he? How could he have disappeared so damned fast? Whoo buddy…I don’t have time to spend with you now, gotta run. Gotta find my main fat fuck, yes sir I do.
Here it comes thought Alvin, sensing the tension in the arms holding him. He started to struggle but was no match for the younger, stronger Johhansen. The arms that held him took him down so fast he didn’t even have time to get a good gasp of fresh air before his head was smashed into the side of the bowl, Alvin’s senses exploded, bright sparks going off everywhere in his head. He felt his head being raised again only to be shoved down even harder this time, if that were possible. The third time he didn’t even feel his face being shoved into the water.
Johhansen held him there until he had stopped breathing, then just let him go. With a practiced hand, he quickly went through the bastard’s pockets, collecting his wallet, loose change, and the pack of Rolaids he’d had in his shirt pocket.
Johhansen stepped back into the bathroom and went over to wash his hands. On his way out of the mens room, he picked up the bags the old fuck no longer needed and, going directly to one of the locker storage areas, placed the bags into one of the large lockers. No need to look at my surprises, least not yet. I’ve gotta find that fat fuck first, yes, I do.
What a night… Looks like I got a good payday coming, from the feel of those bags I picked up. And…Man-O-Man I done found me my dream. Yes Sir, I did. I gotta find the Fat Man first though… he has answers, for sure… and when I find him…well baby, he ain’t gonna be lucky as our last guest. No sir!
***********************************************************
He strolled easily into the El Capitan airline lounge, as if he owned it and expected everyone to take notice and wave and yell out Hi there! Nice to see YOU again! But no one did. No one even looked his way. The lounge was small as airport lounges went and fairly full. Near the corner, under the TV, was a table with one of the two chairs open. He walked across the lounge and settled in to the open chair. He reached out and picked up the half-full glass of wine sitting on the table and, nodding politely to the owner, sniffed the contents and then sipped a small amount of the aromatic liquid into his mouth, swishing it around slowly before swallowing it with a quick, silent gulp.
“Ah, Rebieu, you still have the old good taste, no?”
“Oui, but I prefer things that taste good.”
“And the same tired, old joke, as well, I see. It’s been a while, what is it this time? North Sea oil exploration? Norwegian financial adviser to the King?”
“Ahh, yes, well . . . Things have changed since I last saw you.” Rebieu said as he looked over the table at his unexpected and absolutely uninvited guest. “I…I work for an airline manufacturer now… I am what you Americans call a…a .. purchaser.” His American accent got worse and his French thicker the more nervous he became.
“A purchaser…? You mean someone that buys something. . . like women’s clothing, or..”
“No, no, not women’s clothing…although that may not be so bad, hum? No. I’m working – buying – for Airbus Industries. I now responsible for the A320 front landing gear and wheel assembly.”
“Ahhhh, so you’re a purchasing agent! How do you find the life… as exciting as before?”
“Impossible. But it is good. I enjoy traveling very much… lots of time to sit and relax.”
“Over here on business, old boy? Finished now and heading home?”
“Yes. I’ve been to six cities in the U.S. in the past five days – everywhere from San Francisco to Baltimore. I’m tired and ready to pack it up and go home.”
“Well old buddy, let me help you relax. I’ll buy you a drink. Hell, since they don’t cost anything in the lounge, let me buy you two or three. I know what you’re drinking. I’ll be right back.” He winked as he got up, uncoiling his tall, langly body the same way a snake would as he rose from the chair and turned toward the self-serve bar.
“Oh god,” thought Rebieu as he starred at his retreating back, “where in the hell did you come from? It’s been at least …what… fifteen years and look at you. You haven’t aged a day in your life – hell – maybe even looks younger, if that were possible.”
The British Airways flight from Baltimore to London Gatwick was usually a dull and uneventful affair. Business class was even more so, full of stodgy British men heading home from some symposia or from a government-sponsored meeting.
Rebieu and his newly discovered friend boarded near the back of the pack. Two Americans came on after them, obviously together. They had seats in the center section but not together. Reabueu volunteered to give up his seat if one of them wanted to switch. They did and he found himself two rows back next to him.
It was not destined to be a pleasant journey. One of the Americans, the fat one with the infectious hacking cough, tried to keep a rein on his travel partner, but it was a lost cause. He had begun the trip by ordering single Johnny Walkers and water and quickly switched to doubles. They weren’t two hours in the air before the loud singing and outbursts started. Because this is an overnight flight, BAE likes to feed the herd and get them to sleep as soon as possible. The passenger in 8D was not destined for sleep. He dozed, but kept shouting “NO WAY!” or “THAT’S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN” and kicking the front partition, punctuated with “OWW!” and “OHHHWW DAMN THAT HURTS!” His travel mate tried his best to keep him quiet, but it became too much for the crew and they threatened to have him arrested upon arrival at Gatwick. Short fat man promised to keep him quiet and they took him out of the passenger cabin up to the galley where they plied him with coffee and oxygen. Twenty minutes later they were back in their seats, with the drunk a little more passive. He kept trying to kiss the fat mans hand, which the fat man didn’t appear to want to happen. The stewardess thought he was gay, but the fat man didn’t seem to think so. Overall it was rather dull and meaningless flight. By the time the flight landed in Gatwick, the drunk was up and had no recall of the events during the night. As a matter of fact, that seemed to be his primary method of coping with international travel – get drunk, go to sleep, wake up ready for the next day. What a bastard.
