by Laurel Dewey
Standing up, Jane looked at herself in the mirror above the bureau. She checked her lip one more time, found the fish antibiotics and popped one capsule. As she washed it down with water, Jane returned to her reflection and ran her hands through her tangled brown locks that skimmed just past her shoulders. Without hesitating, she reached into one of her bags and, finding a pair of scissors, lopped off four inches of hair. As she stared at the fallen strands of hair that now mingled with the motel carpet, there was a sense of renewed control. Jane continued the drastic makeover, carefully following the cut edge around her head until she had a modified bob that fell just under her chin line. Putting down the scissors, she shook her head back and forth, feeling free from the excess weight. She looked different and she liked it. But she could still recognize herself. Rifling through the bags she removed from the Mustang, Jane unearthed the black hair dye she’d originally purchased for Harlan. “Cleopatra Black,” the box called it. She’d never colored her hair in thirty-seven years, even when wisps of gray invaded her crown. But two hours later, there she was, looking back at a woman she didn’t know. The eyes were familiar but the rest was still foreign. Without the gray, she figured she could pass for thirty in a dimly lit room. And if she had a surgical eye lift and got those bags removed, she’d not only look younger, she could disappear into another person. What if she lost fifteen pounds? Or twenty? That would be easy to do. In the space of two months or fewer, she could completely transform herself and recede from the storms of life. The original Jane Perry would always be lurking in her heart but the revised edition would be what the public saw. Hank was wrong, she counseled herself. She knew of places that were far enough to run to. The world wasn’t too small yet.
She checked the time. 3:11. “Give me a break,” Jane mumbled to herself. This was getting old. Even the clock wanted her to visit Wanda. It was too early to sleep, even though she felt fatigue worm its way into every bone in her body. Falling back on the bed, she agreed to a short nap. Within seconds, Jane was hovering above her body. Suddenly, she felt as if she were trapped inside a salad spinner, holding onto the sides for dear life. The spinning finally stopped and she hung in space, free floating in pitch darkness. A cascade of letters fell around her, forming words and then rearranging themselves to form different words. The word “Romulus” stretched in front of her. Seconds later, the letters spun in a counter-clockwise circle. They stopped and spelled out the illogical, “Smromul.” Then one by one, each letter spun toward Jane’s face, landing separately as if each individual letter was standing on its own square. The letters, “SMROMUL” lit up in a bright light and then dimmed as others shone brighter. Once only the brightly lit letters were left in view, a four-letter word remained: SOUL.
She felt someone behind her and quickly turned around. There was a blurred, male face in the distance but she could see he was terrified. The glint of a pistol reflected against him. He turned to Jane and even though she couldn’t make out who he was, she sensed his eyes. Stolen. That’s the only word that made sense to her and yet it made no sense whatsoever.
She heard her name whispered and turned around again. Nothing.
“Jane.”
She twisted around once more. The darkness filled with a pink light that morphed into gold and then emerald green. There was a sense of great love and heartbreak simultaneously.
“Jane,” the voice whispered again.
She awoke with a shudder, expecting to see someone standing over her. But all she saw was a darkened motel room and the digital time of 6:21 in the evening. Turning on the light, she found a piece of paper and jotted down the word, “SOUL.” Her hand shook as she put down the pen. The room felt like a vacuum and she needed air. Grabbing a cigarette from the pack, she finally found her lighter and walked outside. Standing on the balcony, she lit up and took in a good hit. And then another and one more. She regarded the smoking cylinder as if it was a foreign object. She was supposed to quit. Maybe she did have a death wish, as Hank stated. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d entertained the exit options. It wasn’t as if she’d never loaded the gun or drawn it toward her mouth. Life had been a stern taskmaster and only through work had she found a reason to keep going. Without that stabilizing force, Jane would cease to exist. It provided her with duty and contribution and through that, a right to breathe and take up space. The thought never crossed her mind that contentment was another option or that it could co-exist within her framework. As she’d said to herself many times, where is the struggle within contentment? What is there to fight? If anything made her want to take the final trip, Jane figured too much contentment was the ticket.
But there were moments over the last month when that beast of contentment reared up and embraced Jane without asking permission. With nothing to fight against, she was lost. Each time she’d strike out, the pleasure of the moment subdued her aggression, until she was numbed into satisfaction. And there was only one person responsible for that and he was hopefully already back in Midas at that moment with her classic ride stowed safely away in his locked garage.
Jane extinguished the cigarette on the balcony and returned to her room. She found the yellow disposable phone with the stripe buried under another bag. She didn’t hear it ring and he promised to call so she’d know he made it home without incident. Checking the voicemail, she was stunned to see she had one message. The message played but there was only silence. Then through the quiet, she heard a whisper: “Jane.”
She waited as the silence trailed again.
“Jane,” Hank whispered. “I’m here.” The waves of silence pressed on. “And you’re not.” He hung up.
