The Brotherhood of the Wheel (14 page)

“You think what I do is stupid?” Jimmie said, his face reddening.

“No, baby, I know you do good out there. I just hate when you clam up and won't tell me what's going on. You know you can trust me, right? You do trust me?”

“I trust you with my life,” Jimmie said. “Of course I trust you, Layla. I … I just … I made a promise. I swore a vow, like the one I swore to you, and if I break that, then what kind of man am I? What kind of husband? What kind of father?”

They looked at each other for a while. Layla rubbed her belly. Finally, she asked, “Did you get him, Jimmie? The dragon? The bad guy? The monster? The whatever-it-was this time? Did you stop him?”

“Yes,” he said, looking down, not meeting her eyes. “I did, and it cost you and Peyton, and the baby, some peace of mind, cost us a contract.”

She lifted his chin gently until they were looking at each other, eye to eye. “I'm proud of you,” she said. “You save lives. You help people who have no one else to help them. You stand by your friends and your family no matter what, and you keep your word. That's rare in this world. Money's gonna come and it's gonna go, baby. We'll eat PB and J and drink Kool-Aid if we have to. We've done it before, we'll do it again. I'm proud of you, James. I'm proud of what you do. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said. They kissed and held each other. The kiss deepened, and there was no world outside of it, and in time the words didn't matter anymore; the secret between them was lost to a lifetime of knowing. Eventually, they slept, and even in the depths of slumber they touched and held each other.

*   *   *

“Did you ever tell Mom?” Jimmie asked. “About the Brotherhood? What you did, what you saw out on the Road?”

“Hell, yes,” Don Aussapile said to his son. “Of course I did. You think I'm stupid or something? Hand me a three-eighths torque.”

They were in Don's gas station—Don's Wreck and Repair, located on Jennings Street in Lenoir, right at the corner of Morganton Boulevard. Jimmie's father was a slight man in his mid-seventies. He wore his thin gray hair short, with little regard for its appearance. Don was dressed in a light blue work shirt with his name in a white oval above the pocket and a pair of dark blue Dickies work pants. His face was weathered, lined with the ruts of life, but there were smile lines there, too. Don, while about a good foot shorter than his son, and a little frail-looking from age, had arms tight and rippling with compact muscles, covered with faded tattoo ink. Jimmie had no doubt that his father could still whup a man if he needed to and give his son a run for his money in arm wrestling. The USMC anchor was still visible on Don's forearm. Jimmie had the same tattoo in brighter, sharper contrast on his arm.

“You actually mean to tell me you haven't told Layla about what goes on out there? On the Road?” Don said, accepting the wrench from Jimmie. “You're damn lucky you're not divorced, son. I always told you she was a damn good woman.”

“But what about the oath?” Jimmie said. Don laughed and shook his head as he carefully tightened nuts on the section of the old Chevy Malibu's engine he had been working on when Jimmie arrived.

“The oath”—Don grunted a little from the effort of the tightening—“is all well and good. A man puts a gun to my head, ties me to a chair and says he's gonna slice me ear to ear if I don't tell him about the Brotherhood, I'm ready, willing, and able to die to keep that secret. We all are.” He stood from his exertions under the hood and looked at Jimmie. “But, son, there are fates worse than death, and keeping secrets from your mama is one of them. I told her everything, every time I came home.”

“Everything, Dad?” Jimmie said. “Some of the stuff out there … the things that crawl in off the Road…”

“Oh, shit, son, of course I didn't tell her about that stuff,” Don said. He walked into the small office off the garage bays. Jimmie followed. “No one should ever have that stuff in their head,” Don said. “You know that, especially people you care about.” He opened the drink cooler and removed two sweating brown glass bottles of Budweiser. He handed one to Jimmie. They opened their beers and sat, Don behind the desk and Jimmie on the edge of it. Don took a sip from his bottle and then continued, “But the day to day … the work … tell 'em. It kept me off the couch for the last fifty-three years. Well, more or less. So tell me what happened with this Vanishing Hitchhiker you picked up.”

