Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  “Funny,” Moss said, studying the preacher. “That’s exactly what my scientist friend said.”

  “Really?” Sinclair’s voice was almost a whisper as he guided Moss to the door. “Please excuse me now, Chief Baskerville. I need to meditate. To think.” He opened the door to the outer office and guided him past Lily and out the hallway. “Please come to our services, my friend,” he said in a soft voice. “You’re a good man, and I’d like to share heaven with you.” With that, he turned and disappeared back into his office.

  65

  Eric Watson

  “WILL YOU STOP FEELING GUILTY, ALEX? IT’S NICE TO SEE YOU having a social life for a change!” Eric Watson pushed the Bronco’s door shut, then leaned in. “Take your time. I have a pile of work to do.” He smiled at his boss. “Stay out all night if you want to.”

  Alex made a face. “It’s just lunch, Eric. “I’ll be back by three.” She started the engine.

  “Have fun,” he called as she drove away.

  In the three years that he had been her assistant, he’d never seen her show any interest in a man. Once, she even admitted to him that she had no close friends outside of the institute. She was, she joked, married to her work.

  Eric walked across the camp to the cliffside and checked the instruments. He’d had a small crush on her that first year, but fortunately, that had mutated into a solid friendship that he valued more than anything else. He smiled to himself as he sauntered toward a pile of boulders edging the dirt track that led to the campsite. He still enjoyed the frequently voiced envy of the other young men who worked at APRA. He climbed up the rock pile and sat on a flat-faced stone, knees up, his arms wrapped around them. He’d been in a barely controlled state of euphoria ever since the UFO show Wednesday night. To be part of the team that got the footage of the phenomena was the chance of a lifetime, and the work done here was going to make his doctoral thesis something very special. Something publishable.

  “Life is good,” he said, staring at the beautiful red desert. Overhead, huge powder-puff clouds dotted the deep blue sky. In the northwest, darker clouds hung ominously low against the stark mountains. The day was mild and magnificent, and briefly he considered taking a hike, but his guilty conscience insisted he get to work on his thesis.

  Eric stretched and lowered his legs, then slid off the boulder to the ground. The toe of one Reebok hit something that made a metallic sound.

  “What the hell?” He bent down and came up with a set of five keys and a rabbit’s foot on a key chain. “Christ,” he said, holding the set by one key so that the foot dangled away from his hand. Usually a rabbit’s foot was dyed green or red or blue, but this one was natural black and white speckles on gray, its tip wrapped in leather binding. “Homemade.” Dyed feet were bad enough, but to Eric, this was disgusting. Why anyone would kill an animal for something like this was beyond his comprehension.

  Then he noticed that the keys hadn’t been there long: The metal was shiny under a very thin layer of dust. Mystified, he carried the key chain back to the camp and laid it on the card table between a couple stacks of books, so that he wouldn’t have to look at the disgusting thing.

  He flipped on the radio just as a tune ended. “This is Holly Ray with you on Y-102,” the female jock purred. Her voice was smoky velvet and he listened, wishing she’d magically appear to sweep him away from his studies and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. Instead, she announced ten hits in a row, and Eric hit the books.

  66

  Carlo Pelegrine

  THE SECOND VICTIM OF CHARLIE PILGRIM’S LUST HAD BEEN AN aging prostitute who tried to pick him up after the homecoming game of his senior year in high school, and Carlo remembered very little about that night. He, Glen MacIntyre, and Ted Furillo had been drinking beer in a small park near the school, and it was well past midnight when Ted announced that his old man would kill him if he didn’t get home. Glen left with him, but Carlo had stayed behind, ostensibly to finish his beer, but in truth because he wasn’t used to drinking and wasn’t sure he could walk.

  After a while, he felt better and stood, shakily at first, then with more confidence. He remembered giggling like a little kid while he peed in the bushes, then walking across the park and out to the street, disoriented even on the outskirts of his own neighborhood. He walked a long time, keeping to the shadows, not wanting to go home until he was sure he could pass for sober, not sure he could find his house or even his own street.

