The gray eyebrows shot up. “Five minutes?” He turned and walked off into the service bay. A moment later, he came out with a small hand cart. “Gimme the keys to the trunk an’ I'll get started."
The bodies. The blood. “What? What do you need to get in the trunk for?"
"Relax, fella. I just want to take out the flat. We'll put the new one on that rim. Save ya’ a bit."
"No!"
"No?"
"I don't want ... I don't have a spare in my trunk. That's why I want the tire mounted on a rim. I want a good spare for going through the desert."
The old man leaned back and looked at him. “Well, I guess that makes sense. How'd you get out here before you decided that? Didn't you know you didn't have no spare before you started out?"
"It's ... It's my brother's car. I didn't know till I got a flat."
"You drove here on a flat tire?"
"I put a can of Flat Patch in it."
"Oh, son. Now that stuff makes a real mess. It'll take me a lot longer than five minutes to fix that."
"No."
"Yes. It will. That stuff just gets everywhere."
Sandy pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Damn! he thought. I should have told him I changed the flat with the spare and accidentally left the flat tire out on the highway. But it was too late to change his story now. He looked up.
The old man was wheeling his cart toward the Vic. The smell, thought Sandy. If he gets close, he'll know. He ran after the old guy and put one hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Look, I'm in a hurry. I don't want that tire changed. I just want a new spare. You give me the spare; I'll put it in the car. If I need it, I'll have it."
The old man shook his head. “That there's a bad idea, son. That Flat Patch stuff clumps up and throws off the balance. The tire's not stable."
"Look! I don't give a damn! Just sell me a mounted tire."
Sandy heard a footstep on the pavement behind him. “Is there a problem here?"
As Sandy turned, he heard the old man say, “This here boy wants to drive that highway on a tire he fixed with Flat Patch, Sheriff. He wants a new tire, but he's gonna use it as a spare. You wanna tell him how crazy that is?"
Sandy looked at the lawman, who had just walked up behind him. The old man was wrong. It wasn't the sheriff. It was the highway patrol officer who had paced the car earlier.
* * * *
"So you're barren."
He made her sound like a used tampon wrapper. “Yeah.” She was angry. She wasn't thinking, almost reached for her cigarettes in the glove compartment, then stopped herself. The glove compartment was not for now.
Instead, she picked up her purse, rooted around inside, and came out with a cigar tube. She didn't smoke often. But sometimes, when the stress became too much, she had to.
"What the hell's that? A cigar?"
She opened the tube and dumped out the battered Virginia Slim inside it. “Cigarette.” She lit the cigarette and took a long drag, then blew out the smoke. “If it bothers you, pull over. I'll get out and smoke on the side of the road. You can keep on going."
"Right. You'd like that."
She sat smoking. She knew she shouldn't make him angry, but she couldn't help it.
"You're barren. You're lucky. They can't take your kids away, brainwash them, turn them against you. That's what they did to Katy and Lucinda."
She held the cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. She thought she heard that sound again. Wanted to distract him. But it was like walking through a minefield; had to watch your step. “Turned them against you?"
"They did. Last time I saw them, I tried to hug them. Put my arms around little Lucinda, and she started screaming. Poor little thing, three years old and a cast on her arm. Then Katy, she told me to let go. I told her I'd make her other eye black if she sassed me like that again. Then those old bats came up and took them away. Led my good little girls away down the hall. Told them they'd never have to see me again. I would've killed them if they didn't have those four big cops standing there. They all need to die. The old bats, Selma, Katy, Lucinda."
"Why do your children have to die?"
"They aren't my good little girls anymore. Knew not to step out of line when I was their dad. But they brainwashed them. Taught ‘em to sass back. They're no good now. Need to end their suffering. Put things right."
Jennifer didn't know what to say. What might set him off. He was close to the edge. All at once, he slowed way down, pulled onto the shoulder, and then turned off the highway onto a dirt road.
* * * *
The highway patrol officer stood with his hands on his Sam Browne belt and looked at Sandy. “Do you have money for a new tire?"
