by Joe Clifford
“I’m not selling shit without getting it in writing, y’know?” Then turning to Francis: “Hey, Pops. Got another smoke?”
Francis passed him the whole pack. “Keep it.”
The gesture ingratiated Francis into the man’s good graces.
“I don’t know what else I can tell you, except Lenna Ann comes around, says this guy needs to buy a car. I tell him the price. He gives me the cash. I copy the license so I don’t get popped on some bullshit charge. Then he leaves.”
“You give him the keys?” Francis asked.
“How you think he got out of here?”
“The spare too?”
The man waited a moment, face twisting, before breaking into a grin. He headed into the other room, returning with a keychain fob, the kind you’d expect to find on a newer model, not whatever piece of crap this guy was peddling. Then again, judging from that side lot, maybe Jacob drove off with an updated version.
“The LoJack?” Francis said.
I had a hard time believing a guy like this was going through the effort of installing an anti-theft device.
Francis extracted his cash wad. My eyes darted around the room. Francis’s remained locked on his target. He peeled off two bills, holding them up. “For the fob and the LoJack.”
The man must’ve expected the question. He clapped a sheet of paper in Francis’s palm, taking the money in exchange.
Francis examined the paper, satisfied key and documentation matched. Then he slapped my arm. “Let’s go.”
I wanted to argue, stay longer, find out more. A LoJack wasn’t going to do us any good. Jacob was dead, the car impounded. Before I could protest, Francis was already out the door. And no way was I staying in that house by myself.
Into the cool evening air, Francis kept walking at a brisk pace. I ran to catch up.
“Why are we leaving?”
“First you didn’t want to go in. Now you don’t want to leave? You wanna play paddy cakes with that tweaker?”
“What was he on?”
“Methamphetamine. Crank. Gack. Ice. Whatever they call it back here. Didn’t you see the way his jaw was wobbling back and forth? That’s speed.”
“Sorry,” I said, not at all sorry. “I’m not an expert on illicit narcotics.”
“Thought you said your folks used.”
“They were messed up most of the time, that’s all I know.”
“Those kids on the floor? They were on downers. Heroin, benzos. That excited boy we spoke to? He was on uppers.”
“What difference does it make?”
“A junkie will steal from you,” Francis said. “A speed freak will steal from you and then help you look for it.”
When we got to the car, he unlocked the door but didn’t get in right away, leaning over the roof, gazing around the dark country night. “There’s nothing for us here. Jacob didn’t take a bus to Michigan or Minnesota. He drove.”
“What now?”
“Get in,” he said. “We still got miles to go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We stopped for the night outside Erie, Pennsylvania, a Motel 6 in the sticks next to a Flying J. It was late, we were tired. There was nowhere you wanted to stay in Wroughton, and by time we crossed state lines, Francis said he was too tired to go on. I offered to drive but he said no one dives his car but him.
Even though this entire trip was his stupid idea, I still had to pony up my half of the forty-three dollars and sixty-four cents. “A couple hours of sleep,” Francis said. “Then we get an early start.”
“What do you expect to find in Minnesota?”
“That’s where they found his body.” That was all Francis had to say on the matter as we entered our room on the second floor, a glorified closet that stank of fast food pasta sauces and, I’m sure to Francis’s delight, cigarettes, despite the multiple no smoking signs. Francis locked himself in the bathroom. I said I was going for a walk. He didn’t respond.
I had a lot to think about. Namely, what was I doing?
I was on a road trip in an old Buick with a crazy old man. Moments can hit you like that. For a man who valued logic and reason, I had to accept I hadn’t been using much of either.
At the convenience mart, I bought a protein bar and a Red Bull. I considered purchasing a burner phone. Call Sam or Mrs. Balfour. Clear up this mess. Problem was, I didn’t know Sam’s number—it was in my cell. And while Mrs. Balfour’s number was implanted, I wasn’t adding to her nightmare. I could get out of this mess on my own.