  About three A.M., he found himself in a seedy part of town, far from home. He had no idea how many miles he’d walked in the last hour or two, but the drunk had dimmed to a haze and a dull throb in his head, and he knew he could find his way home.

  That was when she came along.

  “Hi, handsome.”

  The voice called to him from the shadowed doorway of the Geldorf Hotel, and a second later, a tall thin woman with hair the color of carrots came into view. She was far older than he, and had tried to hide her age with caked-on makeup, mold blue eyeshadow, and false eyelashes. Her fingernails, as her hand touched his, were painted the same orangey-red as her hair.

  “You looking for a good time?”

  Until that moment, he’d managed to blot the memory of the first incident on Coney Island, but now it all came rushing back—the blond hooker taking him into the House of Mirrors, stripping, his touching her skin, then finding himself outside, blood under his nails.

  “No,” he said, and tried to walk away.

  But she wouldn’t let him. Grabbing his arm, she pushed him up against the wall, rubbing her body against his, arousing him until he wanted her. Wanted to touch her, feel her.

  “You got enough for a hotel room?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the Geldorf.

  He shook his head no, and as much as he wanted her, he felt relief. She’d reject him now, he’d thought, but he was wrong.

  “Well, how much you got? Twenty?”

  He dug in his wallet, came up with three fives.

  “That’ll do,” she said, snatching the bills from his hand. “Hard times. Come on.”

  She led him down an alley of apartment buildings and unlocked the door of a basement room. “Come on, sweet stuff,” she said. “I don’t usually bring customers to my own place, but you look like a sweet kid.”

  The one-room apartment was dingy and water-stained and smelled of dirty clothes, stale cigarette smoke, and spilled booze. She led him to the bed. “Take your clothes off, sweetie,” she said, as she began to strip. Slowly he followed suit, folding his clothes over the back of a wooden chair.

  “My, aren’t you the neat one?” She laughed as she tossed her bra on the floor with her miniskirt and tank top. Finally she peeled off her red bikini panties and threw them at him. At once, he was repelled and excited.

  She went to the bed and reclined on grungy yellow-gray sheets, posing so that her sagging breasts looked firmer, spreading her legs so that her sex peeped out from a thick brown bush of hair. “You like?” she asked.

  Dumbly he nodded. Get out! But he was paralyzed.

  “Then come here. Fifteen bucks doesn’t buy that much time, you know.”

  He approached, standing over her, rock-hard as he stared at three small strawberry moles on her midriff. They looked like extra nipples against her white flesh. Whereas the first girl’s skin had had a bluish undertone, this woman’s was yellowish. Her belly, though flat, had shiny stretch marks, her breasts, too, and they were the first—and last—that Carlo had ever seen. He reached down and slowly ran his finger over one of the shiny flat marks.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she asked, pissed. “Let’s get going.” She spread her legs farther. “Into the saddle,” she ordered, dangling a condom at him.

  He did as he was told, climbing on, pumping, running his hands over her skin, across her shoulders, up to her neck, around it.

  And that was all he remembered until he found himself lying on top of her, her dead eyes bulging blindly. There was blood unde
r his nails. Horrified, he rolled off of her, and seeing blood on his abdomen, thought he was hurt. Then he looked at her. The skin from the pubis up to the rib cage had been hacked away. His jackknife lay beside the corpse and he snagged it up, tears streaming down his face. Somehow, he’d made it into her shower, washed and dried and dressed, then went around the room, wiping everything down, carefully keeping his eyes off the corpse.

  Two days later, he’d been dubbed “the Peeler” by the newspapers. By that time, the other prostitute’s body had been found and he was now considered a serial killer. Lurid stories in the Daily News reported outrageous lies about the extent of the skinnings, the expertise, and those stories were still told to this day.

  The ragged square of missing skin was gone, and never found. Even he didn’t know what had happened to it, and he never dared consider the possibilities.

  Like Alex’s UFOs, the Peeler was mythology in the making. He smiled bitterly and wondered what he was doing, seeing her again, even for lunch. He had no right.

  The bell over the front door rang and a flurry of butterflies battered his stomach. Quickly he ran a comb through his hair, then, swallowing, left his reading room and entered his shop.