"Yes, sir. I told him I'd pay extra to get it in five minutes. I'm in a real hurry."
"But you don't want him to fix the flat you got on the car?"
"Right. I'm in a hurry."
"I can't let you take a car out on the highway with a problem like that.” He pointed at the brown Vic. “That's your car. Right?"
"It's my ... my brother's."
"I thought I saw you driving it earlier. You were barely doing forty-five, and the car seemed to have a shimmy. That's probably because of that tire. You need to get it fixed. Or I'll have to impound your vehicle until you do. It's a hazard."
"That's what I told him, Sheriff. I'll just put this cart back. Gimme the keys, fella, and I'll drive it into the bay. Have you on your way in no time."
If that old man bent down and changed the tire, right next to the trunk, he was going to smell those bodies. Sandy looked at the cop, who was staring and beginning to look suspicious. He pulled the keys out of his pocket and handed them to the old man. “Okay. But please, make it as fast as you can. And remember, there's no spare in the trunk, so don't worry about it."
The old man took the keys. “Good man.” Then he walked toward the car.
The highway patrolman shook his head. “I don't know what your hurry is, but maybe you should rethink your priorities."
"Sure. Sure, I'll do that.” The lawman kept his gaze fixed on Sandy. “If you'll excuse me, Officer. I'm ... I'm going to buy a few things in the store."
The lawman nodded his head. “You do that.” Then he walked over to his patrol car and sat in the driver's seat.
The Crown Vic started up and the old man swung around the pumps, pulling it into the service bay. Sandy felt light-headed, as if he had been under water for too long. As he walked across the apron, his shoes clicking on the cracked concrete, he saw the cop talking on his radio. He wondered if he was calling in the car's plates. Hoped to hell the damn thing wasn't stolen.
Pushing open the door of the convenience store connected to the gas station, he nearly knocked over an old woman carrying a sandwich thick with cheese. The woman held her nose, and Sandy understood why.
She walked quickly around him and over to the service bay. “Scratch! You gotta take this now."
Sandy heard the old man grumble. He came out of the bay saying, “I can't eat right now, Marian. I got me a rush job on the rack."
The old lady shoved the sandwich into his outstretched hands. “Ever since you got that operation, you ain't been able to smell a darn thing, say you gotta eat things that taste strong to even taste it. Now I don't usually complain—even though I gotta live with ya. But the stink of this limburger cheese sandwich is gettin’ me and it's gonna drive off the customers. Now take it back in there with you, you old coot."
"Aw. All right.” He took the plate and walked back into the bay.
Sandy laughed. Then he caught himself, afraid his relief was too obvious. He shook his head. Everything was surreal.
In the store, he bought two quarts of oil, a jug of anti-freeze, and a Coke.
* * * *
The Mercedes was creeping now, inching down the dirt road. At first, the guy tried to drive faster. But the low-slung roadster kept hanging up on rocks, throwing it out of control. The car refused to negotiate the rutt
ed dirt road at anything above a crawl.
They had been traveling that way for nearly twenty minutes. Jennifer sneaked a peek at the speedometer; they were doing just over five miles an hour.
"What are you looking at?"
She jumped. “You ... I was wondering what you did after your wife left you.” As soon as she said it, she cursed herself.
"Killed the bitch!"
"Killed ...?"
"Driving long haul. Load of copper from Bisbee to El Paso. She was standing next to the road, hitchhiking. Pulled over and opened the passenger door of the cab for her. She took one look at me and wouldn't get in. Hightailed it. I took the next exit, went around and looked for her, but she must've hid in the scrub."
He held up the snub-nosed revolver. “That's when I bought my little convincer. Figured I'd use it next time. And I caught ‘er, on the way back from El Paso. There she stood, hitchhiking back the other way, going toward Bisbee. She was wearing a disguise, but it didn't fool me. I pulled over and opened the door. I figure she thought her disguise was pretty damn good."
