“I wasn’t expecting fog this dense in Texas,” Professor Johnson said. “It feels like a London particular from Victorian England. Without the soot, of course.”
Dymphna assumed a London particular must be the professor’s learned term for a pea soup fog.
“Oh,” Dymphna said, racking her brain for any interesting tidbit she might know about fog or Victorian London. She came up blank. She missed Erinn. Erinn would know everything there was to know about fog, London, Queen Victoria, and soot. She knew everything about everything. Granted, Erinn could be downright boring in telling you more than you wanted to know about any given subject, but she was never at a loss for words.
But Erinn wasn’t here. As usual, Dymphna was desperate for a way to make conversation with this man.
“I had a dream just now,” she said. “The GPS said we’d arrived.”
“That was a dream, all right. Our GPS gave up about two hours ago,” he said. “But the driver and I came to the conclusion that this is the place.”
“That’s good!” Dymphna smiled encouragingly.
“Oh?” he said. “Do you see a town here?”
Every way she looked, she saw nothing but shadowy hills spread lavishly with mist.
“I mean, obviously not right here,” she said quickly. “Maybe when the fog clears, we’ll see it.”
“Like Shangri-la,” Professor Johnson said.
“Or Brigadoon,” Dymphna said as the two of them stared into the space where the town should be.
Unlike the fog, but like every other conversation they’d had, this one vaporized.
The seven of them had traveled together from Southern California to Central Texas in the behemoth chauffeured RV provided by their eccentric and deceased benefactor. Dymphna had thought an adventure of this nature—or the stress of it at least—would have resulted in some sort of bonding. Even the small inroads she’d made with the others paled in comparison to her total failure at thawing Professor Elwood Johnson.
“Where is Thud?” she asked.
“He’s a bloodhound,” Professor Johnson said. “He’s off... sniffing.”
“Maybe he can find the town,” Dymphna said.
“I have a PhD from Harvard in natural science,” Professor Johnson said.
“I know. You’ve mentioned that several times.”
“My point is,” he said defensively, “if I can’t find the town, what makes you think he can?”
“I just thought . . . ,” she said. “Well . . . he has other skills.”
Professor Johnson whistled for the dog. Thud bounded out of the brush, wrinkles and spittle flying. He had a large, rectangular piece of wood clamped in his mouth.
“What have you got there, boy?”
Professor Johnson always seemed a little less intimidating when he was interacting with his dog.
“Thud, let go!” he said, finally pulling the wood from the dog’s mouth.
Thud relinquished his prize and sat down, tail wagging furiously.
Dymphna stood over the professor, who had laid the plank on the ground. As he knelt, he started wiping away some caked mud. She realized the sun was up, but the fog was still so thick she could barely make out the weather-beaten letters that were appearing by inches.
Dymphna stood over the professor. Wrapping the shawl around her, she squinted down at the sign.
“What does it say?”
“It says—”
“Welcome to Fat Chance, Texas!” called out a new voice from somewhere in the fog. If a wheelbarrow rolling through gravel could be given a voice, this would be it.
Dymphna peered into the fog. She shot a glance at Professor Johnson, who was wiping his glasses as he peered nearsightedly in the same direction. Dymphna found herself standing closer to Thud, who did not seem at all alarmed as the crunching footsteps approached. Dymphna could make out the approaching figure of a man. He wore a pair of long Hawaiian board shorts that almost crested the tops of thick-soled hiking boots. Completing this rather unusual ensemble was a stained T-shirt, which may have been white once in its dreams. The man’s large, battered cowboy hat rested on the back of his head, a shock of white hair poking out from underneath. His piercing, silver-tinged green eyes peered out from a pair of oval glasses. He also sported an enormous white beard. Between the hair and the beard, there was no more than a strip of tanned face showing. He reminded Dymphna of a large angora rabbit. The man continued advancing on them. Professor Johnson grabbed Thud’s collar, although Dymphna thought it was probably more for show than any worry that the bloodhound was going to attack. She could feel the dog’s tail whapping against her leg.
