Destinations Unknown Page 6

“There’s usually a hell of a lot more paperwork to deal with when something like this has to be done, but Miss Driscoll’s family evidently has a lot of pull in Washington. Neither the mayor nor the police chief would tell me who called them, or what was said, but to give you some idea of just how important someone has to be in order to rate one of these puppies, out of all the FRTPs issued since 1945, counting the one you’re looking at—and there haven’t been as many issued as you would think—one of them was to Eleanor Roosevelt so she could take FDR’s body home by train.”

  “…holy shit.”

  “Tell me about it. I don’t know who Miss Driscoll was, but her family has enough power to bypass every inch of local, state, and federal red tape. You don’t say no to people like that.”

  “What if I do?”

  “But why would you? Think about it—this is a gravy job! You’ll be on the road maybe a total of two days, and when you get back home, you’re a couple of grand richer plus your record’s clean and your community service time is marked as fulfilled.”

  “Who wanted the map, Barb? Who wanted the map bad enough to somehow break into my apartment in the middle of the night without opening a window or a door? They threatened me! One of them had his big-ass hand around my throat! They drugged me, for chrissakes!”

  “They’re also paying you two thousand dollars to make the trip.”

  “Oh, well, that makes all the difference then, doesn’t it?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  I took a breath, held it, and counted to ten. “Since you know about the map, then you must know what else was in her apartment, right?”

  “No—and I don’t want to know, got it? I have as of right now told you everything I know about this, okay?”

  “Fine.” I stared at the envelopes, thought about the bills I could pay off with two thousand dollars, then slid everything back across the table. “Afraid I’m going to have to pass, but thanks.” I started to get up to leave; her hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.

  “You’re not leaving me stuck with the check for a meal you didn’t eat. Sit down.”

  You would have to have known her since high school to recognize the hint of fear crowding at the edges of her voice. Barbara Greer was nothing if not always in control of herself. She wasn’t telling me to stay and eat; she was scared—scratch that, she was terrified—that I was going to walk out on the offer.

  I sat back down. “I guess I should eat what I ordered.”

  “That’s almost sensible, coming from you.” The control was back in her voice, but behind her eyes something was shaking with near panic. She took out a pen and began scribbling something on the back of the first envelope. “I never understood how you managed to stay alive, what with the crap you eat. Do you get any protein besides peanut butter? Don’t answer that—it would probably just depress me.”

  She slid the envelope toward me, all the while chatting away about this and that and nothing in particular and blah-blah-blah…

  Her note read: You don’t have a choice. I can’t say that out loud. People are listening.

  I looked up at her, then gestured for her pen.

  You’re serious, aren’t you?

  I pushed the envelope back to her. She read it, looked at me, and nodded her head.

  “So,” I said a bit too loudly, “this, uh…this deal you’re offering me.”

  “The one you just offhandedly turned down? The one that any person in his right mind would have jumped at? That deal?”

  “You’re going to make me grovel, aren’t you?”

  “You were a royal horse’s ass. Yes, I’m going to make you grovel.”

  “Okay—this is me, groveling. Grovel, grovel, grovel, I am an ungrateful butt-wipe, please forgive me, I am not worthy.”

  “Are you quite finished?”

  “Grovel, grovel.” I waited a moment, then said: “All done. Have I groveled enough?”

  “For now.”

  “I’ve reconsidered things.”

  “I’ll bet you have.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  The look of massive relief on her face almost broke my heart. She reached across the table and squeezed my hand, not saying a word.

  For the second time that morning, I was almost afraid to breathe. I kept seeing those hulking shadowed figures over my bed, one of them whispering, You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into….

  I’d figured on having an hour or so after breakfast to get ready, but that turned out not to be the case.

  Barbara and I stepped out into the Cedar Hill sunshine and there, a few yards away on this side of the street, its side-window shades down, the elephant in the living room, sat the meat wagon.

  Barbara checked her watch. “They’re prompt, I’ll give them that much.”

  I looked from the wagon back to her. “You knew that it would be waiting for me?”

  She said nothing; instead, she grabbed the envelopes from my hand and pointed to the one we’d written on: People are listening.

  I nodded my understanding.

  Barbara handed back the envelopes, then leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You be careful, okay?”

  “I’m expected to leave straight from here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You might have mentioned that earlier.”

  “Why, you need to rearrange your social calendar?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Sorry. I keep forgetting that you are a rock, you are an island.”

  “Do me a favor,” I said, taking the cashier’s check from the envelope and handing it to her. “Hang on to this until I get back. No way am I carrying that on me.”

  “I’ll keep it safe.” She slipped it into her purse. “Hey, when you get back, there’s a junior partner in my office I’d like to introduce you to. I think you and her would hit it off.”

  “What self-respecting lawyer would want to date a janitor?”

  She stared at me for a moment, then said: “I did. Once.”

  For a second, the ghost of Andy Leonard walked between us, then was gone.

  “I’m sorry I made that ‘social calendar’ crack,” she said.

  “Forget it.”

