Swerve

by Vicki Pettersson

  “How far will you go to save him, Kristine?” Malthus’s metallic voice taunts. “How much do you really care?”

  Something shifts inside of me at that, uncoiling as if abruptly awakened, though it’s probably been lying in wait since being prodded by the truck driver back before Primm, the one who set my temper flaring with a mere look. All I know for sure is that it’s reptilian in nature and born of this desert, and it rears up now to meet Malthus’s liquid-mercury voice with venomous intent.

  He does not want to see how far I can go.

  I floor the gas anyway.

  “Twenty-four hours,” Malthus reminds me. And the phone goes dead.

  Chasing that voice, I veer onto the I-15, glancing back only once to make sure I’m not being followed. I’m half a mile into California before the blood stops rushing in my ears and my sight clears enough of that toxic haze to catch Buffalo Bill’s Casino disappearing in the rearview mirror. The heat haze shimmers atop the road, as if what lies behind me is something I just made up. Like my whole life has been a dream, but now I’ve been jolted awake.

  Just in time to watch it all fall away.

  I’m a Big Boy.

  Remaining cool under pressure is a prerequisite for a physician assistant, and I am a great PA.

  I am water under pressure, liquid and adaptive. As Daniel says, I flow. Maybe that’s why, after my breathing has slowed, and the shock has settled more deeply into my bones, I don’t drive to Baker as much as I point the car in that direction and just let go. Check your own pulse. It’s the first axiom I learned in the ER.

  Thus, I am not unaware of the way anger has overtaken me twice now in the last hour. I know exactly what’s going on here; I have the language for it, because I also put myself through therapy for four years, mostly due to flashes of temper like the one I’ve just exhibited. This is stress manifesting itself as fury. It’s been brought on by terror, and at being thrust back into the godforsaken desert, where things like water, things that flow, don’t get buried. They get absorbed.

  I told Daniel I couldn’t get caught in the fucking desert.

  I run a hand over my forehead, swipe at the sweat clinging to my hairline and stamp down the thought. Anger at Daniel is misdirected; he’s as much a victim in this as I am. But God, if anything can dismantle the armor I’ve spent the last decade methodically hammering into place, it is this unforgiving sand trap. There is no flow out here, you cannot be soft. You can only hone yourself on the desert’s edges until you are as brittle as flint.

  Yet even as I hurtle alone past bright, blooming Indian paintbrush and curled-limbed creosote I am keenly aware that there’s something else that would be even worse, a thing that would undo me altogether.

  I don’t care what Malthus has commanded. Fuck him—I call Maria as soon as my blood slows and my breathing levels out. The need to hear Abby’s voice is like metal in my throat, persistent and stabbing. My palms tingle with it, the itch of beetles under the skin. My womb feels hollow and gutted, even though it’s been ten long years since my child resided there. Having a baby is like growing a pair of legs for your heart and then letting it walk around outside your body, beating and raw and vulnerable. I have never felt this more than I do now.

  Normally I will try out my Spanglish on Maria, piece together my por favors with prepositions that swing wildly into English. It’s a game, and Maria corrects me, laughing or stitching together her own Spanglish in reverse, and we stumble our way toward understanding while Abby just sits there and glows.

  But this call goes directly to Maria’s voicemail, and I growl in frustration, immediately disconnecting and dialing again. I tell myself not to worry—she always takes Abby to cool off at one of the valley’s parks, water features spouting liquid relief in the late afternoon. Or maybe they’re at the panadería, picking out sweet empanadas or pan fino. My daughter comes home from Maria’s sugar-dusted and trilling her Rs.

  My hands still shake when I get Maria’s voicemail again.

  “Abby,” is all I manage when it’s time for me to leave a message. My voice is as scratchy as rough wool. I struggle to remember what else to say—what else is there?—but I can’t even find the words in English now. My worry finally tumbles out of me like bricks. There is no flow. “Maria, it’s Kris. I need you to call me as soon as possible. It’s important.”

  I don’t add por favor. I am not joking this time.

  Ten months.

