The Subway ; The Debt ; Catastrophic

by Dustin Stevens

  Despite the early hour, her jeans and boots were already lined with mud and spotted with water, the bottom side of her grey sports bra rimmed with sweat. A thin sheen of moisture coated her skin, accentuating the ridges etched across her torso, the sharp angles of her cheekbones and jaw line.

  Bits of straw clung to the blonde ponytail hanging down over one shoulder and extended from the thin wisps of hair above either ear.

  “He called,” I repeated. “He, as in...”

  “I know,” she replied.

  The better part of a decade separated us in age, though sometimes I was forced to wonder which one of us was in fact older. Both had lived a life that few others could ever fathom, seeing things that no person should ever have to, witnessing the depths that humanity could truly succumb to.

  We would both be foolish or liars to try and pretend that those accumulated experiences didn’t weigh on us both.

  I liked to think we were neither.

  “I don’t want to go, but have to,” I said, as much for myself as for her.

  “I know,” she repeated.

  Her response barely registered as I cast my gaze to the ground, trying to find the words to explain, wanting her to understand exactly why I was now standing in our bedroom packing a bag. Raising the heel of my boot, I prodded at the corner bedpost with my toe, hearing the gentle tap of the sole against the wood, trying to make sense of things myself.

  “It’s just...” I began, my voice trailing off for a moment as I tried to grasp the words to employ, attempting to have them make sense. “For years now this has been there, just beyond the edge of my psyche, so much so that at times I can’t help but wonder if it was ever real to begin with.”

  Even to my own ears the response sounds whiny, pleading, the realization pushing a bit of angst through me, my jaw clenching as I lashed at the bedpost one more time before dropping my foot back into position.

  No part of me wanted to be going. I hated that I was standing in my bedroom about to drive away, that one phone call after so many years was having this effect.

  Hated even more that this conversation was now taking place.

  Rae and I had just two rules when she found me three years prior.

  No questions, and no expectations.

  I knew without a doubt that if I had driven away an hour earlier, doing it while she was still tucked away in the barn, that there would have been no ill will, no hurled accusations of malicious intent.

  I would never have done that and we both knew it. There might not have been any expectations, but there was damned sure too much respect between us to ever handle things in such a manner.

  My lingering wasn’t for her. It wasn’t to say goodbye or even to try and fit in one last romantic tryst before taking off.

  It was to try and get a handle on things, to gain acceptance in my mind of what had taken place, to steel myself for what lay ahead.

  Only then would I be able to actually do what needed to be done.

  “I know,” she said a third time, drawing me from my thoughts, pulling my attention up toward her. “Just do one thing for me.”

  The statement surprised me a little, though it shouldn’t have. It was directly in tune with everything she ever said, fitting perfectly against the framework of her that I already had worked out in my mind.

  Under different circumstances, her response might have brought about a smile, or at the very least a smirk. Instead, my face remained impassive, my eyebrows rising just slightly as I nodded in acceptance of whatever condition she was about to impose upon me.

  “Take Clarice with you.”

  Chapter Three

  The drive from West Texas to Chicago takes the better part of a day, meaning there was no good time to take off. Starting late in the evening and driving through the night meant I would arrive midday, a complete zombie ill fit for any kind of basic human interaction. Beginning at dawn and driving straight through put me in just after sundown to a city I’d never been to and have no friends in, driving a dented pickup and wearing boots.

  Having no idea exactly where I was going or what would be asked of me when I got there, the only thing I could reasonably assume was that neither option was particularly appealing.

  Instead I decided to split the difference, leaving mid-morning from the ranch. The sun was already well above the horizon line as I pushed off, Rae watching me go from the front porch. With one shoulder leaning against a support spindle, she looked much the same as she did standing in the bedroom doorway, the exact look she’d worn all morning still on her features.

  To the untrained eye it would appear a demonstration in detachment, the very definition of uncaring. Not once did the thought cross my mind, though. In her own way, she was letting me know that she supported me going, that she understood, that she was there if I needed her.

  It was the closest either one of us ever got to gushing displays of emotion.

  Just as surely as I knew everything she was trying to say by standing on the porch and watching the cloud of dust rise behind my tires, she knew that my expecting or even reaching out to her for any of those things was a remote possibility at best.

  That’s just not how we did things. It’s what made us both tick as individuals, allowed us to work as a unit.

  It’s also what made what I was doing so damned hard to fathom, a solitary break from everything I had worked to build my life on.

  Putting such thoughts aside, I aimed the front grill north and drove a steady five miles over the speed limit. Above me the sun traveled in a complete arc, starting to my right and finishing on the opposite flank as I cut a north-northeast slash through the middle of the country. Miles passed beneath me as the first signs of crops sprung up in even rows, the terrain completely flat, stretched out in a straight line.

  Despite the lack of visual stimulation, my mind raced the entire drive. Time and time again I replayed the conversation from the night before, everything about it odd, not quite fitting with what I had been expecting.

