Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  Alex stood at the edge of the table, about to ask to be seated a booth away for privacy’s sake, but the air force man glanced up at that moment and, catching her eye, glowered darkly at her from beneath thick salt-and-pepper brows. It was a look meant to scare her off, but it only served as a challenge. She slid into the seat, keeping her eyes on him until Eric blocked her view.

  “Coffee?” the waitress asked.

  “Please,” Alex said, opening her menu. Eric nodded, and the girl hurried toward the kitchen.

  “Dr. Manderley?”

  “Eric, I thought we agreed that you’d call me Alex when we’re not at the institute.”

  The young man blushed. “I know. It just seems . . . sacrilegious or something.”

  She laughed. “You’ve got to get over that. You’ve nearly got your doctorate, after all.” As she spoke she saw the air force man—a colonel, she noted, named Dole—bend closer, eavesdropping. She hoped he hadn’t caught her name: She was, she knew, just a wee bit of an annoyance to them. A small challenge, she amended, smiling smugly to herself.

  5

  Justin Martin

  AS USUAL, MADELYN WAS MONDAY-NIGHT-DEAD. ALL THE GAS stations were open, and the vacancy sign at the Satellite Motel flashed brightly, but only one car was in the lot. Though a fair number of big trucks and an occasional car flew by on the interstate, there was virtually no movement here on the business loop. A Coors sign flashed in the window of the Cactus Flower, a bar where people went to two-step on the weekend, but its lot was nearly empty as well. Justin was pleased that there was no sign of the old fat sheriff, because Baskerville gave him a real pain in the ass.

  A moment later, he turned in to the huge lot holding Ray’s Truck Stop complex and pulled in next to a new red Bronco in front of the café where Christie Fox was working tonight. He killed the engine, took a bottle of Obsession from his glove box and splashed a little on, then checked his hair in the mirror a final time. Perfect.

  Justin pushed open the glass and chrome diner door. The heavenly scent of burgers and fries assailed him—the food here was incredible despite the fact that the place looked like a greasy spoon.

  Justin sat down in a booth in Christie’s section and admired his new boots, shiny black with western heels. Then, bored, he took in the booths holding harried-looking travelers with their whiny brats. Ray Vine was standing behind the counter bullshitting with some locals and truckers. Nothing new there. Then he turned his attention to the pair sitting in the next booth.

  The male had his back to Justin and he couldn’t see much except for the carrot red hair and limber, long-fingered hands that kept forming boxes in the air as he spoke. He had an enthusiastic but mildly adenoidal voice that made Justin instantly dislike him.

  The woman was another matter altogether. She was older, maybe thirty or even more; she possessed one of those ageless faces that wouldn’t betray her for years to come. The man said something to her and her laughter sounded like smoke. The most intriguing thing about her, however, was her genetics.

  Her shoulder-length black hair was very wavy, very glossy, and her skin tone was an unusual dusky toffee color. He could barely see the faint sprinkling of freckles across the nose and cheeks. Her large dark eyes had the slightest tilt, and her lips were full and dark. He wondered what she looked like naked.

  She looked up at that moment. Without missing a beat, he caught her eye and gave her a varsity grin. She smiled back. She was probably used to being stared at.

  “I’ll be with you in just a second, sir . . . Oh, hi, Justin,” Christie called breathlessly as she flew by laden with dishes for one of the traveling families.

  “No problem,” he said, pulling his new paperback from his pocket. Murderous Minds, fresh off the press, featured an entire chapter on the Peeler Murders, and he opened to it now, quickly reading through the text for the second time. The text contained nothing new, but that was fine: Flipping a few more pages to the photo insets, he studied the photo that had made him buy the book. It was a shot he had seen in another book, but it had been too small to do more than just give him the intriguing impression that he knew one of the people in the picture.

  The photo here was larger and slightly enhanced. It showed a sheet-draped body halfway down an alley, and several people standing closer to the camera. The caption read: “Police talk to witnesses Charles Pilgrim, 17, and Victor Pilgrim, 15, who discovered the partially skinned body of Sally Cantori, 19, in this Brooklyn alley. The youths were on their way to school when they found the body. Cantori was the Peeler’s third and final victim.”

