The Nightcrawler

by Mick Ridgewell

  “Yep, two-fifty. That was when it happened. Do you remember, Scottie?”

  “Remember what? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It was about nine years ago. I was visiting my little brother in Vermont. I went to try to convince him to come and work with me in Detroit. He was too good to be living, at best, a mediocre life. The only thing he had going for him was Millie and the kids. However, he said he was happy in Vermont. You ever been to Vermont Scott?”

  Scott didn’t answer. He just sat in the dirt staring up at the man seated in his car.

  “Anyway, it was winter and I’d taken my niece and nephew tobogganing at the park. While I was helping my nephew up the hill, I lost track of his sister Lisa. She had been coaxed up the wrong side of the hill by some teenage boys and sent whooshing down the snow covered slope and didn’t stop until she was right out on the middle of the pond. Then the ice gave way and she disappeared.”

  He stopped talking and wiped a tear from his cheek. Scott looked on in horror at the hobo. His head shook slowly from side to side as though the mere gesture could shield him from anymore of the man’s tale.

  “Those cowards ran right passed me when they fled. I grabbed the smallest one. He looked into my eyes. He was crying, just like you are now, Scottie.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” Scott said, his voice pleading to be left alone.

  “Scott, Scott. That was you I grabbed by the coat running from the park that day. You punks didn’t even have the guts to try and help the little girl.”

  “Nobody could have helped,” Scott screamed back. “I told them to leave her alone, but they wouldn’t listen. Then when the ice broke, it was too late. There was nothing we could do. Nothing I could do.” His voice had trailed off to a whisper.

  “I got a neighbor to take Roger home. I never left that park until they brought that poor little girl up. She was blue and her eyes were still open. I see that face every night in my dreams. Can you imagine that, Scottie?”

  Scott buried his face in his hands, his shoulders jerking between sobs. “Would you just leave me alone. Just fuck off.”

  “It got so I was afraid to sleep and tired men make mistakes. At work I made a decision, you don’t need the details, but three men died as a result of that decision. They were good men, with families and friends.”

  He sat quiet for a moment picking at his coat as though he were removing pet hair. He probed in the pockets then examined his empty hands when they emerged. Scott continued to sob into his hands until the man continued. His voice had changed, not the sound of his voice but the tone he used.

  “It wasn’t really my fault, at least people tried to tell me that. I knew better though,” the bum said. “You see, Scott, I didn’t think those men were as important as getting the job done and I was too damn exhausted to see the error I was making.”

  Scott had finally regained his feet and stood on the spot where moments ago his ass had been. “What the hell does any of this bullshit have to do with me? The girl was an accident and you killing a few men is not my fault.”

  “And that in a nutshell my friend is why I am here,” the bum said.

  He went silent. Staring off across the horizon, extreme melancholy filled his expression. After a few moments, he blinked and returned his attention to Scott.

  “Sorry about that, Scottie. Now where was I? Yes, yes, people, all people have something to contribute.”

  “Anything you have or may have had is in the past means shit to me, now fuck off and leave the world to those of us who can still do something with it,” Scott shouted. He did seem remorseful while he listened to the story of Lisa’s drowning but had to get this prick out of his car and out of his life.

  Scott had begun to step forward and lowered his eyes to make sure he didn’t trip over the same thing that caused him to fall backward. When he looked up again the car was empty. He was startled by the bum’s absence, almost as much as his presence had spooked him not long before.

  “You are one loony fucker, Scott,” he told himself as he slammed the door shut. He could not bring himself to consider regarding him by a name. The Nightcrawler was no name for a man. Matt is a name, but was it his? Was there even a ”him” to give a name to? The biggest reason not to regard him with a name was the importance of not validating his existence. Better to be crazy than admit that creatures like that were part of his species.

  Back on the road, windows down, the hot wind blowing through the car, Scott was still repulsed by the stink left behind by the bum. If he was not real, then how could he leave a smell behind? The flipside of that, if he was real, then how could he disappear into thin air? How could he have made it from Detroit to Arizona without a car? There is no way he could hitch, who would pick him up? Even if he got someone to stop, they would leave him standing at the side of the road as soon as they got a whiff of him.