The man stopped about three feet in front of them. He didn’t smile. He thrust out his chin at Thud. “That your dog?”
“Yes,” Professor Johnson said.
The man now thrust his chin at the Welcome To Fat Chance, Texas sign in Professor Johnson’s hands. “That’s my sign,” he said.
Dymphna noticed the man had his right shoulder angled back at an unnatural angle. She wondered if there was something wrong with his arm, but as the fog started to clear, she saw that he was resting his fingertips on the butt of a gun. The gun was in a holster buckled across the man’s hips. At a distance, the holster had blended in with the loud board shorts, but as he got closer, there was no mistaking it.
The man suddenly whirled on the RV. He yelled out, “Throw your weapons down and come out with your hands up.”
“Sir, this RV is coming in from Los Angeles,” Professor Johnson said. “We don’t have weapons.”
One of the windows opened slowly and a man’s hand appeared, palm up. In the palm was resting a pistol. The hand dropped the gun to the ground as the door hissed open. Powderkeg came down the steps into the open with his hands locked over his head.
“Good morning, Vietnam!” the old man said. “I know that gun.”
As Powderkeg moved toward the side of the RV with his hands still clasped over his head, another gun hit the dirt—this one a semiautomatic handgun in dark gray and alarming pink. Old Bertha heaved herself down the stairs, glaring at the old man.
“A lady can’t be too careful,” she said, putting her hands in the air and moving toward Powderkeg.
A switchblade was next out the door, followed by a glowering Wally Wasabi.
“Dude,” Wally said. “You suck.”
“Move along, sonny,” the old man said. “And get those hands in the air.”
“Whatever,” Wally Wasabi said, but he moved down the steps of the RV with his hands up.
“How did they get all those weapons on their planes?” Dymphna whispered to Professor Johnson.
“You can put a switchblade in checked luggage,” Professor Johnson whispered back. “And if you let TSA know you’re bringing a firearm—ahead of time in writing and you have a permit—you can bring it in checked baggage, as well.”
“Wow.” Dymphna’s voice was so soft, she could barely hear it herself. “Who knew?”
“I did,” the professor said. “And every TSA agent in America.”
Dymphna looked at him. He clearly wasn’t showing off, just stating facts.
“Any more weapons in there?” the man with the gun said.
A hairbrush came flying out the door, knocking the hat off the old man.
“I’m so sorry,” Titan said as he stumbled out the door. “I didn’t mean to hit you.”
The old man picked up his hat and placed it back on his head. “Take more than a hairbrush to do me in. Is that everybody?”
“Everybody but the driver,” Old Bertha said. “And a sweet young girl who is perfectly harmless.”
“OK, driver,” the old man called in. “I want you to check the entire interior for any other weapons and then come on out. Slow-ly.”
The old man drew out the word “slowly.” Dymphna wondered if he’d watched too many westerns. He didn’t really look like a real cowboy. He was wearing a cowboy hat, but those Hawaiian shorts and hiking boots told a diff
erent story. Cowboy or not, that gun looked real—and she was going to pay attention. She could hear the driver rummaging around. When he came out of the RV, Dymphna instinctively moved toward him. He was carrying her knitting needles, one of them looped with her precious yellow yarn. She let out a whimper as the driver held them in the air.
“Do I really have to throw this on the ground?” the driver asked. “This lady has been working awfully hard—knitting away the entire trip.”
Dymphna was touched. The driver had kept to himself. She hadn’t exchanged more than a few perfunctory words with him since the trip began. She didn’t even know his name. She couldn’t believe he had noticed she’d been knitting, let alone taken on a man with a gun on her behalf.
“Hand the one needle over to me,” the old man said. “Slow-ly.”
The driver handed the old man the free knitting needle and passed the remaining needle and yarn to Dymphna, who cradled them in her arms. The old man studied the needle, tucked it into his holster belt like a sword, and then turned toward Professor Johnson.
“What about you?” the old man asked. “You got any weapons?”
“I don’t believe in weapons,” Professor Johnson said, hands in the air, the Fat Chance sign leaning against his shin. “Besides, I have my dog.”