Jimmie took a long draw off the beer and wiped his mouth. “It was different from any Vanisher I've run into before, Pop. She knew me, knew my name. She was talking crazy stuff, too, about someone killing her friends. She told me I needed to stop it—whatever ‘it' is, exactly.”

“And what are you planning to do about that?” Don said.

“Look into it,” Jimmie said. “I talked to her parents—nice folks—they've been sick not knowing, but at least I hope they get some peace, knowing she passed.”

“If they believed you,” Don said. “Might have thought you were nuts. You're lucky they didn't call the cops on you, son.”

“Oh, they believed me,” Jimmie said. “They said they'd been waiting for me for years.”

“What?” Don said.

“I told you, Dad, this one is weird,” Jimmie said. He pulled a cassette tape out of his shirt pocket and walked over to the grimy, duct-tape-covered old jam box that his dad had kept on top of the file cabinet in his office since Jimmie was a kid. He pushed a button, and the cassette door silently yawned open. Jimmie slid the tape inside and closed the door. He pushed the play button. There was a hollow hiss as magnetic memory resurrected sound from the long-dead past. A radio was playing softly in the background of the recording—“Call Me Maybe,” by Carly Rae Jepsen. A young girl's voice suddenly eclipsed the background noise.

“Heeey,” the girl's voice said. “It's me!” Her voice was slightly distorted and hummed a little on the tape. She was too close to the mike. “Dream-journal stuff today. It was weird … very weird. No, creepy, old British lady, or the girl dressed in green leaves, or the man with the deer horns this time. No, this time it was some old trucker guy.” She laughed. “He had gross teeth and a big gut—”

“Sounds like she's got your number, son,” Don said. Jimmie hushed him.

“—and a baseball cap with the Squidbillies on it,” she said, laughing. “I need to stop watching Adult Swim at bedtime. But, you know, he did have really kind eyes. He said his name was Jimmie, and I realized that the old lady and the leaf girl both mentioned him to me. They said he was a knight of some kind or other, and that he would help me.…”

Don leaned forward in his chair and rested his chin on his fist, listening intently. The tape played on. “Part of it was like the other dreams … like being in the woods with the deer-man chasing me. I could hear it crashing behind me.… I could smell the blood from the people it had killed. It stank of blood, reeked of it. I heard dogs barking … they were chasing me, too … I didn't fall, but I almost did a few times.

“Then I saw them just as I got to the edge of the trees, and this part scared me really bad. There was Mark's car sitting on the side of the highway, cars and trucks rushing by behind it, but they were moving slower than everything else. Then I saw Mark and Aaron and Stephanie and even Kristie. They rose up out of the field between me and the car, and the highway. They … they weren't my friends anymore. Something was wrong with them … inside. The wrong was leaking out their eyes … I heard the dogs close behind me, heard them growl, felt their breath on me. And then I woke up.…”

Jimmie looked at his dad. Don was still silently listening, but Jimmie could see the dark clouds drifting behind his father's blue eyes. The tape went on: “I know something is going to happen to me, to them. The deer-man is waiting for me. I'm not sure what he's waiting for, but I know the dogs will come for me, for all of us. It's got something to do with … Four Horses? I think Four Horses was what the old British lady said to me, anyway. I just hope that Jimmie the Trucker is real, and that he can help. I'm saving this tape, just in case.… Okay, enough weird stuff … I got to get to breakfast before Dad eats all the bacon.…”

There was a moment of only the background radio music, the faint shudder of wind against the microphone, then the clunk of the stop button as the recording ended. Jimmie pushed the stop key on the player and ejected the tape. He put it back in his pocket. He took a slip of folded paper out of the same pocket and handed it to his dad. “That was Karen Collie at age thirteen, my Vanishing Hitchhiker,” Jimmie said. “She taped that two years ago and kept the tape and this in an envelope with instructions for her parents to give it to ‘Jimmie the Trucker' when he finally came.

“Karen and the kids she mentions on the tape, her four friends, all went missing in October of 2014. Mark Baz, one of the missing kids, had his car found with all four doors open, keys still in the ignition. Purses, backpacks all in the car. They just vanished off the face of the earth.”

Don unfolded the paper. It was a pencil drawing of Jimmie, and the detail was good. “Little girl had herself some talent,” he said.

