by Liam Jackson
Horace smiled, but shook his head. "There's a time and place for everything under the sun, Sam."
Sam thought he detected a genuine concern in the old man's expressive eyes. "I figured you might say something like that. Thanks, Horace. I'll be careful."
The old man gave him a concerned look and nodded. "You do that, son. You do that."
Sam shut the door of the truck and took up his bag. Without a backward glance, Horace pulled out onto the highway and slowly faded from sight. Sam slung the bag over his shoulder and started for the truck stop. He needed to find out exactly where he was and plan his next move. Before he could take three steps, he noticed a green highway sign sitting on the opposite shoulder of the highway. His throat constricted as he read the words printed in large dingy white letters:
STATE HWY 112 FARMINGTON 43 MILES ABBOTSVILLE 148 MILES
A few blocks away, Horace steered the truck off onto the shoulder of the road and turned off the engine. For long moments, he stared blankly out through the insect-splattered windshield. With his mind's-eye he watched Sam enter the store, help himself to a cup of hot chocolate, and move to the counter to pay. The girl is refusing his money, but he'll want to pay just the same. That's just the way he is, thought Horace, smiling to himself. "Yep, his Nanna was right. That's a good boy."
Horace settled back into his seat and closed his tired eyes. He still had much work to do and precious time was running low. Others like Sam were facing horrendous danger while working toward the same end: the restoration of "Eye of God." Most would fall along the way, victims of circumstance or more sinister interference. Horace wanted to help them all, but it was futile. Too many negative forces at work, and a Heavenly Host already strained by battles on multiple fronts. Too many battles. Horace sighed, then leaned forward and started the engine. Without a backward glance, he pulled the truck out onto the snow-covered highway.
CHAPTER 20
Fayetteville, Arkansas
Popeye Turner peeled back the top of his sleeping bag and reached for his glasses. A veteran trucker of twenty-five years, it usually took a hell of a ruckus to pull him out of a dead sleep. This was a hell of a ruckus.
Pulling back the heavy curtains that sealed off the sleeper compartment of the Kenworth, he looked out through the frost-covered windshield. A quick glance at the truck's digital clock revealed that it was early morning, just after
7 A.M.
He cocked his ear and listened, but he only heard the steady hum of the Kenworth's diesel engine. Puzzled, he pulled on his jeans and boots and crawled out of the sleeper compartment, and into the driver's seat. He was sure that he had heard someone screaming bloody murder.
Popeye looked over the nearly deserted rest area parking lot. The only other vehicle in sight was an older model Lincoln, parked near the restrooms. There was a steady stream of white smoke rolling from the Lincoln's dual exhaust pipes, but Popeye couldn't tell if there was anyone in the car. The windows were blacked out.
"Ah, shoot. Probably a bad dream," he mumbled, scratching his cheek. Besides, how in the heck can I hear a scream over the engine noise? That's not even possible... is it?
It could have been a dream, but Popeye didn't really believe that. The voice was too clear, too familiar. It sounded like that redheaded kid, Sam. Another shrill scream shattered the calm, and turned Popeye's blood to ice water. Heart pounding, Popeye turned on the old Cobra citizens band radio and flipped the selector to the universally recognized emergency channel.
Keying the handheld microphone, he drawled out, "Break channel nine, break nine! Looking for a county mountie or state bear near exit sixty-two on I-five-forty! Ten-thirty-three! Emergency, emergency! This is Old Footloose, standing by." Popeye released the button and waited for an answer. Instantly, a reply came back crackling over the speakers
"Footloose, you got the Hammerhead here. I'm on a base station not far from mile marker six-two. Is there something I can do for you, come on?"
"Hammerhead, I'm at the Exit-Sixty-two rest stop. There's somebody ascreaming bloody murder outside my truck! Sounds like it's coming from over by the restrooms. Can you call the local bears on a landline and get some help out here, come back?"
"That's a ten-four, Footloose. You just hold tight, buddy. My better half is dialing the number right now."
"Roger that, Hammerhead! I'm standing by."
