by Laird Barron
A rattle of a chain, a fumbling with the knob, and the door opened to reveal a wraith of a woman, thirty-something going on seventy. Her hair had probably been permed, but it was disheveled now—thick, graying strands framing her swollen and wet eyes.
"You called us, ma'am," Caldwell said. "About the accident on 526?"
Her face squeezed together, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks, but she nodded and moved aside.
They stepped into a cramped double, the bedside lamps turning the floral wallpaper a sickly nicotine yellow. In one of the beds, a tuft of brown hair belonging to what only could've been a boy poked out from under the covers.
The father sat at the edge of the other bed, staring at the small television playing through Alfred Hitchcock Presents on the dresser. He had a doughy, sagging face, and the white patches at his temple stood out against his dark hair. He held a bottle in a brown bag and, as Charlie watched, he took a long sip of it.
A girl of what Charlie guessed was thirteen sat in a chair in the corner, knees drawn up and arms encircling them. Her hair hung sweaty in front of her glazed eyes.
The family reminded him of photos of Dresden survivors, expressions reflecting minds that couldn't grasp the destruction they had just walked away from.
"I don't know what else there is to say," the woman said. She studied the worn carpet beside them.
Caldwell flipped open his notepad and clicked his ballpoint. "This is really a matter of making sure we have everything correct, miss," he said.
The father harrumph-ed. Charlie glanced over, but the man was still intently watching the television. On the screen, James Donald was helping Patricia Owens find her husband's body.
"I told your dispatch everything we saw," she told the carpet. "Except about filming it."
Caldwell stiffened. "Excuse me?"
She pointed to a pistol-like object on the dresser, beside the television. Charlie went to it—hesitating for the briefest moment before crossing in front of the father's intent gaze—and picked it up to show Caldwell. An 8mm Kodak camera.
Caldwell looked at it for a long moment. "We're going to have to take that, miss."
"Do as you need. It doesn't help us at all. Or that poor family."
"The road ate them," the father said.
Charlie, Caldwell, and the man’s wife looked at him.
The father took another long pull from his bottle, his white temples the brightest thing about him.
~
Charlie chased Caldwell across the parking lot. He'd never felt less like a trooper than he did at that very moment.
"Wait a minute, for God's sake!" he yelled, his voice obscenely loud in the night.
Caldwell reached the cruiser and unlocked his door. "A Christing Brownie camera. Goddammit it all. Goddammit it all to hell." He slid into the car, tossing the camera onto the passenger seat, and fumbled his keys into the ignition.
Charlie skidded to a halt beside Caldwell's open door. "Wait a minute, dammit!"
Caldwell looked up, as if surprised to see Charlie standing there.
"What the hell was that?" Charlie asked. What had Harrigan said? The academy hadn't trained him for this? Damned skippy.
"I have to get back to the station," Caldwell said, the words clipped, as if talking was a waste of time. "This is important evidence."
"What are you talking about? What about the Temoins? What the hell's happening?"
"The county will take care of the family," Caldwell said dismissively. "It's their job, anyway." He gripped the inner door handle. "Listen, you're staying in Schlossen. Think you can find your way home?"
Charlie blinked. "What—"
"Welcome to a real investigation," Caldwell said, and slammed the door closed. He fired the Ford's engine with a roar and spun out of the parking lot.
Charlie watched the red lights diminish, then disappear as the cruiser turned a corner. For a moment, not a single linear thought entered his head. He heard no traffic or, he realized, any night sounds at all. Just his breath. Just his heart. The cuts on his hand ached vaguely.
He looked around. The motel's security lights were inadequate, leaving deep pools of shadows around him.
"What in the hell just happened?" he asked aloud, but the night gave no answer.
He thought of going into the lobby, calling the station or a cab, but didn't want to see the old woman again. He didn't even want to turn, for fear that she was at the lobby doors, watching him.
Grunting, Charlie started walking.
~
Because of his hike the night before, his feet were already aching by the time he reached Mom's Country Kitchen, a diner set in a low red brick building more fitting for a dentist's office. The restaurant was at the end of a forty-five minute walk through town, past drivers that openly stared at him and businesses with signs reading OPEN but had all the life and vibrancy of being CLOSED.
