A slow constant wind slipping through the trees of the Blue Ridge Mountains, skating across the grass, scurrying grit from the shoulders of the interstate onto the tarmac. Dust devils short-lived, dancing in the black. Dead leaves slapping across windshields and clinging to blades, fluttering, scraping, slipping away in shreds. A paper cup rolling into a ditch. Pebbles stirring.
The temperature cool without being cold.
Dark between the exits.
No lights but a pair of headlamps.
No lights at all.
* * * *
2
Stan Hogan knew things.
He knew how to slip through a town North or South without getting arrested; he knew how to cheek neighborhoods and malls for work without someone calling the cops and calling him a prowler; he knew how to make canned food last twice, three times longer that it was supposed to.
He knew how not to die.
He also knew, as he trudged along the interstate, Roanoke on his right and behind, swimming fast toward midnight, that if he didn’t catch a ride soon, he was going to have to spend another damn night in this damn place, and that would probably make him mad.
He hated it when he got mad.
He did stupid things.
It wasn’t as if he didn’t know what he was doing; it was simply that as he was doing them, he knew they were dumb.
Sometimes he stole, sometimes he hit people, sometimes he took the little money he carried and went into a bar and drank that money into a ball-peen hangover that more often than not landed him in a cell, some guy calling him a vagrant, maybe some other guy, seeing he didn’t do drugs and wasn’t as old as he looked, calling around town trying to find him work so he wouldn’t be a vagrant anymore.
It didn’t happen often.
Three, maybe four times a year.
Three, maybe four times more than he wanted.
Like the traveling, it was something he did.
Not that he minded the traveling part. Hell’s bells on a reindeer, hadn’t he been doing it since God knew when? Hadn’t he seen damn near every state in the Union over the past ten years? And damn near every jail?
Nah, he didn’t mind it much at all, usually. Come down to it, he’d rather be doing this than sitting in an office, wearing a goddamn noose, suit, polished shoes, matching socks. Come down to it, he’d just about rather be doing anything else at all than that.
Except doing it like this, in the middle of the week, slumping along the interstate, hardly anyone on the road, empty stomach, tired feet, the backpack adjusted but his back killing him anyway.
A nice night, at least, the moon, the stars; at least it wasn’t like walking down a dead tunnel like it was sometimes when the clouds crept in and took the light from him because he hadn’t been paying attention. Air just right, just cool enough to hold back the sweat, just warm enough to hold back the sweat, just warm enough to ward off the shivers.
Slumping along.
Singing a song.
He laughed aloud, and loudly.
Guy he had met, not long after he’d hit the road, he had called Stan a natural. Not very tall, a little on the round side, but a face that would charm, the guy said, the mother side of every woman in the country. Although, Stan had to admit, not the eyes. They were bigger than a man’s ought to be, and when he widened them, he looked less like the good old deer caught in the headlights than he did someone who had just had a stiletto slipped into his back.
It took him years to get those eyes to stay partially closed without him thinking about it.
They opened all the way only when he got mad.
Three, maybe four times a year.
With a quick look back, he stepped into the near lane to get around a drainage ditch, moved quickly back to the shoulder and moved on. All without half thinking about it.
A natural.
Five days out of high school, telling his old man he was gonna see the country before he headed for college. The old man wished him well. Stan hugged him, kissed him on the cheek, never saw him again. Never saw college, either, for that matter.
He liked the road too much.
Natural.
Singing a song.
Side by side with the night and the moon and the stars and the wind.
So when he saw the lights slipping down the hill toward him, he flipped a coin he didn’t have and prayed it wasn’t a state trooper. They were nice down here most of the time, but they had a job, and part of that job was making sure little round guys with big eyes didn’t hitch on the federally funded highway.
The way the lights grew, he knew there wasn’t much time.
After settling his backpack, he swept a quick practiced hand over his trench coat, dusting as best as he could before pushing the hand back through the thatch of pale blond on his head. Touched his beard, trimmed once a week. Smoothed his mustache, trimmed once a week. Blinked several times before he found the right expression, the one that said, I’m okay, I ain’t gonna knife you, all I want is a seat before my legs fall off.
Hard to do in the dark.
Stan was good at it.
A natural.
But no thumb. Never a thumb on a road like this.
It was a technical point; he could argue he was just walking, officer, easier here than on the side roads, those things got him lost most of the time. Some cops grinned and let him go; others glared and let him go; a handful now and then, especially in winter when they didn’t want to stop and let in the cold, yanked him in faster than a trout on a thin line.
