Destinations Unknown Page 7
The next shrine popped up as suddenly as a slice of bread from a toaster. This one was of the heart-shaped variety, but that isn’t what startled me.
It was the sight of the face in the center.
It blinked at me.
And then smiled.
A sharp movement on the right of the shrine flashed against the windshield and I hit the brakes, thinking that some animal was about to make a mad dash for safety across the road, but instead of a raccoon or cat, what emerged from the side of the shrine was a hand, then a wrist, and then the face in the middle glided upward, leaving a blank space in the center—
—and the girl who was setting up the shrine waved at me.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and waved back at her, easing off the brake but not yet speeding up again.
Pushing back some of her long strawberry-blonde hair from her face, she looked at me, then at the shrine, and then shrugged, her smile looking more and more like that of a child who’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t have been. Her clothing was dark—way too dark to be safe at this time of night, in this location.
Checking the dashboard clock, I saw that it was almost two in the morning, and there was no other car in sight. Had she walked here from whatever town lay at the end of the ramp? Why do this in the middle of the night when there was the chance someone might not see you until it was too late? And what the hell was I doing, sitting here wondering about this when I needed to be moving?
That’s when it hit me that she wasn’t trying to erect the shrine, she was trying to take it down, and I’d surprised her. This was probably some kind of sorority prank—she couldn’t have been more than nineteen—and the look on her face told me that she was embarrassed but not necessarily sorry.
I looked at her, then the shrine, shook my head in disgust, and drove away.
She came out into the middle of the road and stood watching until I rounded the curve that emptied out into the town proper. I half expected her to give me the finger—after all, I’d been the one who had the nerve to interrupt her little practical joke—but she only stood there, arms at her sides, staring at my tail-lights.
Something about her shape seemed off to me, but I couldn’t pin it down, and then decided I didn’t care.
The second after I crested a small hill and she disappeared from view, I saw the stack of memorial wreaths, crosses, and hearts. They were piled up to the side at the traffic light like discarded bags of trash, plastic lace cracking, ribbons waving in the air, and countless photographed faces staring up through the open spaces in the center.
There must have two dozen of the things piled there. I sat staring at them for several moments before turning to look out the rear window. Jesus, had she taken all of these? How far had she been walking, anyway? There was no way all of these had been taken from the small stretch of road along the exit, unless this particular exit was one of the deadliest in existence, which I doubted.
I looked back at the dead pile—that’s how I suddenly thought if it, and had no idea where the hell the phrase had come from—then decided, screw the light, made my turn, and headed toward the service station about a quarter-mile down the street. I didn’t know what the hell she was up to and I didn’t want to know. I’d gas up, take a piss (well, leave one, actually), get my directions, and mind my own business the rest of the way to Miss Driscoll’s home town.
Still, it angered me to think that, sitting in some sorority house somewhere, a bunch of smug sisters were giggling over this prank and not giving one thought to the additional grief it would bring to those whose heartbreak had compelled them to mark the place of their loved one’s death.
And that thought struck me as funny: Hey, Dianne, here’s a question: What is the sound made by a moral compass shifting?
I exhaled, shook my head, and turned down the radio as I pulled into the service station.
It was surprisingly modern for what appeared at first glance to be a very small town; automated pay-here pumps, a diesel docking area, an attached car wash, and one of those seemingly hermitically-sealed booths where the “attendant” sat behind inch-thick glass and you made purchases after midnight through a series of metal drawers.
I swiped my credit card (I was saving the cash for emergencies), waited for the pump to authorize my purchase, and looked over to see the attendant staring right at me and talking into the phone. He looked nervous, maybe even a little scared, and for a crazy moment I thought, He’s calling the cops.
(Help, dear God, help me—I’ve got an actual customer! What’ll I do? I’m doomed! Doomed, I tell you!)
Then it occurred to me: I was driving a meat wagon, clearly marked CORONER. That’d freak out anyone at this time of night.
The authorization came through and I filled the tank, got my receipt, and decided to give the windshield a quick wash. I was wiping away the last of the cleaner when I asked myself: What would Dianne do if she were here?
Dianne could never, never see a wrong without at least trying to take some kind of action, even if all that action amounted to was pointing out to someone that the wrong was being committed. I made her believe that this annoyed the hell out of me, which in truth it did—not because it was another way of her proving how moral she was, but because I admired the courage it took to always do it, and in my admiration found that same conviction to be sadly lacking in myself, which irritated me, so more often than not I took it out on her in a series of little cruelties that ran the gamut from deliberately ignoring her to going out of my way to be a pain in the ass. I was a real prince of a hubby, me.
So the question: What would Dianne do?
She’d tell someone, that’s what.
I looked at the kid in the booth, then back at my car, then at my feet. Staring at my feet has been the source of many an epiphany over the years.
I was surprised to discover that I was genuinely pissed at what that girl was doing back there.
Next thing I know, I’m standing at the booth and waiting for the kid to look up from the issue of Guitar Player that he’s reading. Steve Morse was on the cover. I like Steve Morse’s music a lot. Perhaps I could use that as an ice-breaker if the little shit ever acknowledged my existence.
