by M. M. Mayle
“I always thought it would be a plane, actually,” Colin wheezes just audibly.
“I said don’t talk!” Nate barks, giving in to shredded nerves with the greater challenge yet to come.
But before he goes for help, there’s one more unpleasant duty to perform. He’s obligated to make at least a cursory search for the baby that shouldn’t have been born yet. Although he doesn’t want to believe even the malevolent Aurora would subject a premature infant to the additional stresses of joyriding in a pickup truck, Nate nevertheless goes through the motions. He looks under and behind the fractured bench seat, in the buckled load bed, beneath the load bed, and anywhere else an infant carrier could be wedged or might have been thrown.
After a treacherous climb back to road level, Nate repositions the rental car so its high beams point across the roadway and turns on the hazard lights for good measure. He then positions himself in the center of the road, in the wash of the headlights, and waves one of the bloodied T-shirts for maybe as long as a minute—long enough to recognize the mindlessness of the effort. What makes him think there’ll be traffic now, well after dark, when there was none to speak of earlier?
He runs for the car and takes off in the direction their little procession was headed. He’d rather take his chances with the unknown than try covering a known distance that could be longer than Colin’s life expectancy.
THREE
November 1984
Hoople Walking Crow Jakeway doesn’t own a watch and the clock in his truck is broke, so he can only estimate that a quarter-hour’s gone by since he heard noises that meant the rock star’s helper was leaving the crash scene and clawing his way back up the steep slope to the county road. Then, after a short stretch of silence that could have meant anything, there came more commotion that was heard as the city slicker slamming into his car and peeling off like something was after him. Or like he couldn’t get away from an ugly sight fast enough. Or like he thinks somebody survived the crash and he’s going for help.
Hoop, as he’s known, stalls a little longer to go over the one thing he is sure of. The red pickup did leave the road and head straight for disaster into the darkness below. He saw it happen with his own eyes even though he was ten or so car lengths behind. Of all the things he imagined could happen after the rock star forced his way back into Audrey’s life in the parking lot of a fuel and refreshment stop, that wasn’t one of them. But he is getting over the hurtful surprise of it; his breathing’s more regular now, and he’s starting to feel clearheaded enough to unstick himself from the spot he’s been held to ever since he got here.
He takes stock of his location—arrived at by instinct and native knowledge of every track, trail, and path in this part of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan—then cocks his head and puts his ears to work again. He hears nothing this time, not even windwhisper in the tops of the white pines that rule the area, so he steps out of his beat-up Jimmy that’s partway concealed on the far side of a stone bridge abutment and catfoots it along an abandoned railroad bed like his feet can see in the dark. If his calculations are right—and they mostly are when he’s on home ground—he’ll use up less than fifty paces to get to the level spot where the airborne red truck will have landed. He’s carrying the basic tools he always has with him, plus a flashlight he won’t switch on till his feet can no longer find the way.
He takes a big gulp of air that carries a faint smell of gasoline and worries some about what he’ll find when he locates the crashed truck. A worse worry soon replaces that one, the new one having to do with lack of readiness. Owning up to the fact his months and years of scheming and wishful thinking never went beyond imagining the rock star within easy reach—never took into account his actual capture—now likens him to a car-chasing mutt that finally catches one and has no idea what to do with the prize. Especially if the prize turns out to be dead.
Without thinking too hard on that possibility, Hoop switches on the flashlight and leaves the rail bed to work his way up a gentle slope and through a growth of dense underbrush with the now stronger smell of spilled fuel to guide him. Sooner or later he’ll find out if anybody survived. It might as well be now.
He moves the light from side to side in a steady arc till the wrecked truck looms up right where he thought it would be. He approaches from the front, where a half-felled tree is blocking the view, so he can’t see what shape the occupants are in till he works his way around to the passenger side, where there’s nothing blocking the view. Not even a door.
How long he stands there shining the light on Audrey is anyone’s guess; he doesn’t bother estimating, and he doesn’t bother going closer just yet because he can tell from where he is that her body’s vacant. When he does brave himself to go closer, it’s with thought of tending to her sprit that can’t have strayed very far this soon after leaving her body. But he’s sidetracked by the dark spots on her neck that look more like finger marks than anything a road accident would do to her.
He moves the light beam this way and that, studies the marks from different angles and convinces himself he’s on to something the rock star’s people will want kept secret. Till this minute he hasn’t given a thought to the rock star, although he couldn’t avoid a partial look at him while inspecting Audrey. Now he shines the light direct on what’s left of Colin Elliot, never doubting for a minute that his body’s also vacant, caved in as it is by the steering wheel, and smeared with blood like a stuck pig. The regret there is that he wasn’t the one that did the sticking.
He returns his attention to Audrey and how he’s going to free her remains from the wreckage with only the basic tools he brought with him. But before he puzzles that out, he needs to do what he can for her spirit while it’s still lodged nearby.
Speaking in turn to the unseeable sky above, the unknowable world below, and all the elements in between, he recites every chant he knows, whether it applies to present conditions or not. When he’s run out of native words, he gives a polite pause and bows his head in the white man’s way before opening himself to the urgings of instinct.