He chuckled. “She climbed right in and shut the door behind her. I took her to a little spot in the middle of the desert. She screamed when she found out I knew who she was. Kept trying to fool me. Told me over and over how I had the wrong person. But I knew."
His eyes looked misty as he peered through the windshield at the dirt road ahead. “And how she screamed. She screamed and screamed.” It was a whisper.
* * * *
Sandy stepped out of the small store and nearly bumped into the highway patrolman. “Mr. Curtis."
Sandy stared at him, then realized the cop was talking to him, calling him by a strange name.
"Mr. Curtis? I ran your brother's plates."
Sandy nodded. “Oh ... oh I ... I see."
The lawman nodded. “Not a very good man, your brother."
Sandy shook his head. The plastic bag with the oil and anti-freeze seemed to double in weight. The can of Coke sweated in his other hand. “No ... I suppose not."
"You married, Mr. Curtis? Your wife with you?"
Sandy shook his head. “No, she's not. Why?"
The cop leaned in a little closer. “I think you know why."
Sandy tried to back up a step, but banged into the glass door. “Look, Officer, my brother and I ... I'm not like him. I'm not like him at all.” All at once, the injustice of the situation rose up, overcame him. His wife was out there with a madman, and he was stuck with a broken-down piece of junk with two bodies stuffed in it. “I just ... just borrowed his car. And it's been nothing but a pain in the ass! I wish we weren't related. I really do."
The patrolman backed up, his face registering surprise. “Just doing my job, Mr. Curtis.” He turned and walked away, climbed back behind the wheel of the patrol car.
Sandy took a deep breath and pushed off toward the repair bay. He got there as the old man was mounting the new tire on the car. Sandy walked around the car, which was raised on a hydraulic piston, and sat in a cheap, grease-smeared plastic chair against the wall.
He watched as a highway patrol car came in off the highway and pulled up outside. It was met by the one that had paced him earlier. The two officers spoke through their driver's windows. The one who had run the car's plates pointed a thumb over his shoulder. Sandy saw the other officer look inside, give him the once-over. A second later, the car came down with a hiss of hydraulics, cutting him off from view. The two patrol cars separated. The one that paced him earlier crossed the overpass, turned left, and entered the highway going back the other way.
"That'll be ninety bucks, son."
Sandy gave the man five twenties. While the old man went to ring up the sale, Sandy popped the hood. He checked the oil and added a quart and a half, then he filled the radiator overflow tank. He shut the hood just before the old man came back with his change.
Sandy hopped in the Vic, started the engine, backed out, and drove away.
It seemed he had spent a month at the gas station, but according to his watch it had only been a half-hour. Still, the sun was starting to get low in the sky. It would soon turn orange, darken, and go down. He took the entry ramp down to the highway, where he saw the red line—fainter now, but still there. He followed it.
* * * *
The creep had been stone quiet for over an hour now, as they made their way slowly along the dirt road in the gathering dusk. Jennifer hoped he would keep quiet. She wasn't sure how much more she could take.
Then she realized he was talking low, almost growling. She tried not to listen.
"A month later, I saw my little Lucinda. Out there on the road, all slutted up. Thumb in the air. I pulled over and she just climbed right in. Don't even think she knew who I was. Told me she would sleep with me if I wanted. I slit her throat right there, when she said it, cruising down I-40 at seventy-five. Got blood all over the cab. Took me hours to clean, and it still left a stain. Told the boss I got a nosebleed. He charged me for a new interior, so I quit."
* * * *
Ten minutes out, Sandy hit his first break since running into the madman.
A highway patrol car flashed past, lights and siren blaring. Two minutes later, Sandy saw the wreck. Several cars were piled up in the oncoming lanes. Highway patrol cars were congregating on the spot, with ambulances.
A moment later, he was over the next rise, leaving the accident behind. With the highway patrol concentrated behind him, and the car in the best shape he could hope for, he put the hammer down.
