Roadmarks (3 page)

He entered the graveled lot and headed toward a group of hewn-log buildings before which stood rows of pumps for various fuels.

"How's the gas?" Red inquired.

"Half full, with a full auxiliary."

"Park, over by those trees."

He came to a halt beneath a large oak tree. The sun had already settled far into the west.

"We're around C Sixteen, aren't we?"

"Yes. Were you planning on getting off here?"

"No. I was just thinking: I once knew a guy from this period. Had to take the English cutoff, up a piece . . . "

"You want to park and go visit him?"

"No. He's
—
elsewhere. And I'm hungry. Come keep me company."

He withdrew a copy of
Flowers of Evil
from beneath the dashboard.

"Where did he go?" came the voice from the book.

"Who?"

"Your friend."

"Oh. Far. Yes, he went far." Red chuckled.

He opened the door and stepped outside. There was a chill in the air. He moved quickly in the direction of the buildings.

The dining room was shadowy, its chandelier as yet unlit. The tables were of wood and uncovered, as was the floor. A log fire crackled in an open hearth at the room's far end. The only windows were in the front wall.

He glanced at the diners. Two couples were seated before the big window. Young-looking. From their garb and their speech, he placed them as late C Twenty-one. The garments of the delicate-looking man at the table to his right indicated late Victorian England as his place of origin. Seated with his back to the nearer wall was a dark-haired man wearing black trousers and boots, and a white shirt. He was eating chicken and drinking beer. A dark leather jacket hung over the back of his chair. Too basic. Red could not place him.

He moved to the farthest table, turned it, and sat with his back to the comer. He placed
Flowers of Evil
on the boards before him, opening the volume at random.

" '
Pour l'enfant, amoureux de cartes et d'estampes, l'univers est égal à son vaste appétit
,' " came the tiny voice.

He quickly raised the book to cover his face.

'True," he replied in a whisper. "Yet you want more, don't you?"

"Just my own little corner."

"And where might that be?"

"Damned if I know."

"I've never quite understood why you do the things
—
”

A tall, white-haired waiter came up beside the table.

"Your order
—
Red!"

He looked up, stared a moment

"Johnson? . . . "

"Yes. Good Lord! It's been years!"

"Has it? You used to work farther down the Road, didn't you?"

"Yes. But I like it better up here."

"I'm glad you found a good spot. Say, that guy's chicken looks good." Red nodded toward the darkhaired man. "So does his beer. I'll have the same. Who is he, anyway?"

"Never saw him before."

"All right. Bring the beer now."

"Okay."

He withdrew a fresh cigar from a concealed pocket, examined it.

Johnson paused, regarding him.

"Are you going to do the trick?"

"What trick?"

"I once saw you light your cigar with a coal you plucked from the fire. You weren't burned."

"Go on!"

"Don't you remember? It was some years ago . . .  Unless you are going to learn it later. You
did
look older then. Anyway, it was about half a C down the Road."

Red shook his head.

"Some childish trick. I'll none of it now. Let's have the brew and the bird."

Johnson nodded and departed.

By the time Red had finished eating, the dining room had filled. Lights had been lit and the background noise had grown louder. He hailed Johnson, paid his tab and rose.

Outside, the night had become colder. He stepped down into the lot and turned left, heading toward his truck.

"Quiet," came the small word from the book he bore.

"Yes. I
—
”

The impact staggered him just as he saw the flash from the muzzle and heard the weapon's report.

Not pausing to assess the damage, he threw himself to the side, his right arm whipping across his body. There came a second shot, but he felt nothing. With a snapping movement, he hurled
Flowers of Evil
at the shadowy gunman, then broke, into a run toward his vehicle.

He tore around the front of the truck to the passenger side, pulled the door open, and threw himself flat within. As he groped beneath the seat for the .45 he kept there, he heard footfalls on the gravel on the other side. A voice from a greater distance on that side called out, "Hold it, mithter! You're covered!" There followed a gunshot and a soft curse, just as his fingers wrapped around the butt of the heavy revolver. He fired once, up and out through the window on the driver's side
—
a moment's insurance. Then he backed out and crouched.

Sounds were now coming from the building, as though the front door had been flung open and numerous loud conversations were in progress. There were several shouted inquiries. No one seemed to be approaching, however.

He stayed low and moved to the rear of the truck. Glancing behind him, he dropped to all fours, peered beyond the tailgate, looked around the bumper. Nothing. No one in sight . . .

He listened for a telltale footfall, heard none. He moved around to the rear, crawled toward the left side.

"He'th in front, heading right," came a sharp whisper.