Walking back to the motel room, I started to see how, like Francis, I was guilty of a playing into a false narrative, one I’d created to explain encroaching malaise, triggered by Francis, Jacob, and that stupid zine.
But what proof did I have of a crime? Nothing tangible. Jacob either succumbed to a fatal psychotic episode or, if I wanted to be critical of police findings, my friend robbed the wrong person. How did he end up in Minnesota? Jacob was crazy. The real question was how did I end up in Erie, Pennsylvania?
The police called while I was having a bad day, claiming Sam was missing, and I freaked out. But what did that mean? Missing. Her parents hadn’t heard from her for a few hours so they called the police? That didn’t make any sense. Sam was a college student living on her own with plenty of independence. There wasn’t enough time to be reported missing. It was a ruse, a con, a trap. By whom? Probably whomever Jacob stole that jewelry from. Or…
This could all be explained if I thought about it without emotion, logically—if I didn’t let my mind get away from me. And it all came back to Francis. The guy was a harbinger, a conduit of doom, his world defined by oddity and subversion, the belief in an all-powerful conspiracy bringing order to a chaotic world. And that’s the problem with conspiracies and its theorists: the comfort afforded by believing someone or something, however nefarious, is in charge. Francis needed this to be real. I’d opened the door a crack, allowed the possibility that Jacob and Francis weren’t total liars. That’s all a lie needs to grow: possibility. Then it can flourish like an invasive weed in an untended field. That’s how he’d sucked me in.
There was one common denominator in all of this: Francis. What had happened—what did I know for certain? Nothing. I hadn’t been sleeping, was stressed about work and my move to Syracuse, all of which plays with perception. A seed got planted, I got spooked. Wrong place, right time. Or maybe the other way around. My mind took me to a dark cell, imprisoning me, holding hostage rationale and intelligent deduction, the tools I needed to escape. The trap was laid. My friend Jacob, out of his mind, mentally ill, had killed himself, and he’d left behind this crazy little book. That book was alarming, and my natural empathy rendered me susceptible. Francis had filled out the rest of the storyline, using my grief to manipulate me. Or I should say, I let him take advantage of me. I allowed him to suck me up into this crusade, rendering me Sancho Panza to join his punch-drunk Don Quixote storming windmills.
I felt so stupid, gullible. I bought into his version of events. Who’s to say Francis hadn’t been the one calling me in the first place, masquerading as the police? He knew about Sam. I’d mentioned her. The car tailing me? I never got a look at the driver. I put another man in the passenger seat because that was the narrative. Francis had wanted me on this trip from day one. He was a lonely old man. The rest of the bizarre circumstances, taken out of context and on their own? Not all that bizarre. A boy in a blue coat? It could’ve been different kids. The homeless are pervasive. Jerks in a bar macking on my girl? Sam was gorgeous. Why wouldn’t guys be checking her out? I’d taken a bunch of random, innocuous instances and crammed them together, trying to force cohesion, inventing a reality that flat-out wasn’t true. I’d played into the cloak-and-dagger plans of a lunatic who admitted not taking his meds. Plan? There was no plan. One minute the guy was beating up on a bus station employee. The next he was walking into a drug house making it rain for useless scraps of paper. I was
the one assigning weight, importance to these events. When I thought about it like that, I couldn’t stop laughing. I almost ran out of breath, I was doubled over so hard with laughter.
I started formulating my escape plan. Of course I wasn’t being held hostage. Francis was in good shape for a man his age. I was in the prime years, the best shape of my life. I wasn’t worried about eluding his grasp. The real pain in the ass was getting home. I wondered if I should catch a ride to a bus or train station, airport. Each option invited its own headache. I wasn’t up for a long Greyhound ride with a bunch of bums and alcoholics, passing through two-bit towns like Wroughton. I also couldn’t justify splurging on an Uber or shelling out whatever it cost for a last-minute flight. The key to budgeting money is sticking to that budget. Missteps weren’t a license to break into my savings.
