The Nightcrawler (31 page)

Lisa smiled down at him and all his anxiety faded. He felt safe and relaxed. Lisa had always had that effect on him. Nothing bad ever happened to him when she was near. The apparition above the flames held out a hand but Roger’s arms were too heavy to reach out to her. Lisa’s lips appeared to move, but the only sound came from the swirling wind sweeping the uppermost tips of the towering trees. On the ground, the air was still.

“Lisa, I can’t hear you, say it again.”

Her lips moved again, and Roger heard the words, but the sound came from above the trees. It was like sitting in a movie theatre with a bad sound system. What he heard scared him, the voice came in a whisper, “Stay close to Beth, she is your guardian angel now.”

Roger squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath then slowly opened them. Lisa was still there, but she was eleven again. She was wearing a coat, hat and scarf that appeared to blow in the wind, but it was a wind that had no effect on the flames, or the smoke.

Lisa had white skates on her feet, which dangled just above the fire. Her eyes were sad. They were the eyes of someone saying goodbye. With all his might, Roger leapt to his feet calling out her name.

“Stay close to Beth, she will keep you safe.”
 

“Lisa, don’t go.”

“I’ll always be here if you need me, Roger.”

His sister disappeared into the ashes, a bright flash erupted and a pillar of red sparks and white smoke swirled upward in concert with a scream he would always remember. Roger looked up, his gaze following the ghostly white column, the tiny red embers within, like hundreds of eyes staring out of the dark, hypnotizing him. Then the tree tops began to move slowly, circling above him. The ground beneath seemed to fall away from his feet. His view of the sky narrowed as if he had backed into a dark tunnel and was moving ever farther from the entrance. He now wondered what was in that pipe. Then all was black. No sound, no light, and no thought.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Scott Randall was no longer the man who rewarded himself with a new set of golf clubs back in Detroit. There were dark crescents below his eyes, shadows cast by his cheekbones over his sallow face, and light creases over his brow were all obvious outward signs of his decline. There was more striking evidence however. His athletic posture looked weakened by a slouch of his shoulders. His once confident stride was now the foot dragging gait of a cowering high-school outcast. Most telling of all was the blank stare where his once overpowering gaze had been. It was as though his arrogance, his mojo, had just seeped from every pore and evaporated.

The surge of energy he felt by laying out the rest of the journey so neatly at the filling station faded with the first hitchhiker he passed. It could have been any college kid hitching home for the summer. Things can seem so harmless in the distance. Up close the college kid was far from that. Not a college kid at all. The bum was standing beside the road. Just standing, his finger cocked like a gun, the few teeth in his maw glowing yellow in the desert sun.

The bum was everywhere, changing the tire of an old VW on the shoulder of the road near Albuquerque, yet sitting in the passenger seat of that same VW. A Chevy pickup passed the Charger while Scott had let his speed drop below fifty. In the back of the truck, with a stalk of hay held between his lips, was the bum. Again the cocked finger in tandem with a mocking wink. He was behind the counter at the Mobil station near Gallup; Scott refused to look at him but he knew the bum was there. There was no mistaking that offensive smell. As always the clicking noise came from the bum’s mouth, as he feigned the finger gun. Scott didn’t look up to see the gesture, but it was there, he just knew it was there.

Somewhere just over the Arizona border, Scott pulled into a truck stop for a bite. The bum was filling up the tank of an eighteen-wheeler. The rig’s engine clanged that awful diesel drone. Blue haze rose up from the twin stacks over the cab. The air was still and thick with exhaust. Scott avoided eye contact with the man pumping fuel into the truck. Inside the restaurant, the air was as thick with tobacco smoke as the parking lot was with diesel exhaust. Blue swirls billowed up from most every table occupied.

“Sit wherever you like, hon,” came a voice that was surely female but raspy enough to be confused for a man’s.