He heard a sound from the front then, a hasty foot on gravel . . .

He tossed a rock behind him, to the right of the truck. No response. He waited.

Then, "Looks like a stalemate," he called out in foretalk lingo. "Want to discuss it?"

No reply.

"Any special reason for wanting to shoot me?" he tried.

Again, silence.

He rounded the left rear corner of the vehicle and started forward, rising into a low crouch, placing each foot carefully, easing his weight onto it.

"Thtop! He'th backed off into the treeth. Mutht be covering the front."

He transferred the weapon to his left hand and slid his right arm in through the open window. He jerked on the headlight switch and threw himself flat, to peer around the left front tire. A shot from the trees passed through the windshield on the driver's side.

From where he had fallen, Red saw the partial silhouette of the gunman drawing back for cover. He fired at it. The figure jerked and fell heavily against the tree trunk. He fired again as it began to slide downward, a pistol slipping from its fingers. The figure spun backward, struck the ground and lay still.

Red rose and advanced, covering the fallen man.

. . . Black trousers, a black jacket with a leaking hole drilled through its lower right quadrant. It was the man he had seen in the dining room earlier, with his back to the wall. Red put an arm about his shoulders, supported his head, raised him.

Pinkish bubbles had formed about the man's lips. He gasped as he was raised. His eyes flickered open.

"Why?" Red asked. "Why were you trying to shoot me?"

The man smiled weakly.

"I'd rather leave you
—
with something to think about," he said.

"It won't do
you
any good," Red said.

"Nothing will," replied the other. "So the devil with you!"

Red slapped him across the mouth, smearing the bloody spittle. He heard a gasp of protest from behind him as he did. A crowd was forming.

"Talk, you son of a bitch! Or I'll make it harder than it's going to be!"

He jabbed him in the upper abdomen with stiff fingers, near the wound.

"Here! Stop that!" said a voice from behind him.

"Talk!"

But the man followed a sharp gasp with a long sigh and stopped breathing. Red began hammering at his chest beneath the sternum.

"Come back, you miserable bastard!"

He felt a hand on his shoulder and shook it off. The gunman was not responding. He let him fall and began going through his pockets.

"I don't think you should be doing that," came another voice from behind. Finding nothing of interest, Red rose.

"What car was this guy driving?" he asked.

Silence, then murmurs. Finally, "He was a hitchhiker," the Victorian gentleman stated.

Red turned. The man was staring at the body, smiling faintly.

"How do you know that?" Red asked. The man withdrew a silk handkerchief, unfolded it, touched it several times to his brow.

"I saw him being dropped off here earlier," he replied.

"From what sort of vehicle?"

"Black, C Twenty, a Cadillac."

"Did you get a look at anyone else in the car?"

The man looked back at the body, licked his lips, smiled again.

"No."

Johnson came up with a piece of sailcloth and covered the body. He picked up the fallen pistol and stuck it behind his belt. Rising, he placed a hand on Red's shoulder.

"I'm setting out a bleeper," he said, "but there's no telling how long it will take to call us a cop. You should stay to give a report you know."

"Yeah, I'll wait."

"Let's get back then. I'll get you a room and a drink."

"Okay. Just a minute."

Red returned to the parking area and retrieved his book.

"That bullet damaged my thpeaker," came its sibilant voice.

"I know. I'll get you a new one, the best they make. Thanks for stopping it. And thanks for distracting him."

"I hope it wath worth it. Why wath he thooting at you?"

"I don't know, Flowers. I've got the impression that he was what is known in some places as a hit man. Possibly Syndicate. If so, there is no connection between his employers and myself that I can think of. I just don't know."

He slipped the volume into his pocket, then followed Johnson back inside.

Randy spotted the blue pickup pulling out, and nosed into the parking place.

"This is the place?" he said, looking toward Spiro's.

Leila nodded, not looking up from her reading of
Leaves of Grass.

"It was, at the time I was seeing, back in Africa," she said. "Now that we're in real time here, I don't know how close to synch it is."

"Translate."

"He might not have arrived yet, or he might already have departed."

Randy pulled on the emergency brake.

"Wait here and I'll go check," she said, opening the door, tossing the book onto the rear seat, and stepping out.

"Okay."

"Randy?"

"Yeah, Leaves?"

"She's a very vital woman, isn't she?"

"I'd say so."

"Is she attractive?"

"Yes."

"Domineering, though."

"She knows how to go about what we're doing. I don't."

"True, true . . . Who's that?"

