by E A Comiskey
"The rock store?" she asked.
"Boring. What do you do with rocks?"
"Candy?"
"Surely not." He scowled at the thought of the sticky, overly sweet confections.
She stood on tiptoe to kiss the cheek of a cigar-store Indian and then pointed at the door of the shop. "Fine tobacco products?"
He cocked his head to one side. "I might find something worth wasting money on in there."
Grinning, she bounced through the door into the dimly lit, richly fragrant store. A man behind the counter with a silk top hat and a beard down to his chest nodded in their direction. "Afternoon."
"Good afternoon," Sara answered.
Finn walked the perimeter of the store. "Fine tobacco is a lost pleasure." He opened a glass jar and inhaled, wishing for the sense of smell he had before twenty years of smoking. Ironic, really.
"Do tell," she said.
"Commercial cigarettes—the pre-rolled things you buy at the gas station—they're full of garbage. This stuff in here, this is the real deal. It's fragrant and flavorful and won't kill you nearly as quickly."
"But it will still kill you."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Everybody's gotta go sometime."
"How do you want to go, Finn?" She closed the distance between them and pressed her palms against his chest.
His body responded to her touch as though he were fifteen and in the backseat of a car for the first time. He swallowed hard.
"This isn't really how you have fun, is it? I can think of a thousand things we could do that would be better than hanging out in the tourist district."
He swallowed again and sent up a silent prayer that his voice wouldn't crack like an adolescent boy's. "Are you some kind of author stalker?"
"Does it matter?"
"Are you married?"
The corner of her mouth twitched upward. "No, Finn. I'm not married. I'm over eighteen, and all I want in the whole wide world is to see you give in to your desire. I want you to be wild and free, to embrace life the way you did before you started worrying about deadlines and film options and all the rest." Her hands slid upward around the back of his neck and into his hair. "Tell me what your desire is."
"You terrify me a little."
"It's part of the allure."
"You two buyin' something?" the man behind the counter asked.
Finn stepped away from her and smiled at the man. "Yeah. Give me four of the cigars on the counter there." He paid for his purchase and stepped back out into the bright desert sun. It was like stepping into a different world. "I think I should eat something," he muttered, wondering if he would have had his arms around a strange woman if not for the beer.
She slipped her hand into his. "Perfect. Burgers at Murphy’s?"
He shuddered at the thought. "You have to take two steps down to get into Murphy’s. One to step down off the boardwalk and one step down in status."
She giggled. "You don't seem like a guy who cares about status."
"I'm a guy who cares about not getting food poisoning."
"Taco Wagon?"
He studied her enormous blue eyes for a long moment. The wind tossed her dark curls around her face. Her full lips were curved in a hint of a smile. He slid his free hand into her hair and pulled her close enough to bend down and kiss her. Her body molded against his. Her lips tasted like cherry chapstick. Before he could capture her lip, she caught his lower lip in her teeth and he struggled to stifle a moan.
"We could eat at your place," she whispered into his ear.
He stepped back. "The Taco Wagon will be fine."
She bit her lip. "I will get you to have fun," she said.
"I believe you." Why did the thought of having the kind of fun he was thinking of with this beautiful woman send a tingle of fear down his spine?
Chapter Seven
Richard
Richard let Stanley pay for their drinks and the cheese sticks with a few of the crisp bills he kept in a gold money clip. It seemed only fair, somehow.
They stepped out into the night and he glanced back toward Everest. Six radio towers blinked in the distance. He was thankful for the darkness that hid his warm face. "Now what?" he asked.
"Now we walk to that gas station over there and find a ride."
The gas station shone in the night like a castle in a dystopian fantasy. Lights glared down on the tarmac, chasing away any hint of a shadow. Even at this hour, a steady stream of cars and trucks passed in and out of the glow.
They waited for a lull in the traffic and set out across the wide highway.
"My hips are gonna be frozen stiff in the morning. My ankles are gonna swell up like a pregnant woman's," Richard complained.
Stanley clapped him on the back. "Take heart, old boy. Perhaps you'll surprise yourself with how fit you are and, even if it hurts, there is joy in the pain. When the pain stops, your life is over."
"Weirdo," Richard mumbled.
They didn't go to the islands where cars were fueling up or toward the front doors of the store. Rather, they skirted the building and approached the truck parking.
A broad-shouldered man with shoulder length curls that spilled out from under his baseball cap was squatted down, checking his tire.
"Excuse me," Stanley said.
The man turned and Richard's eyes widened. "Not a man, but a woman with her shirt unbuttoned far enough to show her impressive cleavage. He focused his gaze on the side of the truck so as not to be tempted to stare.
"Do for ya?" the woman said in a voice that had been sanded down by tobacco and tar.
Stanley remained as courtly as ever. "Forgive the intrusion. It must seem silly to a young woman such as yourself, but my friend and I are on an adventure. We were wondering if you could give us a ride? We need to get to the storage units on M-50, just outside Adrian."
Her expression softened. Richard marveled. Was it the accent that made women love him?
"This a bucket list sortta thing?" she asked.
"Something like that," Stanley said.