The Vic ate up the highway. He flashed by cars, speedometer reading ninety-five. And then the highway narrowed and he hit an old stretch of road that was no longer divided. He roared down the left lane, next to the double yellow centerline, feet away from oncoming traffic, flashing his headlights to get slower cars to make way.
He had no idea how long he ran at full speed, carefully maintaining control of the old Vic, keeping one eye on the center line and the cars ahead and the other on the thin red line that led to his wife. But suddenly he passed a semi, and the line was gone.
He swerved into the slow lane and hit the brakes. The angry air horn of the semi he had just passed blared as the truck whisked around to avoid him. The Vic slewed to the right, but he held it, muscled the steering wheel to keep it on the road, forced it to slow, then he let it drift over onto the dirt shoulder. The car left pavement and bounced over the graded dirt of the roadway. He brought it to a stop. Then he turned to look over his shoulder.
Throwing the car into reverse, he backed the Vic up the shoulder beside cars whipping past at seventy-five and eighty, increasing speed as he went, watching the pavement for any sign of the red line.
And there it was. The thin red line turned and ran right off the pavement. Sandy hit the brakes, and saw a dirt road. The jerk had taken his roadster up a dirt road! For the first time in over an hour, he smiled. He spun the wheel and kicked the accelerator. The car shot down the dirt road, bouncing and bumping at a good clip. With the Crown Vic's ground clearance, he had the edge.
* * * *
The Mercedes was dented and dusty when they reached a paved road. The creep drove onto it and turned right. There wasn't a car in sight. The sun had just gone down. The world was dark.
"Two weeks later, I saw my little Katy. All grown up, somehow. They did it. She was standing out there thumbing a ride. When I pulled over in that car, she tried to run. I caught her. Took good care of her. And now they're out there. Katy and Lucinda. I see them. Sometimes with their mom. Sometimes alone. And I take care of them. Take care of my good little girls. Punish their mom for what they did to us."
He turned the wheel and the Mercedes bumped off the pavement onto a dirt track that ran around behind a hill. The creep stopped the car, dowsed the lights. Then he turned, pointing the gun at Jennifer.
* * * *
The sun was nearly down as Sandy raced the Vic over the dirt road, spraying rocks behind him, fishtailing through deep dust, regaining tractio
n on hardpan. He kept his foot down, an iron grasp on the wheel, forcing the car to obey. His headlights caught quick flecks of red on small rocks, short streaks on hardpan. Then he slammed on the brakes, muscling the car to a stop. The sun had set, and in his headlights he saw pavement. And a thin red line, petering out now, no longer strong and continuous, running up and turning right.
He followed the line.
* * * *
"End of the road. Get out."
Jennifer opened her door. She heard him open his, felt the car lean as he got out. She reached forward and opened the glove compartment, grabbed the .45 automatic, and turned, firing twice.
The slugs punched him down, spun him around on the ground. A moment later headlights bathed the area and she heard a car slide to a stop. She tried to see, but dust billowed up and cloaked everything. Then she heard Sandy.
"Jennifer! Jennifer!"
"Over here!” She stood up out of the car. “Sandy! I'm over here. I shot him."
She heard shoes scrambling through dirt. He emerged from the dust, eyes mad with fear. “Jennifer! Are you all right?"
"Yes. Yes. I got him.” They grabbed each other. “How did you get here?"
"Took his car.” He stared at her. “He's got bodies in the trunk! Two women."
She nodded. “He's crazy."
He stuck out his hand. “Give me the pistol.” She handed it over and he rounded the car. She followed. The creep was gone. His pistol lay on the front seat.
Sandy snatched it up and turned to her. “There's a lot of blood. You hit him, and he won't get far with a .45 slug in him. If he's not already dead, he will be soon. But we have another problem."
"What?"
"I drove his car. I've got fingerprints and DNA all over it. And he's got bodies in the trunk."
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She worked it loose. “They're after you. They want you; they always have..."
"I know."
She looked into his eyes. “Burn it. You have to."
"The two women. In the trunk."
"They're dead. They won't care."
He nodded.
EQMM, December 2008 Page 7