  Scott’s mind started to do laps around these questions. The speedometer slowed slightly, seventy, sixty-eight, sixty-three. He was completely unaware of his speed until a couple of kids in a rusted out pickup rumbled by, the engine thundering along unrestrained by any exhaust system. The noise from the V8 brought Scott back from his thoughts; the speedometer was now dipping below fifty.

  Ahead, the sides of the truck bed wobbled violently, the rust-weakened steel barely able to hold them in place. Scott’s foot slowly depressed on the accelerator, and the Charger blew by the rust bucket like it was tied to a fence. He looked over at the driver on the way by and almost drove off the road. It was him again, the bum, driving the pickup. He stuck his tongue out at Scott, but it wasn’t a tongue at all. It was a nightcrawler, long, shiny and brown.

  Scott’s foot hammered the gas pedal and in seconds the old truck was barely a spec in his rearview mirror. He replayed it over in his mind, the truck, the driver, the tongue. He was unable to resist and his skin crawled. The speedometer was steady at one hundred.

  When the truck was completely gone from view his cell phone rang. He slowed to sixty, and rummaged for his phone in his pants pocket. He was anxious to hear a friendly voice, someone from the office, hell even Thomas would be an improvement over the bum. He found the phone, flipped it open and held it to his ear, “Hello.”

  “Driving a bit fast Scottie, you’ll get yourself killed like that.” Scott’s face went ashen and he tossed the phone out the window. It was ‘his’ voice, how could he call him on the phone? Scott looked at the seat where the bum had been. If someone, anyone, had sat there why wasn’t that bag of chips crushed? But, if nobody sat there then why did this car stink like the street vermin from Detroit. His thoughts began to spiral in his mind like the twister. His fingers gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles went white, the muscles in his forearms burned and the veins in his wrists bulged. An involuntary scream welled up in his chest and exploded from his throat.

  Roger and Beth both jumped with a start as a red blur swept by on their left. The passing car was going so fast, the sound of the engine didn’t arrive until the car was lengths ahead.

  “That’s the weirdo we stopped for back there,” Roger said.

  “He’s going to kill himself before the end of the day,” Beth said, in a voice that was almost a whisper.

  “He won’t make it that long if he doesn’t slow down.”

  “Billy used to drive like that all the time,” Beth started with a grin. “He came home one day and Daddy went ape shit.” She laughed aloud. “Daddy got a call from Judge Ross down at the traffic court, he was one of Daddy’s poker buddies and Billy was in his morning session.”

  “That was lucky,” Roger said, thinking that any help you can get in traffic court has to be good.

  “Lucky my ass. If he had another judge he might have been found guilty, but Daddy may not have found out.”

  Roger watched Beth with adoration as she told the story. Beth had an ability to draw the listener into her anecdotes.

  With an expression that said, ‘Wait until you he
ar what happened next’ she continued. “Daddy was so mad he told Billy he couldn’t drive any of the fleet cars.” She burst into a fit of laughter and stuttered through the next part. “B-B-B-Billy said, ‘How am I going to get to work?’ And guess what Daddy said?” she asked Roger looking at him wide eyed, anxiously waiting his reply.

  “I don’t know, take a cab?”

  “Come on, Vermont, how many cabs do you think are going to drive 30 miles to the ranch to pick Billy up?”

  “So, what did your dad tell him?”

  “Daddy said, ‘Ride a damn horse if you have to but you better get there’.”

  They both laughed hysterically, imagining the horse that Billy rode into the dealership, tied to the fence behind the service bay.

  “No way your dad made him ride a horse to work.”

  “Yes he did, for a whole week.”

  Their laughter bellowed out of the Jeep, then stopped abruptly at the sight of the red car, again on the shoulder of the road. The cars hazard lights were flashing and the crazy man who had passed them a while back was standing between the taillights frantically waving his arms as though he were trying to take flight.