  Not that that was very much.

  Still, the timing of it seemed off, both in terms of the date and the hour. There didn’t appear to be strain in his voice, though the only reasons I could possibly fathom that he would be calling me were all bad, or at the very least complicated.

  No way was he summoning me from the cobwebs after more than a decade and a half to ask if he could borrow a cup of sugar.

  Since mustering out and returning stateside, I had kept only nominal tabs on the man, first stumbling across him by complete mistake, seeing his picture on the cover of some magazine while passing by a news stand. From there I did a tiny bit of looking to see what he had done to land himself there, the answer not surprising me in the slightest, fitting in exactly with what I’d always known.

  None of that gave me even the smallest bit of comfort.

  Even less did it provide any insight as to why I was now driving halfway across the country to meet him.

  Sometime around midday Texas gave way to Oklahoma, which some hours later became Missouri. The signs lining the roadway changed in shape, and the speed limits shifted up and down a few times, but by and large the drive looked exactly the same as I pushed on.

  Given the early month, the fields were still green, the wheat just beginning its migration over to gold, corn standing just above ankle height. Sprinkled liberally throughout the fields were irrigation pivots and old oil rigs, the former pushing out blasts of vapor spray, the latter standing idle, collecting rust.

  More than once Rae and I had debated the simple question of which we would rather be, the implement that remained active until it burned out and was immediately replaced or the one that was left standing even after it no longer worked, a monument unto themselves for all time. Overwhelmingly we both always sided with the pivot, wanting to go as fast as we could for as long as we could before being pushed to the side to make room for the next generation.

  Sitting behind the wheel now, though, I couldn’t help but
wonder if they represented something far more ominous, foreshadowing something that may be lurking just beyond the horizon.

  Twice throughout the day I stopped, which was once more than I anticipated, two more than I would have liked. The first was just an hour into my drive, the trip completely unanticipated, my truck sitting at less than half a tank of gas as I departed. Still in Texas, I was hours away from hunger or the need to relieve myself, the entire break one that annoyed me, nothing more than an extra fifteen minutes to be added onto my time at the end of the day.

  The second was not far from Tulsa, this time the gas tank still holding steady, but the only other two acceptable reasons for stopping needing to be tended to. Both I was able to address by a swing through a place called Phil’s BBQ, a joint that advertised clean facilities and the best brisket north of Texas.

  Turned out Phil was a liar on both fronts.

  Or, if he wasn’t, I needed to get my ass back to Texas in a hurry.

  With the calendar sitting almost two months from the summer solstice, the sun began its descent toward the horizon shortly after 6:00. A half hour later darkness began to creep in around the edges of my vision, the truck lights coming on for the first time, clearing a path before me. With my gaze locked on the fluorescent cone stretched out on the asphalt, I kept the cruise control set and continued to push on, waiting until well after 9:00, the night sky completely dark, before stopping fifty miles north of St. Louis.

  The choice of location was a hybrid of considerations, all coming together in a matted fusion that spoke more to my background than any conscious level of thought on my part.

  Rule one for me was to avoid big cities whenever possible. Driving a pickup with Texas plates, preferring boots to any other form of footwear, being unapologetically white - all could potentially make me a target. Having several items in the truck that I would not particularly care for anybody else to discover even more so.

  More than that, cities tended to make me jumpy. The perpetual amalgam of sound and light and bustle tapped into things I would rather leave be, conjuring up memories that were best stowed away deep within.

  Further driving home my decision was the fact that I had no desire to arrive in Chicago well past midnight, and the location allowed for me to make the remainder of the drive easily enough in the morning. I could rack out and start anew, pulling into town well after the morning rush had subsided.

  With any luck, I would be able to do what was required and be gone before it started to thicken back up for the afternoon.

  Not that I was a man that ever put much stock in luck.

  Pulling into the first chain hotel I saw just after 9:00, I gave a sleepy-eyed kid eighty dollars for a single room with a lumpy bed and shower that came out in spurts. Far from the worst accommodations I had ever encountered, I left my bag in the truck and laid my clothes out on the floor alongside the bed, content to don them again the next morning for the remainder of my trip.

  After sitting motionless in the truck all day, it wasn’t like they were especially dirty or anything.

  The thought of calling Rae flitted across my mind as I laid down, the idea dissolving just as fast. Doing so would only irritate her, which would in turn annoy me.

  We weren’t the kind to check in on each other. Doing so would sacrifice too large a chunk of the independence we both relied on to get us from one day to the next.

  At four minutes after ten my world cut to black, everything fading to the background, until the sound of a phone ringing blasted me from my slumber for the second straight night.

  The state of the bed told me that I had not moved an inch since falling asleep, the opposite side of the blanket still laid flat, not a single crease or wrinkle to be seen. The misshapen pattern of light crossing the ceiling above meant I was still positioned flat on my back, my fingers laced over my stomach in the exact position they were every night when I fell asleep.

