The Nightcrawler (33 page)

Roger and Beth both jumped with a start as a red blur swept by on their left. The passing car was going so fast, the sound of the engine didn’t arrive until the car was lengths ahead.

“That’s the weirdo we stopped for back there,” Roger said.

“He’s going to kill himself before the end of the day,” Beth said, in a voice that was almost a whisper.

“He won’t make it that long if he doesn’t slow down.”

“Billy used to drive like that all the time,” Beth started with a grin. “He came home one day and Daddy went ape shit.” She laughed aloud. “Daddy got a call from Judge Ross down at the traffic court, he was one of Daddy’s poker buddies and Billy was in his morning session.”

“That was lucky,” Roger said, thinking that any help you can get in traffic court has to be good.

“Lucky my ass. If he had another judge he might have been found guilty, but Daddy may not have found out.”
 

Roger watched Beth with adoration as she told the story. Beth had an ability to draw the listener into her anecdotes.

With an expression that said, ‘Wait until you hear what happened next’ she continued. “Daddy was so mad he told Billy he couldn’t drive any of the fleet cars.” She burst into a fit of laughter and stuttered through the next part. “B-B-B-Billy said, ‘How am I going to get to work?’ And guess what Daddy said?” she asked Roger looking at him wide eyed, anxiously waiting his reply.

“I don’t know, take a cab?”

“Come on, Vermont, how many cabs do you think are going to drive 30 miles to the ranch to pick Billy up?”

“So, what did your dad tell him?”

“Daddy said, ‘Ride a damn horse if you have to but you better get there’.”

They both laughed hysterically, imagining the horse that Billy rode into the dealership, tied to the fence behind the service bay.
 

“No way your dad made him ride a horse to work.”

“Yes he did, for a whole week.”

Their laughter bellowed out of the Jeep, then stopped abruptly at the sight of the red car, again on the shoulder of the road. The cars hazard lights were flashing and the crazy man who had passed them a while back was standing between the taillights frantically waving his arms as though he were trying to take flight.
 

“Should we stop, Roger?”
 

Roger knew as much by the tone of her voice, as the fact that she didn’t call him Vermont that she didn’t want to stop. That she was really creeped out by their earlier encounter with the man in that car.

“It’s over a hundred, Beth. If nobody else comes along he’ll die out here.”

She stopped the Jeep alongside the Charger.

“I ran out of gas. Can you help me out?”

“We don’t have any in the car but when we get to the next store or gas station we’ll send someone back for you,” Beth said before Roger had a chance to offer the nut job a lift. She then drove off, leaving Scott Randall standing alone in the scorching Arizona sun.

After what seemed like several hours of sitting on the ground in the Charger’s shadow, Scott was more than happy to pay twenty dollars for the five gallons of gas the tow truck driver delivered. He wasn’t at all interested in the driver’s tale of how those nice kids just caught him heading out the door. He couldn’t care less that the driver was on his way home for dinner. He shook his head to acknowledge the man’s appreciation for Thomas’ car but said nothing.
 

The driver must have figured Scott wasn’t the chatty type and poured the gas into the car, taking great care not to spill any. When the can was empty he wiped the fender near the gas cap with a rag he pulled from his back pocket.

“There you go, mister, she should start up now.”

The car turned over for what seemed to Scott like an eternity then roared to life.

“Yes sir, that’s a mighty fine car. Pete’s is a little ways up on the left. You can fill up there. You ought not try to go any further. Might not make the next station.”

Still wiping the top of the fender surrounding the gas cap, he said, “You tell Josie that Tucker sent ya.”

“Thanks,” was all Scott said.

He handed him a twenty without ever looking at Tucker. Then he got in the car. As he was pulling out, he heard Tucker’s reply, barely audible over the crunching of the gravel beneath the tires. “Okie-dokie.”

