Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  Carlo had been interested in metaphysics for years and he knew something about the occult—in a scholarly way—but he still remembered the shock he felt at that statement, coming from that down-to-earth cowboy. But Abernathy quickly explained that Old Madelyn had recently been sold to New Madelyn because the state couldn’t afford to run it. Tom Abernathy owned most of the park, and what he wanted most was to make it into a real western town. He was sinking money into the restoration, but he told Carlo that without the right tenants for some of the businesses, Old Madelyn wouldn’t get off the ground.

  Carlo asked him why he’d ask a near-perfect stranger to man one of his businesses, and Tom looked him in the eye and said he trusted his instincts. He generally knew a bad horse or a bad man the first time he laid eyes on one. Then he added that Carlo had sort of a sad, mysterious air about him that lent itself to telling fortunes.

  Carlo wanted to tell him his instincts were off where he was concerned, but he didn’t dare. Tom could see how taken aback by it all he was, and he finally told Carlo, “Let’s just say I believe in fate. Fate or God or whatever made you run out of gas on the first day in a month I had to be out that way. You’re looking for work, and I need a fortune-teller.”

  Carlo had kept trying to argue with him, wanting to be certain that Abernathy wanted him—but Abernathy never took the bait. He merely reiterated his stand that maybe it was something meant to be, and finally capped it by telling Carlo to stop worrying: Maybe he owed him a favor from some other time or place. All he knew was that it felt right, and didn’t Carlo agree?

  Carlo agreed, because it felt right to him, too. Then, when Ray Vine walked up in his cook’s whites, Carlo felt a moment of fear. The man had the bearing of a general, or a professor emeritus, maybe both, and a straight-on way of looking at you that had the intensity of a glare. Then Tom asked Ray if he didn’t think Carlo would make a heck of a fortune-teller. Ray’s stare nearly turned him inside out, and just when he didn’t think he could bear the scrutiny any longer, the chef said he’d make a fine one, then welcomed him to Madelyn.

  And so he had stayed. For the first few weeks he had accepted Tom Abernathy’s hospitality. He was uncomfortable doing so, but he didn’t know what might happen next or where his next dollar might come from. As it turned out, Tom kept him busy, putting him in charge of the building’s renovation, suggesting he turn the upstairs into his own apartment, as some of the other tenants and owners had. Tom was an extremely generous landlord and insisted that, upstairs and down, Carlo furnish the place with high-quality furniture. Carlo, ever guilty, one night broached the fact that he didn’t know how he could ever make enough money to pay Tom back for furnishing the apartment, and Tom merely said it went with the job, and that if the fortune-telling business was a success, Carlo would be able to afford to buy the place eventually.

  Carlo, always a loner, was amazed that he found himself spending evenings with Tom and, often, his many friends, one of whom was Moss Baskerville, the chief of police. He was even more surprised that they were becoming his friends too. In this dry desert town, everyone was a little eccentric in his or her own way, and they accepted his own eccentricities without question. He began to feel at home.

  13

  Moss Baskerville

  AFTER, THEY LAY STRETCHED OUT ON THE BED, THE BLANKETS pulled up, the ceiling fan turning lazily above them. Outside, the wind had picked up, whistling down the canyons, scuttling around the eaves of the house, blowing sand and dust. Moss Baskerville silently blessed Cassie for insisting he stay instead of chasing down the idiot drag racer. Now she slowly extricated herself from the crook of his arm and sat up, glancing at the fan. “You mind if I turn it off now?”

  “No. Go ahead.” He watched the paisley tattoos ripple across her upper arm as she reached up and pulled the fan chain, then the one belonging to the light. In the darkness she snuggled next to him, her head on his shoulder, her arm resting lightly across his broad chest. She made a contented sound that he loved, then asked, “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” he asked, almost asleep.

  She didn’t answer for a moment, then said, “It was probably just Eve getting a drink of water.”

  Wakefulness returning, Moss tried to listen to the familiar sounds of the house, but the howling wind masked them. Finally there was a lull, and above it, he heard something. He reached up and pulled the light chain. He and Cassie looked at one another.

  “Horse,” she said.