"I respect that. Yeah. I can haul ya to Berry's. 'Taint more'n twenty miles from here and right on my way."
"Your kindness only enhances your beauty. I can't tell you how grateful we are."
The woman actually blushed.
Richard rolled his eyes.
"Go on in the cab, then. I'll be finished up in a jiff."
"Thank you," Stanley said. His elbow bumped Richard's side a little harder than necessary.
"What? Oh! Right." He made a face at the enormous woman. He hoped it passed for a smile. "Yeah. Thanks. 'Preciate it."
She eyed Richard for a moment, flashed a smile at Stanley, and went around the back of the truck to do some further maintenance there.
Richard gazed up at the door. It seemed a mile high.
"Don't worry. I'll give you a boost."
"I ain't worried," Richard declared. "And I don't need no boost from you, neither."
"You looked concerned. I just thought I would offer to help."
Richard held onto his walker with one hand and reached up with the other to grasp the handle on the door of the cab. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges. The shining chrome step was just a little higher than his knee. He wrapped his left hand around the metal bar that ran alongside the door and used his right hand to grasp his thigh and lift. There! He'd done it! His foot was on the step. Pulling hard on the handle, he lifted himself from the ground and, for a moment, believed completely that he was going to make it. Then that dagblasted bad hip locked up and he was tipping backward, losing his grip on the handle. The fall would be the death of him, for sure.
Stanley's hands smacked solidly into Richard's backside and the push propelled him into the cab of the truck. He righted himself and scowled down at Stanley. "Don't touch my butt."
"I won't make a habit of it. I promise," he said, snickering.
"And don't you laugh at me!"
Stanley held his hands up in surrender. "I wouldn
't dare." He folded the walker and slipped it into the space behind the big bench seat before lithely jumping up onto the step and hauling himself into the truck.
They sat, side-by-side, waiting for the woman to join them.
"Well, Dick. I'd say we're on the verge of a great adventure."
"This is crazy," Richard replied.
"Are you loving it?" Stanley asked.
Richard wasn't about to admit that he was.
***
Berry's Storage consisted of four long, low buildings in a row, with corn fields on three sides. The trucker, who gave her name as Trixie, pulled onto the shoulder and set the brake. The digital numbers on the dash glowed 1:23. "Here you go, boys. Awful dark out there. Sure you're gonna be okay?"
"We'll be quite fine, thanks in large part to your generosity, Trixie. We are grateful."
She looked doubtful about the wisdom of leaving the two seniors on the side of the road in the middle of the night, but she said no more.
Stanley pushed the door open and hopped down. He retrieved the walker, set it up and then offered a hand to Richard. Stubbornly, Richard braced himself with one hand on the door and one on the metal bar. He turned and slid his body down until both feet reached the step, lowered himself down, and managed to hit the pavement upright. The landing hurt everywhere, but at least it didn't wound his pride. He positioned himself behind the walker and the two men watched the behemoth roll away in a curling puff of exhaust. They stood alone in the light of the waning moon.
Stanley put a sure hand on Richard's shoulder. "Come," he said. "I think you'll be quite pleased with what I have to show you here."
They made their way across the deserted highway, the rattle of the walker on the rough asphalt startlingly loud in the still night. Stanley entered a six-digit code into the keypad next to the gate, and the chain link fence clattered open. Advancing slowly, to accommodate Richard's halting progress, they passed the first building and turned right. Halfway down a row of green garage doors, they stopped. Stan squatted and opened the padlock on unit number seventy-seven. He pushed the door upward and revealed a treasure that seemed just about priceless at that moment—a 1959 Cadillac convertible in mint condition. The red paint appeared to glow in the darkness.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Richard whispered in awe.
"She's beautiful, don't you think?"
Richard abandoned his walker and walked next to the car, running a finger along the length of it with reverence. "This your car?"
Stanley slipped his hands into his pockets. "Technically, it's Busar's."
Richard stopped with one fingertip on the red flame-like taillight. "Where is Busar?"
A shadow obscured the other man's face, making it impossible to read his expression. "He's gone."
"Killed?"
"Gone." He stepped into the garage and came around to where Richard stood. “I’d rather not discuss it right now.” Stan’s silver key slid into the lock just below the Cadillac emblem and the enormous trunk popped open. A suitcase sat in the middle, slightly askew. Stanley lifted it out and set it aside, then raised a false bottom to reveal a hidden space beneath. A sword, three large rifles, two handguns, five daggers of different materials, a long silver rope, and a length of iron chains were nestled in little custom spaces in a foam pad. On the far right, a silver box the size of a tackle box was tucked into a rectangular nook. He took it out, opened it, retrieved a stack of twenties from the piles of cash contained within, closed it, and tucked the box back in. He replaced the false bottom, then the suitcase and closed the trunk with a dull thud.
Stanley met Richard's eye. "I thought maybe we could sleep in the car for a few hours and then hit the road. We'll stop in a hotel tomorrow night. There are a few things I need to take care of on the way west." He tucked the money into an inner pocket of his jacket and let himself into the car.
Richard stood there, mouth gaping like a fish. Surely, he'd died, and this was some bizarre, unexpected version of the afterlife. Real life couldn't be this weird.
