Helms was about to tell the man what he could do with his tape, but was surprised to find that she’d already accepted it.
“I’m not going to-” she started to say, but that energy in her spine was still building. She wanted to laugh, scream, dance, run somewhere or punch something or maybe just weep uncontrollably. The caravan was becoming painfully claustrophobic.
The man smiled at her. Nothing mischievous or sinister in the gesture this time. Just understanding and empathy. He motioned her towards the door, and she bolted out of it, tripping down the steps and sprawling in the gravel driveway. The recorder went spinning out of her hands. She frantically crawled over to it and checked its integrity. It looked intact. She hit play, and heard the first bass tones crackle out of the tinny speakers.
She sobbed with relief.
***
Helms had been sitting in her cruiser in the station parking lot for fifteen minutes. Her fingertips dug into the soft leather grips of the steering wheel. She ground her teeth together so tightly that she could taste the chalky dust of enamel. Tears filled her eyes, blurred her vision, lending the external spotlights little unfocused halos.
Beside her, the tape recorder sat on the central console. She shivered uncontrollably. She thought about her pistol, buttoned into her holster. She thought about how it might taste. But every time her hand moved down for it, it started drifting toward the recorder instead.
The back door to the station opened, and a figure stepped out. Large and male, she could tell by the silhouette, but the details were lost behind her haze of tears. The figure peered toward the cruiser, ducked its head and shielded its eyes against the light.
‘No, please,’ Helms thought. ‘Just walk away.’
The figure approached the passenger side of the cruiser. Helms heard the thunk of a handle being lifted, and the interior lights flicked on. She kept her eyes locked straight ahead. Her hands on the wheel. She felt the car shift as the man’s weight settled in beside her. The door closed.
The man grunted, cleared his throat with some difficulty, and croaked “what’s going on, Helms?”
She didn’t respond.
“Helms?” He tried again.
Price reached over and set his hand on her shoulder. The contact broke everything. Her resolve crumbled. Her shaky hand pried its nails from the wheel, and began moving downward of its own accord.
“I’m sorry, Price,” her voice cracked. “It’s not me.”
He watched with some confusion as she picked up the tape recorder, and pressed play.
A few opening notes of static, a deep, almost imperceptible bass, and a screaming whistle that danced wildly through the registers.
Carrier Wave: A Day Of Knowing Tale Page 4