A bell overhead tinkled as he stepped inside Mom's and nothing so cliché as everyone stopping and staring occurred, but tension filled the air. Backs stiffened, cups of coffee were put down with sharp clacks against saucers, conversations stuttered. A clutch of county boys surrounded a corner table and their heads locked into place, looking away from him as he slid into a stool at the counter. At the other end, three older men dressed like farmers—
(then why aren't they out working their fields?)
—didn't have such problems and squinted at him through a grayish-blue haze of cigarette smoke.
"Trooper," a middle-aged woman with bouffant hair said, approaching with a carafe of coffee. Her voice was a lazy Southern drawl, easy on the Rs. She flipped his mug over in its saucer and filled it. "Need a menu?"
"Yes, please, thank you." He picked the cup up and sipped it, burning his tongue.
She pulled a tall plastic-coated sheet from under the counter. "New, aren't you?"
He sipped his coffee more carefully. "Yes, ma'am."
"How long?"
"Four days?" he said, smiling in a way he hoped was charming.
She nodded approvingly at him. "It's good you're here," she said and moved down to the farmers.
The bell over the door jangled.
"And you're even punctual to our apology-lunch," Caldwell said and sat down beside him. "There's a lot to like about you, probie."
Charlie set his mug down. Its sides burned the tender cuts of his palm. "I was just thinking of what I liked about you and coming up short."
"I'm buying you lunch, aren't I?" Caldwell said, flipping his mug up.
"I had to walk here," Charlie said. "Because, you know, my car is still in Area 13's lot."
"I said I was sorry about that over the phone, Charlie."
(and how did you get my number? jesus i barely know it yet)
"You sure this wasn't a haze?" Charlie asked. "It took me three hours to find my way home. I haven't even been here a damned week, Caldwell."
"No," Caldwell said on a sigh, "that wasn't a haze." He coughed, cleared his throat. "The family last night...the camera...it was important to get it back to Harrigan. It was evidence."
"On a case we're not even running."
Caldwell's mouth opened, but he apparently found nothing there. He shook his head instead.
"Jimmy Caldwell," the waitress said, approaching. She filled his mug. "I haven't seen you in about a minute or so. I was getting to think you were too good for us."
(you think you're better than me boy?)
Charlie squeezed his eyes closed at the memory of the man's voice, but not before—
(the reek of gasoline, the stench of spilled blood)
—momentarily filled his nose.
"Nah, just busy at the station, is all, Dorie." Caldwell raised his mug in a toast.
"Your family still up on Blue Mountain?" she asked, sliding a menu in front of him.
"Dug in like ticks," Caldwell said. He gestured towards himself. "The prodigal son might've heard the call of serving the public, but the Caldwells are inseparable from the land."
/>
A squeak of chairs behind them. Charlie glanced over and saw the county boys standing. They dropped a handful of greenbacks on the dish-laden table, grabbed their hats and moved to the door. They stepped outside, where a weather-worn man in a denim jacket and John Deere cap waited to enter. A few county boys nodded to him. He nodded back and stepped inside.
"Joseph!" Dorie called. "Where in heaven's name have you been?"
The man took off his hat, revealing a luxuriant shock of white hair. "Visiting my daughter downstate."
"Well, come have a cup of coffee," Dorie said.
The man coughed. "Actually, I just wanted to see if Rodney was here. To say goodbye, like. I'm moving in with my daughter and her husband. They bought some land and they need help getting it straight. The good farming's down there now."
Dorie didn't have an immediate reply to that. Charlie looked around. With the county boys gone, what had seemed near-full before now seemed mostly empty. Those who were left had fallen silent, watching.
The man coughed again. "I got nothing going on for me in town and...well, I miss my kiddo, you know."
"We know, Joseph," Dorie said, softly. "We understand."
Charlie glanced at her.
(we?)
"Um," Dorie said. "Rodney's not here, but I'll tell him you stopped in. Okay?"
The man nodded. "I appreciate it, Dorie. Thank you."
"You take care now," Dorie said emphatically.
He smiled and it lit up his face. "You, too, Dorie. You, too." He put his cap back on and nodded at Caldwell and Charlie. "Officers."
They nodded back. "Sir," Caldwell said, in a tone matching Dorie's.
The man stepped back outside. The bell seemed louder now.
Caldwell, Charlie, and Dorie watched through the front window as the man climbed into his '54 Chevy pickup, badly painted fire-hydrant red, and pulled out.
Silence hung for another moment, and then the three farmers picked up their conversation. Dorie drummed her nails on the counter.
Caldwell picked up his menu. "And there goes another one."