Giving in to those urgings is not without risk; performing in such close quarters won’t be easy, and he may not have much time. But worry and hard work are always better than being judged a jackassed-fool.
FOUR
November 1984
Not long after setting out for help, Nate caught on to watching for electric power lines—watching for the ones leading away from the road, presumably toward inhabited dwellings. He wasted some valuable minutes following three false leads before seeing a sure thing with a light burning off in the distance. He thought to check the time and mileage before maneuvering into the sandy ruts that brought him to a small clapboard house and a set of unpainted outbuildings where he was relieved to discover he’d not been gone as long or gone as far as it seemed—not even twenty minutes and no more than ten miles.
Now he sees that the light spotted from the road is atop one of the buildings and casts long shadows on surroundings that include a well-used Chevy Suburban sporting muddied tires with heavy treads. As he stops near the oversize vehicle, a dog lunges out of the darkness, barking maniacally and straining at its chain. A big guy carrying an ax emerges from the shadows and quiets the dog with a hand gesture. Nate steps out of the rented Buick and meets him halfway.
“Looks like you can use some help,” the guy says with unconcealed interest in Nate’s torn and bloodied clothing.
“There’s been an accident. A deer in the road. Then another truck. It’s for my friends, not me. I need a phone. Please. I’ll pay,” Nate blurts.
The big guy thinks this over. “No phone here,” he says.
Nate’s heart plummets; he starts back to the rental car when the guy leans the ax against one of the sheds and speaks again.
“But I can raise the sheriff over in Portage St. Mary on the CB radio. Step inside.” He indicates a side door to the house, offers his hand and introduces himself as Bill, retired lumberjack and former arm
y medic during the Big One.
“I’m Nate, I work as a . . . a manager. Thanks very much for your help.” He offers his own hand, then follows the benefactor into the house. The radio equipment is in the kitchen where Nate is directed to have a seat.
“I’ve already et but I can fix you somethin’,” Bill says.
Nate refuses all but the mug of coffee now warming his hands. Impatience has to be coming out of his pores by now; he’s compelled to get to his feet and pace if he’s ever going to get through telling this ruddy-skinned old guy with the big gut how and where the accident happened.
“Know how that can be. There’s many a time when I have to be on my feet to get my thoughts collected,” Bill says, checks the notes he’s taken and then, and only then, activates the CB radio. With an admirable economy of words he relays to the sheriff’s department everything Nate told him.
While the transmission takes place, Nate slows down enough to start thinking about aftermath. Sooner or later, whether mega rock star Colin Elliot lives or dies, this story will dominate the world press. How soon and to what extent is up to him. Reason enough not to tell this Bill character who it is that’s languishing out there in the woods. Another good reason is because Bill and his sheriff pals are not likely to give a flying fuck about a major celebrity—saying they even recognize the name.
Bill signs off and directs Nate to go outside and help gather supplies. “Most of the gear’s in the rig, but you’ll want that coat hanging over there in the shed. And bring those coils of ropes you’ll find on the hooks next to it. Oh, and you’ll see a bundle of road flares—bring those along. I’ve got matches, extra batteries, and the portable trouble lights. Whoops, almost forgot extra flashlights and blankets.” Bill detours from the Suburban back toward the house. “Won’t be long, then we can get goin’.”
Nate shoots the big old guy a dark look when he returns with the almost overlooked essentials; he’d already be gone if he had even one full-sized flashlight in his possession.
“Might help to know I’ve got a CB in the rig, so I can stay in touch with the sheriff,” Bill says as he climbs into the Suburban.
It did help to know, and it also helped to know the emergency vehicles would be traveling at high speed on improved roads the majority of the way to the accident scene, something learned while monitoring Bill’s end of the radio transmission. With his grip on the situation improved, Nate drives back to the crash site at a relatively sane speed.
But although he’s caught a break, he can’t help wonder how much of a break it is. What’s to prevent another deer from jumping in front of him, or another set of see-all-blind-all headlights from appearing on the wrong side of the road? He’s been away from the wreckage for over an hour now, and what’s to say Colin’s been able to hang on that long, alone out there in the pitch dark?
He crowds those thoughts out of mind and replaces them with more practical concerns. He checks his mileage to be certain the bridge he’s approaching is the one associated with the accident—as though it won’t always be part of his permanent memory—and the odometer confirms that it is. With Bill’s Suburban closing in fast, he parks well away from the ripped guardrail to leave room for emergency vehicles. He checks his watch one more time and is encouraged to register that the return trip took less than half the time spent looking for help.
Once they’ve fastened a guideline to an undamaged section of guard rail and uncoiled the rope down into the darkness, Nate suits up in the jacket from Bill’s shed and discovers it has a flashlight integrated into the chest area; two more large flashlights are in the deep utility pockets, and there are all manner of loops and clips to facilitate carrying other items.
“Turn-out gear. I used to be a volunteer fireman before I got too old,” Bill explains while securing tightly rolled blankets to Nate’s back. “There’s heavy gloves in there, better put ’em on,” he cautions as Nate prepares to go over the edge.