  Justin studied the grainy photo. The Peeler murders fascinated him because so little was known about the killer. Justin wanted to know how the Peeler did his work so exquisitely, why he did it, and how he got away with the crimes. He intended to find out all those things and more, and he had hoped one day to get the answers from the Peeler himself. Now he was virtually certain he would succeed. The Voice had told him so, and now the photo was proof.

  There was no mistaking the aquiline nose, the thin face, the regal Roman jut of the cheekbones and jaw, or the dark-browed eyes.

  Even the names were the same, one Anglicized, one Italianate. Pilgrim. Pelegrine. Who would have thought that a serial killer would be reading fortunes in a little dump like Madelyn?

  I know who you are, Carlo Pelegrine. You’re the Peeler.

  “What are you smiling about, Justin?”

  He closed the book and looked up into Christie Fox’s twinkling baby blues. “About seeing you.”

  She snorted and set a glass of water down in front of him. “You think you’re pretty smooth, don’t you?”

  He shrugged disarmingly.

  “What are you reading?” Christie snatched up the book. “Murderous Minds? Gross!”

  Hiding his anger, he took the book from her and put it away. “I’m interested in all sorts of things.”

  The exotic woman at the next table signaled Christie. “Just a minute, ma’am,” she called. “Justin, I can’t talk right now. What can I get you?”

  “Double cheeseburger, rare, chili fries, and a chocolate malt. I’m in a hurry right now,” he added apologetically, “but I wanted to ask you if you want to go for a soda after you get off work. You mentioned you needed help with your algebra, so I thought we could go over it then.”

  She looked doubtful. “I don’t get off until eleven.”

  “I’ll come back and pick you up. And I’ll make sure you ace your homework.”

  “I have to get home by twelve or my folks’ll kill me.”

  He gave her a sheepish grin. “Mine’ll kill me if I’m later than eleven-thirty, so you’ll be home in plenty of time.”

  “Well, okay, but it’s just a friends thing. Dutch treat.”

  “If you insist.”

  He watched her as she moved to the next table and assured the odd couple their order was coming right up, then wiggled her ass for him all the way to the kitchen to deliver his order. He’d made progress: Last time he tried this, she wouldn’t even go dutch treat. Her loyalty to Spelman was starting to slip—or at least her grades in algebra. Good thing, too, bitch.

  Christie said something to Ray Vine and he stared at the couple at the next table, then smiled and walked over to them. “My waitress tells me you folks are here to check out our UFOs.”

  The woman smiled and put out her hand. “Alex Manderley.”

  “Ray Vine.”

  “This is my assistant, Eric Watson,” she added, and Justin detected a slight British accent.

  “Well, you two don’t look like uniforms.”

  “No, we’re with a private institute,” Alex Manderley said. “Do you get a lot of military types around here?”

  “Now and then,” Ray replied softly. “Unfriendly sons of bitches, excuse my French.” He gave a little half smile, obviously aware of the colonel in the next booth. “Bad tippers.”

  “They’re the bane of my existence.” The woman chuckled.


  Vine stepped back as Christie set their plates before them. “One of my waitresses is really into the UFOs.”

  Manderley glanced warily at Christie.

  “Not me,” the girl said before leaving. “He means Janet.”

  “She even has a little club she organized—the Space Friends.”

  “I’d like to interview her eventually,” Manderley said. “But for now, we’re trying to keep a low profile.”

  Vine nodded. “I understand. My lips are sealed. Some of those Space Friends are a little eccentric. Most folks around here call them the Hole in the Head Gang. Not in front of Janet, though.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting them,” Manderley said as Christie put Justin’s burger platter in front of him.

  “I’ll see you at eleven,” he said quickly, wanting her to stop blocking his view and making noise.

  Nodding, she moved on.

  “By the way,” Manderley was saying to Ray Vine, “how difficult is it to find Spirit Canyon in the dark? We have a map, but you never know about dirt roads.”

