Still, a chance to get in a day’s skiing, eat a few good meals, poke around antique shops . . . and some alone time—hadn’t she packed a couple paperbacks? It sounded blissful. Besides, when would she get this chance again? Monday morning and it would be back to the grind—all work and no play. No wonder thirty-five was beginning to feel like eighty. So, the weekend was hers to do whatever she liked. She just needed to make the most of it. She smiled—she was beginning to feel good already. She folded the map, switched on the high beams, and accelerated.
She owed this trip to her shrink—she would have never gotten away if Caryn hadn’t insisted. The ol’ doctor-knows-best ploy. But it worked and Edie promised to review the list of stressors that they’d worked on together: thou shall not be late, thou shall not spend recklessly, thou shall not overeat—well, maybe that one could wait. She was counting on enjoying the Snickers bar she’d stashed in the console. She’d cut out of the meeting before dinner, so the Snickers should be guilt-free.
She sighed. What wasn’t guilt-free was the way she’d snapped at Caryn on the phone. She’d only called Edie to say thanks . . . again. She credited Edie with saving her thousands in construction costs on her dream house. All because Edie had looked at a photo of the lot and saw mounds in the shape of graves. Caryn had had the ground consecrated, the freak accidents had stopped, and building was progressing without a hitch. Blind luck. Happenstance. Anyone could have guessed there were graves. But Caryn insisted that no one could see them, only Edie.
What hocus-pocus BS. Contrary to what Caryn thought, she didn’t have special powers. No gifts from the beyond or visions like her Great Aunt Edith, the one she was named after. Everyone knew her visions came out of a bottle.
The ring-tone suddenly sounded shrill and insistent . . . well, enough of that. What a great way to start the weekend—she’d turn off her BlackBerry. No texting, no pesky e-mails, the world could wait. She dug one-handed in her purse while keeping an eye on the road, only to have the BlackBerry squirt from her grasp and clatter to the floorboards. Damn. She was always dropping the thing—one more time and it probably wouldn’t work. But she didn’t want to answer it anyway. She’d hunt for it later; it wasn’t going anywhere.
She was making pretty good time, but it was interesting how perfectly black a moonless night could be—on a two-lane road without neon signage and homes tucked behind rolling hills. No sightseeing at this hour. But she was warm and had found one static-free radio station. Life could be worse. Or maybe not.
Coming to a stop at the intersection of 285 and 64, she watched a highway patrolman drag an electric signboard to the center of the two lanes in front of her. “Weather warning: Closed to through traffic until further notice.”
Ridiculous. She pressed the down button on the window and took a peek at the sky—not a cloud in sight. She crossed the intersection and pulled behind the patrol car, then braving the cold, hopped out. A blast of wind plastered her dress to her body. She turned her back into the gale, and felt the material cup her backside like a second skin. She sensed rather than saw eyes take in the spectacle and for the first time that day was pleased she was wearing the knit. Cold be damned.
“Hey, you’re gonna freeze. No use talking out here when my heater’s running.” He motioned toward the patrol car, walked to the passenger side, and opened the door. He was right, the car was toasty. She sank into the seat and didn’t try to pull her dress below her knees. He was cute—not just a little cute, bona fide darling. And definitely her age.
He slid his seat back so that he could comfortably turn toward her. She tried not to stare at his ring finger as he slipped off his gloves. But no ring—not even an indentation.
“Kenny Walsh.” He held out his hand.
“Edie Holcomb.” His hand was warm and engulfed hers. She was reluctant to break the connection.
“Now, how can I help?”
“I need to get to Durango. I’m surprised by the weather sign.” Hadn’t the TV weatherman given the storm off of California a 70 percent chance of going bust? This was the week before Thanksgiving and snow could be expected, but the year had been dry. Ski resorts were panicking. Even man-made snow wasn’t doing the trick.
“Don’t expect much precip before midnight but that’s a nine-thousand-foot pass. If there’s moisture in the area, it’ll be snow before you know it. And trust me, you don’t want to get caught in a storm out there. Zero visibility, roads slicker ‘n snot . . .”