An old man, a crusader's cross on his dirty tunic, shuffled up, humming to himself. He produced a grimy rag from his sash and began wiping the headlights, the windshield. He spat on a splattered butterfly, scraped it off with his thumbnail, ran the rag across it. Finally he came up on Randy's side, smiled and nodded.

"Nice day," he said.

"It is."

Randy fished around in his pocket, found a quarter, passed it to him. The man palmed it and nodded again.

"Thank you, sir."

"You look like a
—
crusader."

"Am. Or was," he said in foretalk lingo. "Took a wrong turn somewhere and never found my way back. Can't hold it against a man if he gets lost, can you? Besides, someone told me the Crusade's over and we won. Then another traveler told me it's over and we lost. Either way, it'd be kind of silly to go on
—
and I like it here. One of these days a bishop'll drive up in his Cadillac and I'll get him to release me from my vow. In the meantime, they let me sleep around back, and the cook feeds me." He winked. "And I make enough out here to get pickled every night in the taproom. Softest life I've ever had. No sense in looking for a fight when the war's over, is there?"

Randy shook his head.

"You wouldn't know for sure, would you?"

"Know what?"

"Who won."

"The Crusades?"

The other nodded.

Randy rubbed his nose.

"Well . . .  According to my history books, there were four big ones and a number of so-so ones. As to who won, that's not an easy question to answer
—
"

"That many!"

"Yeah. Sometimes you guys came off ahead and sometimes the other guys did. There were all sorts of reversals and intrigues. Betrayals . . .  A lot of good cultural transmission went on. It opened the way for restoring Greek philosophy to the West. It
—
”

"The hell with all that, lad! In your day, who has the Holy Land, them or us?"

"Them, mostly
—
"

" . . . And what about our lands? Have we got them or do they?"

"We do, but
—
”

The old soldier chuckled.

"Then nobody won."

"It's not that cut-and-dried. Nobody really lost, either. You've got to look at the larger picture. You see
—
”

"Balls! It's all right for you to read about larger pictures, son. I don't feel like going back and getting a scimitar up the bunghole for your larger picture, though. Louis can keep his Crusade. I feel a lot better about wiping the glass in your Devil's chariot and staying soused right here, now that I know nobody won."

"Of course I see your point, even if you do lack a sense of history about it. But it's not right to say
—
”

"Damn right! And if you're lucky, someone from up the Road will come along and do you the same favor one day. Tell him about history if he does." He flipped the quarter into the air and caught it. "Keep the faith, kid." He turned and limped away.

Randy nodded and located one of Leila's cigars.

"Interesting . . . " he muttered.

On the seat in back. Leaves began to hum softly. Then, "You are unhappy about something?" she asked.

"Perhaps. I don't know. What makes you ask?"

"I have been observing your heartbeat, your metabolism, your blood pressure, your breathing. Everything seems elevated. That's all."

"Then I can't hide much from you, can I? I was thinking how the passions of a Crusade
—
or a broken love affair
—
are but moments in geological time."

"True. But since you are not a rock or a glacier, what difference does that make?" Then, "You have terminated such a relationship recently?"

"I guess that's one way of putting it, yes."

"Sad, perhaps. Or not, as the case may be. You
—
”

"Not," he said. "Not really. It was something not meant to go on. Yet there is a feeling of loss . . . Why am I telling you this?"

"Everyone finds someone to tell things to. At a time like this you must be careful. Following a loss, one often seeks to fill that place with something new. One chooses in haste, rather than wisely. One
—
”

"Here comes Leila now," Randy said.

"Oh."

There was silence.

Randy drew on the cigar. He considered the clouds reflected in the hood. He regarded the bewildering array of vehicles drawn up about him, like some display in a museum of transportation.

"I do not detect her approach," Leaves said after a time.

"Sorry. I was mistaken."

There came a burst of static. Then, "Sorry, Randy. I wasn't trying to intrude."

"That's all right."

"It's just that I wanted to
—
”

"She
is
coming now."

"Okay. I just
—
Never mind."

Leila jerked the door open, climbed in and slammed it. She reached over and removed the cigar from between his fingers. She took a long drag on it and slumped in the seat.

"I take it you didn't
—
” he began.

"Shh! We're practically bumper to bumper now. Only there was no forwarding address. I have to look again."

He watched as her gaze drifted through the smoke. Her face grew expressionless for a time, then emotions flickered across it too rapidly for him to classify.

"Start the engine! Drive!" she ordered.

"Where?"

"Down the Road. I'll know the turnoff when it happens. Let's go!"

He backed out of the parking place, swung toward the exit.

"I'm beginning to understand . . . "

"What?" he asked.

"What we are," she said, passing him the cigar.

He pressed the accelerator and sped.