Motorcycle Roadkill

by S. P. Shane

  Marilyn wades through a full house, half of them puffing on cigarettes and sipping coffee. The State Troopers are easy to spot with their gray campaign hats taking up half the table, but there are other law enforcement officers as well. Reporters—young men in pressed white shirts—hound the room with hunting eyes, waiting to eavesdrop on the slightest bit of information. But most of the diners are the blue collar kind of guys—denim shirts and jeans. Guys wanting to lend a hand in the search for Jimmy.

  Josh stands behind the counter, wearing the look of someone standing guard rather than someone lending service. The door behind him's not only closed, but padlocked. "Hey, Caleb" is all Josh has time to say. It doesn't look like hanging out's in the cards this evening. "Have a seat. Lindsey'll be with ya shortly."

  "Uh... okay."

  There's an empty table near the back of the shop—the one below the Jack Nicholson poster. Marilyn pours coffee at an adjacent table. Her face is a concoction of thinly-veiled annoyance. Though it is her shop, it's clear that waiting on a full house was never part of her plan.

  I'm half a mind to turn around and leave, seeing how Josh and Lindsey won't be up for their regular chit-chat. But there's Lindsey's voice behind me. "Go on and half a seat, sir. I'll be with ya shortly." There's a cold indifference to her tone, as if I'm just another asshole customer.

  "Lindsey it's me." I glance back at her, as I hunker down in a chair.

  "I'll get to ya when I can." She doesn't make eye contact.

  "Kid, you're an amateur." A rough voice calls to me.

  He's a rosy-cheeked fellow with short red hair and a goatee. He wears a crisp blue dress shirt and light gray trousers. I've seen his face before, but I can't place exactly where.

  "Excuse me?" My face twist into half-snarl, half-question. I'm taken aback by the gentleman. Amateur? What the hell?

  "Pardon me. It's just that I read people pretty well. And that girl..." he nods toward Lindsey "has the tell of a girl that maybe you took on a date, but you never called her afterward."

  "It wasn't a date." I notice the defensive edge to my voice.

  He holds up his hands with in a don't-shoot-me.

  "I'm just saying. Maybe she thought it was."

  I nod, watching him carefully. He doesn't speak with the local accent. If I had to guess, I'd say he's from up north somewhere.

  "Tim Tolliver. Glassville Gazette." He stands from his chair, comes across the aisle, and extends his hand to me. Just to be polite, I give his hand a quick one and two, but there's something creepy about this guy.

  "Glassville. Never heard of it."

  "It's a small town up by Louisville," he says with this really abrupt quality, like he just made it up on the fly. He points to the chair across from me. "May I?"

  I nod. "I don't think there is a Glassville and I don't think there's a Gazette."

  He lets out a snort. A short laugh. He makes an I-can't-believe-this face. "What? You think I'm lying."

  "It doesn't add up."

  "Alright then. Who do ya think I am? Give it your best shot."

  "My guess is that there's a badge in your pocket, but you're not with any of these state guys." I glance around to see if there are any knowing glances cast in his direction. You're something Federal. A U.S. Marshall. ABF. D.E.A. Something like that."

  "That's a wild guess. Don't ya think?"

  "Maybe. But you're not in town about a missing persons report. Matter of fact, I think you were that guy who was snapping pictures of our church. And that was before Jimmy even went missing."

  He grins, nods at me, and makes this I'll-humor-you face. "And what do ya think brings me to town?"

  It's no small wonder what brings him to town, seeing how I was nearly killed my first night here, but I can't just go blabbing everything. I turn my head slowly. "Don't know."

  He leans against the table and breathes heavily. "Now, it's me who doesn't believe you." He points a finger on the word 'you'.

  A shrug. "Why's that?"

  "Maybe I'm wrong, but I think you're the kind of kid that sees math problems everywhere. And you just kind of know when things 'don't add up' as you say."

  Nonchalant. "I suppose. Maybe."

  "That is unless you're the kind of kid who's only smart on paper. Maybe you don't have any common sense. I don't know." He shrugs.

  "Maybe I don't."