***********************************************************
He flipped his cigarette over the embankment and into the desert night. It's ash sparked up momentarily, the only points of illumination for miles around, then quickly disappearing as the wind got them, blowing them brighter until they too were dead and gray, lost in the wind and the desert and the ashes of other dead people hidden in the who-the-hell-knows-where dessert.
He opened the door of the beat-up old Dodge and settled into the driver's seat. The overhead light refusing to come on when he opened the door - thirteen years, umpteen thousand miles, three lives, and what must have been a thousand damn bulbs - no matter how much he tried to fix it, all he could get it to do was blink! and instantly blow every new bulb he put in it. He lived in darkness, he was beginning to get used to it.
He sat there, trying to remember if he had left the keys to the car in the ignition or had he taken them with him when he got out to …to … to what? Damn he had to whiz! Oh.. that’s what he'd stopped for. He'd become so intent on the shadows and the sound of the wind that he'd forgotten all about it. He hoped he wasn’t losing it... not yet anyway. The door opened and the seat creaked as he got back out and walked to the edge, his back to the car. While he did his business, the overhead light in the car blinked on ever so briefly, then went out. It did this four times, then stayed off.
He never noticed.
He headed east, along the Continental Divide, crossing through Arizona into New Mexico. He had a feeling about this place. The old Indian had spoken of Mashka and Isoyaken. What the hell, he had nothing to lose. Jimmy was gone. His wife was lost to him. What’s a little Isoyaken among enemies? He hadn’t been back to New Mexico since Jimmy’s death. He felt a need to finish it.
In Taos he turned off toward the Emerald Trail, the road seemed to know he was coming and all other traffic disappeared. The car wound it’s way through the curvy pass on it’s own, without conscious thought from its driver.
When he reached the spot where Jimmy had been found, he got out, leaving the car’s engine running, intending just to do he didn’t know what and then hit the road again. It was too late for snow, even in the high country. The crevasse where Jimmy had lain for three days before anyone finding him was barren of anything; snow, rock, grass, gravel. Just a hollow pit in the earth where thirteen feet of snow had hidden a boy and a snowmobile for three days of hell.
It was unbearable, being here. What the hell made him think he could come back here, view the spot for a minute, and then leave it all behind? Fuck this shit. He’d had enough.
Too much already.
He was tired, whipped, and alone. Tears welling up, he started to turn back toward the car when he saw it. It wasn’t much, just a fleeting realization that it was there. Why not, he thought, hope swelling inside. Why not here? It was here that we both lost something that could never be replaced. It was here that we both almost gave up and called it quits, but somehow had the courage to go on. Why not here? Why Not? Come on, come on.. please come on!
The dark was getting darker and the bottom of the pit was totally in the shade now. He couldn’t see the bottom anymore. But it didn’t matter came the thought of an old adversary. You win. But I almost did, you bastard.
**********************************************************
The state cop was headed southbound on Interstate 25 south of Socorro, New Mexico when he came upon the car kind of sudden. Since the speed limit on this desolate piece of dog shit highway was seventy-five and most people did ninety, he was surprised as hell to top the ridge and find a beat up old Dodge doing no more that fifty in front of him. The car wasn’t weaving or giving off any indication anything was wrong, but the sixth sense of the cop was goinging loud and strong. He reached for the switch to flip on the ole’ red n’ blues when for some reason he thought he’d just slide back and watch for a while.
The driver up ahead in the Dodge was obviously excited about something. He kept beating his hands against the dashboard and the cop could see him yelling and laughing like a crazy man. If he’s drunk, I’ve gotta get him off the road, he thought. But the car is tracking rock steady. And the guy driving seems to be definitely have control of the car. Drugs, then? He didn’t think so. Not sure, just a gut feeling. Then why in the hell was his boinger going off? He starred at the car some more and then it hit him.
Shit, I can’t pull someone over just for that, he thought as he punched the big Victoria’s accelerator and blasted around the stupid fuck, heading on down the highway and as far ahead of the Dodge as he could get. You can’t give a guy a ticket for getting a little from his wife. At least he hoped it was his wife, after all, he only saw her shadow. But, damnit, I wish he’d turn that damn overhead light off when she does it.
Inside the car Hank Lawton was laughing his fool head off, pounding his hands in glee on the dashboard. He never noticed the police car pull around him and roar off in the distance. If he had known what the cop was thinking when he went around him he would’ve laughed even harder, if that were possible. Hank looked toward down at the dashboard and saw a distinctly female shaped shadow gently reach out and tap what was distinctly a young man’s shadow chin. Together they enveloped a man’s shadow and Hank felt the tingle go up his spine, like ghost fingers, or a shadow on your grave.
Hank was happy. He knew that he would stay in this car as long as he lived. And that the overhead light in the old Dodge would never go off.