  Justin Martin was standing there. “Hi!”

  “Hello, Justin. What can I do for you?”

  “I just wanted to thank you again for giving me a ride home last night.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Behind Justin, the door opened and Alex Manderley stepped inside. “Hi, Carlo,” she said. “Am I too early?”

  Carlo saw the briefest look of surprise on Justin’s face, then it disappeared into a polite smile.

  “Hi, Dr. Manderley. How are you?”

  “Fine, Justin.” She smiled. “Getting your palm read?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Justin’s car broke down in the canyon last night,” Carlo explained. “I gave him a lift home.” He glanced at the youth. “Did you get it going all right?”

  Justin grinned, but it looked false. “Just fine. My dad took me to it this morning. It was a snap.” The kid appeared to be at ease, but his gestures and tone were too studied.

  “Good.” Carlo walked to the door and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED. “Do you like Mexican food?” he asked Alex.

  “Love it,” she replied.

  “I’ve gotta go,” Justin said, passing Carlo and Alex, to quickly stride out the door and down the steps. “Thanks again,” he called, and dashed off in the direction of the mine.

  He and Alex stepped out onto the porch. “He broke down right at the trail to your camp.”

  “You’re joking!”

  Carlo locked the door. “Strange, huh? He claimed he was going home the long way. I doubt that he knew you were even there.” He paused. “Though he probably wonders what I was doing, coming out of nowhere like that.”

  “I didn’t tell him where our new camp was. I suppose I should have.”

  Carlo paused at the foot of the steps, studying her. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why not? He seems like a nice kid.”

  “You didn’t notice the way he was looking at you?”

  Alex laughed. “How was that?”

  “With lust.”

  “You sound just like Eric.” She laughed again. “That’s very flattering, but . . . I don’t think so.”

  Carlo shrugged. “Let’s have a quick bite, then we’ll come back here and I’ll read your palm if you like.”

  “I’d love it.”

  Her smile made his butterflies take flight again.

  67

  Marie Lopez

  “YOU’RE THE ONLY MALE WORTH KNOWING, REX.” MARIE LOPEZ patted the black gelding’s neck affectionately, then urged him up the trail toward Rattlesnake Canyon. She smelled rain in the air, but the storm clouds were still many hours north, maybe even a day or two if they didn’t pick up speed. With her luck, they’d come in just in time to ruin the eclipse.

  Marie had spent the morning fuming, picking up hay at the feed store, fuming some more, checking wool prices, fuming, and mucking out the stable. And fuming. Finally she decided the only thing that would help was a ride, just like Tom always said. Tom, you turkey!

  She made herself stop thinking about him, thinking instead that it was good to be out here, just her and her horse, no sheep, no dogs, no people. No men. No Tom Abernathy!

  She couldn’t get away from it: She was pissed. She’d made a fool out of herself last night in that stupid dress, in high heels, for Christ’s sake! Clothes like that made her feel vulnerable, and now she couldn’t even figure out what had possessed her to wear that getup. Tom, that’s what. She grimaced. He’d been getting into her dreams lately, touching her everywhere with those big long-fingered hands of his, kissing her neck, her breasts . . . She guessed the sexual tension that spilled over into daytime had addled her senses, turned her into a stupid, flirtatious little female. Exactly the kind she hated.

  “But you loved it when he held your hand.” Rex’s ears twitched at the sound of her voice, so she patted his neck and urged him on up the rocky ridge.

  The trouble with Tom Abernathy was that he moved too slow and she was damn well tired of waiting. And just as things finally got promising, he’d taken her story about the floating sheep and humiliated her by twisting it into one of the worst tall tales he’d ever told. You bastard, Abernathy!

  What really galled her was that he acted like he didn’t even know why she was angry. How could he be so dense? She couldn’t get any satisfaction. The man couldn’t be confronted because he wouldn’t respond. That damned cowboy had just two talents: a way with horses, and a way with his mouth. He could talk his way into or out of anything without ever getting riled. Her own temper was hair-trigger, and Tom’s ability to control his sometimes made her want to shoot him.

