Leaving Unknown (6 page)

After half an hour, the road did something funny. I swept my headlamp from side to side, but the night gobbled its puny effort. I could see little beyond my feet. Still, as far as I could tell, the road split around an island of land. I stepped off the road, anxious not to tumble into a pond or something. The land appeared lawn-like, as far as Southern Arizona had lawns. I advanced cautiously, but the path remained clear. After picking my way several hundred yards, my headlamp caught a picnic table. I wilted in relief. It must be some kind of camping or roadside facility. I would stay here. Maybe, come daylight, I’d discover a toilet. Happy thought.

The ground was clear beyond the picnic table. After kicking a few rocks out of the way, I pitched my tent, moving carefully so as not to jostle Oliver. I hung Oliver’s hideaway from a hook on the tent ceiling so I didn’t roll on him in my sleep and draped a shirt over it for warmth. He was making a contented grinding sound, meaning he was about to fall asleep. I pulled off my Converses, wincing at the shin splints setting in from my impromptu sprint, and undid my braids, combing my fingers through my long hair. I debated shucking my jeans in favor of more comfortable sweats but decided against it. I planned to get up early and it was cold as ass. The temperature had
dropped significantly when the sun set. I alternated between worrying about Oliver, who was, in fact, snug as a bug in his little birdie glove, and my conviction that my own glands were swelling by the second with the onset of an aggressive sore throat. I would double my Emergen-C intake tomorrow.

I slid tiredly into my sleeping bag, zipping it up to my chin.

“Tomorrow will be a better day, pal,” I murmured to my sleeping bird, before I dropped off myself.

I
was being abducted by aliens. Bright lights were flooding the tent in a swirl of colors. Some red, some blue, but most of all a penetrating white light I’d seen even with my eyes closed. Eyes cracked open now, the entire tent was illuminated. My sluggish brain struggled to understand. I’d been in the forest in the middle of nowhere. Hadn’t I?

A car door slammed. Wait a minute. There was nothing supernatural about that, unless the aliens drove a truck. I heard booted footsteps crunching toward my tent accompanied by another beam of bobbing light. Fully awake now, alarm dissipated my confusion. Oh God. I was going to be murdered by some isolation-deranged cowboy, cut into small pieces and fed to pigs to destroy the evidence. My family would be tormented the rest of their lives, wondering. I canvassed the tent for potential weapons, but the most lethal thing I had was yesterday’s sweaty T-shirt, and I was still wearing it. I debated
whether I could run and protect Oliver at the same time. No, too risky. I’d have to fight…

“Knock, knock,” drawled a pleasant, twangy voice. “Care to come on out here, lil’ camper?”

I breathed shallowly, not making a sound. Maybe he’d decide no one was here.

“I can see ya in there.” The voice sounded amused.

I remained immobile, frozen with indecision and the irrational hope that maybe this would all stop happening, that I’d wake up, that the lights would go away, when…

“Howdy pardner!” My bird introduced himself.

There was a disembodied chuckle. “Howdy back atcha, nature lover. Whadda ya say ya come on out here and make our acquaintance proper like?”

Resigned, I unzipped my bag and crawled out of the safety of my tent. I stood, pushing my hair out of my eyes, blinking at the light shining on my face

“Wall now, ya are a young thing, ain’t cha?” the amused speaker pronounced. “And prettier than ya sound.”

Was this some weird kind of hillbilly courtship?

“Road trip, don’t forget the bird!” Oliver chirped, anxious at being left alone. This is why people get dogs, I thought. The beam left my face and shone on the tent.

“That a ’tiel in there?” My assailant’s question surprised me. “My ex-wife had one a them. Damn thing never shut up, and Lulabell had a mouth like a sailor. Terrible to be enjoyin’ a bite a meat after a long day’s work with a foulmouthed fowl in the back hollering, ‘Legs up and open wide, Toots!’ the whole time.”

I squinted, trying to make out my extraordinary visitor while his beam was directed toward Oliver. I could only distinguish impressive height and breadth and something glinting at eye level before the light returned to me. I winced and turned my head.

“Sorry ’bout that.” The light went out. “Guess you musta been sleepin’.”

I faced him again, but he was backlit by the headlights of what I guessed was a sizeable dual-wheel SUV truck, and all I could ascertain was his considerable bulk.

“Care to share your name, missy?” he asked, not unkindly.

I shifted in my sock feet, hair a curtain around my face. Should I tell him my name?

“Tell you what. Seein’ as you mebbe warn’t expectin’ me, I’ll go first. My name’s Lawrence Oscar Fenter Ashburn Perry. From a long line of pioneer ladies who married a lot of folks but didn’t want to give up the name they had before. I’m the sheriff here in Unknown. People mostly call me Bruce.” The light clicked on again, this time shining at a bronze star on the chest of his brown uniform. The beam then angled up, revealing a face that wasn’t scary even with the gruesome flashlight-under-the-chin effect. He had a thick dark mustache, round cheeks and deep eyes surrounded by appealing crinkles. He looked like an amiable Bavarian barber.

The light clicked off. “An’ you?”