  “Maybe Joe Huxley’s finally dragged his sorry ass home.” Baskerville climbed from the bed and began pulling on his pants.

  “What’re you doing?” Cass asked.

  “I want a word with that stupid old cuss. See what he’s been up to.”

  Cassie sat up, shaking her head resignedly. “What if it’s not Joe?”

  “Then I want to know who it is.” He slipped his shoes onto his bare feet. “I’ll just be a minute,” he added, opening the bedroom door. He turned to smile at her. “Keep my place warm.”

  “You know it, sugar-butt.”

  He rolled his eyes, said, “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” and let himself out of the bedroom, leaving the sound of Cassie’s soft laughter behind.

  He couldn’t hear anything over the wind, but as soon as he lifted the curtain and peered out, he saw the silhouette of a horse and rider coming up the driveway. They were pale ghosts in the night, and though the man was slightly hunched against the wind, Baskerville recognized the light-colored duster and dark Stetson immediately.

  “Cassie,” he called, flipping on the porch light. “It’s Tom Abernathy.”

  “Tom?” He could hear her moving around in the bedroom. “What in the world is he doing out this time of night?”

  “Don’t know.” Baskerville opened the door as Abernathy swung down off Belle and led her up under the porch overhang by the steps, out of the wind.

  Abernathy stepped onto the porch, pulling his bandana down from his face, then tilting his hat brim back. His normally expressionless face had a grim set to it. “Moss, glad you’re awake.”

  “What’s up?” Baskerville asked as Cassie came up beside him.

  “Tom, come inside.” She tugged Baskerville’s arm and they stepped back.

  “Thanks.” Abernathy stepped inside, removed his hat, and ran his fingers through his brown hair.

  The rancher’s cheeks were flushed and his blue eyes were bright, but otherwise, he looked perfectly calm, grimness and all. Baskerville thought that the earth could open up and swallow the whole town, and Abernathy would still behave as if it were nothing but a crack in the sidewalk. He was a tough man to ruffle.

  “What’s wrong, Tom?” Baskerville asked.

  “There’s been an accident up on Thunder Road.”

  Baskerville and Cassie exchanged glances.

  “It’s a bad one,” Tom said. “Fatal.”

  “Who?” Baskerville took his brown leather jacket from the coatrack.

  “Don’t know. Car and driver both burned. There’s not much left. Maybe some kind of muscle car. GTO maybe, couldn’t see much.”

  Baskerville slipped the jacked on and pulled his keys from the pocket. “Any idea how long ago it happened?”

  “Not long.”

  “Cass, I’ll be back later. You lock this place up tight, you hear?”

  She nodded. “Moss, I’m sorry I stopped you from—”

  He squeezed her hand. “No regrets, Cass—my choice.”

  He turned to Tom. “We heard tires squealing and maybe a crash, a while ago. It was hard to tell over the wind.”

  “A car came down Old Madelyn a little while ago,” Cassie added. “It was creeping along, then took off like a bat out of hell.”

  “Damned teenagers drag-racing again,” Baskerville grunted. “Goddamned teenagers.”

  “Maybe playing chicken.” Tom put his hat back on.

  “Maybe,” Moss allowed. “No way to tell with the sandstorm, not until we locate the driver of the other vehic
le. You want to come along?”

  Tom looked slightly uncomfortable. “No, I’d better get Belle out of the storm. She needs a rubdown and I’m dead-dog-tired.”

  Baskerville nodded at the expected reply. Tom Abernathy wasn’t one to get involved. “Just where’s the wreck?”

  “Dead Man’s Hill.”

  “Fitting.” In the old days, it had served as a hole-up for bank robbers and other miscreants.

  “Some damn dumb teenagers,” Cassie said softly.

  “Yeah.” Baskerville liked his job except for informing folks of deaths—and the worst was telling parents a child had died.

  “Tom,” he said as the cowboy put his hand on the doorknob. “You didn’t see any suspicious characters or vehicles tonight?”

  “No.” He looked thoughtful. “I came around through Spirit Canyon from the far side—I was down at the campground earlier. Met a pair of scientist-types camped out up there, just arrived. They can’t see the road from where they’re at, so I doubt if they can help you much.” His voice trailed off thoughtfully.

