Strays (26 page)

At last he was released, and he had the receptionist call him a cab.  In the front lobby, he slipped into the gift shop and bought a clean shirt with
VMC
(for Valley Medical Center) emblazoned on its chest.  He changed in the public bathroom.  He was all alone, and there was no one to stare at the cool tattoo on his back, and that kind of made him sad.  He threw his old and bloodied shirt in the garbage on the way out the revolving doors that led to the ER loading dock. 

He barely remembered the cab ride home.

He spent the rest of the day popping his painkillers, something called Lortab, and washed them down with a few beers.  He called in sick to the warehouse and slept for a very long time.  When at last he awoke just after 3:00 a.m., the pain was still there and probably just as bad as ever, but he was kind of getting used to it, and it made him feel a little bad-ass that he was.  He took two more Lortab and drank a beer and heated up a frozen pizza in the microwave. 

He did not awaken until sometime after the sun rose on a hazy Saturday morning.  His head felt as if it was encased in a giant jar of yogurt, but even through the fog he heard someone rapping on his apartment door.  He swung his legs out of bed and staggered through his house to answer it.  If he had been more coherent and certainly more cognizant of his surroundings, he might have later reflected that in those last seconds before he turned the lock and swung open his apartment door, he was still just “good ol’ Rhino,” some overfed long-haired leaping gnome working at a warehouse on The Strip and waiting for something to happen.  When he answered the door, something finally
did
happen, and that was the last anyone would see of “good ol’ Rhino.” 

At the very same time, some 300 miles southeast of his apartment, the girl he had seen at the C-store and her mysterious companion who had attacked him in the woods, were arriving at their destination in Pendleton, Oregon.

*   *   *   *

“Good morning, sunshine,” Jack said when Rhino swung open the door.  Jack had his hands in his pockets, and he was smiling, and those bottomless black eyes—like a shark’s eyes, Rhino realized—seemed to quiver and ripple like pebbles dropped in a pool of oil.  “Want you to meet someone.”

Rhino blinked as Jack stepped back and revealed a small Datsun pickup the color of a Tacoma sky parked in the visitor’s parking spot near Ryan’s front door.  The driver-side door of the pickup opened, and out stepped a mountain of a man in a plaid polyester shirt with cheap piping around the chest and ugly white snap-on buttons.  His ample hips settled into a brown pair of work pants that hung baggy over his dark, muddy work boots.  His jawline was broad, and there was a roll of an extra chin across his neck, and when he smiled (which was more of a scowl like a dog protecting his turf), his teeth were a smoker’s gray and unusually crooked.  To Rhino, it looked like he had a model of Stonehenge in his mouth, and in spite of the pain of his broken nose, this thought made him chuckle.

“Ryan?” the Stonehenge-mouth asked.

“Rhino, sir.”  His voice sounded stuffed and almost effeminate through the splint on his nose.

“Name’s Big Buddy.  What the hell happened to you?”

“I saw your daughter,” Rhino said, and his voice wheezed as he spoke. 

“Where?” Big Buddy demanded.

“Yesterday morning in the woods.” 

“She the one who did
that
to you?”

“No, sir,” Rhino grunted.  “She’s got some freak with her.  He got the drop on me.”

“What kind of freak?” Jack asked.

Rhino thought.  “He was small.  Like a little clawed monster or something.  I didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Why not?” Jack’s voice was abrupt, dropping any hint of the soothing tones that had comforted Rhino when they were boys.  “Why couldn’t you see it?”

“It got me from behind,” Rhino wheezed.  “Latched onto my head and started biting me.”

“Little clawed monster,” Jack said.  “That’s your story?”

“Look,” Rhino said with a wet snort.  “I don’t know what it was.  It felt like some kind of wild animal.  It attacked me.  Like a rabid raccoon …”

“Or a cat?” Jack asked.  “Do you think it could have been a cat?”

Rhino considered this and shook his head.  “Doubt it.”

“Think,” Jack said, hissing through his teeth.  “I know it’s embarrassing to even think an ordinary house cat might have gotten the better of you, but mark my words, this is no ordinary house cat.”

“It broke my nose,” Rhino gasped.  “Hit me with something hard.  How’s a cat do that?”