The sun was setting when Roger and Beth crossed the parking lot of Duke’s. It was a huge orange ball, the bottom half hidden below the jagged line of the distant mountain. Duke’s was a saloon right out of a Hollywood western. The whole place was a tribute to John Wayne. Pictures from every movie he had ever been in adorned the walls. The giggles had started when the waiter asked, “Can I start you pilgrims off with a drink?”

It was the worst possible John Wayne impression. Not that Roger and Beth would have known; they had to ask who was in all the pictures all over the walls.

Roger’s laughter stopped abruptly, followed by a small gasp as though he had been kicked in the belly by a pack mule. Perched on the driver’s side headrest was a raven. Roger was sure it was the same bird he had seen at Ike’s camp the night before.

“What’s wrong?” Beth asked, following his gaze through the big picture window to the Jeep. A bit startled she timidly asked, “What’s with this car and frickin birds?”
 

She took his hand in hers and began to walk out toward the car. Roger pulled her back, released her hand, at the same time stepping toward the car. The air was still, Duke’s air conditioner hummed behind them. Crickets chirped across the road. Roger’s shoes made little sound on the gravel but to Beth, each footstep was thunderous.

She didn’t know why an onslaught of fear now surged through her. She had no fear of birds. She was, of course kidding herself. The fear was of Roger, or for him. Roger was walking toward the car and the bird and the way the bird watched him was scary.
 

The silence was shattered by an eighteen-wheeler speeding past, on the otherwise deserted highway. The calm air was replaced with the gusts from the truck’s slipstream. Roger’s straw hat flew after the truck spiraling to rest on the center line of the road. It was an odd looking island, on a sea of asphalt.
 

A shrill caw came from the Jeep as the raven took flight. Her wings flapped only long enough to get airborne then she glided to the ground next to Roger’s hat. The bird took the brim of the hat in her beak, and then spread her wings. The wingspan was half the width of the road and glimmered in the quickly fading dusk.

“I think it wants your hat, Vermont.”

Their giggles had returned as Roger began to stride across the pavement to retrieve his hat from the bird. The raven gave a loud caw, released the hat and with wings spread and jumped at Roger, who jumped back a step.

Beth’s laughter reverberated in the still air, but this time Roger didn’t join in. She didn’t see the anxiety welling inside him as she called out, “Let her have the hat, Vermont, I’ll get you another one.”

The last of the sun had slipped behind the peak of the mountain. A buzzing sound came from a track of lights that illuminated a billboard across the street. The billboard invited everyone to The Mad Dog Saloon for the coldest beer in a hundred miles. A giant black dog snarling through a mouthful of jagged white teeth stared out with blood red eyes.

Roger’s jaw dropped as he looked to the source of the light. Lisa had warned him of the red eyed dog, Mrs. Miller had warned him in her weird trance-like voice of the red eyed dog, and didn’t Ike make mention of it?
 

Scott guided Thomas’ car along the road in complete solitude. His phone was somewhere on the pavement fifty miles back. He hadn’t dared to turn on the radio for fear of an Okie-dokie, or some DJ calling himself The Nightcrawler. So there he sat, in the cockpit of the Charger, traveling sixty-five miles per hour, with nothing but his thoughts, and the sound of the wind coming in through the open windows.

Scott had always liked the desert. The dry air, the topography, the way the day could be hot enough to bake your brain right inside your skull, yet the nights were cool enough to give you chills. It had been a while since his last Nightcrawler sighting, and he had settled into a calm, almost sedate stupor. He marveled at how quickly the sun sets in the desert. The purple sky was all that remained of the brilliant orange sunset of moments ago. The only other light came from the car headlights that he didn’t remember turning on casting a puddle of light a short distance ahead.

Scott’s eyes were drawn to a glow that appeared out of place in the middle of the desert. As he drew closer, the light split in two. The road seemed to split the light. He thought of Charlton Heston parting the Red Sea. A few moments later and it was clear that the light on the right was a small building he assumed was a gas station or corner store. On the opposite side of the road was an illuminated sign or billboard.

