“Ain’t nobody gonna mess with the three of us.”
“Three?”
“Yeah, oh, I ain’t told you about Crow.” Ned took a quick moment to explain.
“Crow, how much?”
“He didn’t give me anything but Crow.”
“Maybe Two-Crow.”
“I’d-a said that if he’d told me Two-Crow.”
“Where’s he from?”
Ned sighed in exasperation. He hated being questioned on the phone. He glanced out the open door to see Crow sitting with his eyes closed in an orange shell-back lawn chair in the middle of the courtyard, listening to the kids squeal in the playground. “Up around Tahlequah. He’s Comanche.”
“I’m gonna contact the sheriff up there to see if he can tell me anything about him.”
“He’s all right.” Ned grunted at another sudden pain. This time his forehead broke out in a sweat. His eyes flicked toward James, who was absorbed in the local news.
“What was that?”
“Clearing my throat’s all.”
“I’m gonna talk to the Tahlequah sheriff anyway, to make myself feel better.”
“I’d feel better if you figured out who ran over Leland.”
“Workin’ on it.”
Ned hung up without saying goodbye.
The sun went down, but Crow stayed in his lawn chair long after the neon Western Skies Motel sign flickered to life. James went to sleep sitting up in one of the full-size beds. Ned laid down beside him, still in his clothes, too, and closed his eyes, leaving the other bed for Crow.
Morning light showed the bed hadn’t been slept in at all.
Chapter Forty-two
Anna killed her engine beside the 271 Drive-In concession stand. Water stood ankle deep between the elevated rows of posts and speakers. The rain had slacked to a heavy mist, but the radio said it was only a matter of time before the next wave came through.
Cecil Hutler, the drive-in’s owner, was in a lawn chair underneath the overhang facing the huge blank screen. There were three rows of shell-back metal chairs for those who preferred to sit outside instead of in their cars. “Howdy, gal.”
Long used to being referred to as “gal,” Anna sat in the chair beside him. It rocked and that pleased her. She pushed lightly with her foot to enjoy the experience. “You called me?”
“Sure did. Did you see the movie we’re running?”
She’d barely paid attention to it, but several people in town were excited to have Home from the Hill showing again. It was based on a book by William Humphrey, a local boy, and had been filmed a few years earlier in nearby Clarksville, with parts shot in Chisum. “Sure did.”
He nodded and fished in his pants pocket for his pipe. His teeth clicked on the stem and he dug a tobacco wallet from the other side. “Yep, and for the first time in a long time I got to watch some of it.”
“Okay.”
He opened the wallet and packed the pipe, then returned everything to its proper place. While she waited with dwindling patience, he scratched a kitchen match alight and puffed until fragrant blue smoke surrounded them both.
Despite herself, Anna took a deep breath of the cherry mix and relaxed. It really wasn’t so bad sitting in the silent drive-in, in what was quickly turning into a fog.
“I’m usually in the back, cooking, or taking money, so even though I show these films every day, week after week, I usually don’t get a chance to watch them. Last night was different. It was so slow, the wife left the ticket booth and came out here with me. We had us a big time
“Now I’ll tell you, that movie came pretty dern close to what it’s really like around here. Hell, some of the folks in town even got to be in it. Extras, they call ’em in the movies. They mostly stand around as background, but it was fun while they was here.
“Anyway, I’m sitting here eating my own popcorn, when this truck comes on the screen. Mama recognized it right off. It was the same kind of truck, a fifty-one Dodge them people was in who was talking to the businessmen that disappeared. Right down to the light ivory color.”
Anna sat straighter and faced Cecil. “And?”
“Why, little missy, Mama remembered who was in it. Marty something-or-other, and a mean son of a bitch named John T. I know him, cause he’s gotten in some trouble here in town before. I run Marty off one night a year or so ago.”
Gears began to mesh. “Do you have a last name for either one of them?”