The old man started laughing. “Come ’ere, pooch,” He pulled a piece of dried meat from his pocket.
Thud pulled free of the professor’s grip and bounded over to the man, who held the jerky aloft.
“Sit,” the old man commanded.
Thud’s haunches landed in the dust, his eyes never moving from the piece of meat. The old man tossed the meat into the air and Thud rose up and caught it in his gigantic jaws.
“I’ve already met your dog,” the old man said to Professor Johnson. “He came into town and I gave him some of this.” He pulled out another piece of jerky and threw it to the dog, who once again caught it in midair.
“Town?” Professor Johnson asked, starting to lower his hands until the old man started fingering his gun again.
“Yeah,” the old man said. “I’m the mayor.”
“The mayor.” Dymphna tried not to make the word into a question.
She exchanged a look with Titan. She noticed Powderkeg never took his eyes off their host.
“Yes,” the old man said. “My name is Pappy and I’m the mayor of this place.”
“We’re not even sure where this place is,” Old Bertha said.
The old man pointed to the sign leaning on Professor Johnson’s legs. “Like the sign says. Fat Chance, Texas.”
“This is bogus,” Wally Wasabi said. “You’re not going to shoot anybody.”
“Oh yeah?” Pappy stalked toward Wally Wasabi, who didn’t flinch but stared back calmly into the old man’s face. They were nose to nose for several seconds. Dymphna was starting to feel light-headed, when Pappy broke the stalemate.
“Wait a minute,” he said, as if he’d forgotten all about his showdown with Wally Wasabi. “Didn’t you say there was somebody else on that bus?”
“Yeah,” Polly said, appearing in the door of the RV, Goth makeup freshly applied.
Pappy was clearly taken aback by Polly’s ghoulish appearance. “That’s a look,” he said, walking over to her.
Dymphna had gotten used to Polly being friendly and personable on the bus, and had forgotten what an interesting first impression the girl made.
Pappy reached up to take Polly’s hand. “Come on out,” he said. “Don’t be scared.”
As soon as Polly was on solid ground, she let out a tae kwon do kiai yell and flipped Pappy into the dirt, her foot on his throat.
“I’m not as harmless as I look,” Polly said, releasing Pappy’s throat and staring down at him.
“I’m sorry to have underestimated you, little girl.” Pappy sat up and rubbed his throat.
In an imperceptible flash, Pappy’s hand shot across Polly’s ankles. She landed on her butt, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Dymphna saw Powderkeg take a step toward the scene, but Titan stopped him.
“I think she’s got this,” Titan whispered under his breath.
Pappy and Polly scowled at each other from their sitting positions. Polly’s muscles tightened, ready for more action.
“Hold it right there,” Pappy said to her. “I’m an old man and that’s my only move.”
The group relaxed. Polly sprang to her feet and offered Pappy a hand, before rethinking and pulling her hand away.
“No funny stuff,” Polly insisted.
“Yeah, yeah,” Pappy said. “Get me up.”
Polly hauled him to his feet. “This isn’t a very nice way to greet us, you know.”
“Well, you got me there, little lady,” Pappy said, smacking dust from his Hawaiian shorts and breaking into a deranged grin. “OK, everybody, you can pick up your weapons.”
“I don’t understand,” Dymphna said. “We’re free to go?”
“You’ve always been free to go,” Pappy said. “But now you’re also free to pick up your weapons.”
“I could have had a heart attack,” Old Bertha said.
“Well, I’m sorry, ma’am,” Pappy said. “But I just wanted to make sure you were the right crowd.”
“Right crowd?” Polly asked. “How many recreational vehicles on steroids roll through here?”
“None,” Pappy admitted. “Cutthroat said you all were coming, so I’ve been expecting you. But I had to make sure it was you! I mean, if the media got wind of this crazy idea of Cutthroat’s—who knows how many lunatics would be showing up? Nothing personal, of course.”
He looked around at the group. “Y’all fit the description,” he continued, counting heads. “But aren’t we missing somebody?”
“Hold on,” Professor Johnson said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here! What do you mean, you were expecting us?”