“Maeve,” I said. “Maeve Connelly.” It registered that I might be saved. This man could take me to civilization.

“Wall, Maeve Con’ley, what’re you doin’ camping in the middle of my town square?” were his astonishing next words. My jaw must have dropped wide open, because Lawrence Oscar Fenter Ashburn Perry chuckled. I looked around, and sure enough I could make out faint building outlines in the truck headlights.

“Is it…” I hesitated. “Is it a…ghost town?”

His chuckle turned into a guffaw. “That’d make my job easier. No, Unknown’s a full-on thrivin’ little town with enough colorful characters for a serial TV show.”

“How many people?” I asked. From what I could tell it must
be like Dellview, North Carolina, the smallest town in North America, population ten. Except here they inhabited shacks set way, way far back from the road.

“’Bout eight hundred or so, give or take. Depends on the season. If we have a bad winter, population jumps ’bout nine months later.” Another chuckle.

“But I didn’t even know it was there,” I protested. “There are no lights.”

“Wall now, you’re right there. You picked quite a night to visit. Ronnie Two Shoes was being a doofus as usual when trimmin’ his old cottonwood, and one of the branches snapped the power lines clean through. It’s a miracle he didn’t fry his-self up like a chicken nugget. Right at dinnertime too, so good folks couldn’t cook up a bite to eat for Sunday dinner or watch
America’s Funniest Home Videos
. Watch tonight turn out to be the night Henrietta Mankiller finally gets a video on that damn show. Ronnie’ll be run out of town. Very least, he’ll be eatin’ shit at the Guess Who’s Coming to Diner for a while, I can tell ya. Pardon my language.”

Timing was clearly not my thing. “I thought I was in the middle of the woods.”

“A hundred more feet and you’d be bunking in the community center,” he said. “That your Plymouth Road Runner ’bout ten, twelve miles back?”

I nodded.

“You walk all that way?” I nodded again. “With a bird?” Another nod.

“Wall, it’s cold as charity out here,” Bruce pronounced. He had that right. “I can’t let ya stay in the square, I’m ’fraid. And I can’t put ya in the jail without ya bein’ under arrest.” I was pretty sure I was glad on that one, though his regret seemed genuine. “But, I might be able to help. You put on some proper shoes and break down your little campin’ site while I make a call.”

I did as he said. I extravagantly squandered a pair of clean socks, putting a second pair on over the first. My feet were two blocks of ice. It was heaven to slip on my sneakers. I made a mental note to finish off all the Emergen-C packets I had tomorrow. I could buy more. I wrapped Oliver’s Snuggle Hut in a wool sweater with him inside it. He squawked in protest but I ignored him. I didn’t want him getting sick either. He was a bitch when he was sick. I stuffed my tent and sleeping bag by the light of my headlamp and was perched on the picnic table with all my worldly goods in a backpack and a Snuggle Hut when Bruce returned.

“Looks like you’re in luck. Follow me. And mind the roots.” He shone his flashlight along the ground. When we got to the truck, it was “Climb on up.” I was too tired to ask where we were going. I sensed Bruce was a decent man. Besides, what choice did I have? He was dead wrong about my luck.

In the cab of the truck, blessed heat seeped into my bones. Oliver felt it too, because he inched out of his cocoon and rested in my lap. I couldn’t see a thing out the window. The luxuriously soft seat and the warmth of the car were making me drowsy.

“Lawrence,” I said. “Why do they call you Bruce?”

“Wall, I reckon it’s because I like Monty Python so much.” He answered obligingly, leaving me as mystified as before. “And it sure as hell beats Larry Perry.” I said nothing more.

After a short trip we pulled up to a long, low adobe house. The truck headlights lit up attractive pink walls and a doorway framed by some kind of flowering tree. Bruce shut off the truck and I clambered ungracefully down. Bruce ignored the front door and followed a path to the left through an archway cut into the long adobe wall. Beyond it appeared to be a courtyard garden. I could see candlelight flickering through double-glass doors to the right. Bruce went through them, and I followed
him into a beautiful and spacious kitchen. The centerpiece was a rectangular wooden table burnished to a rich, warm brown. The floors were ochre tile. A welcoming fire flickered in the hearth dominating an exposed brick wall on the left, and candles on the table guttered in the draft we created. The only sound was the
tick-tick-tick
of a heating saucepan on a restored antique O’Keefe & Merritt gas stove. Bruce wiped his feet on a colorful rag rug and stepped in, pulling off his sheriff’s hat. I remained his dutiful shadow.

“Hello Bruce. How you doin’, Bruce? All right there, Bruce?” squawked a voice from beyond a darkened doorway to the left.

Oliver, on my shoulder now, began hopping agitatedly, lifting one foot and then the other, a cockatiel sign of anxiety.

“Lulabell, hush your beak,” said Bruce.

“Quiet Lulabell. Quiet,” mimicked the squawk.

Oliver raced from my wrist to my shoulder and back again in a fretful loop. On one pass he nipped my earlobe.

“Ow, Oliver!” I rebuked. He scrambled to my elbow, canvassing the room for the provoking sound. His crest feather was fully erect, another fear indicator.