Chapter Eight
Burke
Burke's grandfather was the single most difficult human being she had ever had the displeasure of being forced to eat Thanksgiving dinner with. Her reaction, then, when her mother called at seven o'clock on a Friday evening to discuss the old man, was less than enthusiastic.
"Burke, you have to go to the home and talk to them about Grandpa."
She reluctantly set aside her copy of Anne Rice's newest book and made a mental note to never answer the phone again. From that moment on, even the Mom calls would be screened. Maybe especially those. In her calmest, most submissive daughter voice, she asked, "Why would I do that?"
"He's missing."
She rubbed her forehead, trying to stave off the oncoming headache. "Missing?"
On the other end of the line, her mother was weighing her words carefully. She could tell by the long, slow breaths she took before speaking. She could hear it in the weird, high-pitched voice she'd always reserved for unpleasant news and backhanded compliments. "Apparently, there was a bit of foul play. It seems there was a small fire of some sort in his room and he and another man have disappeared."
Burke waited for more, but that's all she said. "He can't have just disappeared, Mom. Where in the world would he go?"
"Well, I'm sure I don't know. That's all the man told me."
"What man?"
"Doctor Payne."
"Doctor Pain?" Burke asked.
"Yes. Doctor Payne is the head of the facility. That's what he told me."
"Well, did they call the police?"
"He said they don't do that unless someone is mentally incapacitated."
Burke thought of a thousand things to say about the surly old man's mental state, but held her tongue.
"You have to go over there and find out what's going on. You have to find him, Burke."
"Why is this on me?" Burke asked. "He's your father."
"You would make me drive all the way down there from Rochester?"
Burke sighed. "Fine, I'll go in the morning."
"In the morning?"
"Yes. In the morning. During business hours."
"Tomorrow is Saturday, Burke. There's no guarantee Doctor Payne will be there on a Saturday, but we know he's there now because he just called. This is no joking matter, you know. He's gone mad and he's a danger to himself and others. He could be out wandering the streets causing mayhem until he freezes to death. You have to go find him, Burke Dakota. You have to."
Upon her mother’s use of her middle name, Burke felt the quicksand of family drama rising up around her legs. "Fine, Mom. I'll go over there right now and talk to Doctor Payne to see if I can figure out what's going on." She glanced at the book. It was really good. She'd been pretty excited about binge-reading it in one sitting. So much for that plan.
"Good. That's good. But"—her mother paused. This silence carried a different weight. It held the gravity of maternal judgement—"you're at home in your pajamas at this time on a Friday night?"
"Mom—"
"Well, really, Burke. It's no wonder you haven't found a man. I mean, if you spend your life holed up with a book, what else can you expect?"
"I had a man once, remember? He left me for an underwear model."
"He was probably lonely because you always had your nose in a book."
There it was. The sand had sucked her in and she was officially in over her head. "Gotta go, Mom. Wouldn't want Grandpa to end up in jail for bludgeoning some poor, defenseless stranger."
"Do you think he would do that?"
"I gotta go, Mom."
"That's a good girl. Let me know when you get him back and all settled in."
Burke mumbled something that was, hopefully, unintelligible, and dropped the phone next to the book. She wasn't sure if she should laugh or cry, so she just lay there with her head resting on the soft microfiber pillow, staring at the ceiling.
An image came to mind: Her grandfather, sh
ivering in the snow, shaking his cane at passing cars and shouting obscenities at the drivers. Fantasy Grandpa slipped on the ice and fell on his bony butt.
"It would serve you right, you miserable old fart."
With a sigh as immense as a tidal wave, Burke heaved herself off the couch and went in search of proper pants.
Chapter Nine
Richard
The Cadillac's white wall tires sang on the wide, flat expanse of highway. Their music was accompanied by the low thrumming roar of the engine, a powerful beast in a metal cage.
Richard closed the leather book and slid it into the glove compartment. Very deliberately, he removed the reading glasses from their perch on the end of his substantial nose, folded them, and slipped them into the breast pocket of the button-down shirt Stanley had purchased for him that morning at a Walmart outside Chicago. The printing in the book was tiny, smudged in places, nearly illegible in others. His progress through the pages had been slow, yet so much information was packed into each sentence his brain felt heavy and full with new and preposterous information. "You've been doing this your whole life?"
"Since the day I told you about."
"Busar wrote about that day in the book."
"He did." Stanley, his eyes covered with stylish black sunglasses, never turned away from the road. Traffic was increasing as they drew near to Minneapolis. It didn’t help that it was the time of day when the masses migrated from their workplaces back to the suburbs where they lived. Stan wove between the cars fearlessly, ruling the road in the impressive automobile.
"It looks like someone else made the earliest entries."
"Busar had a teacher, just as I did."
"And you made the most recent notes."
"That's right."
Richard rode in silence for a while, staring out the window at the cars they passed. The awe-filled gazes imbued him with the delightful buoyancy of pride. Even being a passenger in a car like this was a privilege. It would figure that life gave such a vehicle to friggin' Stan Kapcheck. Wasn't that always the way?
