“X-whatsis?”
I spelled it and said, “Call me back, okay? If I’m out of area, leave a message with the details.”
“Be happy to.” There was a pause as he scratched pen to pad. “Some kinda new meds, or what?”
“Or what, I think.”
“Uh, huh. Well, I’m just happy the Canucks didn’t make you an honorary citizen, eh. I’m dying to hear the scoop.”
“I’m dying to dish it. I’m losing my signal, gotta sign off.”
He said not to worry, bro’, and we disconnected. I worried anyway.
4
Sure enough, Hart’s phone rang a bit later and he exploded in a stream of repetitious profanity and dented the dash with his ham hock of a fist. He was still bubbling when we pulled into Poger Rock for gas and fresh directions. Cruz, on the other hand, accepted the news of Russell Piers’s “early parole” with a Zen detachment demonstrably contrary to his nature.
“Screw it. Let’s drink,” was his official comment.
Poger Rock was sunk in a hollow about fifteen miles south of the state capitol in Olympia. It wasn’t impressive—a dozen or so antiquated buildings moldering along the banks of a shallow creek posted with NO SHOOTING signs. Everything was peeling, rusting or collapsing toward the center of the earth. Only the elementary school loomed incongruously—a utopian brick and tile structure set back and slightly elevated, fresh paint glowing through the alders and dogwoods. Aliens might have landed and dedicated a monument.
Cruz filled up at a mom and pop gas station with the prehistoric pumps that took an eon to dribble forth their fuel. I bought some jerky and a carton of milk with a past-due expiration date to soothe my churning guts. The lady behind the counter had yellowish hair and wore a button with a fuzzy picture of a toddler in a bib. She smiled nervously as she punched keys and furiously smoked a Pall Mall. Didn’t recognize me, thank God.
Cruz pushed through the door, setting off the ding-dong alarm. His gaze jumped all over the place and his chambray shirt was molded to his chest as if he’d been doused with a water hose. He crowded past me, trailing the odor of armpit funk and cheap cologne, grunted at the cashier and shoved his credit card across the counter.
I raised my hand to block the sun when I stepped outside. Hart was leaning on the hood. “We’re gonna mosey over to the bar for a couple brewskis.” He coughed his smoker’s cough, spat in the gravel near a broken jar of marmalade. Bees darted among the wreckage.
“What about the Mima Mounds?”
“They ain’t goin’ anywhere. ’Sides, it ain’t time, yet.”
“Time?”
Hart’s ferret-pink eyes narrowed and he smiled slightly. He finished his cigarette and lighted another from the smoldering butt. “Cruz says it ain’t.”
“Well, what does that mean? It ‘ain’t time’?”
“I dunno, Ray-bo. I dunno fuckall. Why’nchya ask Cruz?”
“Okay.” I took a long pull of tepid milk while I considered the latest developments in what was becoming the most bizarre road trip of my life. “How are you feeling?”
“Groovy.”
“You look like hell.” I could still talk to him, after a fashion, when he was separated from Cruz. And I lied, “Sylvia’s worried.”
“What’s she worried about?”
I shrugged, let it hang. Impossible to read his face, his swollen eyes. In truth, I wasn’t sure I completely recognized him, this wasted hulk swaying against the car, features glazed into gargoyle contortions.
Hart nodded wisely, suddenly illuminated regarding a great and abiding mystery of the universe. His smile returned.
I glanced back, saw Cruz’s murky shadow drifting in the station window.
“Man, what are we doing out here? We could be in Portland by three.” What I wanted to say was, let’s jump in the car and shag ass for California. Leave Cruz in the middle of the parking lot holding his pecker and swearing eternal vengeance for all I cared.
“Anxious to get going on your book, huh?”
“If there’s a book. I’m not much of a writer. I don’t even know if we’ll get a movie out of this mess.”
“Ain’t much of an actor, either.” He laughed and slapped my shoulder with an iron paw to show he was just kidding. “Hey, lemme tell’ya. Did’ya know Cruz studied geology at UCLA? He did. Real knowledgeable about glaciers an’ rocks. All that good shit. Thought he was gonna work for the oil companies up in Alaska. Make some fat stacks. Ah, but you know how it goes, doncha, Ray-bo?”