“But won’t I be in Durango before there’s any danger of that?”
“Well, yeah, guess you’re right. I’d say you don’t have to worry for a while—should have plenty of time. You’re lucky, you know. I’ve been working this stretch of highway for ten years and this year’s the latest we’ve ever closed. Things are usually shut down by mid-October. This is one mean mountain for weather.” He smiled, softening the weathered skin around his eyes. He could be a bit older than she’d first thought, late thirties, maybe. But hazel eyes, blondish-brown lashes, curly thick hair that he self-consciously finger-combed off his forehead . . . she found her breath coming just a bit quicker.
“Guess I am lucky. I can’t imagine backtracking to Espanola and then up 84. If I read the map right, that’s the only alternative.”
“Not a lot of roads out here. But you should be okay if you get going.” He turned on the car’s headlights, then flipped them to bright to take in the roadblock. “Stay to the left; you’ll get around the sign just fine.” She hated getting back out in the cold but took a deep breath and hurried to her car. A quick wave and she was off, around the sign, and headed west.
The snow totally ignored its schedule. In a scant hour, big, fluffy flakes slipped down the windshield and puddled under the wipers. Double damn. She slowed to sixty, then fifty, and finally forty-five. Kenny hadn’t been kidding, the road was treacherous. She lost traction on every curve. She knew she was climbing but her headlights were useless—like throwing the light from tiny, twin flashlights into a wall of cotton. She switched to low beams. No better. Absolutely no visibility. Her speed was now fifteen miles per hour and decreasing.
The elk came from the left up and over the edge of the drop. She probably would have been blindsided in broad daylight, never expecting an animal from that direction. But would she ever be able to forget that eight-point rack, the majestically crowned head that turned for one brief second to look directly at her? Because then she did everything wrong—hit the brakes, held them, didn’t turn into the spin. She didn’t see, only felt, the car violently fishtail, leaving the highway to spin a hundred and eighty degrees, bumping rear-end first up, then down a slight embankment, coming to rest with both front wheels off the ground, headlights aimed toward the treetops.
She tried to quiet her breathing by relaxing, leaning forward to rest her head against the steering wheel and taking inventory. Nothing broken, nothing bleeding, nothing really hurting . . . she ventured a couple deep breaths. No searing pain. Ribs intact. She seemed to be all right. Now if she could just stop shaking.
She turned the lights off and then the ignition. Quickly the windshield clouded with snow, and she realized just how dark and how quiet the world could be when wrapped in a cocoon. And how cold. Warmer clothes were in her luggage—in the trunk. Think. She’d been a Girl Scout. Surely she’d learned survival skills. But badges in folk dancing, culinary arts, and animal husbandry weren’t going to help her now. Wait. The BlackBerry. Surely, there was a wrecker service out this way—even if it had to come from Taos. She stretched sideways across the passenger’s seat and felt along the floor. There. She snatched it up and dialed 411, only to watch the smartphone futilely search for a network. She dropped it back in her purse. Useless. Now what?
She was pretty certain the high-centered car wasn’t going anywhere. It would take a truck and a winch to get it back on the road. Nothing less. So, what did that leave? Walking out? Stay on the road, continue west—but then what? No one would be coming along; the road was
closed—she assumed from both directions. She was still three hours—driving sixty-five—from civilization. Unless someone lived out this far. But that was doubtful if the only road was closed much of the year. Weighing the options, instinct told her to stay put. Run the heater intermittently with a window cracked but first get all her clothes out of the trunk. Wrapping up in layers, extra socks, ski pants, mask and hood should keep her from frostbite. And she’d reassess in the morning. She popped the lever that opened the trunk.
Trying to hold the car door open while she crawled out was the first challenge. It was a full three feet to the ground, the car was tilted and stiletto heels made any leaping an act of faith. She pushed against the door with both hands, turned sideways, dangled her feet above the ground, then slipped off the seat to stand upright while still leaning against the door before wiggling to her left and letting it thud shut. Hauling two overstuffed bags out of the trunk and up the slight incline, then hoisting them onto the backseat would be her next challenge. Two inches of snow made guesswork out of maintaining footing. She took a step and slipped on loose gravel.