“Nope. There was another’n sitting in the middle, but Mama said she didn’t see him. Said they was all squeezed in that cab pretty tight.”
Anna rested her elbow on a knee. “Would she be able to pick him out of a picture?”
“Which one?”
“Either.”
“Sure.”
Anna was confident that the name John T. would be familiar to someone in the sheriff’s office, if he was mean as Cecil said. There couldn’t be anyone else in tiny Center Springs named Marty, either, that drove an ivory ’51 Dodge. “All right! Thanks.”
Cecil winked. “You could stay for the picture and see the truck for yourself.”
“I wish I could, but I need to get this information to the sheriff.”
He puffed his pipe, staring at the white screen. “Suit yourself.”
Chapter Forty-three
Their ride dropped Pepper and Cale off in front of the Hopi House, still another tourist trap sitting by itself ten miles west of Winslow. The Arizona sun beat down, heavy on their shoulders. On the opposite side of the dusty highway, two Indian women in a wooden stand knocked together from scrap lumber sold turquoise jewelry and painted bowls displayed on bright blankets.
Pepper absently read the familiar signs advertising gas, food, curios, Indians, and moccasins. “I thought we were gonna get away from two-lane country highways, but that’s all I’ve seen since we left.”
Cale pulled a renegade strand of hair out of his eyes. “What do you expect? It’s a road and it leads to California. That’s what you wanted.”
A ’53 Dodge and a Fairlane passed, blowing up enough dust to make them squint. “I wanted to be in San Francisco. I didn’t know it’d take this long to get there.”
Pepper stopped, glaring at Cale. “Here’s one thing I know for sure. We’re going to find somewhere to sleep tonight. I’m tired, hungry, and want a bath.”
“So where is this magic place?”
She sighed. “We’ll find some kids and bunk in with them, I guess.”
She had no intention of sleeping in a culvert under a bridge. Full of despair, they hoped the next town was bigger. A Mustang roared on the highway, its mufflers clattering, followed in quick succession by a Dodge Dart and a Ford Sunliner pulling a teardrop trailer. No one paid any attention to Pepper’s thumb.
Frustrated, she glanced back, hoping to see a friendly driver and instead, caught sight of a desert thunderstorm in the near distance, dropping a blue-gray veil of rain on the desert.
It was headed directly toward them.
“Well, shit.”
Chapter Forty-four
Miss Becky was wound pretty tight, and for the first time in my life, I heard her say a bad word.
I was on the porch, missing Pepper and swatting flies to keep boredom at bay and to cut down on the number getting into the house every time someone opened the screen door. It had been a few minutes since I’d slapped one, because I was watching a fox work its way down the fence line across the highway. We didn’t see too many foxes, and that one surprised me. I wondered if it was sick, walking around in the daylight like that, but before I thought to call through the screen and ask Miss Becky to get the .22 rifle, I heard a jar crash to the floor.
“Shit-fire!”
It was like a bolt of lightning struck the house. In my worst nightmares, I’d never thought to hear Miss Becky say anythi
ng such as that. Lest lightning really strike and hit me instead, I held my breath. It was a long moment of silence, and then a groan.
“Sweet Jesus, forgive me for backsliding.” Her voice was low, because we all knew Jesus could even hear us think. She started sobbing.
Her crying brought tears to my own eyes, and they burned both for her and the emptiness I felt with Pepper gone. I doubt she even knew the words came through the screen. I slipped off the end of the porch and went through the wet grass to the smokehouse where I stayed for a good fifteen minutes. When I came back, I glanced inside and saw her dump a dustpan full of glass into the trash.
“Top.” Her voice sounded hoarse. She sniffed a couple of times like she had a bad old cold. “Hon, run up to the store and get me a box of yellow cake mix.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Don’t tarry. It’s liable to start raining again at any time.”
“I’ll be right back.”
My bike was leaning against the outside kitchen wall. I climbed on and pushed off as she came to the door. “Hurry back. We’re walking over to the church house when you get back.”