He didn’t look to see the source of the she-man voice; he just slunk to a table that was as secluded as possible. He felt that everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing to watch him. Don’t look at them he told himself, they are just a bunch of truckers, no bums, no demons, no worms or crickets, no creepies in here. They are just a bunch of truck drivers eating fried food and smoking their way to coronary disease.
 

The owner of the raspy voice set a cup of coffee in front of Scott and asked, “Know whatcha want, hon?”

Without looking at a menu, or the face the voice came from, Scott asked for fish and chips. Most every truck stop, roadhouse or greasy spoon served fish and chips. He managed a quick look at the waitress, not her face, but the rest looked okay enough. White Nikes on tiny little feet, gave way to athletic looking legs. Her skirt was short enough to bring attention to muscular thighs, but not so short that her ass would be showing if she bent to touch her toes.

“You betcha, hon,” she said, turned on her heels with the grace of a ballerina and glided away from the table.

Scott watched her until she disappeared behind the kitchen door. She was a pleasant distraction. Her butt swayed just enough to be sexy without looking slutty. She wore a red T-shirt that fit just right. Her hair was short, dark blonde, with highlights that glowed then dimmed then glowed again as she walked under the lights. As soon as the door swung closed behind her, Scott resumed his examination of the tabletop. He couldn’t see anything bad if he just looked down. How many times had he heard someone in the movies yell, “Just don’t look down!” Well this was the exception to that rule. This was the time to not look up.
 

He sat trying to think of anything but the bum. He replayed the meeting in Detroit, the dinner with Sarah, the afternoon with Grace. He thought about taking Max to the beach as soon as he got home to let her run in the surf. Few things gave him as much pleasure as seeing Max run flat out across the sand as the waves broke along the shore. The sun, the surf, a boy and his dog.

Scott had almost made the mental trip to the ocean when a plastic glass full of ice water clunked on the table in front of him. “Your food will be right out sugar,” the raspy voice said.

He said thank you to her ankles, noticing a small tattoo just above the top of her shoes. It looked like a lizard at first, maybe a chameleon or gecko. She seemed to be hovering as he stared intently at the tattoo. It didn’t have legs, he was sure there were legs but now it looked like a snake, a serpent, or even a Chinese dragon.
 

“My name is Maggie,” she began. “You sure don’t fit in with this bunch.”

Scott was barely aware she was speaking. He was trying to get a better look at the tattoo, sure that if he got a look from the right angle he would see the legs of the lizard. “This is just a summer job for me,” the voice went on. “I’m a student of drama at UCLA.”
 

He watched the ankle as she rambled on about almost being in a commercial in LA, and almost getting the lead in the biggest play of the season at school. She would have been the first junior to get the lead role in years.
 

While she spoke, her leg bent at the knee. She was twisting her toe on the floor as if she were putting out a cigarette butt. It gave Scott a clear view of her ankle. At the tattoo, the worm tattoo. He recoiled but found it impossible to look away. Why would anyone with such beautiful legs mess them up with a tattoo of a worm? It wasn’t just a worm; it was a thick, brown nightcrawler, a thick, brown, fucking squirming nightcrawler.
 

This wasn’t going to be the eggs on the floor scene again. He fought the urge to run screaming from the room. Tattoos can’t squirm. It was all in his head, his stupid sick, insane head.
 

Still, that worm was crawling up her leg. Spiraling around her calf, like it was on one of those train tracks going up a mountain in a cartoon.

Using the calmest voice he could, Scott asked her if she might check on his food. He wanted to get back on the road as soon as possible. She didn’t seem to take offense to his interruption, just said, “Oh sure”, and went back to the kitchen as elegantly as she had the first time he watched her. She paused at the swinging door to the kitchen and Scott chanced another look. Not only did he not see any worm, he didn’t see anything at all on her ankle.

“You are fucking losing it, Scott”, he said louder than he realized. A young couple with two kids in tow walked past on their way out. The dad, who Scott refused to look at, told him to watch his language. Scott apologized, absently his eyes fixed on the Formica table, studying each scratch in the faded gray surface as if they held the clues to the secret of life.