“You’d be surprised what this one’s capable of,” Jack replied, shaking his head.  “Alas, poor Rhino.  I don’t know what to do with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I sent you to get the girl, a hungry little 15-year-old girl, and you let me down.  Now look how worried the girl’s father is, will you?  Just look.”

Rhino looked.  Whatever Big Buddy was feeling, it seemed that worry was probably well at the bottom of the list.  Old Stonehenge mouth was frowning, and his eyes were so small (and so buried under his untrimmed eyebrows) that they were impossible to read.  Still, there was no sign of panic or legitimate concern in that face, only great annoyance.

Jack crossed his arms and looked at Big Buddy.  “Fortunately, I know a few things.”

“Things like what?” Big Buddy barked

“Things about the one who is with your daughter,” said Jack.  “Things like where he’s taking her.”

“Who is he?” Big Buddy said with a grimace.  “What’s he think he’s going to do with my girl?”

“I don’t think you want to know that, do you?”  Jack glanced back over at Rhino and winked.  “But whatever it is, he needs to be stopped, don’t you agree?”

“I do,” Big Buddy grunted.  “So what are we waiting for?  Let’s get going.  Saddle up.”

“I can’t go with you,” said Jack.  “I have other things to do.  But Rhino
can.”

Big Buddy looked at Rhino, wrinkled his nose, and whistled through his teeth.  “I don’t need that punk bleeding all over my truck.”

“The bleeding has stopped,” said Jack.  “And if you want to find your little Sarah, you’re going to do it my way.” 

“That’s not how I do things,” Big Buddy said.  “You tell me where she is or I’ll—”

“You'll what?” Jack asked.  “I don’t think you want to go there, Buddy.  Not if you know what’s good for you.”

Big Buddy bit his lip and tried to meet Jack’s gaze.  He failed miserably, and just for a moment, Rhino was convinced he saw the man’s face start to collapse as he teetered on the edge of being truly beaten.  A moment was all it lasted.  Big Buddy set his jaw and quickly recovered.

“What do I need with a punk like that tagging along?”

“He’s loyal,” said Jack.  “Aren’t you loyal, Rhino?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And he has a stake in this too.  He wants the thing that attacked him in the woods to get what’s coming to it.  Isn’t that right, Rhino?”

“Yes,” Rhino said.  “That’s right.” 

“So we’re on the same page,” Jack said, turning back to Big Buddy.  “Aren’t we?”

Big Buddy looked at Rhino, chewing an arid lower lip with those Stonehenge teeth.  “Fine,” he said at last.  “The punk can come too.  Now tell me where my girl is.”

Jack grinned and motioned and rolled his eyes heavenward.  “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said, and then with a twist of his head toward Rhino: “But he does.”

Big Buddy looked at Rhino again and fixed him with a stare so awful that the younger man feared he might turn to stone.  “Well, spit it out, boy,” Big Buddy said.

Rhino offered his hands in an exaggerated shrug and glanced over at Jack for support.  Jack just shook his head and laughed.

“He doesn’t know everything yet,” Jack said.  “But it will come to him on the road.  One piece at a time.”

“Just what kind of game are you playing?” Big Buddy growled.

“I don’t want you leaving without my righthand man,” said Jack, and maybe it was the painkillers, but Rhino felt as tall as a tree right at that moment.  “I’ll tell him how to get to your Sarah, but I’ll only tell him one piece of the journey at a time.  That way you
have
to keep him for the duration.”

Big Buddy snarled, but in the end he threw up his hands.

“That’s good,” Jack said.  He nodded at Big Buddy, then turned back to Rhino, reached through the doorway, and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder.  “Go ahead, my friend.  Tell him where to go.”

Rhino thought a moment.  He closed his eyes, and all at once it was as if he were above the city, floating above his apartment, over the TCC campus just down the street, looking at a detailed map of the land.

“Take I-5 south,” he said.  “That’s all I’m seeing.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” said Big Buddy.  “Saddle up.”

“Let me get dressed and grab some things.”

Minutes later, Rhino was settled into the shotgun seat of Big Buddy’s pickup and taking in his surroundings.  It was a tiny two-man cab with a cracked and sun-faded dashboard.  Foam stuffing was poking out of the narrow bench seats where stitching had worn away, and the ashtray was badly in need of an emptying.  Just right then, Rhino was thankful for the broken nose, for it prevented him from taking in the stench of poverty and regret that no doubt hung heavy in this car. 