Equipped as he is now, this descent is a relative breeze. Halfway down he’s optimistic enough to announce his return. “Colin, I’m back . . . help’s on the way . . . hang on, man.” He repeats this like a mantra as he covers the remaining distance, pausing only when he thinks he hears noises—noises attributed to activity up above and his overactive imagination.
In the brighter wider beam of a full-sized flashlight, the wreckage looks much worse than it did within the limitations of a penlight. When he climbs over the truck bed as the quicker way of reaching Colin, he notices a lot that he didn’t take in earlier.
Earlier, he failed to see that a large section of roof is ripped open where the light rack used to be. It’s a wonder he didn’t slice himself on the jagged edges protruding into the cab, and he would have if he’d had to do anything at all for Aurora. This time, he checks for what might be hanging over Colin’s head before sticking his own head through the window opening. He sees nothing dangerous enough to further delay reassessing Colin’s condition, so it’s only another bout of cowardly trepidation holding him back.
Nate sucks in some relief once he determines Colin is still breathing, however unevenly. In this better light he sees that Colin’s eyes are still open, but they’re not reacting to the light the way they did last time. Nate gropes his jeans pocket for the penlight. Its tighter focus is more apt to produce the results he wants. His motions cause him to illuminate Aurora’s body. He wishes he hadn’t.
He may have screamed. Then again, maybe not, because his throat is closed, he can’t even swallow. Aurora’s head is gone; it’s not just bent at a bad angle, it’s removed from her body. For a ludicrous moment he thinks it may have fallen off. He looks for it behind the broken bench seat and on the ground around the truck. He revisits all the places he looked for a baby that was probably never there to begin with. Maybe her head was never there to begin with; maybe he just thought it was because the sight of a bloodied stump was too much to handle. But what about those spots on her neck? Didn’t he see with his own eyes those dark bruise-like markings that gave him the idea she was in a drug-induced state when she died because those markings resembled needle tracks?
He’s unable to return to Colin right away; he’s unable to speak, or think, or unfold the blankets he should be placing around Colin. And now, while he’s most vulnerable, his senses take another hit. He thinks he hears noises again. He does hear noises, and they’re different from the sounds that would be made by someone coming down the embankment. Something or someone is out there in the wilderness, grunting and snapping branches as it draws closer. Throughout the entire ordeal, Nate hasn’t dared acknowledge fear or it would have conquered him. Now he’s thinking in terms of unconditional surrender to fear when Bill heaves into view.
“Jesus god.” Nate lets out a ragged breath.
“Didn’t mean to spook you.” Bill labors under a load that includes a chainsaw, a large toolbox, and a pair of metal cylinders strapped to his back. “I could see your light from down below, so I didn’t bother with turning mine on.” He grunts again as he relieves himself of the load. “I’ll go back for the rest after I have a look around.”
“Wait,” Nate says, “what do you mean below? Is there another road down there?”
“I thought I recognized this spot when you described it earlier. Them there tin can barriers are not much better than the old log and cable ones they used to use. Bridge never shoulda been built here where the drop-off’s so steep, but it woulda cost more to put a curve in the road to where the grade’s better. And now what money that was spent’s a waste cuz there’s nothin’ down there now but an abandoned railroad line, and even the tracks and ties are gone. Only the roadbed’s left and that oughta be bulldozed cuz it encourages them fools with the motorized tricycles and snow sleds to go helling around in places they’ve got no business.”
“Then there’s a road leading to this old railroad track?”
“Not a regular road. Just the beat-down path the hellions wore, but it can handle a four-wheel drive. My rig’s do
wn there now and that’ll be the best way to get your friends out. Not very far, not too steep. I’ll have that look around, now, if you don’t mind.”
Bill examines the broken tree before he looks at the wreckage, then emits a low whistle when he looks into the passenger side.
“Mrs. Elliot’s a goner, that’s for sure. But Mr. Elliot over there looks as stable as he’s gonna be in this situation. You did right by not tryin’ to pry him out. Coulda hurt him worse.”
“Wait! I never said who they are. What makes you think you know?” Nate says.
“Oh, everybody knows. You and him’ve been big news ever since you crossed the Mackinac Bridge this afternoon, and then there was that there ruckus outside Bimmerman. You and him are all anyone’s talkin’ about.” Bill shows a semi-toothless grin, ghoulish in the trouble lights he’s setting up.
“But no one paid the slightest bit of extra attention anywhere we stopped today,” Nate says.
“Prob’ly not . . . not our way. I’m not speakin’ for all, but in these parts most of us know who famous folk are and we just don’t carry on about it in a public way.” He indicates where Nate should fasten ropes to the half-felled tree.
“What about Mrs. Elliot?” Nate says. “She was from these parts . . . Didn’t her recent reappearance cause any—”
“Cause a stir? Audrey—she was known here as Audrey—and I’d call her infamous more’n famous,” Bill says and steps forward to give Nate a boost onto the foreshortened hood of the pickup.
“I won’t argue that.”
“Y’know, there’s one or two that still believe your friend there was her ruination, but the higher-thinkin’ folks know she was already a lost cause when she left here. Too bad your friend didn’t share that thought.”
“Yes, definitely too bad.”