His dad often told him the secret of life. The problem was the secret was different with each situation or point his dad was trying to make. If he was sending little Scottie to his room it might be,
cleanliness is next to godliness.
If the lesson was on sportsmanship, it might be something like,
it’s not if you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.
Of course, he only used that one in winning situations. What was always between the lines with his dad was,
winning is the most important thing.
In losing situations he might use,
you only get out what you put in.

Yes sir, if you wanted advice that was sure to send a little boy straight to a therapist, Zach Randall was your man. Scott sat quiet on the outside, but screaming deep inside, screaming for something worthwhile from all of Zach’s charm lessons that might put him right. The only thing that came to him was
, Scottie, quit being a baby. If that smelly fucking creep comes back you show him who’s boss. If he opens his mouth to speak, you put a fist in it. If he gets all manly and puffs his chest all big, well you put a hole in it.

“I’m not being a baby. The prick isn’t real, he’s a spook, a ghost or something. How can you kick his ass if he isn’t real?”
 

“I’m sorry, are you talking to me?” Scott hadn’t realized that Maggie was putting his food on the table and again was unaware that he was talking to himself.

“What, no I was just, just, I was just.”

“Are you all right, sir? You don’t look too good.”

He didn’t answer. After waiting a minute or so, Maggie shrugged, turned and glided back to the kitchen. He began to poke at his food. The greasy smell of deep fried fish and chips, combined with the cigarette smoke and pots of aging coffee steaming behind the counter gave him a sudden urge to flee. He could feel his stomach churning. The hunger was beginning to twist the muscles in his belly. He needed to eat. He had enough sense left to know that if he didn’t eat he was surely going to break down. Both physically and emotionally, he would simply begin to fall apart. Hell, he felt he was already headed down that road. On the other hand, if he ate he was sure he wouldn’t keep it down long enough to get to the door.

A single worm slithered out from under one of Mrs. Paul’s fish fillets. Scott’s stomach tightened and his breathing quickened. He squeezed his eyes shut so tight they began to hurt, and his head started to pound. Without thought his hands came up to cradle his head. He rocked forward and back, forward and back, “No, no, no.” He repeated that one simple word over, and over again as though a verbal denial would make everything alright.

“Mister, are you okay?” Maggie had returned to his table with genuine concern. “Can I get you something?”

Scott opened his eyes and the worm was still there. It had crawled off his plate and slithered over the Formica table leaving a white, glistening slime trail in its wake. He looked up at Maggie, she had to see it too, but Maggie didn’t see it, that much was sure. She looked at Scott, her eyes wide open, tears on the verge of welling at the corners. She was a truly nice person who was scared and concerned for a man who was having a breakdown, or worse.

Scott’s gaze returned to the table, the worm was at the extreme edge. Behind it a trail of slime was illuminated by the ceiling lights. Scott mused that it glowed almost like a neon sign, and then horror stuck him as he realized the slime trail spelled out something.
 

He read aloud the words spelled out on the table. “Okie-dokie.”

“I’m sorry?” Maggie asked backing away slightly.

Scott began screaming, “Okie-dokie, okie-dokie.”
 

The room was silent, except for his screams and the thumping of his feet on the tile floor. Scott jumped from his seat, his chair flying out behind him and ran from the restaurant.

Chapter Twenty-Seven
 

Crossing the border into Arizona was like an instant cure for whatever was bothering Roger. They were wearing straw hats Beth had picked up at a souvenir shop near the Petrified Forest National Park, and Ray-Bans she produced from her backpack. In the distance the sun reflected brilliantly off the heat shimmer that was always just out of reach of the Jeep. They resumed their quest to enjoy the country away from the Interstates as much as they could. The Grand Canyon was hours ahead; it was as if they could both feel the breeze at the rim and anticipate the scorching heat of the canyon floor.