“He graduated UCLA?” I tried not to sound astonished. It had been the University of Washington for me. The home of medicine, which wasn’t my specialty, according to the proctors. Political science and drama were the last exits.
“Football scholarship. Hard hittin’ safety with a nasty attitude. They fuckin’ grow on trees in the ghetto.”
That explained some things. I was inexplicably relieved.
Cruz emerged, cutting a plug of tobacco with his pocket knife. “C’mon, H. I’m parched.” And precisely as a cowboy would unhitch his horse to ride across the street, he fired the engine and rumbled the one quarter block to Moony’s Tavern and parked in a diagonal slot between a hay truck and a station wagon plastered with anti-Democrat, pro-gun bumper stickers.
Hart asked if I planned on joining them and I replied maybe in a while, I wanted to stretch my legs. The idea of entering that sweltering cavern and bellying up to the bar with the lowlife regulars and mine own dear chums made my stomach even more unhappy.
I grabbed my valise from the car and started walking. I walked along the street, past a row of dented mailboxes, rust-red flags erect; an outboard motor repair shop with a dusty police cruiser in front; the Poger Rock Grange, which appeared abandoned because its windows were boarded and where they weren’t, kids had broken them with rocks and bottles, and maybe the same kids had drawn 666 and other satanic symbols on the whitewashed planks, or maybe real live Satanists did the deed; Bob’s Liquor Mart, which was a corrugated shed with bars on the tiny windows; the Laundromat, full of tired women in oversized tee-shirts, and screeching, dirty-faced kids racing among the machinery while an A.M. radio broadcast a Rush Limbaugh rerun; and a trailer loaded with half-rotted firewood for 75 BUCKS! I finally sat on a rickety bench under some trees near the lone stoplight, close enough to hear it clunk through its cycle.
I drew a manila envelope from the valise, spread sloppy typed police reports and disjointed photographs beside me. The breeze stirred and I used a rock for a paper weight.
A whole slew of the pictures featured Russell Piers in various poses, mostly mug shots, although a few had been snapped during more pleasant times. There was even one of him and a younger brother standing in front of the Space Needle. The remaining photos were of Piers’s latest girlfriend—Penny Aldon, the girl from Allen Town. Skinny, pimply, mouthful of braces. A flower child with a suitably vacuous smirk.
Something cold and nasty turned over in me as I studied the haphazard data, the disheveled photo collection. I felt the pattern, unwholesome as damp cobwebs against my skin. Felt it, yet couldn’t put a name to it, couldn’t put my finger on it and my heart began pumping dangerously and I looked away, thought of Carly instead, and how I’d forgotten to call her on her seventh birthday because I was in Spain with some friends at a Lipizzaner exhibition. Except, I hadn’t forgotten, I was wired for sound from a snort of primo Colombian blow and the thought of dialing that long string of international numbers was too much for my circuits.
Ancient history, as they say. Those days of fast-living and superstar dreams belonged to another man, and he was welcome to them.
Waiting for cars to drive past so I could count them, I had an epiphany. I realized the shabby buildings were cardboard and the people milling here and there at opportune junctures were macaroni and glue. Dull blue construction paper sky and cotton ball clouds. And I
wasn’t really who I thought of myself as—I was an ant left over from a picnic raid, awaiting some petulant child god to put his boot down on my pathetic diorama existence.
My cell rang and an iceberg calved in my chest.
“Hey, Ray, you got any Indian in ya?” Rob asked.
I mulled that as a brand new Cadillac convertible paused at the light. A pair of yuppie tourists mildly argued about directions—a man behind the wheel in stylish wraparound shades and a polo shirt, and a woman wearing a floppy, wide-brimmed hat like the Queen Mum favored. They pretended not to notice me. The woman pointed right and they went right, leisurely, up the hill and beyond. “Comanche,” I said. Next was a shiny green van loaded with Asian kids. Sign on the door said THE EVERGREEN STATE COLLEGE. It turned right and so did the one that came after. “About one thirty-second. Am I eligible for some reparation money? Did I inherit a casino?”