Popeye laid the microphone in the seat, rolled down the truck window and sat with both eyes glued to the restroom entrance. Only a few seconds passed before the voice crackled over the radio.
"Footloose, this is the Hammerhead, come on!"
Popeye grabbed the microphone and held it near the corner of his mouth. His hand was shaking so badly, he bruised his bottom lip. "You got Old Footloose, Hammerhead, come on."
Static hissed and popped from the radio. "Footloose, we made contact with the local bears, but it's gonna be awhile, maybe thirty minutes, before they can get to you. Something about a god-awful wreck at mile marker seven-zero has 'em tied up. You copy?"
"Hellfire!"
Popeye slammed the flat of his hand down on the steering wheel in frustration. Another thirty minutes! He was afraid that it might already be too late. That clinched it. Popeye Turner had never considered himself the heroic type, but there were just some things a man couldn't ignore.
"Listen, Hammerhead. I'm gonna have a look. If you don't hear from me in the next ten minutes, you call them bears again. Ten-four?"
"That's a ten-four, Footloose. You be careful, buddy. You know there's some crazy sonsabitches what hangs out around them rest stops these days."
Popeye draped the microphone cord over the steering wheel and pulled his "tire-checker" from beneath the seat. He had logged more than a half-million highway miles with the thirty-inch piece of seasoned hickory riding along within easy reach. Until today, he had never felt the need to use it. Looking at the length of wood, he silently wished he could trade it for a .38 Special.
Popeye opened the door of the Kenworth and stepped down on the running board. He paused for a second, listening for something, but heard nothing but the distant thrum of interstate traffic and the pounding of his own heart.
He hopped down onto the dew-covered pavement and slowly made his way toward the restrooms. Cautiously, he made his way past the still-running Lincoln. Though old enough to qualify for antique plates, the car was showroom clean, not so much as a speck of dirt. Popeye kept walking.
He reached the doorway of the restroom, and pressed himself flat against the cold concrete wall. He could now hear moans coming from the interior of the building. Gripping the hickory club until the blood drained from his knuckles, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His mind raced, searching for a plan, but nothing came immediately to mind.
Maybe if I call out, first. Let 'em know that somebody is out here...
Popeye never considered himself a fighter, but if it came to blows, he'd much rather it be out here in the open.
"God, let them bears hurry up," he muttered.
"Help... me. Please... some... somebody help me," a familiar voice pleaded from inside the building.
Dear God! I was right! It's the boy!
This changed everything. He couldn't, wouldn't stand by while the boy lay inside, injured. Popeye ran into the dimly lit building, the length of wood held high over his head. Turning the corner, he froze. Laying facedown in a growing pool of blood, was the body of a young man. Popeye could see by the shallow rise and fall of the body that he was still alive. Popeye dropped to a knee beside the boy and gently turned him over.
"Oh, my God... oh, my God... oh, my God..."
Popeye tried to get to his feet, slipped in the blood, then turned his head and puked. While the boy could be, might be Sam, there was no way to know for sure. Long strips of skin and flesh had been peeled away from the face, revealing the dull gleam of bone. One eye dangled from the socket, suspended by thin strands of sinew.
A door from one of the toilet stalls
swung open, and a tall, broad-shouldered man sporting a dirty, unwashed ponytail, stepped out. Walking casually across the floor, he paused long enough to deliver a savage kick to the boy's head. The body twitched uncontrollably for several seconds, then ceased forever.
Popeye, now in shock, stared disbelievingly at the horrific scene before him. The man looked at him and grinned. "Took you long enough, dude! We were beginning to wonder if you really had the balls."
He took Popeye by the arm and lifted him to his feet as a man would a small child. Still grinning, he steered the dazed trucker to one of the toilet stalls and sat him down on the seat.
The man hovered over Popeye and after a moment said, "My friends call me Little Stevie. You can call me Mr. Little Stevie." The transformed addict laughed wildly at his own joke, then bent double from a series of severe hacking coughs. The bout lasted several seconds, and culminated when Little Stevie spat out a wad of bloody mucus. Popeye watched stupefied as the phlegm hissed and blistered the lime-green paint from the wall of the restroom.