A look over his shoulder.
The look.
Hoping the driver would glance his way as he passed, sixty, seventy miles an hour in the middle of the night in the middle of the invisible gut of the Shenandoah Valley.
He heard the car, saw the dark ahead begin to fade in the approaching glow.
He made sure there was plenty of room between himself and the right-hand lane, just in case it was a drunk, or a kid, or an idiot who wanted to play matador, see how close he could come without taking off Stan’s hip.
He also made sure there was a stretch ahead wide enough for the driver to pull over if he was of a mind. No sense trying to hitch on a bridge, or along a ditch, or on a short curve. Not good in broad daylight; suicide at night.
Then, as the glow brightened and he grew a shadow, he looked.
The car pulled over smoothly and stopped.
Behind him.
Wheels crunching on the gravelly dirt, lights too white, making him squint, shading his eyes with one hand, half turned, slightly hunched, legs trembling for the action call.
Stan Hogan knew things.
And he knew this wasn’t right.
Nobody stopped before they got a good look at him, checking him out on the way by.
Pinned to the night, now, like a moth on black velvet.
Still, the constant wind was getting ready to give him a headache, and his stomach had already growled a half dozen times in the past ten minutes. And it sure wasn’t as if he couldn’t take care of himself; Jesus, he’d had enough practice. And it wasn’t as if whoever was behind the wheel, just sitting there, waiting on him to move, couldn’t see that he wasn’t starving, that he wasn’t a shrimp.
What the hell, he decided when neither he nor the car moved after a full minute; beggars and hobos can’t be choosers.
He smiled just enough, and trudged back, keeping to the shoulder, lowering his hand to prove he wasn’t really afraid. Moving. Just moving. Coming up and around and finally away from the glare and stopping before he got to the door.
Oh, my God, he thought; my God, would you look at that, for God’s sake, Daddy, would you take a look at that.
Shadow behind the windshield leaned over, and the door opened without a sound, not a creak, not a groan.
Stan nodded, just once, and moved up, hand braced on the top and leaned over. Not in. Never in. No threats here, just a guy.
“How far are you going?’’ the driver asked. Q
uietly.
“Do you know,” he said, breaking all the rules, “this is the biggest goddamn car I’ve ever seen in my life?”
The laughter was quick and light, the same as a thank-you, and he could see her now, the dashboard just bright enough, and not bright enough to show him her eyes. But he knew there was no fear in that car, that cavern on wheels, that magnificent Continental gunboat nearly as white and silent as the moon, silver horse in full gallop fixed on the hood. So he grinned, and eased his backpack from his shoulders, slid in, set the pack on his lap, closed the door as gently as he could, and shook his head slowly. Keeping his hands carefully folded in his lap, feet flat on the rubber mat.
Looking straight ahead; it wasn’t right to stare.
When the car moved, he barely felt it.
Not a sound.
Not a goddamn sound.
* * * *
3
“So,” she said, reaching over to switch on the radio. “How far are you going?”
“Wherever,” he answered, as honest as he could.
Some kind of symphony almost too soft to hear; but he could hear the clarinets, bassoons, and something else behind them. Timpani, stately and steady.
She nodded, hands at ten and two. “I’m leaving Virginia.”
“Okay by me.”
He looked then, and saw a young woman’s profile, sensed more than saw short dark hair, jeans, and a light jacket not denim.
She glanced over and smiled mischievously. “Every male’s fantasy, right?”
He didn’t answer.
“I mean, getting picked up by a woman.”
He didn’t answer.
“She gets tired, maybe suggests a stop for the night. And why bother with two rooms since he obviously can’t afford it, and she doesn’t want him sleeping in the car or someplace outside. It wouldn’t be fair. Coffee maybe, if the restaurant’s open.”
He couldn’t answer.
“They talk a little, nothing deep, right? Then they go to her room, she suggests maybe he’d like a real shower for a change.”
A soft voice, a soft accent; South, maybe, but he couldn’t tell exactly where.
Saxophones, and bells.
“After fussing around a little while, a little embarrassed, for crying out loud, he gets in, and nearly faints from all that hot water and perfumed soap, and he’s thinking that if he’s really died and gone to heaven, she’ll suddenly yank back the shower curtain and join him.”
He knew things.