Finally I cleared my throat, and without looking up from the page he was reading, the kid reached out and pressed on the intercom button: “Yeah?”
“There’s a girl about a mile back who’s vandalizing some roadside memorials.”
“You don’t say?” He looked at me with the kind of unctuous, smarmy smirk that doesn’t try to mask the wearer’s amused apathy, and instantly makes you want to step on their face and grind your heel.
Keeping a civil tongue, I quickly explained to him what I’d seen, and where, and finished by suggesting that he call the police or sheriff.
That smirk still on his face, he nodded, flipped to a new page in the magazine, and said: “Anything else I can do for you?”
I tried, Dianne; give me that much. I tried.
“Yes,” I said. “Where are your restrooms?”
This got an audible sigh. He closed the magazine, stood up (which seemed to be a source of great physical strain), walked over to a cabinet on the wall, opened the door, and removed a key that was attached to a chain that was soldered to a piece of metal half the length of my forearm. Returning to his stool (I saw now that one of his legs was encased in a metal brace of some kind), he valiantly struggled back into position, tossed the key into a drawer, then shoved it out to me.
Removing the works from the drawer, I waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, I used the end of the key to tap on the glass. Hearing it, he paused in his reading, sighed even more loudly than before, and (still not looking up at me) said: “Yes?”
I couldn’t help but wonder how long he’d last in this job if it actually required him to step outside and work for his paycheck, metal leg brace or no. “This does me no good unless you tell me where the restrooms are.”
I nodded, turned away, muttered, “If I don’t return, let it be on your conscience,” and made my way around the left side of the building.
The restrooms, as it turned out, were at the back of the building, which meant I had to go left, walk the length of the place, then turn right. Night vision goggles would have helped me locate the door quicker, since the back of the place—despite the glaring lights from the pump islands—was mostly in shadow, but I’m pleased to say that I didn’t have to add a stop at an all-night department store for a new pair of pants to my travels.
I found the restroom, unlocked the door, and made it inside.
I have been in kitchens in peoples’ homes that weren’t as clean as this restroom. It not only smelled brand-new, it looked brand-new: the floor tile was shiny, the faucets sparkled, the mirrors were streak-free, someone had decorated the wood-paneled walls with framed photographs and old movie posters, there was none of that moist, old-urinal-cake stink that usually permeates service station bathrooms (the urinals and toilets looked as if they’d never been used), and there was no trash in the receptacles—not a paper towel, wad of chewing gum, empty soda can, nothing.
I almost felt like I was defiling the place when I finally stepped up to the urinal, but an aching bladder will diminish the sanctity of even the Sistine Chapel; yes, you may quote me on that.
Standing there, I looked around at the movie posters and photographs. I was expecting stuff like Gone with the Wind and pictures of New York at night—your standard, safe, pleasant, nothing-to-offend-anyone type of public restroom milieu—but instead what I got were posters for Two-Lane Blacktop, Vanishing Point, Dirty Mary and Crazy Larry, The Driver, and (the one that made me laugh out loud) Death Race 2000. Whoever decorated in here had a thing for racing and car-chase movies.
The photographs were of people standing beside heavily tricked-out or racing cars; a couple looked to have been taken in the winner’s circle at NASCAR or Formula One races (I don’t know the difference between the two, it’s all just roaring engines and squealing tires to me).
Then I turned my attention back to the business at hand and caught a glimpse of the framed photograph hanging over my urinal.
Have you ever heard someone say, It scared the piss out of me? Well, if there’s an expression for the opposite bladder-related physical reaction to being frightened, it pretty much describes what happened when I saw that photograph, because everything south of my personal Mason-Dixon line came to sudden, dribbling halt; it felt like my bladder would have slammed everything into reverse had it been capable.
I was looking at a very striking woman surrounded by dozens of children, all of them smiling the type of forced, could-you-hurry-up-and-take-the-picture-puh-leeeeze smile that we’ve all plastered on our faces at one time or another as suited the occasion.
This wasn’t a copy of the picture from Miss Driscoll’s foyer—it was the same photograph, in the same frame, with the same crack in the glass running down the center of her face.
Of all the thoughts that could have gone through my mind, these are the three things that occurred to me at that moment: 1) the hulking shadows in my apartment had not used any doors or windows to break in or to leave; 2) another shadow had closed the door to Miss Driscoll’s apartment from the inside after Dobbs had made certain it locked behind us; and, 3) if these shadows could just pop in and out when- and wherever they wanted, who was to say they couldn’t bring something along…like, say, this picture?
Take a good look: this is me, not realizing I’m screwed.
This is me, not realizing I’m screwed while still holding my dick in my hand. And dribbling piss onto my shoes.
A moment of great personal dignity that I felt compelled to share. I feel it’s brought us closer.
Backing away from the urinal, zipping up, and wanting to look over my shoulder to see if someone or something were standing behind me, I found I couldn’t take my eyes off that photograph. There were probably, oh, at least one or one-and-a-half very good, logical, reasonable scenarios to explain how this picture had followed me to this place, but at that moment I couldn’t think of any that didn’t involve bulky shadows. And even if I could have, all of them would have shared the same ending, anyway; me getting the hell out of Dodge right now.