  “No, no, I won’t.” She took hold of my hand. “I’m serious. You and I have lived here practically our entire lives, and in all that time I think I’ve seen you socially maybe a dozen times since high school, and even then it was by accident—bumping into you at a movie or a play or something. And you’re always alone. I think Kimberly would really like you. Come on, what have you got to lose?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, come on! She’s a redhead. You know you’ve got a thing for redheads. Dianne was a redhead.”

  “—a redhead who divorced me, thanks for bringing that up. Why do you even care? I don’t mean that to sound defensive, I really don’t, but why piss away any brain cells worrying about my social life or lack thereof?”

  “That’s a dumb question and I don’t answer dumb questions. Doesn’t matter, anyway, because I’ve already set it up. You’re going out with her Saturday night.”

  “Oh, I am, am I?”

  “Yes, you am.” She squeezed my hand, then let go. “Drive Miss Driscoll home, come back safely, and take a chance on my matchmaking talents.”

  “Okay, fine.” I gave her a quick hug and started walking toward the wagon, then turned back and said: “Thank you.”

  “You be careful, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  It didn’t occur to me until a few hours later that she had said something about being careful three times during that conversation.

  The keys were in the wagon, as was a very expensive Montrachet mahogany coffin containing Miss Driscoll’s body. A note from Dobbs was taped to the steering wheel: Yes, she’s in there, but feel free to check in case you want to see what the inside of an $8,000.00 coffin looks like.

  I decided to take his word for it.

  I wondered if Dobbs had driven the
wagon here, or if it had been one of the bulky shadows from last night, maybe one of their minions…or maybe the damn thing just materialized in the parking space.

  You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.

  This had gone way past weird.

  People are listening.

  Whoever was orchestrating all of this seemed to be two steps ahead of everyone else. A brighter man would have had the good sense to be paranoid. A brighter man would have realized that Barb had told him three times to be careful. A brighter man would have suspected there was something else she hadn’t told him. A brighter man would have known in the bottom of his gut that he was right smack in the middle of something really truly seriously goddamn scary.

  Me, I took it far as “weird” and left it at that.

  I started the meat wagon and turned on the radio. Our local radio station was just finishing up its morning news update.

  “…died this morning at Riverside Methodist Hospital in Columbus, bringing the total number of deaths from Sunday night’s I-71 multi-car collision to seven.”

  That little tidbit of information both registered and didn’t, as is the case with most things that come my way before noon. I scanned around until I found some music, then hit the road.

  I have since come to the conclusion that my sole purpose in life is to serve as a warning to others.

  6

  I don’t like maps. All the lines give me a headache, and half the time I’m so busy trying to interpret the miniscule printing I either miss the exit I’m looking for or almost drive into a guardrail—or sometimes even another car whose driver was so busy trying to read his map that he didn’t see me coming.

  Give me landmarks and I’m hell on wheels; give me a map and I turn into Forest Gump in Death Race 2000.

  Can you tell that driving is not my favorite thing in the world? Oh, with short distances I’m okay, but the fabled American Road Trip? Inwardly, I shriek in horror. Aside from the monotony, it gives you too long to think about things, and eventually your mind starts either sorting through useless trivia or dusting off memories best left in cold storage. Or, at least, mine does.

  I’m good for about four or five hours cooped up inside a car, and then I need open space, food, and a bathroom—and that’s the best case scenario, when I’m traveling with other people who can share the drive and conversation. (The last actual road trip I’d taken with another person was during the summer after high school graduation, when a bunch of us drove to Cleveland to see an Emerson, Lake & Palmer concert as our big pre-college blowout.)

  Now imagine driving alone for well over a thousand miles with a corpse your only companion. A Hope & Crosby On The Road movie this was not.

  I’d been traveling for almost 14 hours and it was getting seriously dark. I was tired, I was upset, I was hungry, the coffin and its passenger were creeping me out to the nth degree, I needed to stretch my cramping legs, I’d missed the rest-stop entrance a few miles back (I was busy trying to make out the TripTik printing under the dim glow of the dome light), my bladder was grumpy, and I was pretty sure that I’d gotten onto the wrong stretch of highway at the interchange, so I decided, fuck it, I was going to take the next exit and find an all-night gas station and ask for directions.

  That’s right—ask for directions: I am not one these guys who feels genetically obligated to never admit that he’s lost. If I’m going somewhere I just want to get there, preferably not too far behind schedule, in one piece and with my sanity intact; if that means I have to endure some twenty-something kid behind the counter of a Sip & Piss laughing at me under his breath as he shows me the best way to get back to where I need to be, well…there are worse humiliations that can be suffered, even if I sometimes do feel like belting that kid one upside the head. (And I swear it seems like it’s always the same kid behind the counter, regardless of where you stop; personally, I think they’re being manufactured in some top-secret government facility dedicated to creating as many aggravations as possible for American drivers so we don’t notice that the gas prices always start to go up on Wednesday night, right about rush hour.)

  According to my TripTik, the next exit—happy-happy-joy-joy—was twenty miles farther down the highway. If I was right and it turned out I should’ve taken the I-70 West ramp, then I was almost 25 miles away from where I should have taken the exit, which meant by the time I got back to where I needed to be I’d be about 50 miles in the hole.