“Maybe,” she said, looking over, ignoring the road, “she’ll offer to soap him up if he’ll soap her. I mean, she’s been driving all day and most of the night, and she’s stiff. It’s the least he can do for the ride and the room. And all that water, Stan, pounding on his head, maybe it’s making him a little dizzy.” She laughed almost soundlessly. “It’s sure as hell making him horny, wouldn’t you say?”
He knew she was driving too damn fast; there was no way he could jump out without killing himself.
He knew that she was just talking, there was no fantasy here.
He knew that she shouldn’t have known his name.
She turned her smile toward him, and it must have been the dashboard’s dim light, the shadows, the weariness, the growling in his stomach, the long hours on the road.
It must have been.
Because her teeth were too sharp.
“Stan,” she said, parting her lips just a little, “tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Vampire,” he blurted, and felt like an instant fool. A kid, instead of an old man not quite thirty. “For a minute there I thought you was a vampire.” He chuckled and ducked his head. “Or a werewolf, something like that.”
She didn’t laugh, but she looked back to the road.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m... I’m sorry.”
“A vampire?”
He nodded.
“Stan,” she said, “even if that were true, it would be the least of your problems.”
* * * *
4
He knew he wasn’t alone.
With a smile so false he was positive it was insulting, he checked slowly over his shoulder. It was too dark back there in that mansion-sized rear seat, but not so dark that he couldn’t make out someone tucked comfortably into the far corner, and someone else curled up right behind him.
Oh God, I’m gonna die.
The driver tsked as she glanced at the rearview mirror. “You’re scaring the man. Introduce yourselves before he climbs through the roof.”
He heard quiet laughter, and some giggling.
“Not fair,” the driver said, scolding with a smile. “Stan’s not stupid, you know. And you’re not invisible.”
A second after the giggling finally stopped, he heard a woman, call herself Lupé, and saw the hand reach out of the dark. A nice hand. A little tough when he twisted around to grip it, lots of hard work there in those fingers, nearly as strong as he was, nearly as large.
Another hand reached out, much younger, softer, but he couldn’t tell if it belonged to a boy or a girl, and the owner only giggled, didn’t give him a name, didn’t come into the dim light.
He nodded. “Stan Hogan.”
“Nice to meet you, Stan,” Lupé said.
Giggling again, and a whispered, “Likewise.”
A moment and a smile more for courtesy, and he faced front again, gripping the pack hard, crushing it to his stomach.
I’m gonna die.
The driver reached out and patted his leg. “You’ve been on the road a long time, haven’t you? It must be hard to be around people.”
He shook his head. “Nope. No. I’m—”
“Don’t be. I’ll make you the same offer I made the others— if you want to leave, just say the word and I’ll drop you off.” He sensed the kindness, the genuine offer. “At an exit where you can get something to eat, maybe some sleep, by the way.” She laughed. “I sure won’t drop you off with nothing but farms around for miles.”
He thought, what the hell, and nodded. “Okay.”
Another mile driving too damn fast.
Horns, and violins.
“How old are you, Stan? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?’’
His eyes widened before he could stop them. “God, you’re good!” Realized immediately how loud he sounded, how softly she spoke.
She shrugged. “Practice, that’s all. Lots of practice. I mean, you’ve probably been more places than ninety percent of the people in this country, and I’ll bet you can tell at a glance what most of those people are like.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Well... kinda.”
“You pretty much know who’ll give you food, or some work, things like that, right?”
Another shrug. “Well... I guess.”
“So ... what do you think?”
He didn’t know; he didn’t say.
“Have you been on the road long?” Lupé asked, staying back in the dark.
“Yes.”
The driver turned toward him, half her face gone, half touched by the dashboard glow. “What can you tell me about me, Stan?”
“Well, you sure ain’t a vampire.”
Three laughs, and a giggling.
Reeds, and soft percussion,
“Get some rest, Stan. We’ve a long way to go.”
* * * *
5
“You know, Sue—”
“Susan.”
“Yeah. Sorry. But no offense, I really could use something to eat.”
“We’ll stop as soon as we get into Maryland or Pennsylvania, okay?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Then we can all get cleaned up, refreshed, be ready to go”
“You know, you still haven’t told me where we’re going.”
“Have you ever killed a man, Stan?”
“Nope. Well... I guess maybe. I’m not really sure.”
“Well, that’s where we’re going.”
* * * *
; 2
B
abysitting wasn’t exactly the way Cora had hoped to spend the summer, but with the guys working the river, and Rina working at the diner most of the time, it was at least a way to earn a few bucks, and stay, away from her father.
Symphony - [Millennium Quartet 01] Page 6