A few belongings remained inside the motel. Nothing so precious that it couldn’t be replaced. But my possessions belonged to me, and I determined Francis had already stolen enough from me—in particular my time, which I could’ve been spending with Sam. Plus, I’d left my glasses in the room. Your eyes need to breathe too. I had another pair back home. Replacements didn’t come cheap.
I glanced around the complex, this colorful plaza off the interstate, with plenty of McDonald’s and other fast food restaurants, bright reds and yellows, vibrant greens vying for fleeting business—meaning we weren’t in a desert wasteland—and suddenly my plan got a lot clearer. I’d wait till Francis was asleep, if he wasn’t already, grab my things, head down to the lobby or the Denny’s next door. Look for a friendly face that might direct my return to civilization. Along the way, I’d also be sure to pick up a burner. It’s impossible to do anything in the modern age without a cell phone. Another reason to distrust a luddite like Francis. I’d call authorities and clear up this entire mess from the road.
Ascending the well to the second floor, I had a change of heart. I didn’t owe Francis anything. I didn’t like him. But the man was unstable. I didn’t want him to wake in the middle of the night, see me gone, and have his mind race to illogical conclusions. The guy needed to be in a hospital. But with no family—at least not one who wanted anything to do with him—he’d have to check himself in, and I didn’t see that happening.
I couldn’t slink out like a coward. I had to say goodbye like a man.
The door being ajar didn’t register as anything alarming. Francis smoked cigarettes. Despite the numerous warnings from both the hotel and surgeon general.
“Francis,” I called, pushing open the door. “I have to tell you…”
The lights in the room were on. Francis was nowhere to be found.
He went to grab a bite, I told myself. But the door… And there was his key card. The room felt disrupted. I grabbed my glasses from the table.
Even though the door to the bathroom was open and I could see no one was inside, I called Francis’s name again before entering. I saw the blood, a bright streak of crimson smeared along the edge of the sink. All the toiletries had been swept to the floor and the towel rack hung by a screw. Did Francis fall, hit his head, and stumble outside? Or worse?
From the landing of the tiny Motel 6 room, I surveyed the parking lot and adjacent facilities. Truckers pulled in, fueling up with snacks and diesel, queued at the exits to get back on the road, an endless parade of taxis. I could catch a ride with any of them, get out of here, leave behind these strange days. I also didn’t want to read later how a psychotic seventy-year-old man wandered off with a head wound and, bereaved over the death of his grandson, was found dead in a ditch, clipped by a car in the middle of the night.
Peering over the railing, I didn’t see anyone along the lower landing. Maybe Francis had gone for chips or a soda. We hadn’t crossed paths. The truck stop was sizable. There were other places, other gas stations to go in the complex. They had a Sbarro’s, a Subway, a Starbucks. More unimpressive hotels and gas stations sat across the access road. What reason did Francis have to go there? What reason did Francis have to do half the crap he did?
Leave, Brandon. Get out of here. Not your problem.
Hoping I was mistaken, I returned to the bathroom, running a finger along the edge of the sink. I didn’t know what I was hoping for. Leftover ketchup? Wishful thinking. I wiped my finger on a towel. The amount wasn’t unsubstantial. Francis hadn’t cut himself shaving. The blood ran along the porcelain in a sleek zigzag. It could’ve been a design. If places like Motel 6 put much thought into stylistic elements. The car keys had been left on the dresser. I grabbed them in case. If these days had taught me anything it was that this trip didn’t adhere to predictable. I ran to the door, one hand wanting to slam and deadbolt it, the other taking charge, doing the right thing.
Taking stairs two at a time, I kept my eyes peeled, scouting, listening, ears pinned.
Francis’s Buick sat in the same spot. No one inside it. I didn’t expect anyone to be. I crept around the side of the building. There were few cars. One RV took up several spots. I went over to investigate. Lights off. No sound within.
I returned to the motel and walked the length of the building, past the vending machines and ice buckets, planning on circling around, canvassing my way back to the room. Maybe Francis had hit his head and staggered off, delirious? I didn’t know if I should call the police, keep looking, or follow through on intentions to split.