  I mean, of course Malthus has to know about Abby. Yet I tell myself that she is out of reach all the way back in Las Vegas, in Maria’s bright home with its corner altars, safe in the wingspan of her sturdy brown limbs. Yes, he has planned this journey, the next twenty-four hours, for me, but he can’t be in two places at once. Besides, I have proof that she’s fine. Daniel snapped a photo with his smartphone when he dropped her off, an overexposed image that captured both nanny and child frowning directly into the afternoon sun. He showed it to me less than twenty minutes later, as we pulled away from the hospital’s porte cochere. We were at the rest stop only a half an hour after that. And Malthus was too.

  Because Malthus wants me to prove my love for Daniel.

  Why?

  Laughter escapes me in a hoarse bark. I can’t even count the times I’ve heard that exact sentiment from families in the waiting room as they pace, wringing their hands, lips stitching together a prayer drowned out by cable news. God, I hate that room. It reminds me of my mother’s lopsided trailer, both places soundproofed with grief, padded with tears, ghostly regrets priming the walls: Why her? Why him? Why me?

  Why?

  Like those in the waiting room, like my mother, I have no idea.

  Thus far, it appears you’ve gotten by in life on good looks and a lot of lip service.

  Untrue. I busted my butt to escape that sorry excuse of a home. I moved to Las Vegas as a single mother and made sure Abby wanted for nothing while I saved up tuition money for med school, one quarter—and one sticky, watered-down cocktail—at a time. And when I was accepted? Between coursework and motherhood and therapy, I found a new maxim to replace that ghostly why: Primum non nocere.

  First, do no harm.

  Yes, every medical student takes the Hippocratic Oath upon graduating, and no, technically I haven’t done that. I’m not a doctor. But working alongside trauma surgeons in the OR as a PA is damn close, and I don’t need a different degree or piece of paper to swear that oath in my own heart. I’ve cracked open chest cavities and kept an actual heart pumping with my own bare hands. Moreover, I believe those words—I do. They helped me cement my place in the world, and with them—because of them—I have built a good life.

  I’ve also learned, over time, that do no harm extends to me as well.

  An image flashes: the guard being flattened beneath the chassis of a speeding van. Daniel’s scream visits me too, and I squeeze the glossy steering wheel so hard it should pop in my palm. Forget my mother, forget the question why. I’m even willing to put Abby and Maria aside, just for now. A killer waits for me in Baker, and for whatever insane reason, he believes I need to be taught a life lesson.

  I’ve done this before.

  What needs to be my new worry.

  What now? What next?

  The answer to that, at least, is as clear in my mind as Daniel’s face. Both appear whole and solid in my imagination, as yet untouched by Malthus and his sick designs.

  What now? I think, shifting in my seat. Whatever it takes.

  God knows I’ve done that before.

  I ease into Baker from an off-ramp the length of an airport runway and am greeted by a tumbleweed that skitters alongside my car on a bullwhip of scalding wind. It matches my pace for a few yards before wheeling off to attack a steel fence penning back trailers that are almost violently ugly.

  Seconds later, a text:

  I’m a Big Boy.

 
“You’re a big psycho,” I mutter, and blow out a breath that’s round with nerves, but at least this is an obvious clue. Big Boy is a hamburger joint hunkered down on the east side of the street, pinned there like a thumbtack around the time that Googie architecture was a new thing. A motel—seriously, just named Motel—springs catercorner to it like an old dusty hinge.

  That’s where I need to go, I think, attention fixed on that sagging, no-name motel. It has not fared as well as the restaurant, because it doesn’t serve burgers, but I’d bet my life savings that the place still smells like rancid grease. Its length shields the majority of the surrounding terrain, save the soaring arch of the next on-ramp, where a freight truck can be seen trying to pick up speed before merging back onto the highway.

  Anyone inside that motel has a wide-open view of Baker’s main drag, and that makes my fingers twitch on the wheel, my toes flex in my flats. I want to see if a white van with a blood-­splattered grille sits on the other side of that building. I want a clear view of the street too. Yet it’s obvious from the timing of the text that Malthus is already here, and that he’s still watching me somehow, so I obediently wheel into the restaurant’s lot instead.