  There was one more thing pissing her off, and that was her own anger. Marie, you’re too touchy. That’s what Aunt Carmen would tell her if she took this problem to her, and she knew it was true. As angry as she was, she knew Tom hadn’t meant to humiliate her. She knew his confusion last night was real. But damn him, he ought to have enough common sense to know what he did!

  Rex gained the ridgetop and they stayed there a few moments while she gazed across the mountaintops and down into the circular valley where she’d lost her sheep.

  Suddenly she noticed a white splotch half-hidden by a granite outcropping on the southwestern side of the valley. “I’ll be damned,” she whispered as she tilted her Stetson down to keep the sun’s glare out of her eyes as she searched. Sure enough, at the other side of the round valley, there was the other sheep. Dead, she thought, wishing she’d brought her binoculars. There was no way that she and Tom—Tom again!—could have missed them yesterday morning.

  Excited, she started to give Rex the order to descend into the valley, then remembered Alex Manderley wanted photos and samples. Glancing at her watch, she saw there was plenty of daylight left, so she turned Rex back toward her ranch to fetch her camera and some Ziploc bags for samples.

  68

  Tom Abernathy

  WHAT THE HELL DO WOMEN WANT, ANYWAY? TOM ABERNATHY leaned against the corral fence of the little arena in Madland and pondered Marie Lopez and her gender in general. He’d hardly slept last night, wondering just what he’d done to make her run off like that. Women!

  In ten minutes he’d be out in the arena himself, playacting Madelyn’s old-time sheriff up against the bad guys. Beside him, Belle knickered softly and nudged his shoulder, telling him she needed a carrot. “You know I’ve got no pockets in this costume, Belle,” he said, scratching her muzzle. “You just wait a few minutes.”

  Behind him, Fred and Becky were calf-roping to the cheers of the crowd in the stands, and in front of him, tourists strolled along the wooden sidewalks looking in windows, going in shops. Then he spied four men carrying shopping bags as they disappeared into the rest room kitty-cornered from the sweet shop. That struck him as kind of odd, and h
e casually took to watching the door.

  “Hey, Tom. How they hanging?”

  “Hey, Shorty. Hanging just fine.”

  Shorty Sykes was even taller than Tom, six feet five inches of broad-shouldered stuntman. He was dressed in his bad-guy duds, and in the upcoming show, Tom would shoot him off the top of a barn. Shorty loved doing falls more than just about anything, even though he’d broken enough bones to construct a whole other man. Just then, Mad Dog Steinberg, who’d proclaimed himself “the orneriest Jew in the West,” ambled up. He was short and dark and could stare down a rattler at five paces. His bad-guy duds included a bullwhip, and Tom was glad it wasn’t ever applied to him—he was no stuntman, after all—even though Mad Dog and his stuntriding victims all said he wrapped that leather around you as sweet as you please.

  “What are we doing about the eclipse?” Mad Dog asked.

  “Why,” Tom drawled, “I guess we can’t do much of anything about it.”

  Mad Dog started to smile, then tried to look surly instead. “Do we wait till it’s over and start the afternoon show late?”

  “I dunno. Shorty? What do you think?”

  Shorty shrugged. “I dunno. Ask Henry Running Deer. He’s the organized one around here.”

  “Hey, Henry!” Mad Dog yelled. “Getcher keister over here!”

  Henry came out of the corral. Even though he had his long black hair pulled back in a low ponytail, it was flapping in the breeze. “Rain’s coming,” he announced, joining them. “What the hell do you want, Steinberg?”

  Mad Dog told him, and Henry, who liked to decide things like that, announced they’d start the stunt show at two instead of one on Sunday. Everyone thought that was a good idea.

  “So, Tom,” Henry said. “How come you’re staring at that men’s room door?”

  “There somethin’ you want to tell us?” Shorty asked, poking him painfully in the ribs.

  “Yeah, I guess I do. Saw four men go in there with shopping bags right before you showed up. I’d swear one of them was that damned Apostle with the bad rug—the one that gave Moss and me all that lip yesterday.”