“Yeah, her folks said she loved to do art,” Jimmie said.

“Not just art,” Don said, handing the picture back to Jimmie. “I think the girl was a road witch, son.”

“A viamancer?” Jimmie asked. Don nodded.

“Or, at least, maybe she had the potential. That makes it even more our turf to look into this. You said this happened in Illinois?”

“Yeah.”

“I know a guy, used to be an Illinois state trooper. He's retired now, but he's a Brother. I'll give him a call and see if he can give you some help on this.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Jimmie said.

“So when you leaving, son?” Don asked.

“I'm headed out tomorrow. I got a contract to pick up a load in Arizona. I figure I'll head out early enough to take a few days to look into this.” Jimmie hesitated for a moment, taking a swig of his beer and looking out at the lazy early-afternoon traffic on Morganton.

“What?” Don asked. “Spit it out, son, what's wrong?”

“Dad, I … I screwed up and lost a long-haul contract. It was Brotherhood business and I don't regret it, but…” Don nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “You're a little short.” Jimmie said nothing, but his eyes told Don all he needed to know. “You didn't screw up. You made a choice. Hell, I had to do that all the time when I was out on the Road. You balance a paycheck to a life—shit, son, that ain't no choice at all. When you were a kid, we were so damn broke I couldn't pay attention.”

Jimmie smiled. “Thanks. I'm sorry to ask.”

“You didn't,” Don said. “I offered. I think your mom and I can lend a hand for a spell, son. You got my second grandbaby on the way, and what kind of Pop-Pop would I be if I didn't help out? I got your back, son.”

They hugged.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Don't ever be sorry to ask for help,” Don said as he embraced his son. “And don't ever regret doing the right thing. Ever. And, son?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever it is that you're diving into out there, you make damn sure you come back from it. Y'hear?”

“Okay, Dad,” Jimmie said. “Will do.”

“Come on,” Don said. “I'll get Edgar to watch the place. Let's go surprise your mama. She'll be happy to see you.”

*   *   *

The next morning, Jimmie got up at five, well before daylight. He was careful not to wake Layla as he padded down the carpeted hallway to the shower. He dressed quietly and headed downstairs to make coffee. He smelled the rich aroma on the landing. The lights were on in the kitchen and, as he walked, he saw Layla, in one of his old flannels, pouring him a fresh cup of coffee.

“Fifteen years and I still can't sneak past you,” Jimmie said, taking the mug she offered.

“Baby was using my bladder for a punching bag,” Layla said. “I'm getting to the place where it's hard to find any way to lay and sleep that's even remotely comfy. Besides, you know I hate to wake up and you're gone.”

“I just didn't want to disturb you,” Jimmie said.

“You've been disturbing me for a long time before now,” she said, and touched his cheek. “Kiss me.”

He did, as he always tried to, kissing her as if it might be the last time. Because it might be. Nothing was certain but this moment.

“I wanted to tell you,” Jimmie said. “I'm headed out on some of the other business before I head to Arizona.” Layla frowned, looking up into his eyes.

“Why are you telling me? Is it dangerous? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, baby. I just … I wanted you to know what's going on out there,” Jimmie said, brushing the strands of her golden and silver hair out of her wide, dark eyes. “I don't want you to ever feel shut out from me, you understand?” She nodded. “I couldn't do what I do without you, without Peyton, and without the baby. You are the most important part of my life, and I never want to make you feel like you ain't.”

“Be careful,” Layla said, and kissed him again. He held her tight, holding the memory to sustain him. “Go fight the dragon. I've got it covered here, baby. Now git. Coffee's getting cold.”

Jimmie closed the kitchen door, his breath swirling around him. He climbed into his truck and tossed his duffel bag in the seat beside him. The truck started with a grumpy rumble, then surged to life. He made the notations on his log, checked all his instruments, and finally grabbed the pistol grip of the shift and began to pull out of the yard and down the road.

As he turned onto Stonewall Street, he saw Layla's silhouette in the open front door. Her shadow, arms crossed over her belly, a hand slowly raised to wave goodbye, was the last sight of home Jimmie saw before the Road took it away.