“Where the hell did the Comanche sneak in?”
“Great grandma. Tough old bird. Didn’t like me much. Sent me a straight razor for Christmas. I was nine.”
Rob laughed. “Cra-zee. I did a search and came up with a bunch of listings for genetic research. Lemme check this . . .” he shuffled paper close to the receiver, cleared his throat. “Turns out this X haplogroup has to do with mitochondrial DNA, genes passed down on the maternal side—and an X-haplogroup is a specific subdivision or cluster. The university wags are tryin’ to use female lineage to trace tribal migrations and so forth. Something like three percent of Native Americans, Europeans and Basque belong to the X-group. Least, according to the stuff I thought looked reputable. Says here there’s lots of controversy about its significance. Usual academic crap. Whatch you were after?”
“I don’t know. Thanks, though.”
“You okay, bud? You sound kinda odd.”
“Shucks, Rob, I’ve been trapped in a car with two redneck psychos for weeks. Might be getting to me, I’ll admit.”
“Whoa, sorry. Sylvia called and started going on—”
“Everything’s hunky-dory, All right?”
“Cool, bro.” Rob’s tone said nothing was truly cool, but he wasn’t in any position to press the issue. There’d be a serious Q&A when I returned, no doubt about it.
Cruz’s dad was Basque, wasn’t he? Hart was definitely of good, solid German stock only a couple generations removed from the mother land.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one—a Spaniard, a German and a Comanche walk into a bar—
After we said goodbye, I dialed my ex and got her machine, caught myself and hung up as it was purring. It occurred to me then, what the pattern was, and I stared dumbly down at the fractured portraits of Penny and Piers as their faces were dappled by sunlight falling through a maze of leaves.
I laughed, bitter.
How in God’s name had they ever fooled us into thinking they were people at all? The only things missing from this farce were strings and zippers, a boom mike.
I stuffed the photos and the reports into the valise, stood in the weeds at the edge of the asphalt. My blood still pulsed erratically. Shadows began to crawl deep and blue between the buildings and the trees and in the wake of low-gliding cumulus clouds. Moony’s Tavern waited, back there in the golden dust, and Cruz’s Chevy before it, stolid as a coffin on the altar.
Something was happening, wasn’t it? This thing that was happening, had been happening, could it follow me home if I cut and ran? Would it follow me to Sylvia and Carly?
No way to be certain, no way to tell if I had simply fallen off my rocker—maybe the heat had cooked my brain, maybe I was having a long-overdue nervous breakdown. Maybe, shit. The sinister shape of the world contracted around me, gleamed like the curves of a great killing jar. I heard the lid screwing tight in the endless ultraviolet collisions, the white drone of insects.
I turned right and walked up the hill.
5
About two hours later, a guy in a vintage farm truck stopped. The truck had cruised by me twice, once going toward town, then on the way back. And here it was again. I hesitated; nobody braked for hitchhikers unless the hitcher was a babe in tight jeans.
I thought of Piers and Penny, their expressions in the video, drinking us with their smiling mouths, marking us. And if that was true, we’d been weighed, measured and marked, what was the implication? Piers and Penny were two from among a swarm. Was it open season?
The driver studied me with unsettling intensity, his beady eyes obscured by thick, black-rimmed glasses. He beckoned.
My legs were tired already and the back of my neck itched with sunburn. Also, what did it matter anyway? If I were doing anything besides playing out the hand, I would’ve gone into Olympia and caught a southbound Greyhound. I climbed aboard.
George was a retired civil engineer. Looked the part—crewcut, angular face like a piece of rock, wore a dress shirt with a row of clipped pens and a tie flung over his shoulder, and polyester slacks. He kept NPR on the radio at a mumble. Gripped the wheel with both gnarled hands.
He seemed familiar—a figure dredged from memories of scientists and engineers of my grandfather’s generation. He could’ve been my grandfather.
George asked me where I was headed. I said Los Angeles and he gave me a glance that said LA was in the opposite direction. I told him I wanted to visit the Mima Mounds—since I was in the neighborhood.