I knew why, and I also knew better than to argue.
It didn’t take more than five minutes to pedal down the wet highway to Uncle Neal’s store. A couple of men were sitting under the overhang at Oak Peterson’s. Uncle Neal’s door was open and the lights were on inside, but for the first in a long time, there wasn’t a soul on the porch. I leaned my bike against the steps and took them two at a time.
“Uncle Top!” Uncle Neal’s booming voice seemed especially loud in the empty silence. For some reason he liked to hang an “uncle” on me, and I never knew why.
“Howdy Uncle Neal. Miss Becky wants a box of yellow cake mix.”
“I ain’t sure what I have right now, but it’ll be on that shelf on the backside of the beans there. Down low, on the bottom.”
I went around to the other side and found the flour, baking soda, and sugar.
“Raise your hand.”
I did, and realized Uncle Neal could see it over the shelves.
“Move down a ways.”
I did, and found the mixes. I wiggled my fingers to show him I’d seen it, then squatted to read the labels. The light wasn’t particularly good back there in the corner, so it took a few seconds to find what he had in stock.
There were more mixes than I expected, chocolate, lemon, and spice. It was aggravating to want a stupid color. To me, cake was cake.
“Howdy!” Uncle Neal always greeted his customers like they were long lost friends.
“Howdy back. I came to get thome thliced ham and a loaf of bread.”
I froze at the sound of that voice. It was the one who called Mr. O.C. about the bodies buried in the lake bed.
Trembling, I knew I couldn’t stay there, hiding on the floor. Uncle Neal would sure ’nough wonder where I was and would call attention to me. I figured it’d be best if I got my mix and went up to the counter like everything was hunky dory. I tried to speak, but my mouth was so dry it came out a croak. I cleared my throat like there was something in it, and tried again.
“Found it.”
“Good. You all right? Some of that dust get in your craw?” Uncle Neal laughed and I heard him turn on the slicer. “I reckon I need to dust under there. No tellin’ what might be living in the back of them shelves.”
I rose and came around the end of the row. A young man stood there with his back to me, waiting on his order. I recognized him as the one sitting between John T. and Marty. I stopped beside the Coke cooler and waited, absently rubbing my foot back and forth on the raw floorboards.
Uncle Neal talked while he sliced. “I hain’t seen you in a coon’s age, Freddy.”
“Nothir. I’ve been laying low for a while.”
“I heard you was asking for a job here while back.”
“Thill am, only I don’t need one ath bad as I did. I decided to thart college next themester, in Commerce, and there aren’t too many folkth want to hire thomeone who talks like me and ith gonna quit in a couple of month.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Uncle Neal weighed several slices on a piece of white paper in his hand. He stopped. “I meant about working such a short time. This enough?”
“Aw, give me a half a dothen more thlices. Money ain’t burry good if you can’t thpend it.”
Uncle Neal laughed again and turned off the slicer. “You must have put some back to pay for college.”
Freddy was silent for a second. “I made a little hauling hay, bought a car’n got me a thcholarthip to boot.”
“A scholarship! I’ll be damned. Not many folks around here get one of them. You must have been something special.”
Freddy rubbed the back of his neck, and I could tell he was uncomfortable with the conversation. “I juth lithened in class. I thouldn’t have thaid anything about it, Neal. Don’t thay nothing.”
He frowned. “Oh, well son, don’t worry about that. The truth is that scholarships aren’t handouts.”
“I know. I don’t like to talk about my bidness.”
“Well fine, then.” Neal glanced toward the door, as if expecting someone to walk in. “You might want to go it alone for a while. Some folks tend to hold you back, if you know what I mean.”
Freddy watched at the door. “You may be right.”
Finished with his slicing, Uncle Neal wrapped the ham in another sheet of butcher paper and used a piece of masking tape to hold the flap closed. He wrote on it and rang up the sale on his old metal register. The heavy clunk of internal machinery sounded normal to me, and I suddenly realized everything was normal. It was me that was acting and feeling different.