  I turned up the radio, which was tuned to a “classic rock” station, and was just in time to hear the DJ introduce The Who’s “Baba O’Riley” with the words: “Can you believe this song is older than I am?”

  I wanted to reach through the radio waves and strangle the little fucker.

  I don’t think of myself as being ancient (I’m only 44), but it still blows my mind that there are people out there who don’t remember when “Baba O’Riley”, “Won’t Get Fooled Again”, Zeppelin’s “Stairway To Heaven”, and even Deep Purple’s “Smoke On The Water” were brand-new. Hell, half the DJs working these “classic rock” stations probably have no idea that “Smoke On The Water” tanked in the U.S when it was released as a single from the Machine Head album; it was only when it released as a single from Made In Japan that it became the monster smash—not to mention the first riff every kid learns to play once they get a guitar—we all know and pretend to loathe.

  Told you my mind starts sorting through useless trivia if I spend too much time on the road, so don’t start bitching about how this has nothing to do with anything.

  I cranked up the volume and pressed down on the accelerator—almost anything from Who’s Next turns me into a speed king—and before Roger Daltrey was finished roaring about the teenage wasteland, the exit was in sight.

  Or, rather, an exit.

  I checked the odometer and saw that it had been just under five miles; there wasn’t supposed to be an exit for a while yet.

  You know those moments in life that, when you talk about them later, you always preface with something like, “I should have known because…”? Well, there’s no “because” here; yeah, what happened a few moments later was odd, no question, and I wish to hell I could say that I knew or sensed that something in the world was about to wander off the highway permanently, but the truth is there was nothing that set off any serious alarms. By now, I was so tired and cramped and sore and hungry and all the rest of it that I didn’t care about the shadows that had broken into my apartment, or Miss Driscoll’s morbid hobby, or the two thousand dollars, or my date with redheaded Kimberly—nothing.

  On the TripTik map or not, that next exit was mine. If I’d turned down the radio and listened carefully, I bet I could have heard my bladder cheering.

  That said, I can tell you now that if I had decided to wait for the following (and TripTik-acknowledged) exit farther down, all of this still would have happened—hell, I could have taken any exit from this point on and it wouldn’t have changed anything.

  The sign said, simply: EXIT. Nothing more; no town name, no number, no white arrow pointing in the correct direction. All of this both registered with me and didn’t (like the total number of deaths from the I-71 accident); I saw it, knew something about it was odd, but just didn’t care. I wanted to feel solid ground and not pedals under my feet for a few minutes.

  As soon as I merged onto the ramp the light above the EXIT sign blinked twice, made a sputter-buzz kind of noise, then went out completely.

  I wasn’t prepared for how damned black it became after that. Nowhere on either side of me was there another light, so all I had to see by were the meat wagon’s headlights. I clicked over to the brights and slowed down, just in case some possum, squirrel, dog, or deer decided to make a break for it and test my reflexes.

  The first roadside memorial (a cross made of plastic flowers, sporting several ribbons) barely registered with me when it faded into the glow of the headlights. I drove on. The cross glided past. One of the ribbons snapped backwards and flapp
ed in the breeze as if waving good-bye.

  I thought of the miniature monuments Miss Driscoll had erected around her tracks.

  Maybe it’s just me, but I find something creepy about these monuments (be they HO-scale or life-size). I understand that those left behind have to do whatever it takes to deal with their grief, but if it was me and someone I’d loved had died in a wreck (probably in bloody pieces and great pain) the last goddamned place I’d want to erect a monument to their memory was the spot where their final agonized breath had been drawn and expelled. And since the maintenance of these things is the responsibility of those who erect them, that means you have to make an at-least quarterly pilgrimage to the place—assuming that you don’t have to drive past it every day on your way to or from work. How can you pay suitable respect to someone’s memory when you’ve got semis and SUVs and busloads of screaming kids roaring by every few seconds? Cemeteries may not be the cheeriest places to visit, but at least it makes sense to mourn there. Grieving by the side of the road in front of a monument no one but you gives a shit about just strikes me as distasteful…but then, I’ve never had to confront that particular kind of grief, so it’s easy for me to pass judgment: Dianne—my ex-wife—always pointed that out to me—that it was easy for me to judgmental about these memorials; she found them to be deeply moving.

  Dianne never brought up my shortcomings to try and make me feel small; she did it because they, in her words: “…keep the best of you hidden from me and everyone else. You’re not the cynic you want everyone to think you are.” I never saw it that way, nope; as far as I was concerned, it was her way of proving to me once again that my moral compass was fucked up and wouldn’t I just be the best person if I saw the world just like her.

  Yes, I was an asshole. It’s taken all these years of being without her for that to finally sink in.

  I looked in the rear-view mirror, saw the lone waving ribbon from the shrine, and felt a brief sting of regret—but for what, I wasn’t sure.

  “Baba O’Riley” segued into Grand Funk’s “I’m Your Captain”, and I turned up the volume, forcing myself to not think about the way Dianne detested this song.