“Right Bruce!” said Lulabell.

It was too much for Oliver. He released a torrent of sounds. “
Squawk.
Carrot. Are you thinner? Road trip, don’t forget the bird! Howdy pardner. Oh shit.”

Silence from the other room.

“Yours’s just as bad as Lulabell for the potty mouth,” Bruce observed.

“Oh no.” I rushed to assure him. “He almost never says that.”

“Oh shit,” repeated Oliver.

Sigh. “That’s his only bad word. I have no idea where he got it.” I had a pretty good idea where he got it.

“It won’t be for long,” Bruce forebode.

On cue, from the next room, Lulabell spoke again. “Fuck me. Legs up, Toots.”

“Oh shit,” Oliver contributed excitedly.

Bruce rolled his eyes. A tiny woman hurried into the room. She wore her graying hair in two long braids and I instantly tumbled in love. “Don’t you mind Lulabell,” the woman said. “She spent too much time in the Sheriff’s office when she was young, listening to foulmouthed criminals and even fouler-mouthed deputies.” Here she shot Bruce a dirty look. He managed to look abashed. It clicked that this was his ex-wife.

It was hard to make out detail by candlelight, but she was clearly no more than five feet tall. At five foot nine, I towered over her. And Bruce towered over me. What a funny couple they would have been. Her movements were precise, with no inefficient gestures. Three steps to the stove, a glance into the pot. Reach for a mug with one hand, extinguish the gas with the other, pour liquid into the mug with one hand, extract a spoon from the drawer with the other. Turn to the table, simultaneously place the mug and spoon before one chair and pull out another. It was like watching an expertly choreographed dance. I didn’t realize I was transfixed until she demanded, “Well are you two going to sit, or am I going to need neck surgery from looking up at you?”

We sat. Bruce cleared his throat.

“Maeve, this here is Ruby. Ruby, this is the gal I was tellin’ you about,” Bruce said.

“It would be a remarkable feat if you managed to come up with a substitute stray girl in the fifteen minutes since you called, Lawrence,” Ruby said. She examined me in the candlelight.

“I’m Maeve Connelly,” I said. “This is Oliver.” Oliver was torn between Ruby’s compelling presence and the phantom
cockatiel in the next room, swiveling his head from one direction to the other.

“Howdy pardner.” Oliver focused on Ruby, on his best behavior. He was definitely getting Cheetos tomorrow. They were his favorite, but I usually discouraged saturated fats.

“Howdy yourself.” Ruby returned the greeting seriously. I plummeted even farther in love. I casually crossed an ankle over my knee, hitching my jeans cuff to show off my kneesocks. I thought Ruby would appreciate the lizard motif.

Her level gaze returned to me. “I’m Ruby Ransome.” Inelegantly, I sneezed in response. Three times, fast.

“Bless you. I understand you’ve had car trouble.”

It wasn’t a question but I answered anyway. “Yes ma’am.”

There was another squawk. We all looked confused, because it didn’t come from Oliver or Lulabell. It emanated from the vicinity of Bruce’s stomach.

“Bruce? Bruce, you there?” It was a walkie-talkie. Bruce fumbled to turn its volume down, shooting a sheepish look at Ruby.

Ruby rose fluidly. “We’ve all had a long night. Lawrence, you’re needed. Go back to the station. I’ll handle it from here. Call me tomorrow at ten o’clock with information on PIGS and Barney’s schedule.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but I knew that when she said ten o’clock she didn’t mean it like most of us mean it. She meant ten precisely. From Bruce’s look, he knew it too. He bent and kissed her cheek.

“You’re a good woman, Ruby.” To my surprise, Ruby blushed. To me he said, “I’ll be seein’ about your car.” Then he was gone. Suddenly I was too exhausted to think.

“Maeve, you’ll sleep in Room Number One.” I didn’t question her choice to identify her rooms by number rather than function. I just hoped Number One had a bed in it. I rose tiredly. “Oliver can bunk with Lulabell,” Ruby finished.

I froze, panic blooming. “No,” I said, before I could stop myself. Ruby looked at me in surprise. “I mean, I’m sorry, you’ve been so nice and all, it’s just…” My voice trailed away. How to explain that I couldn’t be parted from my bird? My life was topsy-turvy. Oliver was the only thing tethering me to myself. I didn’t trust him out of my sight. I opened my mouth. Then closed it. I looked at her helplessly, mute. “He might get scared,” I finally said.

Ruby’s eyes told me she knew exactly what I meant. “I don’t want bird poop all over my bedroom” was her logical position.

“I have this Snuggle Hut, see?” I held it up. “I can wrap him in it. He won’t be roaming free. And he was just clipped,” I pleaded. “Tomorrow I’ll walk back for his cage.” I stopped. I shouldn’t talk about tomorrow. Ruby wasn’t adopting me. She was putting me up for a night.

“Let’s have no foolish talk about walking twelve miles,” Ruby relented. “We’ll deal with tomorrow when it’s tomorrow. Your bird can stay with you. Keep him in his tent. Follow me.”