Freddy passed him some change and left without paying any attention to me. He went down the steps and got under the wheel of an older model Chevy sedan.
Uncle Neal saw the car too. He rubbed his chin. “Well I’ll be. He must have a hauled a butt-load of hay to make enough for a car and college money.”
“Miss Becky said to put this on Grandpa’s account.”
He forgot the car and licked the end of a pencil stub. “Will do. Any news about Pepper?”
“Nossir.”
“She making a coconut cake?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Well, if she is, see if she’ll cut me a slice. I dearly love Becky’s coconut cake.”
“I will.” I stepped out on the porch and saw the Chevy turn onto the highway, heading west toward Forest Chapel, but he could have also been going to Belk, Direct, Monkstown, Tigertown, Ragtown, or even Ivanhoe for all I knew, not to mention the little dots I couldn’t remember.
Chapter Forty-five
“Painted desert, my ass.” Pepper grumbled as they walked down the Flagstaff sidewalk. “It wasn’t nothin’ but sand and rocks.”
Cale tried to keep things upbeat, but she seemed to be a thousand miles away. “Hey, where’s my girl?”
Tired and dispirited, Pepper didn’t stop walking. “I never was your girl.”
“Sure you are. You came with me, didn’t you?”
“We came together on this trip, that’s all.”
“C’mon. We’re over halfway to San Francisco. You’ll feel better when we get there.”
“No I won’t.”
“Sure you will…”
“It’s all bullshit.”
“What?”
She stopped and waved her arms, hands flapping like they wanted to take off on their own. “This. Everything. This trip, this hippie shit, living on the road, whatever you call it. I’m done.”
“You’re tired.”
“You’re damn right, I am. Nothing’s different out here except we’re in the goddamned desert and I’m hot and dirty and tired and I want to lay down and go to sleep for a while.”
Cale patted
his pocket. “We have a little money left.”
“What are you gonna do with it? We gonna get a motel room?” She pointed at the Western Skies. “Are they gonna rent us a room?”
“Well, no.”
“That’s right. How about down there at the El Rancho, or that way, at the Pony Soldier, huh? I wanted to stay in one of them giant teepee rooms we saw in Holbrook back there, but that ain’t gonna happen, neither.”
“You’re missing the point of this trip, to get away from the establishment and help change the world. Look, we’ll find out where the kids hang out and crash with some of them.”
“Not me, bub. I’ve thought about it and I’m done with being groped and expected to put out to sleep on a dirty mattress on the floor and wake up to get groped again.”
“It’s called free love.”
“It’s called something I don’t want to do…not after that night in the bottoms. If that’s sex, I’ve had enough of it already.”
Exasperated, Cale threw his hands in the air. “Well, what, then? What do you want to do? There’s a bus station down there. How about…?”
“No! I’m not washing up in another dirty bathroom or sitting in a damned bus station to get out of the sun.”
“I’ll buy us tickets, then. How about that? We’ll get on a bus to San Francisco.”
Her temperature cooled. “You have enough?”
“I think so. We’re halfway there, so we can go on, or back home.”
Mollified, she struck out for the station. When they arrived it was busy with travelers waiting on the next bus. They stepped into the small, stifling lobby. The rooftop water cooler did little more than move the air.
Cale chewed his lip. “I bet that ticket agent’s mean. He won’t sell tickets to a couple of kids.”
“Try.” Pepper’s glare cut a hole through him.
The unshaven agent was writing on a pad when Cale reached the window. “Can I get two tickets to San Francisco?”
The man adjusted a pair of glasses that immediately slipped back down to the end of his nose. “No, and you’d better get on out of here before I call the police. You’re as underage as I’ve seen ’em, and I don’t intend to get in trouble. Go on back home till you grow up.”
Dark Places Page 17