  He shakes his head. "Maybe. But I don't think so. See, right now I think you're head's spinning. Not because I'm here, but because ya know what an anomaly is and ya know when you see one. Like I said, it's one big math problem here. Isn't it?"

  "I suppose."

  "Take your friend, Jimmy. See, everyone here's looking for him, but not a one of them gets the bright idea 'hey, why don't we look to the south of the highway?'"

  "Good question."

  Grin. Nod. A look of conceit comes to his eyes. "It is a good question. Isn't it? I don't know. Maybe they have looked there. Maybe a couple of them rode back there on a motorcycle or something, but didn't really see anything? Ya think?"

  I push back from the table, glance toward the counter, and plot my escape. "What do you want?"

  "The same thing you want, Caleb. I want answers. I want to know why the senior pastor of a big city church hangs it all up to come to a Podunk little town like this."

  My mouth opens and for a moment I'm not sure if words or spit are gonna come out of it. Not only is this guy rude, but he knows how to deliver the verbal equivalent of the low blow. "My dad. Was fired. From his. Big. City. Church."

  He lets out a chuckle. Crosses his arms. Nods. "Let's assume that's true. It's not like he was a hacker preacher doing tent meetings. With his resume, he could've gone anywhere. But he came here.” He uncrosses his arms and holds out his hands on 'here'. “Why is that?"

  "I don't know! They didn't ask me!" My voice borders on a shout.

  "You don't know?" He nods. "People make changes every day. They go into the office and say 'hey, ya know what? I'm not gonna do it anymore. I'm gonna go out there in the world and make a difference.' Is that what your dad's doing? Making a difference."

  "Look, this is stupid."

  He shakes his head. "What about Mister Glover? I mean he was the big cheese in Chicago. Right?"

  "Maybe. I don't know anything about him."

  "Ya know, Caleb. There's a lot of generous people here in this little town. A lot of people making a difference." He makes a mocking face when he says 'making a difference'.

  "Hey, man! Not everyone's about the money!" My raised voice echoes across the shop. I turn around. The other customers don't even turn their heads, but Josh stares directly at me—raises an eyebrow.

  "No, of course not. Like I said, this is a very generous town. I might just move here."

  "Look, I'm gonna go."

  "Sure thing, my friend." He slaps the table. "Don't let me hold ya. But you're still gonna have yourself a math problem."

  "Well, we all gotta our own problems to work out, dude."

  Launch from my chair. Bolt toward the door. I'm already at the drawbridge when Josh grabs my arm.

  "Caleb? What's with ya?" Josh asks.

  "Nothing. I, uh, just gotta go."

  He glances back at the table where I was sitting. "What did that guy say to you?"

  "Nothing."

  "Doesn't look like nothing."

  "I'm sorry. It's a little crowded in here for my taste."

  I hit the door and walk out into the gray evening light. A car trolling down Main Street already has its headlights on. It pauses in front of the Carrie House. Rolls slowly forward.

  "Caleb," Lindsey calls from the door.

  "Hey, Lindsey."

  She looks at me in disbelief. "What happened?"

  "That guy in there was grating on my nerves."

  "No." She shakes her head. "With us?"

  "What do ya mean?"

  "I mean I haven't heard from you. I thought we had something."

  "Sorry, I was..." There's no
excuse really. Other than gallivanting around with Josh, I haven't been doing much of anything.

  "Look, if you don't like me..."

  "No, it's not that."

  "Then, what is it?"

  I snort in a quick gulp of air and hold it for a moment. I'm not really sure what to tell her. It's true. I'm an amateur. "Uh, I'm in...uncharted territory. When I'm with you... there's all of this...madness spinning my head around. Things.... I've never felt before... for anyone. And it's like I'm in a foreign country..."

  "Foreign country?"

  "Everyone's speaking a different language. And I'm trying to keep up, but it goes so fast that... it gets confusing."

  "Well, call me whenever you get unconfused," she snaps and stomps back toward the door.

  "Lindsey..."

  She looks back. What-face.

  "'Unconfused' isn't even a word."