She turned off the phone, telling herself she wanted to conserve the battery. After staring at the phone for a little too long, she slid it into her leather satchel. Her stomach grumbled and she realized she’d hardly eaten a thing all day. Opening the cooler of food that Hank delivered, she found a plastic container at the bottom. Attached to it with a rubber band was a handwritten note: “IOU 1 De-Luxe Hot Dog.” Inside the container was a hearty serving of Hank’s spectacular chicken salad, along with a cloth napkin and stainless steel cutlery. “Somebody needs to take care of you,” he told her a few weeks before. Nobody had ever made a comment like that to her. Nobody. But he was somehow brave enough to see beyond the veneer and even more courageous when he suggested they were a good fit. Jane looked at the chicken salad for half an hour, feeling sick to her stomach one moment and then desperately hungry the next. By the time she’d finished the last bite, there was still a gripping emptiness in her gut.
Before turning in for the night, Jane re-packed everything and, one by one, hauled each bag down the stairs and into the van. She nicked two pillows and a couple extra blankets from the closet in the motel room and fashioned a place in the back of the van for Harlan and she to lie down. When she was finally satisfied with everything, Jane re-parked the vehicle on the side of the motel, next to the stairway so that all Harlan would have to do is walk a few feet out the door and down the stairs before he was secreted in the vehicle. All that was left to do was to trash the cell phone she used to call Hank in a dumpster she found a half block away and return to the motel room for more rest until their early morning start. But sleep was fitful and far from restful. And while she couldn’t remember anything, she awoke at five the next morning covered in sweat and with the sense that something had drastically changed.
Working her way out of bed in the darkness, she crept to the curtained front window and peered outside. The only light came from a streetlamp that cast an eerie orange glow over the edge of the motel parking lot. She showered quickly and dressed, covering her damp, newly colored hair with her ball cap. Quietly stealing the fourteen steps to Harlan’s room, she softly knocked on his door and said her name. He opened it almost immediately, but when he caught a glance of her dark, shorn locks, he slammed the door shut.
“Oh, fuck,” Jane mumbled. “Harlan!” she
said in a forced whisper. “Harlan! It’s me! Jane! Open the door!”
He cracked it open three inches and peered out. “Oh, hell, Jane. I didn’t recognize you. You look like the little Chinese waitress down at The Pancake Shack.” He grabbed his few things and walked out the door. “Why’d you do that?” he whispered.
“I didn’t want you to have all the fun,” she whispered back, leading him back into her room. Once inside, she locked the door with the chain and glanced outside through the crack in the front curtain.
“What’s goin’ on, Jane?”
“I don’t know,” she guardedly replied, cheating another glance outside.
“See someone?”
“No. But something isn’t right.”
“How do you know?”
She felt into the moment, attempting to decipher if the threat she perceived was close or further away. “I can’t explain it, Harlan. My mind gets these…impressions…That’s the best way I can describe it.”
“Okay. So now what? The sun’ll be up in less than an hour.”
Jane closed her eyes, trying to focus on the strange sensations. But nothing was coming through except for the fact that they had to book it out of that place right away. “Put on your ball cap. There’s a security camera in the corner of the parking lot.” She carried everything left over from the rooms to the van by herself before retrieving Harlan and slipping him into the back of the van. Jane slid the gearshift into neutral and glided down the driveway and onto the street before turning the ignition.
“See anyone, Jane?” Harlan called to her from the back of the van.
Scanning the immediate area, all was clear as far as she could tell. “We’re good for a bit, I guess.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“I guess,” she replied, paying more attention to the landscape around her.
“What does ‘Chopper’ mean?”
Jane sighed. She hadn’t thought about Hank in nearly an hour. “It’s just a name he came up with.”
“What’s it mean?”
“One day he said I reminded him of those ‘helicopter moms.’ You know? The ones who hover over their kids? He claims I do the same thing when I’m working a case.”
Harlan considered it. “Chopper…Yep. He’s right. It fits you.”
Jane rolled her eyes, not needing to hear from the peanut gallery.
“How many miles are we putting on this thing today?” he asked, preparing his pillow and blanket to his liking.
“Only a few.”
“Huh?”
“We’re going to pay Gabe’s right hand man a visit. Monroe is his name. That ring a bell to you?”
He was silent.
“Harlan? You hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well? Yes or no?”
There was another heavy pause. “Yeah…it does ring a bell but I can’t pin it down, Jane.”
“Good or bad?”
“Both.”
She nodded. “Figures.”
Before the sun rose, Jane found a twenty-four-hour drive-thru and purchased a large coffee and breakfast burritos for both of them. Pulling over in the parking lot, she checked the map that Hank left on the passenger seat. Sheldon Springs was pretty easy to navigate since the town was a blip on the map and there were nothing but ranches and a few small family farms surrounding it. If Monroe lived outside of Sheldon Springs in the middle of BFE, as John Burroughs stated, it shouldn’t be difficult to determine which house belonged to him.