  Gravel crackles under the tires as I pull to a stop beneath a scrap of shade supplied by Baker’s most notable feature. It is a vertical monstrosity, both eyesore and icon, a scrap of chipped metal billed as the world’s largest thermometer. My thighs squeak against the leather seat as I lean forward and squint up at the reading—108 degrees.

  Double that if you’re being chased by a madman.

  I have just curled my fingers around the door handle when I spot the blood dotting my left palm. It’s caked beneath my nail beds too. I’d reached back while driving and tucked the sliver of Daniel’s face into the empty cooler behind the seat, and a swift glance in the mirror reveals more blood on my cheek, a streaking memento of my run-in with the guard. I lunge for the glove compartment and the wet wipes I know Daniel keeps there, and as I rub away blood and the rest of the dried coffee, I can’t help but wonder what else I’ve almost missed.

  What am I missing still?

  I grab Daniel’s phone and wipe that down too, and when I’m done I knot my sweaty hair atop my head and pat everything into place. There. Both the car and I are once again presentable. Nothing to draw attention to me now. Not unless I start wailing for no reason anyway, and I just might.

  Steadying my breath, I have just touched the door again when Daniel’s phone rings and Imogene Hawthorne’s name flashes up from my lap. Damn it. I’d let it go to voicemail, but she’s relentless when it comes to her son. Her possessiveness is such a cliché that I thought she was joking the first time we visited and she asked Daniel to escort her on a lakeside walk of the property. Alone. I wonder how she’d feel knowing that he rolls his eyes at most everything she says. Or that he claims she has a knack for calling at just the wrong time. Given that, do I dare answer?

  Do I dare not?

  Shifting my eyes to the rearview mirror, I press the speaker function on the phone without lifting it to my ear. That way I am both obeying Malthus—you will speak of this to no one—and ridding myself of my future mother-in-law at the same time. I am both answering and not. “Hello?”

  The only response is silence.

  “Hello?” I repeat, thinking I’ve missed the call.

  “Hello, dear.” Imogene’s voice, normally aloof, shoots out suddenly, like a cartoon bubble blooming overhead. It sounds swollen with uncertainty, which I understand. I’ve never answered Daniel’s phone in the year we’ve been dating, and now I’ve done so twice in one afternoon. On the upside, this could dissuade Imogene from calling again, at least for a while.

  “Imogene. I—we—were just about to call you. We’ve had to turn around. Daniel, um, forgot some critical case files at the house and he needs to complete them this weekend.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yes.” Oh dear. “I’m afraid we’re going to be a while yet.”

  “I see.” More silence stretches over the line and my gaze darts to the motel. Green trim peels from the windows, and black doors dot its long side. It looks like a snake shedding its skin. I search its length for movement. “What are you wearing, dear?”

  I have to blink a few times before finding my voice. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I’m asking because some of the party guests have arrived early.” Imogene pauses. “So they’ll be here for your arrival.”

  I would laugh at that if I wasn’t worried the sound would spiral off into that waiting scream.

  I’m wearing shorts with your son’s blood staining the backside, you uptight moron. I’m wearing ballet flats I can’t run in and a damn bull’s-eye on my chest. How about that? “Um . . . linen shorts, a sweater set. Ballet flats.”

  “Well. That’s . . . good.”

  Seriously, this woman. I don’t have time for this. What I have is twenty-four hours and a missing fiancé. “Uh huh. Yes, well, please tell our guests we’ll be there as quickly as—” The blare of a horn cuts across the line, and I jolt. “Are you driving?”

  “Yes. I’m headed to the store,” Imogene says quickly.

  “You mean the village?”

  “Of course.” Now she’s irritated. “We are fresh out of pitted olives.”

  “Olives.”

  “For the martinis.”

  For cocktails. I close my eyes. “Okay. Good-bye, Imogene.”