  She lets out a giggle. Shakes her head. "Call me."

  "I will."

  She slips back inside and my head spins more than ever.

  Chapter 22

  Thursday, September 23

  The moonlight shines through my bedroom window, the strays bark on the street, and my mind's wound tight like a music box. I can't sleep.

  Staring at the ceiling, the past few days of my life play like a movie. I'm about to slip into another fantasy when the dogs stop barking. A car's engine hums from the street. Brakes squeak, then wheels roll on the gravel lot. A car door closes. Voices murmur, but it's hard to make out what they're saying. There are at least two male voices speaking.

  “2:00 A.M...Jesus.” Who's running around at this time of night?

  A black Monte Carlo parks in the lot and two men climb out. They got that look—hat serious business look. These aren't a couple of teenagers who've stopped to enjoy tacos on the hood of their car, whilst gazing at the stars. The one on the left is a large man and holds a briefcase. He wears a gray suit and cowboy boots, but it's too dark to see his face. The other gentleman is a few inches shorter and much thinner, and he's dressed in slacks and a white dress shirt. It's too dark to see anything more.

  A third gentleman stands on the church steps, as if he's waiting for the gentlemen from the Monte Carlo. I'm having a real Jessica Fletcher moment, watching real close for all the clues. This isn't normal. People don't meet at the church in the middle of the night, unless there's like a disaster or something.

  The gentleman on the steps crosses the landing and raises a hand. He waves and his arm movement gives him away. If there's one story I've heard more than the Christmas story, it's how Dad broke his arm when he was a kid. The bone didn't heal properly and to this day it hurts him to wave like a normal person. He arm moves backwards and forwards, not side-to-side.

  A dozen thoughts collide in my head at once. An Algebra problem would be easier. Let's face it: with Algebra you eventually come to an answer like “Mark is taller than Sally and Susie is shorter than Billy.” But I'm past 'the who' and 'the what' at this point. I just landed on 'why'. And if I suck at Algebra, I'm worse at Science. Why are Gentleman A and Gentleman B standing in the church parking lot, in the middle of the night, carrying a briefcase, and waving at my father?

  The only thing that makes even a little bit of sense to me is that it has something to do with Jimmy, but even that story has holes in it. If they found him, they'd just take him home—or to a hospital if he's injured or sick. And even if there was some sort of other development, they still wouldn't come to the church. And though I can't see either of the mystery gentleman that well, they're not exactly dressed like search & rescue—with their suits, their dress shirts, and a briefcase. Why the briefcase? What possible business could they have—that's so important that they'd get up in the dead of night?

  Maybe Josh is right. Maybe I worry too much about the stupidest things. Maybe it's none of my business, but it's weird and at the moment I'm a little understaffed in the letting-things-go department.

  I'm vaguely aware that my feet—bare and stone cold in the dewy grass—are going numb, but I'm mostly in my head right now. I'm like the Ghost of Christmas Past, outside one of the basement windows of the church. Voices carry from inside, as the light comes on in Dad's office. Chairs scoot on the tile as three men—one of them my father—settle around his desk.

  I gotta get in there, but I can't just fling open the door and wander down the hallway. They'll hear me. No, this is going to require some serious ninja skills. I'm gonna have to climb through a window.

  The murmur of voices from Dad's office continue as I crouch near the window to a Sunday School classroom. The lights are off inside. These aren't like high-tech security windows. They're old wood frames, covered with thick white paint and thin glass panes that are chipped and cracked. When I raise up on the stile, the window doesn't budge. I strike the frame with the heel of my palm and a loud thud echoes across the parking lot. The voices inside Dad's office stop talking.

  “Do you need to check that out?” One of the mystery gentlemen says. There's something oddly familiar about his voice. There's not really a hint of the local accent.

  “Naw, it's an old building . All sorts of critters up in here,” Dad says in a way that almost makes me laugh aloud. It's like he's trying to mimic the local twang, so he fits in better. Up in here? Who talks like that?