At first, lights above her and to her right didn’t register. Then, oh my God, someone was coming. A car. Hurriedly, she jerked open the rental’s driver-side door, leveraged the heavy door with her shoulder, leaned in, fumbled for the lights, turned them on, and watched as a pickup slowed, then stopped.
“Here! I’m down here!” Could she be heard? Ignoring the near impossibility of four-inch heels navigating a snowy incline, she scrambled upward. Above her, a hand suddenly thrust through the swirling snow.
“Grab on here. Let’s git you on the road.”
“. . . trying to make it to Durango . . . dodged an elk.” She was out of breath and bent double, gasping for air when she reached the road. Altitude. She wasn’t used to this. But she was on solid ground.
“Probably not gonna git there tonight.” He laughed at what he seemed to think was uproariously funny. Then he sobered. “Least I can do is git you to someplace warm. Anybody else in this wreck?”
She shook her head.
He led her by the arm to the pickup, opened the door, and waited until she could pull herself onto the seat. “I assume you got some luggage down there?”
She nodded, and found her voice. “Trunk’s open. Purse is on the front seat.” Deep breaths, gulps really, but starting to slow. He closed the door and was gone. The truck’s interior smelled musky. Funky. Not really unpleasant, but sort of an animal smell. Like chickens had been roosting in it. And it was old—a real museum piece. She found herself hoping she wouldn’t be riding in it for long . . . and its owner, a scarecrow of a man, tall, lanky, grease-stained sweatshirt over too-loose jeans. Difficult to guess his age, maybe fifties. But it was the eye-patch—a black square with rounded corners hugging his left eye, secured by black ties knotted in back of his head and buried in a wad of dirty blond hair—that gave him a menacing demeanor.
Then she admonished herself. Looking the gift horse in the mouth wasn’t too wise. Didn’t he save her from a cold night? If not something worse? And it was obvious that he’d survived something horrendous himself—disease, an accident, maybe. She was startled by a thud directly behind her. Her luggage, of course. He must have put it in the truck’s bed.
The driver-side door opened, “Here’s yer keys and purse. I closed the trunk and locked the car. Don’t want nobody taking what ain’t their’s.”
She idly wondered who would be out in this weather looking for something to steal. Didn’t seem likely but, again, she was thankful for the help.
“Thanks. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Larry, and yer?”
“Edie. I really appreciate this.” She smiled.
“Don’t mention it.” He turned toward her and smiled back. Missing teeth caused his lip to curve inward, making the effort more of a sneer. He slipped the truck into gear, and carefully made a U-turn. “Gonna take you back up the road to an inn. You’ll be warm tonight and in the morning Bob can call you a tow.”
“A bed-and-breakfast?”
“Yep, guess you could call it that.”
“That’s great.” Suddenly she didn’t care about the cab’s smell. A B&B! What good luck. Nothing sounded better than a hot bath, warm sheets . . . maybe get started on one of the novels.
“You were real close. It’s just up here at the end of this road.” The pickup bounced to the right and down a slight incline. How could he even know where the road was? Snow obscured everything. Wipers were almost useless, but as they pulled up in front of a rambling farm house with dormers, she noticed they were the only vehicle. Looked like she might be the only customer.
“You go on up and check in. I’ll bring yer bags.”
A bell on a desk in the hall summoned the proprietor, who turned out to be “Bob.” A nice man, as clean and squat and chubby as her driver was mussed and lean. But then she sucked in her breath. Bob also wore a black eye-patch.
“Mill accident.”
“Pardon?”
“I saw you noticed . . .” He gestured toward his left eye. “Happened years ago, nasty accident. You passed the saw mill on your left . . . corner of 64 and 285? Closed now. Regular death trap. No OSHA in my day.”