  “Scientists?” Baskerville asked.

  “Taking pictures of our UFOs.”

  Baskerville rolled his eyes. “Of course. What else would they be doing? Bunch of lunatics.”

  “They seemed normal enough,” Tom said.

  Moss nodded, doubting that they’d be much help. People like that didn’t live much in the real world. “I’ll look in on them in the morning.”

  Tom opened the door and Moss quickly gave Cassie another quick kiss. “Remember, lock—”

  “The doors,” Cassie finished, with a soft smile. “You be careful out there. I’ll be keeping your spot warm.”

  “I’m counting on it,” he told her, and went out the door.

  14

  Carlo Pelegrine

  HE FINISHED HIS ORANGE AND SAT BACK, LACING HIS FINGERS behind his head. Exactly one month after his arrival in Madelyn, Carlo moved into his new apartment, and one week later, as the fall tourist season began, he opened his shop. In the weeks prior, he’d spent a good deal of his time studying palm reading and tarot cards. Previously he’d primarily perused books on reincarnation, spiritualism, witchcraft, and the other philosophies, without delving into parlor games.

  When he began his business, he felt guilty about letting others think he was psychic, but that soon faded. This was an occupation that allowed him to do good. He never prophesied, but made positive suggestions and saw to it that those people who came to him always left feeling more hopeful than when they arrived. He tried to inspire when he read the tarot, and he believed that the cards worked in the manner Carl Jung subscribed to: They were a tool to reach the subconscious mind. If one wanted to read negatives into them, so be it. He always read positives, except when he read for himself: Then he would allow negatives if they seemed powerful enough.

  Reading palms was something else. Though he tried to inspire, touching another human, even on the hand, was something Carlo had avoided since . . . since leaving home. Now, holding others’ hands in his, he felt a secret temptation as a continuing test of will.

  Within two years of becoming Madland’s fortune-teller, he truly knew he was part of a family. Though he was still quiet, never telling anyone much about himself, no one minded. They accepted him, no questions asked. Once, he went so far as to tell Tom that he had a dark past, but Tom never pushed to find out more. He also told this much to Father Mike Corey, who was his friend, not his priest, and told him of his penance and promises to God, leaving out the nature of his sins. The young cleric had seemed impressed but mystified, and invited Carlo to attend his church, but he never did because, during his last confession, nearly a decade ago, he realized beyond doubt that he no longer believed in God.

  Eight years had passed since Tom Abernathy rescued him from the highway, and Carlo Pelegrine’s days of running and praying had ended. At last, he had found his home.

  The sound of a car moving slowly down Main Street interrupted his reverie. This was a rare occurrence. Only vehicles making deliveries and those who lived here were allowed to drive on the streets of Old Madelyn, and then only when the park was closed. Most of the residents kept their cars in a small carport-style lot cordoned off from the visitors’ parking, and Carlo kept his Harley in a small outbuilding behind his shop, which was adjacent to the park’s rear access road.

  He relaxed, realizing that the vehicle was probably a police cruiser. Night watchman Joe Huxley had taken his rounds on foot, but since he’d been missing, Moss or his officer merely cruised the area.

  Suddenly the engine revved, and Carlo immediately padded into the darkened store. Lifting the door shade, he barely made out the silhouette of an automobile, its lights off, idling in the swirling dust on the lampless street. Abruptly it sped off.

  Flipping on the porch light, he opened the door. Something thudded against his leg. For an instant he didn’t recognize what dangled from the knob, then he realized it was some sort of animal. It hung by its neck from a piece of twine tied to the doorknob, and there was something very wrong with it.

  Quickly he untied the loose knot around the knob and took the thing inside, holding it well away from his body. He turned off the porch light, then carried it into the small utility room at the very back of the store where no one would notice his lights burning.

  It was a jackrabbit and it had been skinned.

  Carlo’s hand began to shake, and he forced himself to examine the poor creature. The flesh was cut and marked, patches of gray-brown fur still in evidence. It was shoddy, amateurish work.