  “Well, I can't thank you enough for doing this, Pastor.” The voice of the other gentleman practically sends ice water down my spine. If I didn't know better, I could just as easily hear the voice announcing “the case of the disappearing shit stain”. But why would Grant be all decked out in a suit?

  “Please, under the circumstances, it'd be best if you call me 'Lee',” Dad says.

  “Lee?” I mutter to myself. I can't remember the last time I heard someone other than Mom address my dad simply as 'Lee'. What circumstances is he talking about?

  I try the window again. It creaks and chips of paint and dust sprinkle against my face, as hunker I down—digging in my feet for better traction. I let go of the stile and deliver a sharp blow to the window frame with the heel of my palm. And then, yank! The window breaks free, sliding open enough for me to climb inside—serious ninja skills.

  I have to hunker down, slide my feet through the window, and then kind of wiggle my way inside. Once I get my butt through the window, gravity takes care of the rest. My feet make a smack against the floor, a I land in a crouch—one hand pressed against the linoleum.

  “So, how's this work?” The mystery gentleman—the one without the country accent—sounds so much clearer now that I'm inside.

  Dad says “Well, we take fifteen per cent off the top. Then, we funnel the rest into a half dozen accounts every week over a period of a couple of months.”

  “It all looks like money from the offering plate I guess,” the guy who sounds like Grant says, clearly implying that it's not money from the offering plate.

  “I like the way you think.” It suddenly clicks that I know that voice. It's the same glib tone that says things like “we're all colleagues here” or “you're gonna make an excellent reporter.” Mr. Glover—my journalism teacher. But what the heck does he want with Dad?

  “And there's no way for it to be traced?”

  “No, this is kind of fool-proof,” Dad says.

  In the room, the men go on talking, but I can't go on listening. I hear them, but it's not the same. It's just words—meaningless sounds. And there's this confusion inside of me—like I can't understand them—that maybe I've never understood anything in my life. And they just go on talking, like it's no big deal—like this is completely normal.

  Josh's voice echoes in my mind: “Your dad's preachin' on the money-changers in the temple? Really?”

  A feeling like I'm speeding over a steep hill swims through my guts. Dizzy, faint, sick, burning alive with fever. And I really don't know what to think—what to do. My life—the story of my life—just came undone, and I'm not sure what I think about anything. I'm...numb

  There's
no decision on my part. I just move—toward the door—without even thinking about it. The Sunday School room passes like a movie scene and I'm in the hallway. No more tip-toeing, no more sneaking around. It's like I'm watching it all unfold in a movie that was shot a long time ago—in a different part of the world. It doesn't feel like I'm here. It doesn't feel like it's real. It's someone else's life—someone else's nightmare.

  Light leaks from under the door to Dad's office. A chair rolls on the floor and someone laughs. The door slowly opens before my eyes and there they are: three faces looking back at me in white light. It's Mr. Glover, and there is a Grant here—only it's not Crenshaw's Creek's shining star. It's Bryant Grant—yes, Grant's father. And there's my father—as much of a stranger to me as his guests. And an opened briefcase sits between the three of them—filled to the brim with stacks of cash.

  Glover's eyes meet mine—a deer in headlights. Mr. Grant freezes, staring at a spot in the middle of my dad's desk.

  “Caleb... Uh, what are you...” All at once Dad's lie machine cranks into action behind a seemingly calm face. He stammers, struggling for a cover story—struggling to find some sort of a reasonable explanation for what he's doing. But within his eyes there's a sober recognition. This is the moment it all goes to hell and he knows it. “Caleb, what are you doing here?”

  “I saw the light on over here and wanted to make sure everything was okay. I thought maybe it was something about Jimmy.”

  “No, Caleb. Everything's fine.” He pauses, looking me over from head to toe. “You're sleepwalking again.”

  And whatever hope I held for a reasonable explanation vanishes, because he just lied to me. Now, he's just insulting me, as if I wouldn't know whether or not I was sleepwalking.

  “I'm sleepwalking?”

  “Of course. Go back to bed.”

  There's one thing I know—that I can feel with every part of my body—and it's that I'm awake now. More awake than I have ever been. And my little world has just changed.