  “Should we stop, Roger?”

  Roger knew as much by the tone of her voice, as the fact that she didn’t call him Vermont that she didn’t want to stop. That she was really creeped out by their earlier encounter with the man in that car.

  “It’s over a hundred, Beth. If nobody else comes along he’ll die out here.”

  She stopped the Jeep alongside the Charger.

  “I ran out of gas. Can you help me out?”

  “We don’t have any in the car but when we get to the next store or gas station we’ll send someone back for you,” Beth said before Roger had a chance to offer the nut job a lift. She then drove off, leaving Scott Randall standing alone in the scorching Arizona sun.

  After what seemed like several hours of sitting on the ground in the Charger’s shadow, Scott was more than happy to pay twenty dollars for the five gallons of gas the tow truck driver delivered. He wasn’t at all interested in the driver’s tale of how those nice kids just caught him heading out the door. He couldn’t care less that the driver was on his way home for dinner. He shook his head to acknowledge the man’s appreciation for Thomas’ car but said nothing.

  The driver must have figured Scott wasn’t the chatty type and poured the gas into the car, taking great care not to spill any. When the can was empty he wiped the fender near the gas cap with a rag he pulled from his back pocket.

  “There you go, mister, she should start up now.”

  The car turned over for what seemed to Scott like an eternity then roared to life.

  “Yes sir, that’s a mighty fine car. Pete’s is a little ways up on the left. You can fill up there. You ought not try to go any further. Might not make the next station.”

  Still wiping the top of the fender surrounding the gas cap, he said, “You tell Josie that Tucker sent ya.”

  “Thanks,” was all Scott said.

  He handed him a twenty without ever looking at Tucker. Then he got in the car. As he was pulling out, he heard Tucker’s reply, barely audible over the crunching of the gravel beneath the tires. “Okie-dokie.”

  The sun was setting when Roger and Beth crossed the parking lot of Duke’s. It was a huge orange ball, the bottom half hidden below the jagged line of the distant mountain. Duke’s was a saloon right out of a Hollywood western. The whole place was a tribute to John Wayne. Pictures from every movie he had ever been in adorned the walls. The giggles had started when the waiter asked, “Can I start you pilgrims off with a drink?”

  It was the worst possible John Wayne impression. Not that Roger and Beth would have known; they had to ask who was in all the pictures all over the walls.

  Roger’s laughter stopped abruptly, followed by a small gasp as though he had been kicked in the belly by a pack mule. Perched on the driver’s side headrest was a raven. Roger was sure it was the same bird he had seen at Ike’s camp the night before.

  “What’s wrong?” Beth asked, following his gaze through the big picture window to the Jeep. A bit startled she timidly asked, “What’s with this car and frickin birds?”

  She took his hand in hers and began to walk out toward the car. Roger pulled her back, released her hand, at the same time stepping toward the car. The air was still, Duke’s air conditioner hummed behind them. Crickets chirped across the road. Roger’s shoes made little sound on the gravel but to Beth, each footstep was thunderous.

  She didn’t know why an onslaught of fear now surged through her. She had no fear of birds. She was, of course kidding herself. The fear was of Roger, or for him. Roger was walking toward the car and the bird and the way the bird watched him was scary.

  The silence was shattered by an eighteen-wheeler speeding past, on the otherwise deserted highway. The calm air was replaced with the gusts from the truck’s slipstream. Roger’s straw hat flew after the truck spiraling to rest on the center line of the road. It was an odd looking island, on a sea of asphalt.

  A shrill caw came from the Jeep as the raven took flight. Her wings flapped only long enough to get airborne then she glided to the ground next to Roger’s hat. The bird took the brim of the hat in her beak, and then spread her wings. The wingspan was half the width of the road and glimmered in the quickly fading dusk.

  “I think it wants your hat, Vermont.”

  Their giggles had returned as Roger began to stride across the pavement to retrieve his hat from the bird. The raven gave a loud caw, released the hat and with wings spread and jumped at Roger, who jumped back a step.