  “Is that where you’re setting up?”

  Manderley nodded and Ray rubbed his chin. “Well, if you’ve never been there, it’s a little tricky. There are some sheer drops that about take your breath away, but if you hug the mountain, you’ll be just fine.”

  Damn! Justin couldn’t have these UFO morons anywhere near Thunder Road tonight. They’d ruin his plans.

  He ate silently, and by the time he finished, he had a plan. He paid his check, timing it so that Manderley and her nerd were right behind him. Walking to the door, Justin turned and waved at Christie, bringing himself face-to-face with Alex Manderley.

  “After you.” He held the door for her and the redheaded weenie. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Mr. Vine,” he said, once they were outside.

  “Are you interested in UFOs?” Eric Watson asked.

  “I’m interested in everything.”

  “Have you witnessed one?” Watson persisted.

  Shut the fuck up, asshole. “No, not me.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “You mentioned camping in Spirit Canyon?”

  “Yes,” Manderley said slowly.

  “It really is pretty treacherous if you aren’t familiar with it, but I’d be glad to lead you up the road.”

  Manderley smiled. “You’re serious? You wouldn’t mind?”

  “My pleasure.”

  “I’ll pay you, of course.”

  Anger bubbled, hidden just beneath the surface. “No, I won’t take your money,” he said firmly.

  6

  Madge Marquay

  FOR THE THOUSANDTH TIME, SHE TRIED TO LOOSEN THE ROPES binding her hands; for the thousandth time, she failed. She lay back, exhausted, trying to think, but her arm blazed with fiery pain, and she knew that death was close.

  Perhaps not close enough.

  Though her hands and feet were numb from the ropes, the pain lancing her left forearm was exquisite, worse now because it was hot and swollen with infection. As best she could guess, her captor had visited last night, or perhaps the night before. She knew it was nighttime only because the mine ride wasn’t running.

  When he came down he tied her to something, perhaps an old shoring timber from the days when this place was a real silver mine, so that she couldn’t move while he cut her.

  After he cut, he pulled the flesh free, leaving an agonizing rectangle of pain burning on her forearm. Her fear and pain were so great that she had wanted to die, but she’d only fainted. When she awoke, she found that he’d released her from the timber, though not from her bindings.

  She wondered if he’d come back tonight, if he’d come back at all. She wanted to kill him. Barring that, she wanted to kill herself rather than endure more pain, endure the sound of his slow, steady breathing.

  The thought of his return brought back raw terror, and with that came a rush of adrenaline. Suddenly it occurred to her that perhaps she could rub the ropes against the timber—or better, against one of the jagged rocks that composed the walls. She began inching along, stopping when her head bumped against something soft. The rank, sweet smell of death rose around her in a cloud.

  She shuddered at its strength, at the horrible sweet smell of rotting meat in a trash can in the summertime, of the dead opossum her father had found under the house when she was little, but somehow different, a hundred times worse. Retching behind her sour gag, she wiggled backward, suddenly glad of the darkness.

  She waited a moment, telling herself over and over that it was an animal carcass she smelled, telling herself it didn’t matter. Finally she set off in another direction.

  Keep going keep going keep going. After seconds, minutes, hours, who knew how long, she came to a wall and moved her body along it until she found a sharp outcropping. Rolling over, she put her bound hands to the rock’s edge and began rubbing the thick ropes against it.

  7

  Justin Martin

  HE LED THEM FAR ENOUGH INTO THE CANYON TO HIDE THEIR VIEW of Thunder Road. Alex Manderley thanked him, saying this would do nicely for tonight.

  “For tonight?” he asked innocently as evening wind caught at his hair and blew it into his eyes.

  “It’s fine,” she said, smiling. “Thank you very much.”

  Cunt, Justin thought, the sweet smile never leaving his face. “I’ll see you folks later,” he said like a true desert nerd.

  Driving off, he slid a cassette he’d bought in Victorville into the player, and Jim Morrison’s moody voice sang softly to him. He drove slowly until he’d put two hairpin curves between the researchers and himself, then rolled down the windows, stepped on the gas, and turned up the music.