“Y’all think Cutthroat would send a bunch of babies like you to the middle of nowhere without assistance? I’m here to oversee this whole experiment. Who do you think got the electricity and water going around here?”
“You?” asked Titan.
“Hell, no,” Pappy said. “I just said I oversee the place.”
“Can I drive this RV down that road?” the driver interrupted. “Looks pretty steep . . . and narrow.”
The group turned and looked at the trail behind Pappy. The fog had evaporated and they could see the trail suddenly dipping into a valley, most of the road disappearing around a sharp bend. The pitch of the road wasn’t the only problem. There was also an enormous rut carved out in the middle—a huge seam yawning in the center of the trail. Everyone stared at Pappy, who was shaking his head.
“Afraid not,” he said. “The road washed out about five years ago.”
“Some overseer,” Wally Wasabi said under his breath. Titan nudged Wally’s sneaker with his own foot, trying to keep the newly won peace.
“Yep,” Pappy said. “I can’t even get my own car up and down anymore.”
Everyone followed Pappy’s gaze, which settled on an ancient VW bus. The bus was missing its top. In its place was a large beige tarp fastened on either side with thick twine. The tarp followed the curved lines of the roof, and looked like a futuristic Conestoga wagon.
“I call her the Covered Volkswagen,” Pappy said.
“How do we get our things down to Fat Chance?” Dymphna asked.
“Carry ’em,” Pappy said.
The driver had quietly unpacked the suitcases and boxes from the RV. The luggage sat on the ground, metal buckles and locks winking in the sun.
“I can’t walk down that,” Old Bertha said, arms folded across her chest in determination.
“You gotta,” Pappy said. “Might as well get used to it. Like I always say, up and down is the only way in and out. Of course, I say that to myself, ’cause nobody else has been here in years.”
Dymphna tried to steady her heartbeat as she watched the driver. He appeared to be getting ready
to desert them—leaving them with this madman.
“We’re supposed to carry all this down there?” Wally Wasabi asked.
“Keep your pants on,” Pappy said, eyeing Wally Wasabi’s sagged jeans. “Or in your case, pull your pants up. Jerry Lee is gonna give you a hand.”
He let out a shrill whistle that pierced the morning. “Jerry Lee,” the old man barked. “Get up here.”
The group stared down the road. Nothing moved in the still morning air. Dymphna wondered if Pappy was insane. Then she heard it. The tiniest hint of sound. Possibly a branch moving. She looked at Thud, who had gotten to his feet, the hair on his back bristling. She couldn’t see it, but something was headed their way. Professor Johnson grabbed the dog’s collar as an old mule came morosely up the hill and stood next to Pappy.
“This is Jerry Lee,” Pappy said, scratching the animal between its enormous ears. “Named him that ’cause he’s entertaining, but sometimes he can be a real jackass.”
Pappy slapped his thigh. Clearly being alone did not stop him from enjoying his own jokes.
“That’s a mule,” Professor Johnson said, looking at Jerry Lee. “A jackass is a donkey.”
“A jackass can be a person, too,” Pappy said.
“I hate to interrupt, but I have to head back to Los Angeles,” the driver said, looking at the anxious faces of his former passengers. “Happy to take anybody with me—looks like this will be your last chance to change your minds.”
Dymphna’s body shook like an earthquake had gone off inside her. She thought the driver looked extremely worried. Well, he didn’t sign up for this. She did. She shook his hand.
“Thank you for everything,” she said. “We’ll be fine. Really.”
The driver started to speak, but Dymphna held up her hand.
“We all agreed to this,” she said. “You have a safe trip back.”
“If you’re sure,” the driver said.
She smiled. “I’m sure.”
I’m not sure!
By the time she’d turned back, everyone was carrying armloads of luggage. Dymphna watched Powderkeg and Pappy as they compared pistols.
“I knew you were the veteran as soon as I saw your Colt,” Pappy said. “I’m carrying the same kind—western style, of course. It’ll be good to have some backup around here.”
Welcome to Fat Chance, Texas Page 7