Buckle up,
he thought to himself. 
This will be your home for the next few hours.

Convergence

Once Molly took the wheel, Kyle was able to sleep, at least for awhile.  His dreams were for the most part peaceful and steeped in the kind of fantasies that he had entertained when they first started this journey.  In most of the dreams, Molly was taking him to some faraway place like a secluded island in the Pacific, where the two of them could spend out their days eating fruit on the beach or playing in the surf.  It reminded him a bit of that movie
The Blue Lagoon
, which he had never seen, but there were certainly plenty of posters and previews for it around the same time the second
Star Wars
movie came out.

He was not sure how long he lingered in this fantasy.  The amazing thing about sweet dreams is how they can seem to last for days, but the worst part of the deal is that one eventually has to wake up.  Kyle’s last impression of his tropical paradise was that of Molly sitting in the sand wearing nothing but her t-shirt, the surf splashing over her chest and shoulders, shimmering on her bare thighs, to escalate the beauty of her natural curves.  He had risen from his nap in the sand to go to her, and the surf rose, and the wind began to whistle through the palms.  The sky did a quick fade to black, and Kyle blinked once, and just like that he was in the shotgun seat of the Impala again, seeing the endless asphalt of I-80 unfold through the windshield and disappear under the front grill of the car.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Just passed Lyman,” Molly said.  She was settled back in her seat, guiding the wheel with one hand, the other hand resting on Kyle’s leg, and she seemed to be quite at ease.  Kyle looked at her, barely lit by the dome lights, and he was hit with the same rush of desire he had felt on his imaginary beach.  Every cell of his body itched again, longing to enfold her in his arms, and just when he thought he might swoon—

Kyle?
  It was his father’s voice again. 
Where are you going, Kyle?

“I told you, Dad, I don’t know.”

You’re letting her call the shots now, are you?

Kyle twisted his head to look in the back seat.  Something the shape of maybe a man was pressed into the corner on the driver’s side.

Look at her, Kyle.  Just look at her.  We both know why she wanted to drive, don’t we?

“No …” Kyle whispered.

She wants to be in control.  She doesn’t want you to make any decisions for yourself.  Isn’t that right?

“It’s not like that …”

Meanwhile, your mother is dying.  She’s dying, Kyle, all because of you.  How does that make you feel?

Kyle snapped his head back around, forcing himself to look at the road.  Off in the distance, just to his right, he saw the huge red sign, flowing in the shape of a small shield, with a white band across the top and a huge 66 in white numerals. 

Up there,
the thing said. 
Perfect place to turn around and go back home.

“Pull off,” Kyle said.

“Where?” Molly asked. 

“That Phillips 66.”  

Very good, Kyle.  Perfect place to take control … turn this car around and come home to mamaaaaa …

“I want to stop,” he said.

“We still have plenty of gas,” Molly said.  “Enough to make it well into Utah.”

“I don’t care!” Kyle snapped, feeling the bark of an old dog in the back of his throat.

Yes, Kyle.  Take control now, show her who’s in charge …

 “We need to stop,” he repeated.  “Now.”  And after a moment’s thought, he added:  “I’m going to drive.”

*   *   *   *

If Bran the Man had dreamed during his short nap, he didn’t remember.  The BTB had been settled in the Honda Accord, DC in the back, Marty in shotgun, and Bran the Man on the driver’s side with his seat tilted back against the ice chest, all three snoring sporadically for the better part of an hour.  Outside the Accord, the Phillips 66 truck stop had been as still as a small village, for indeed that was what it was most evenings after midnight.  The tractor trailers and semi-trucks had lined up like houses in the west lot, and the truckers had shared their bit of community and socializing before retiring to their cabs for the night.

It had not taken The BTB long to fall into deep slumber, even crammed together in the Accord, so when the rap on the driver-side window came just after 1:00 a.m., it was like a shotgun blast.  Bran the Man bumped awake with a small cry, and DC followed suit.  Only Marty seemed to take his time with things, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“What the hell, guys?” Marty muttered.

“Somebody’s outside,” said DC.  “Some guy knocking on Bran’s window.”