"Now, dude, you need to listen very closely. We can make this easy, or we can make this a real bitch. Do you understand?"
Popeye heard the words, but he understood nothing. He was clinging to his sanity by a thread.
"Look, dude, you're not cooperating, here. We just want the boy. Sam. We're friends of his. You remember Sam, right? Don't deny it. We can see him in your memories, you know." Stevie closed his eyes and took a deep breath, expanded his massive chest until the leather coat split between jutting shoulder blades. He slowly exhaled, then opened his eyes and looked at Popeye. "Old man, I can smell him on you, so don't lie to us. You dropped him off in Little Rock. We found him, then lost him again."
Popeye mumbled something, and Stevie raised his hands in theatrical resignation. Little Stevie was something of a natural ham, and of his many duties, interrogations were his personal favorite. "Yeah, yeah. Life's a bitch and I ain't no Dick-fucking-Tracy. But you're going to help me find him again. Now, where was Sam going when you dropped him off?"
Driven into shock and straddling the thin line between sanity and madness, Popeye's mind withdrew into an inner place where not even Little Stevie's master could follow. Yet the boy's name jarred something loose in Popeye's damaged mind and his lips moved mechanically, silently forming the word, Sam... Sam.
Little Stevie shook his head and muttered a curse under his rancid breath. "No wonder your kind is an endangered species, buncha weak-kneed dumbfucks. Well, don't say I didn't warn you. I'll introduce you to one of my associates now. Been a pleasure... dumbfuck." Little Stevie stepped back, then to the side, clearing the doorway.
Popeye stared ahead through vacant eyes, unaware as a newcomer stepped into the stall with him. Dressed in a long, wrinkled trench coat, the collar pulled high against its face, the newcomer eagerly went to work. It was time to feed.
CHAPTER 21
Knoxville, Tennessee
The convenience store was empty of customers and the clerk was nowhere in sight. Sam was grateful for the temporary solitude. He needed some time to himself, to think over everything that Horace had said, and not said.
Sam glanced at his watch. It was still too early to call Kat. He had last spoken to Kat from Amarillo, assuring her that he was fine. He was relieved when Kat told him that there had been no sign of the "long white car" and that she was sure it had left Arizona in pursuit of him. He didn't ask how she knew. He figured that if Kat said the car was gone, it was gone.
Sam wandered around the store for a moment, and was pleased when he spied the Swiss Miss machine. He knew that if he intended to sit inside the store while plotting his next move, he'd have to purchase something, and what better than hot chocolate? Sam considered himself something of a connoisseur when it came to hot chocolate and in his educated opinion, Swiss Miss reigned supreme.
Sam mixed a large cup at the serve-yourself counter and moved over to the register. He counted out a dollar-sixty and laid it on the counter. After a moment, the clerk, a young woman not much older than Sam, stepped out of the office and gave him a friendly smile.
With dark-blond hair cut into a shoulder-length shag and soft brown eyes accented by tiny flecks of gold, Sam thought she was nothing short of beautiful. She was short, the top of her head just reaching his chin, and Sam liked that. Most of the girls in high school were taller than him. The young woman looked poured into her faded Levis and Sam couldn't help but admire the way she filled out the Junior Mart crew shirt. Her nametag read Charlie.
She looked at Sam, then at his duffel bag, and shook her head. Grinning, she pushed the money back across the counter. "It's on the house."
Sam didn't mind accepting help from time to time. He figured everyone needed a little help at one time or another, but he had a problem taking handouts when there was no need.
"I... I'd just as soon pay while I have the money," he stammered. Darn, she's stacked!
Crude! chided the Voice.
"Besides, what would your boss say if he knew you're giving away his Swiss Miss to all the hobos?"
Charlie giggled. "Well, for one thing, my boss is also my dad. And I don't give his Swiss Miss away to all the hobos. I save it for the cute ones."