  A single puff of air passed through my nose as I extended one hand out toward the nightstand and took up the phone, thumbing it on and pressing it to my face with one quick movement.

  Not a word passed my lips. There was no point. I already knew who it was, had been waiting on the call most of the day.

  Bastard could have at least done it without waking me for the second night in a row. I still had no idea what it was he wanted me to do, but could only figure it would be in his best interests to let me get a little rest before going off to do it.

  “The Holiday Inn, huh?” a voice said in greeting. “I guess I had you pegged as more of an Econolodge man.”

  In total, less than twenty words had been spoken.

  More than enough to tell me a great many things, causing me to sit upright in bed, the covers bunching around my bare hipbones.

  “Who is this?”

  The voice belonged to a male, most certainly not the same one that had called the night before or had been haunting my dreams for so long. The undeniable trappings of age were present, though beyond that nothing notable stuck out.

  “Does it matter?”

  Clearly he was intent on trying the same parlor tricks as the previous caller, apparently not realizing the differences between their respective positions.

  Namely, I knew who the former was, and I owed him.

  This bastard didn’t have the luxury of either.

  “And how do you know where I am?”

  This question wasn’t nearly as important as the first, though I needed to let him feel like he had actually rattled me a bit. Lull him into a false sense of security, hoping that he might make a mistake, give up some small bit of information I could use at a later date.

  The odds of him actually doing so were remote at best, but I had to at least try. Against my will I was being pulled back into the sort of life I had left years before. It was time to begin employing the skills again, knocking off any corrosion that time might have allowed to accumulate.

  “Does that matter either?” the man replied, a tiny hint of annoyance showing up.

  “It does if you don’t want me to climb back into my truck and drive from the Holiday Inn back to Texas.”

  Several moments passed before a sigh could be heard. “Christ, you guys are all the same. He told me you might even be worse than most.”

  “So you know him?” I asked, filing the first part of his statement away, but choosing not to comment on it for the time being.

  There would be time for that later.

  “No, I just decided to track some former Delta halfway across the country to a shit box hotel and give him a call in the middle of the night. Thought we could sit around and swap old war stories.”

  Again, red lights went off throughout my mind, several flashing simultaneously as I processed what he had said.

  The man knew about my time in the army, was familiar enough with my unit to call it by name. He also alluded to swapping stories, meaning he had likely served at some point as well.

  While that information did nothing to tell me who the man might be, it did provide a great deal of background on who I was dealing with.

  Clearly, this was not going to be some low-rent project that I could skate past with minimal effort.

  “Dick,” I muttered, making sure to be loud enough for him to hear me. “What do you want?”

  Again I heard the same agitation as earlier creep in, my crack having found its mark.

  “I’m going to send an address to this phone in thirty seconds. Meet me there tomorrow at 1300 hours.”

  The moment the last word left his lips, the call was disconnected.

  True to his statement, twenty-seven seconds later, a text message arrived directing me to a park in downtown Chicago.

  Chapter Four

  “Man, how the heck do you eat that stuff?”

  In the off chance the question, and the sarcasm dripping from every word, weren’t enough to drive home her point, Skye Grant curled up her right nostril into a snarl. Rotating her head to the left, she kept the look fro
zen in place, waiting as Raz Yoo finished the heaping bite he was working on and turned toward her.

  With jaws packed full, he used his tongue to rotate the mass of noodles and breaded chicken just enough so he could actually chew, his lips parting slightly in a smile.

  “What?”

  “What?” Skye mocked, her eyes bulging slightly before shifting her attention back to the bank of computer monitors spread in front of them. Twelve screens in total, it covered the entire back wall of the living room to the house they were currently renting, blinds pulled low over every window to hide them from view.

  Given the neighborhood they were currently calling home, it seemed like a good idea.

  The better part of a minute passed before Raz was able to wrestle the food down, clearing his throat enough to produce more than a single syllable at a time.

  “Since when don’t you like Chinese food? Hell, you are Chinese.”

  Feeling her eyes narrow, Skye maintained her forward focus. “One, that is not Chinese food. That is fried crap covered in a thick sauce.”

  “Ha!” Raz spat. “Well, it’s the closest we can get here.”

  “Second,” Skye pressed on, not to be deterred, “I am not Chinese.”

  “Same difference,” Raz said, raising both shoulders in a shrug before going back into the white paper container before him with his chopsticks.

  This time Skye chose to remain silent. There was no way of knowing if he was only trying to get under her skin, but in the event he was, she was not about to give him the satisfaction.

  “Besides,” Raz added, “if you’re going to have us working such God awful hours, we’ve got to eat something.”

  Reflexively, Skye opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off before she got the chance.

  “And don’t you dare say pizza again. You think this stuff isn’t really Chinese food? I think whatever Chicago has done to pizza is even worse.”

  Again Skye began to respond before pulling up short, the corners of her mouth turning slightly upward in a smile. Even if she would never concede to Raz being right about anything, she wasn’t about to try and argue that he was wrong either.