  “Well, drive safe dear, and please tell Daniel—”

  I press END CALL, then answer her in the thick silence. “Sorry, Imogene. But if I do this right, you’ll be able to tell him yourself.”

  When I push the door open, all 108 degrees of desert heat pounces on my bare shoulders. I stand under its weight and shade my eyes with one palm. The late afternoon sun makes a mirror of the diner’s plate-glass windows, reflecting back the elderly couple who are taking turns posing for photos with the giant plastic figurine out front. He is, literally, a Big Boy.

  The man flings one arm over the statue’s sunbaked shoulders while pretending to take a bite of the enormous sun-bleached hamburger. The woman squints at the screen of her camera phone, and a stray dog lies there and looks on, likely wishing the burger were real.

  I tie the sleeves of my new cashmere sweater around my waist, covering the bloodstains I know are on my shorts, and wait until the couple heads off to their Oldsmobile. I limp to the front door as they pull from the lot, casting a quick glance at the stray mutt as I go. It’s some sort of terrier mix, and it shifts its watchful but hopeless brown eyes my way before actually sighing, deeply unimpressed.

  I jerk my head at the black crows strutting along the lot’s jagged edge, identical to those that littered the rest stop where Daniel was taken. “Why don’t you eat them?” I tell it.

  The little dog can’t even be bothered to lift his head from his paws, and I, too, am without real interest. My mind is already in the diner. I am thinking of maps and clues and Daniel—­DanielDanielDaniel—and I’m thinking of a killer too. I yank the door open to find out which one waits for me inside.

  So much for not being noticed.

  I pause just inside the diner to acclimate myself. The blast of frozen air and the glare of fluorescent lights are a shock after the hot solitary drive, and the sight of real people doing normal things makes me feel like I’ve stepped back in time, to when my own life was real. This alienness is amplified by the jaunty tune piping from a vintage jukebox. “Rock Around the Clock.” I recognize it from junior high sock hops. That was another lifetime ago too.

  A hostess station sits unoccupied in front of me, while a glass wall separates the entry from the main dining area. It doesn’t take long to scan each customer. The diner isn’t even a quarter full, and my gaze instantly catches on a lone man seated in a booth alongside the long bank of windows. He’s thin, and even though he’s sitting, I
can tell he is tall. He wears sun-cut lines in his face and a severe military buzz cut. He didn’t glance up as I entered, and, engrossed in his meal, he doesn’t look up now.

  The only other single man sits at the diner’s long counter, but the expectation falls from his face when he sees only me standing there, shivering in this new-old world. Two other parties are coupled up—could Malthus have a partner?—and a third is busy attending to a trio of sweaty-faced children. No knives. No workman’s overalls. No Daniel.

  “Booth or counter, sweetie?”

  The waitress calls out from behind the counter, and I blinked dumbly. I have no idea. I am like a child suddenly—I need to be told where to sit. So, like a child, I opt for the homey warmth of the counter, where I can hear the fry cook slamming plates and the waitress is never far away. Her nametag reads LACY. Lacy’s frilly white apron flares atop her powder pink uniform as she whirls to pour me water without being asked.

  No sooner does my bottom hit the red plastic stool than Daniel’s phone chimes in my hand. A text.

  Order pie.

  I spin on my stool, but the man at the window is still engrossed in his meal, no phone in sight. One couple is texting, thumbs flying over momentarily forgotten meals, but the other couple uses the timeworn excuse of eating to ignore each other. The kids continue to wiggle in their booster seats.

  I turn back around, jumping when I find myself face-to-face with Lacy. She bears a menu in one hand, my water glass in the other, and her dark eyebrows lift high at my reaction. I remember that I can’t do anything to make someone remember me here, not like back at Primm, so I fold my hands atop the gold-specked Formica and nod at the tiered plastic pastry stand. “I’ll have some pie, please.”

  Lacy gasps, surprising me. Her eyes light up, dark irises flaring, and she props her elbows atop the counter as she leans forward. A tiny diamond chip winks at me from the left side of her nose. “What kind of pie?”