Sam blushed furiously. He could feel the flame in his cheeks and knew that he must look like a skinny road flare. Seeing that the girl wasn't about to take his money, Sam raked the coins off of the counter and into his hand, while mumbling a weak, "Thanks, uh, Charlie. You know... you really don't look like a Charlie."
She tossed her head, sending a spray of wild blond hair cascading over a slim shoulder. With a bogus scowl, she asked, "Now do I look like a Charlie?"
"Oh, sorry. So, uh, your name isn't Charlie?"
"No. It's Bill."
Sam froze, not sure of how to respond, or even if he should. Suddenly she began to laugh, not in a condescending or belittling manner, but rather with genuine humor, and Sam found that he liked the sound. He began to chuckle, then joined in laughing until breath became scarce and his sides began to ache.
A gruff-looking older man, wearing overalls and a straw cowboy hat, pushed his way through the double glass doors. He pitched a couple of bills onto the counter and said in a rough, raspy voice, "Ten dollars on pump number seven."
Sam looked at the girl and she looked at him and that sparked another round of uncontrollable laughter. The man paused to glare for a second, then left shaking his head and muttering something about "Damn potheads."
An hour later, Sam was still sitting at the counter. Bill was in fact Charlie, short for Charlene, and Sam learned that her father actually did own the convenience store as well as a couple of other businesses out on the eastern edge of Knoxville. She also volunteered that she was taking some time off from the University of Tennessee, and would be a junior when she returned to school for the spring semester.
"Daddy owns the sporting-goods store out on Highway One-oh-four and the convenience store across the highway from it. Both of those stores do a better business than this place. I keep telling him that if he wants to make serious money, he needs to shut down this place and open a beer joint or pawn shop."
"And what does he say to that?" asked Sam, grinning ear to ear.
Charlie sniffed loudly with feigned indignation. "He says that after college, I can get a real job, save my money, and buy him out. Then I can turn this place into anything I like."
Sam chuckled and Charlie gave him a smile that nearly melted his heart.
She likes you, offered the Voice. Sam blushed furiously.
As much as he enjoyed her company, the need to move on was nagging at him, and Sam glanced outside through the large plate-glass window. The wind was howling now and large wet snowflakes seemed to be blowing horizontally. For a long while he struggled with the need to be on his way, and his desire to stay right where he was. Certainly the snow was as good a reason as any for hanging around awhile longer. And it had been a long time since he last talked with someone nea
r his own age.
But he had never talked to anyone quite like Charlie. She was witty and intelligent, and definitely out of his league. While he wasn't exactly an ugly duckling, he knew that guys like him usually didn't fare well with girls like her. And for some inexplicable reason, she seemed to really like him. Sam considered his options and quickly decided that it was no contest. He mixed another cup of the hot chocolate and took a seat again at the counter.
Gradually the conversation shifted away from Charlie and turned to him. Sam struggled purposefully to keep his answers vague, but it required a hell of an effort on his part. For some odd reason, he felt a strong desire to confide in her, almost identical to the compulsion that he felt when talking to Horace, but he resisted the idea. With very few exceptions, the notion of trust was alien to Sam. Kat and the Voice were the most notable exceptions, followed by his parents, and perhaps that egghead, Skinny Henderson. The jury was still out on Horace, though the old man wasn't giving him much latitude on the issue. With Horace, it was almost a case of trust by default rather than choice.
It wasn't that he didn't like people or trust them in general. He just didn't trust their reactions to certain things. Sam figured that the less people knew about those certain things, the less it would come back to bite him in the ass. Besides, what could he really tell her? That he was following voices and dreams all the way from Arizona to some obscure little village in eastern Tennessee? Not a chance.
Sam had a repertoire of canned answers and alibis, just for occasions like this, and he quickly decided to give her the old faithful "story number two." He had already used it on a couple of occasions and thus far, it had never failed.
"... and it'll take Uncle James several months to recuperate from the surgery so I volunteered to head out to West Virginia and give him a hand. But it's not like there's any real hurry, so I figured I'd hitchhike and see the sights along the way."