  The rear of the Mustang slid out from under itself at every curve, and dust clogged his open mouth as he laughed with exhilaration at the good sound of the dead goat bouncing back and forth in the trunk.

  It took him just over a minute to clear the canyon. As he rounded the turn that led onto Thunder Road, he turned off his headlights and, as the road straightened, slowed to a crawl, watching for the three Joshua trees to the south that marked the location of his rabbit snare. After a moment, he spotted them and pulled onto the hard-packed earth, parking his Mustang behind them. He turned off the engine and checked his watch. Nine-thirty. Plenty of time, he told himself, climbing from the car. Squinting against the dusty wind, he trudged twenty feet across the desert to the snare.

  “All right!” Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he grinned at the big ugly jackrabbit he’d trapped. The creature struggled to escape as he approached, then went catatonic when it realized it couldn’t.

  He seized the ears and twisted its neck with confidence born of long practice on neighborhood pets, then carried the limp body back to the car. Opening the trunk, and seeing the tarp-covered mound of the goat corpse, he marveled at his good luck. He withdrew a duffel bag, then sat cross-legged on the ground and emptied its contents in front of him. Ignoring the sand that blew into his eyes, he removed his jacket and pulled a plastic rain slicker over his head. Holding a penlight in his mouth, he carefully reread the section on skinning game in his mother’s The Joy of Cooking before applying a filleting knife—the best he could come up with on short notice—to the animal.

  The rabbit would be a little gift to the Peeler, a first hint that he had an admirer.

  It took twenty minutes to get the hide off, and he was barely in control of his temper by the time he finished. The job was sloppy, the nicks and slices in the flesh nothing to be proud of, and he knew he needed more practice. Oh well. It would have to do. Now that he was almost sure that the Peeler was right here in Madland, he didn’t want to wait any longer.

  He carefully placed the body in a white plastic garbage bag, then removed the blood-spattered rain slicker before he washed up with water from a gallon jug. After rinsing the slicker clean with the remaining water, he tossed the rabbit skin into the desert, wiped down the tools, and replaced them in the duffel. He put everyth
ing back in the trunk. The entire job had taken one half hour.

  With an hour to kill before his date with Christie, and two before the race with Rick Spelman, he decided to drive down to Madland, dump the goat in the mine, and take Mom’s casserole and a little sympathy to his boss, Old Man Marquay. It never hurt to kiss a little boss-ass. Besides, she casserole had been riding around in the car for hours and it just might make Marquay sick enough to keep him in bed for a few days and put Justin in charge of the Haunted Mine.

  8

  Tom Abernathy

  “WE’VE GOT OURSELVES A PAIR OF GHOSTS UP ON THUNDER Road.” Tom Abernathy lowered his voice and slowly looked around the campfire, studying each camper in turn. There were two dozen, give or take, including eight children. Not a bad turnout, but nothing compared to next week, when most schools closed for Easter vacation.

  “Thunder Road?” one of the kids asked.

  “Runs east to west right up there above Fort Madelyn,” Tom explained. “They called it Thunder Road because the twenty-mule teams carrying silver from the mines to the stamp mills in Madelyn made such a noise that it sounded like rolling thunder down in town.

  “The soldiers from the fort marched on it, too, and sometimes folks in town say they can still hear ’em late at night.” He paused, letting the flames flicker their spooky shadows across his face. “If you listen close, you might hear them tonight. But the soldiers and the mule teams, those are things you only hear. The ghosts I’m going to tell you about tonight, why, sometimes you can even see them.

  “In the daytime you can see Olive Mesa right over there,” he said, pointing to the northwest. “It was named by Ephram Carmichael for his daughter, Olive, who was only sixteen when she died.

  “Ephram and Olive lived out that way in the eighteen sixties. Now, Ephram, he was foreman of the Moonstone Mine—that’s now the Haunted Mine Ride in the park—and he loved his job, but he loved his pretty daughter more than anything. She was the apple of his eye.