Driving west, they cleared the town within five minutes and passed several miles of raw land with “For Sale” signage. The sun’s morning golden rays illuminated the passenger side mirror, casting fresh light on the new day. After half a mile more, she spied a long dirt road that led to a modest home in the distance. Jane checked the mailbox for any sign of Monroe’s name but the box was blank and the only mail inside was addressed to “Resident.” Looking around the vast, empty skyline, Jane figured it was a worth a shot to roll down the dirt road and check it out. But as she inched down the road and came up on the house, the scene that unfolded was shocking.
Standing on the screened-in front porch was a skinny man in his late twenties. He was staring with terrified eyes at the van and in his mouth was the business end of his .45.
CHAPTER 19
Jane and Harlan got out of the van as the skinny man kicked open the screen door on the front porch and stood on the top step. He frantically moved the pistol to his temple.
“I’ll pull the trigger before you do!” he yelled at them.
Jane put her hands up. “No guns here. We’re not here to hurt you.”
Harlan seemed to be transfixed by the guy. “It’s okay.” He took a step toward him. “Capisci?”
The man’s mouth dropped open. He let the pistol fall to his side and took his finger off the trigger. He never took his eyes off Harlan the entire time, hypnotized and unable to speak.
“What’s going on?” Jane quietly asked.
“It’s okay, Jane,” Harlan told her without turning away from the man.
The man lay the gun on the ground. “Oh, my God.” He crouched on the dirt, looking up at Harlan. “Jesus. Sweet Jesus.” He gently walked toward Harlan, tears welling in his eyes.
“Are you Monroe?” Jane carefully asked him.
He was still focused only on Harlan. “Uh-huh. That’s what they call me.” He looked Harlan up and down. “Oh, God, man. How’d you do it?”
“How’d he do what?” Jane asked.
Monroe glanced her way. “Who are you?”
“Jane. How’d he do what?”
Monroe returned his comfortable yet spellbound stare toward Harlan. “He’s in a body like the postcard.”
In a body like the postcard. Oh, hell, Jane pondered. It appeared that Monroe was indeed Gabe’s former crazy sidekick. She watched him carefully. He was wiry and the flyaway strands of brown hair on his head stood up like spikes, making him look like the cartoon version of someone who had either been electrocuted or startled. His olive drab t-shirt hung on his body as if his shoulders were a wire hanger barely able to support the weight of the material. A pair of heavy canvas pants were held up with a belt that was a little too big to fit through the loops, causing it to twist and bend as it circled his waist. On his feet, Monroe wore regulation military boots that probably still had the sands of the Middle East and mysterious territories embedded in the stitching and laces. While peculiar, his personality was not offensive to Jane. Monroe wasn’t all there but he didn’t belong in a mental institution. He was what most families refer to as “pleasantly eccentric and harmless.” His green eyes were alive with anticipation and welcoming. But they were also dimmed with sadness and memories that Jane figured lay in the suburbs of his mind. Knowing the gritty life he and Gabriel led, she was certain Monroe had seen and done it all. And while the stain of it remained, it hadn’t yet plucked the last remnant of humanity from his heart.
“What do you mean ‘in a body like the postcard,’ Monroe?” Jane carefully asked.
Monroe smiled, fear completely absent. “Come on in, I’ll show you.” He turned, leaving his gun on the ground.
“Hey!” Jane called to him, pointing to the weapon. “You forgot something.”
He playfully slapped his forehead. “Ah! Right!” He retrieved it. “I’m just so in awe, man.” He tripped up the few stairs that led them into the screened front porch.
Jane and Harlan followed Monroe through the front porch and into the main house. It was a modest two-story abode, packed to the gills with odd pieces of mismatched furniture, boxes, documents strewn every which way and several banks of computers that were either turned off or else featured a screensaver. One such screensaver was a breathtaking photograph from NASA of the Orion Nebula. Another screensaver showed a valley on Mars where curiou
s outcroppings rose in the distance. A third screensaver was another NASA shot of the moon, showing the wheel markings left over from a past mission to the planet. On the far wall, Monroe had spray-painted, “Be difficult. Choose Freedom,” in yellow and red paint. Instead of pictures on the wall, Monroe apparently preferred cork pegboards. They were everywhere, and on each board was a series of postcards from all over the world. Staring at the mass of them, Jane thought it looked like a frenzied way to display your vacation shots and world adventures.
“Welcome to my nightmare,” Monroe said. “Please come in and have a seat.” He offered them a seat on a tan corduroy couch that was in desperate need of both deep cleaning and new springs. When he spoke, he focused on Harlan more than Jane. “You want some water, coffee, tea, absinthe?
“Absinthe?” Jane asked.
“Yeah,” Monroe said, breathlessly.
“No, thanks,” Jane said. “Kinda early in the a.m. for that.”
“I got some weed. Never too early for that.”
“We’re good,” Jane assured him. “Back to that postcard—?”
“Oh! Yeah!” Monroe frantically searched through two desks full of boxes and piles of papers. “I keep it in a special place,” he excitedly offered, opening and closing drawers in his search. “But the special places keep moving, ya know? Has that ever happened to you?”