  Beth’s laughter reverberated in the still air, but this time Roger didn’t join in. She didn’t see the anxiety welling inside him as she called out, “Let her have the hat, Vermont, I’ll get you another one.”

  The last of the sun had slipped behind the peak of the mountain. A buzzing sound came from a track of lights that illuminated a billboard across the street. The billboard invited everyone to The Mad Dog Saloon for the coldest beer in a hundred miles. A giant black dog snarling through a mouthful of jagged white teeth stared out with blood red eyes.

  Roger’s jaw dropped as he looked to the source of the light. Lisa had warned him of the red eyed dog, Mrs. Miller had warned him in her weird trance-like voice of the red eyed dog, and didn’t Ike make mention of it?

  Scott guided Thomas’ car along the road in complete solitude. His phone was somewhere on the pavement fifty miles back. He hadn’t dared to turn on the radio for fear of an Okie-dokie, or some DJ calling himself The Nightcrawler. So there he sat, in the cockpit of the Charger, traveling sixty-five miles per hour, with nothing but his thoughts, and the sound of the wind coming in through the open windows.

  Scott had always liked the desert. The dry air, the topography, the way the day could be hot enough to bake your brain right inside your skull, yet the nights were cool enough to give you chills. It had been a while since his last Nightcrawler sighting, and he had settled into a calm, almost sedate stupor. He marveled at how quickly the sun sets in the desert. The purple sky was all that remained of the brilliant orange sunset of moments ago. The only other light came from the car headlights that he didn’t remember turning on casting a puddle of light a short distance ahead.

  Scott’s eyes were drawn to a glow that appeared out of place in the middle of the desert. As he drew closer, the light split in two. The road seemed to split the light. He thought of Charlton Heston parting the Red Sea. A few moments later and it was clear that the light on the right was a small building he assumed was a gas station or corner store. On the opposite side of the road was an illuminated sign or billboard.

  Something deep inside urged him to turn on the radio. George Thorogood belted out “Bad to the Bone”. The volume was deafening, the calm state he had enjoyed only moments ago, replaced by panic. Moreover, there standing in the middle of the road was the bum, the Nightcrawler, Matt, the vermin from Detroit.
r />   The speedometer slowly climbed, sixty-eight, seventy-two, seventy-six…

  “Roger, there’s a car coming, get off the road,” Beth screamed. Her eyes filled with horror as the oncoming headlights fixed on Roger like the eyes of cougar stalking a fawn.

  The terror in her voice tore his attention from the billboard. He spun on his heels and there it was. The big red car, the car that was old and new at the same time. How often had he seen it in his dreams? Sudden realization dawned on him. The car in his dreams was the car that was out of gas. The man in the dreams was the crazy man driving that car. It was the same car. With the quickness he showed Jack Walker in the outfield, Roger charged for the side of the road.

  Eighty-seven, ninety. “You won’t get away you stinking fuck.” Ninety-two… Scott fixed his eyes on the bum as he ran for the edge of the road. Ninety-five…

  “Roger, hurry! He doesn’t see you.”

  Roger could only hear the car. It was almost on him, he wasn’t going to be off the road in time. Beth’s screams grew more shrill with each call of his name as she ran toward him.

  “I got you now, you prick,” Scott yelled through maniacal laughter. He saw the bum make a final effort to dive for the gravel at the edge of the road. “Too late,” Scott chortled.

  There was a sickening whack, like the sound of a hardball meeting the homerun swing from an aluminum bat. The bumper of the Charger struck Roger’s right leg half way from his foot to his knee. His feet were knocked flying over his head sending him cart-wheeling through the air. The pain he felt was like nothing he had ever experienced. He felt the bones in his ankle explode on impact. His knee had bent at an angle it was never meant to go. It seemed like electricity was shooting up the length of his leg and erupting in his groin. He saw Beth running toward him then she was gone, replaced by sky, gravel, the red-eyed dog and then she was back as he pin-wheeled through the air.