Then beyond the far end of the parking lot, where chain link met tall grass, the length of a football field separating it from the highway, rustling, scurrying caught my eye. A glint of moonlight. A branch in the breeze. No, this was more.
When I heard the scream, I took off in a sprint, covering ground faster than I expected, a surge of adrenaline pumped into my veins. In that blackened space in the distance, I saw them. Shapes, outlines, but human. Two men. I also identified a third figure they were attempting to stuff…into a trunk?
Running as fast as I could, ground shaking beneath my steps, head jostling glasses and vision, blurring the situation. Loud traffic from the interstate perforated the night. Stale winds smacked my face. Over my heavy footsteps and breath, I heard wailing, certain that the voice belonged to Francis. We were far behind the motel; no one was coming to our rescue. It was up to me.
You can’t think in moments like that, events unfolding too quickly, pulse pounding, vision compromised. On the freeway overpass, a steady stream of nighttime traffic streaked red and white. No time to think. No gods to lean on. After that last scream, I didn’t know if Francis was alive. Maybe that screech had been a death knell as the butcher knife split his ribcage. Whoever could do that would have no problem stuffing me in a trunk too.
The rear of the property was neglected, filled with junkyard trash, garbage swept off the road from trucker drift. Random harder objects, pallet boards and lengths of plumbing pipe. Which gave me hope of a weapon more substantial than wood, more lethal than stone. Slipping through a breach in the chain link, I felt lucky when my foot kicked the metal pole. Short but sturdy. Still fifteen, twenty yards to go, I started my battle cry, waving the rod, hoping to frighten them off before I had to use it.
Then all at once: the trunk slammed, a lump fell, or maybe it was the other way around; taillights spirited away across the windswept field, back toward the interstate. Like that night in the alley with Sam, the faster I ran, the more I fell behind. I was a good runner, jogging at least four days a week—I did track in high school—but I couldn’t catch up, the scene stretching longer and longer. By now the car had peeled onto the highway. I couldn’t understand how they’d gotten across the field so fast. My perspective warped, I watched the taillights disappear, another indistinguishable red dot blurred among countless automobiles.
The lump on the ground writhed. I reached for Francis. In the high country moonlight, I could see the knot on his head, the gash on his forehead crusted with blood.
The blues and reds from the parking lot hit our backs, followed by the bullhorn demand to dro
p any weapons and put hands where they could be seen.
I complied without hesitation.
Francis fired up a cigarette.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Back in the main parking lot, a crowd had gathered. We weren’t at a high-class hotel. Plenty of nights ended like this at the Flying J, with squad cars and a pair of perps corralled in the back of a cruiser. Drugs, whoring, fistfights. But it wasn’t often you saw a pair like Francis and me. I’d been called a straight arrow more times than I cared to admit. And Francis? How do you describe a man like that? Lips clamped around a cigarette, despite repeated orders by the cop to put it out, as he bled from a hole in his head and refused to answer questions or accept medical attention.
The officer who got the call must’ve been nearby to arrive so fast. That didn’t mean he was qualified to handle the situation. He wasn’t much older than I was.
He stared at me, little pad poised, waiting for a reasonable explanation. Where should I start? What had I seen? Random robbery? Jewelry barons? The…Shadow People? Once that car took off for the freeway, someone needed to supply eyewitness testimony, all evidence gone, and Francis was useless. The field where I found Francis was torn and trampled, a muddy mess, leaving no discernable tire tracks. It was my word, and the longer I tried to answer his questions, the more I had to accept I wasn’t the most reliable eyewitness. I’d seen…something. There was movement, yes, officer, and other people, for sure. Were they with or near Francis? I’d been running, eyeglasses jostling, adrenaline pumping, heart rate flooding. Yes, they were definitely with Francis and not far away changing a tire on the side of the freeway. I’m sure, I said, very confident, pretty sure, a definite maybe.
“I’m nearsighted,” I said to the officer, before adding, “and farsighted.”