Except—as I was about to find out—Dodge had other plans.
7
Coming around the side of the building, I blinked against the strobe-light glow cast by the whirling visibar lights atop the Sheriff’s Department vehicle parked at an angle in front of the meat wagon. It appeared that I wasn’t going anywhere for the moment.
Plastering what I hoped was a genuinely innocent smile on my face, I started toward the nearest uniform and said, “Is there a prob—”
He held up his hand—Please be quiet—as he spoke into the radio microphone. “He just came out of the bathroom. Call Impound and let ‘em know.”
Impound? I looked around. What the hell did he think—
—You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into—
—the meat wagon now had a passenger, as well as some additional cargo.
Young Miss Memorial sat in the passenger seat. Behind her, crammed in none-too-carefully, were the contents of the Dead Pile; wreathes, crosses, and several hearts, all of them now sans photographs, all of them having scattered ribbons and plastic flowers around the interior as well as over Miss Driscoll’s oh-so expensive coffin.
I couldn’t have been in the restroom for more than three minutes, yet somehow in that time Young Miss Memorial had not only managed to cover a good two-and-half miles of road on foot, but did so while carrying all of her evening’s roadside pickings. I doubted that the things were all that heavy individually or cumulatively, but their collective bulk was enough to tell me no way could she have done this on her own.
So who’d helped her?
The sheriff finished talking to whomever he’d radioed, then signaled to his deputy, who promptly came up behind me and shoved the business end of a revolver into my back. Always priding myself on taking a subtle hint when one is offered, I slowly raised my hands.
“We’re not going to have any problems, are we?” said the sheriff, looking down at his feet.
Momentarily unable to summon a witty retort, I just shook my head.
“You have some paperwork to show me?”
When I neither spoke nor nodded, the deputy pressed his gun farther into my back.
“My inside coat pocket,” I managed to get out.
The sheriff reached in and removed the envelope, took out the FRTP, read it over, then said, “Okay, then. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
He nodded toward the meat wagon. “You’re under arrest for vandalism, theft of city property, and contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”
Little Miss Memorial smiled at us, held up an open can of beer, then gave the gas station attendant a little wave.
“This is bullshit,” I said.
The sheriff took a step closer to me. “Oh?”
“I didn’t take those goddamn things and you know it. I’d tell you to ask him—” I nodded toward the attendant, “—but something tells me his memory might be a little fuzzy.”
The sheriff looked over at the attendant. For a moment I thought he was actually going to ask the guy, then just as quickly realized what I should have known all along: they were all in on it. No, Little Miss Memorial couldn’t have moved the Dead Pile so quickly on her own, but with a squad car and a couple of guys to help her—no sweat.
At least now I knew who the attendant had been calling when I first pulled in. What I didn’t know was why.
Summoning all the nerve I had under the circumstances, I said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
This got a huge laugh out of the sheriff as he pushed back his hat, giving me my first clear view of
his face.
He was a kid. Nineteen, twenty years old, tops.
“Here’s the thing,” he said, tucking the FRTP back into my pocket. “It’s after two o’clock in the morning. You’re not where you expected to be—you’re where you’re supposed to be, sure, but my guess is you were figuring on—what?—at least a few more hours of road time. Doesn’t matter.” He got right up in my face then. “It’s the middle of the night. No one, and I mean no one, including you, knows where you are right now. We’ve got guns. You’re in possession of vandalized and stolen property. And there’s an underage girl in your front seat with an open container of alcohol. So you don’t get to say where you will or will not go or what you will or will not do.”
I wondered how many Raymond Chandler novels he’d had to read in order to teach himself to talk that way, but figured this wouldn’t be a good time to ask, so instead I opted for, “I want to talk to someone in authority whose age is higher than my shirt size, if that’s all right with you.”
“Fair enough. If you’ll shut the hell up and get into the back seat of my vehicle, I’ll take you to that person.”
I nodded toward the meat wagon. “What about—?”
The sheriff held out his hand. “The keys.”
I gave them to him. “Anything happens to that vehicle or the body, and I’m gonna be in a lot of trouble.”
He smiled. “Nothing’s going to happen. These streets are safe. Hell, a person couldn’t have an accident if they tried.” He walked over and handed the keys to Little Miss Memorial.
“Does Daddy Bliss know that Road Mama’s come home?” she asked him.
The sheriff nodded. “He knows. Everyone knows by now.” He patted the top of the wagon, and then smiled. “I like how that sounds, ‘Road Mama’s come home.’“
Little Miss Memorial smiled back at him. “Me, too.”
Road Mama and Daddy Bliss. Sounded like the name of some faux country & western ballad from 1970’s pop radio, a rip-snortin’, high-ballin’, pedal-to-the-metal toe-tapper you’d hear sandwiched between C.W. McCall’s “Convoy” and Jerry Reed’s theme from Smoky and the Bandit. If I hadn’t been so angry and scared (mostly scared), I might have laughed at the thought.