“And Larry?”
“That ol’ conveyor belt made us twins. Only good thing is we’re both right-handed.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.”
“If you’re right-handed, you don’t want to lose your right eye—you compensate better if it’s opposite your dominant side.” This time Bob winked with his good eye. “Nope, under the circumstances, we were both lucky. Now, enough about me. Let’s get you checked in and tucked in.”
She put her credit card on the desk and moved to sign the register.
“Sorry, I shoulda said we’re not set up to take those. More out of laziness, just never got the paperwork done. Cash is always good, or a check.”
“How much is a single room?”
“Fifty-five.”
Wow. That was a bargain. How long had it been since she’d paid fifty-five dollars for a room—and breakfast? “Plus tax?”
“Nah, I don’t bother. More of that paperwork.” He grinned, scrunching up his good eye and making the eye-patch bounce against a fat cheek. “Listen, why don’t we settle up in the morning—give me time to print out a receipt.”
The accountant in her was screaming “audit,” but there she went again, looking at that gift horse. She should be so thankful to be out of the weather.
“That’ll be fine.”
“You like a sandwich? Kitchen’s closed, but I could rustle up something. There’s coffee and hot chocolate in the room.”
“Hot chocolate sounds perfect. I’m past being hungry—a warm bed trumps any thought of food at this point.”
“I understand. Guess you’ll be needing me to call the wrecker in the morning?”
“Yes, thanks.” Information traveled quickly around here, she noted.
“Away we go, then. I’ll get the boy to bring that luggage up in a few minutes.”
She wasn’t sure who the boy was—to date, she’d only seen two people, Larry and Bob. But as long as she didn’t have to drag her own luggage up a flight of stairs . . . She always overpacked. Another stressor. She made a mental note to add it to the list.
The room was toward the back of a long hallway on the second floor. An unlighted long hallway. There were bulbs in the ceiling fixtures—maybe they were trying to save money. Bob opened the door with an old-fashioned metal key—one of a circle of many. “I want to apologize about putting you in a converted storeroom. We’re expecting a big party tonight—snow’s slowed ’em down. ’Fraid this is all I have left.”
“If it has a bed, I’ll be fine.”
But after he left, she looked around. The bed was a thin, ticked mattress of cotton batting thrown onto a rough wooden frame. There were no sheets, just two khaki green blankets—both wool, both scratchy. And she wasn’t really sur
e they were clean. There were no women’s touches—no starched linens, fluffy towels, aromatic soap—in fact, there was no bathroom. Must be down the hall. Funny, Bob hadn’t pointed it out. There was a Coleman camp stove on a card table in the corner with a blue-speckled, enamel-over-tin coffeepot—a package of cocoa next to it. That was positive. But she wasn’t going to feel safe lighting a propane camp stove indoors.
A soft knock interrupted her inventory and she opened the door to a young man in Goth black, including spiked locks with neon pink tips that fell forward over his forehead. Large black-rimmed sunglasses completed the look. She congratulated herself once again for not having children.
“You want these in there?” Chains hanging off his belt clunked against the door as he leaned in to point.
For just a moment she was tempted with a smart retort, No, just leave them out in the hall. But she stepped back so he could enter.
“Yes, please. You can put the smaller one down there.” She pointed to the foot of the bed. “I’d like that one on the bed. Easier to unpack.” She watched as he moved forward, wrestling with one bag at a time as he carried them through the doorway. She wondered why he hadn’t popped up the pull-handles. It was like he’d never seen luggage before.
She watched as he struggled to lift the large case onto the bed. He seemed frail—thin, undernourished, and decidedly weak.
“Here, let me help you with that.” She stepped forward, grabbed one end of the bag and lifted, knocking him off-balance. He caught himself before he fell, but his glasses slipped to the floor.
It was all she could do not to scream. He grabbed up the glasses and slammed them back on—but not before she’d seen the pink, pulpy indentation where his left eye had been. This was no mill accident—this was recent and still not healed.
More Stories from the Twilight Zone Page 31