Something deep inside urged him to turn on the radio. George Thorogood belted out “Bad to the Bone”. The volume was deafening, the calm state he had enjoyed only moments ago, replaced by panic. Moreover, there standing in the middle of the road was the bum, the Nightcrawler, Matt, the vermin from Detroit.
 

The speedometer slowly climbed, sixty-eight, seventy-two, seventy-six…

“Roger, there’s a car coming, get off the road,” Beth screamed. Her eyes filled with horror as the oncoming headlights fixed on Roger like the eyes of cougar stalking a fawn.
 

The terror in her voice tore his attention from the billboard. He spun on his heels and there it was. The big red car, the car that was old and new at the same time. How often had he seen it in his dreams? Sudden realization dawned on him. The car in his dreams was the car that was out of gas. The man in the dreams was the crazy man driving that car. It was the same car. With the quickness he showed Jack Walker in the outfield, Roger charged for the side of the road.

Eighty-seven, ninety. “You won’t get away you stinking fuck.” Ninety-two… Scott fixed his eyes on the bum as he ran for the edge of the road. Ninety-five…

“Roger, hurry! He doesn’t see you.”

Roger could only hear the car. It was almost on him, he wasn’t going to be off the road in time. Beth’s screams grew more shrill with each call of his name as she ran toward him.
 

“I got you now, you prick,” Scott yelled through maniacal laughter. He saw the bum make a final effort to dive for the gravel at the edge of the road. “Too late,” Scott chortled.

There was a sickening whack, like the sound of a hardball meeting the homerun swing from an aluminum bat. The bumper of the Charger struck Roger’s right leg half way from his foot to his knee. His feet were knocked flying over his head sending him cart-wheeling through the air. The pain he felt was like nothing he had ever experienced. He felt the bones in his ankle explode on impact. His knee had bent at an angle it was never meant to go. It seemed like electricity was shooting up the length of his leg and erupting in his groin. He saw Beth running toward him then she was gone, replaced by sky, gravel, the red-eyed dog and then she was back as he pin-wheeled through the air.
 

The silence that had engulfed her was then obliterated by the far off sound of anger, or was it hysteria. “Got you, you piece of shit,” Scott yelled back through the window as he slammed on the brakes locking all four wheels. The Charger squealed to a stop, the cloud of blue smoke from the charred tires drifting off through the air in front of the car, ghostly in the headlights.
 

Roger’s ass came crashing down on the gravel, followed in a wave by his back, his shoulders, and then his head. When he came to rest he felt nothing, his eyes focused on the glowing red eyes on the billboard. Then everything went black.

Beth sprinted toward him, “No, no, no,” she whispered to herself. Stopping, next to his motionless body, any control she had was gone. “Roger, Jesus Christ Vermont wake up.” She kneeled beside him, tears streamed down her cheeks, her words barely discernable through her sobs.
 

His left leg came to rest splayed out slightly. His right leg looked worse. His knee angled inward toward his left. Half way between his knee and ankle blood flowed from a wound where the shard ends of his fibula and tibia, exposed, glowed a reflective red in the light from the billboard. A crimson pool formed beneath the mess that was Roger’s leg.

“Roger, oh shit, Vermont?”

She stroked his cheek and his head turned away from her, exposing the back of his skull, which was matted with blood and dirt. The night had gone completely silent. She could hear her heart pounding in her chest. She had never felt so alone, so very far away from anyone who could help. She needed Daddy; Daddy always knew what to do.

“Wake up, Roger, you have to wake up.” She was stroking the side of his head, her hand now covered in the blood that flowed from the laceration in his scalp. Her vision was impaired by torrents of tears, yet she strained to see why her hand felt wet.
 

“Oh Jesus, Roger, you’re bleeding, you’re bleeding bad.”

Beth began to scream toward Duke’s, until something caught her eye. It was the red glow of taillights. The car that hit Roger was just sitting there. Why won’t he come back and help? The hum of Duke’s air conditioner and the vague rumble of the car’s idling engine were the only sounds, just white noise in otherwise total silence.