  He put the animal in a black garbage bag, wrapped it tightly, and went out the back door to carry it down the access road to the area where the trash bins were concealed. Around him, the wind howled and blew grit into his eyes, but he didn’t turn back because he was afraid that if he kept it, he might stare at it the rest of the night. He reached the bin and dropped it in, covered it with food wrappers and a wad of junk mail.

  Back in his shop, he locked the doors, then went upstairs to bed. Intellectually he knew this incident had nothing to do with him and that he should report it to Chief Moss Baskerville. Most likely it was related to the vandalism at Cassie’s that Tom had mentioned this afternoon.

  Still, that night he dreamed of beautiful women, of their soft, smooth skin. It was a dream that hadn’t plagued him in eight years.

  PART TWO

  Signs and Portents

  And I saw a star fall from heaven . . .

  —Revelation 9:1

  This is an age-old and worldwide myth that has shaped our belief structures, our scientific expectations, and our view of ourselves.

  —Jacques Vallee, Dimensions

  ... What are these which are arrayed in white robes? and whence came they?

  —Revelation 7:13

  Could it be that someone, or something, is playing a fantastic trick on us?

  —Jacques Vallee, Dimensions

  WEDNESDAY

  15

  Madge Marquay

  SOMETIME DURING THE LONG, LONG NIGHT, HOURS AGO NOW, SHE thought, something heavy had been pushed into the mine shaft from above. Madge felt the wind of it pass her as she worked on her ropes, and then caught the stink, the overwhelming, sickening putrid stink, as it fell on the thing—the corpse, Madge, you know that—that she had run into earlier. There was an awful, squishing sound and she knew the first body must have broken open because she had nearly passed out from the smell.

  Madge didn’t want to know what the thing was that her captor had thrown down, all she wanted was to break the ropes around her wrists. She had no idea how many hours she’d been working, only that it was a long time, and her thirst had become a physical pain. Several times she fell into a sleep that was more like unconsciousness, and each time she’d come out of it, she’d again set doggedly to work at the ropes.

  She continued rubbing the bindings back and forth over the sharp rock outcropping and suddenly gasped as they loosened slightl
y. Elated, she went to work with renewed vigor, yanking down with all her might. Abruptly the rope snapped. She fell backwards and lay there a long moment, unable to believe she was free. Laughter bubbled up around the gag and she reached up and pulled the filthy cloth from her mouth, barely noticing the pain in her infected arm. Next she pulled the blindfold off her eyes, but as she suspected, it made no difference: Down here in the depths below the mine ride, the old shafts were as dark as tombs.

  She went to work on her feet, tugging and working the tight knots. Her arm sang with pain now, and she paused to carefully examine it with her hand, appalled that the tight, hot flesh was twice the circumference of that of her good arm. Still, she told herself, she would be out of here soon. If there was no ladder to climb, she knew that morning would come and the ride would open. When it did, she’d scream for help. Her arm would be fine. She would be fine.

  Finally she was free. She rose, feet numb and tingling, her ankles wobbling, knees threatening to give. Holding to the rock wall for balance, she walked in place, gently stamping her feet until the blood began to circulate and the numbness receded. “Oh Lord,” she whispered, “thank You.” She coughed and spat, and her saliva was like a wad of cotton, but nothing would stop her now. Nothing! She bent and found a piece of rope and hung it over the sharp outcropping to serve as a marker.

  Determinedly she began feeling the walls, hoping to find a ladder of some sort. The pit was small, vaguely circular, and after only a few feet, her toes pressed into the rotting body, stirring up another putrid flurry. Holding her breath, cautiously feeling the corpse’s width with her toes, she gingerly stepped over it, her mind screaming at her that the dead thing was going to reach up and grab her ankle or knee. That’s nothing but childish fantasy, you fool! One foot came down on the other side of the corpse, then she brought the other one quickly across before allowing herself to lean her hot face against the cool rock wall. After a moment, she took another step, then two, more confident now. Her right foot caught on something and she tripped, falling hard on her knees and hands. The pain in her left arm made her dizzy. Blindly she felt for the wall, and her hand closed on something. At first she thought it was a thick stick or an old hunk of shoring timber, then realized it was an animal’s leg. With a gasp, she pulled away.