There was a heavy silence. A vast and unfathomable pressure built in the cab. At last George said, “Why, they’re only a couple miles farther on. Do you know anything about them?”
I admitted that I didn’t and he said he figured as much. He told me the Mounds were declared a national monument back in the ’60s; the subject of scholarly debate and wildly inaccurate hypotheses. He hoped I wouldn’t be disappointed—they weren’t glamorous compared to real natural wonders such as Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon or the California Redwoods. The preserve was on the order of five hundred acres, but that was nothing. The Mounds had stretched for miles and miles in the old days. The land grabs of the 1890s reduced the phenomenon to a pocket, surrounded it with rundown farms, pastures and cows. The ruins of America’s agrarian era.
I said that it would be impossible to disappoint me.
George turned at a wooden marker with a faded white arrow. A nicely paved single lane wound through temperate rain forest for a mile and looped into a parking lot occupied by the Evergreen vans and a few other vehicles. There was a fence with a gate and beyond that, the vague border of a clearing. Official bulletins were posted every six feet, prohibiting dogs, alcohol and firearms.
“Sure you want me to leave you here?”
“I’ll be fine.”
George rustled, his clothes chitin sloughing. “X marks the spot.”
I didn’t regard him, my hand frozen on the door handle, more than slightly afraid the door wouldn’t open. Time slowed, got stuck in molasses. “I know a secret, George.”
“What kind of secret?” George said, too close, as if he’d leaned in tight.
The hairs stiffened on the nape of my neck. I swallowed and closed my eyes. “I saw a picture in a biology textbook. There was this bug, looked exactly like a piece of bark, and it was barely touching a beetle with its nose. The one that resembled bark was what entomologists call an assassin bug and it was draining the beetle dry. Know how? It poked the beetle with a razor sharp beak thingy—”
“A rostrum, you mean.”
“Exactly. A rostrum, or a proboscis, depending on the species. Then the assassin bug injected digestive fluids, think hydrochloric acid, and sucked the beetle’s insides out.”
“How lovely,” George said.
“No struggle, no fuss, just a couple bugs sitting on a branch. So I’m staring at this book and thinking the only reason the beetle got caught was because it fell for the old piece of bark trick, and then I realized that’s how lots of predatory bugs operate.
They camouflage themselves and sneak up on hapless critters to do their thing.”
“Isn’t that the way of the universe?”
“And I wondered if that theory only applied to insects.”
“What do you suppose?”
“I suspect that theory applies to everything.”
Zilch from George. Not even the rasp of his breath.
“Bye, George. Thanks for the ride.” I pushed hard to open the door and jumped down; moved away without risking a backward glance. My knees were unsteady. After I passed through the gate and approached a bend in the path, I finally had the nerve to check the parking lot. George’s truck was gone.
I kept going, almost falling forward.
The trees thinned to reveal the humpbacked plain from the tv picture. Nearby was a concrete bunker shaped like a squat mushroom—a park information kiosk and observation post. It was papered with articles and diagrams under plexiglass. Throngs of brightly-clad Asian kids buzzed around the kiosk, laughing over the wrinkled flyers, pointing cameras and chattering enthusiastically. A shaggy guy in a hemp sweater, presumably the professor, lectured a couple of wind-burned ladies who obviously ran marathons in their spare time. The ladies were enthralled.
I mounted the stairs to the observation platform and scanned the environs. As George predicted, the view wasn’t inspiring. The mounds spread beneath my vantage, none greater than five or six feet in height and largely engulfed in blackberry brambles. Collectively, the hillocks formed a dewdrop hemmed by mixed forest, and toward the narrowing end, a dilapidated trailer court, its structures rendered toys by perspective. The paved footpath coiled unto obscurity.
A radio-controlled airplane whirred in the trailer court airspace. The plane’s engine throbbed, a shrill metronome. I squinted against the glare, couldn’t discern the operator. My skull ached. I slumped, hugged the valise to my chest, pressed my cheek against damp concrete, and drowsed. Shoes scraped along the platform. Voices occasionally floated by. Nobody challenged me, my derelict posture. I hadn’t thought they would. Who’d dare disturb the wildlife in this remote enclave?
The Humanity of Monsters Page 27