~
Charlie paused outside the closed door of the station's big conference room, a Rand McNally Atlas in hand, and cocked his head. Behind him down the darkened hall, the irregular report of typewriters in the bullpen sounded like shots fired by an apathetic army in battle. Conversation was sparse. Two-thirds of the middle-shift was out on patrol.
Why was this door closed? It wasn't even closed during shift briefings.
He opened the conference door and heard the whisper-squeak-whisper of a film roll feeding into a projector.
He stopped inside the doorway, frozen. The projector, typically used for training purposes, threw up a silent picture of moving Virginia highway and, distantly, the rumpled red-and-green blanket of the Blue Ridge Mountains against the far wall.
(i told your dispatch everything we saw except about filming it)
The camera lurched, revealing less shell-shocked versions of the Temoin family—father, mother, sister—
(what happened to them did they get home are they all right fuck caldwell took care of the report and i never asked)
(sloppy)
(probie)
—before swiveling back the window. On the far left side of the shot, was a Ford Galaxie booking east. The westbound lanes of this section of 526 were elevated, the median a grassy slope.
The Galaxie was the only other vehicle on the road.
A squeak of metal and Charlie pulled his eyes away. A man sat in one of the seats. A cigarette burned away in his hand.
A flash of color and Charlie looked up. The Galaxie was closer to the camera now.
And then, when the Galaxie was parallel with the Temoins, the road swatted the station wagon. If you blinked at the wrong moment, you would've missed it, and the next frame you saw was of speeding away from the wreckage.
But Charlie hadn't blinked at the wrong moment; Charlie hadn't missed the ground rising up like a ripple of silk right into the Galaxie; Charlie hadn't been spared the almost-frozen quality of metal blossoming outward, glass heliographing the light.
A noise escaped Charlie, a hybrid between a squeak and a throat clearing, and the man in the seat spun.
Charlie hit the light at that moment. Harrigan sat in the seat, wearing the expression of someone caught out, as if he'd been discovered masturbating.
And then the muscles of Harrigan's face were tightening and he stood. The ash of his cigarette hit the floor.
"Brooks," Harrigan said.
Charlie's back straightened. "Sir?"
"Can I help you?"
He remembered the atlas in his hand, raised it. "Looking for a quiet place to read?"
The film reached the end of its roll and the flap-flap-flap of 8mm spinning filled the room.
Harrigan moved to the projector, his legs like grey scissors. "An atlas?" he asked, removing the film roll. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and smoke collected above his head.
"I like to study maps," Charlie said. "Since I'm new to the area, I figured it'd be useful to learn the roads in detail."
Harrigan glanced at him, sliding the small roll of film into a cardboard container. "I learned the roads by driving them."
Charlie nodded. "And I will, too, sir—but I'd rather not get lost on state's time. This just gives me routes to investigate when I'm off-duty."
Harrigan squinted through the cigarette smoke at him. The question—how much did you see?—hung between them.
But, instead, he asked, "And you...like looking at maps? This is a hobby for you?"
Charlie resisted shrugging. "Since I was a kid. I've always liked knowing where I was. Now, it helps make me more efficient."
Harrigan slowly nodded. "You have no outstanding work waiting?"
"Just turned in all my reports," Charlie replied. "Three tickets on Interstate 81. One speeding, two for bad tags."
Harrigan nodded again. "Good. That's...good." Something relaxed in his voice. You could hear it in the lack of sharpness with certain consonants.
The Master Trooper surveyed the room, then put his cigarette out in a standing ashtray. "Then I'll leave you to it."
He paused on his way out. "I like your thinking," he said, and gave Charlie a clap on the shoulder, but both felt thin, perfunctory.
(that's not what you want to say)
Charlie stood where he was after Harrigan closed the door. His nerves couldn't decide whether to loosen or to tighten further.
Slowly, he went to one of the seats, and opened the atlas on the small desk bolted to the side. He flipped through the pages—topographical maps, blurbs about towns with history, county seats, and roads—before settling on the northern Virginia section.
But none of it made sense; his eyes refused to focus on the page. The final frames of the boy's home movie played in the center of his head and the father's voice recurred to him:
(the road ate them)
Charlie closed his eyes. How much did you see had hung between him and the Master Trooper but, now, another question occurred to him: Why didn't Harrigan react to the footage?
~
Everything is silent except for the thrum of tires beneath you. You kick your legs in the backseat footwell, boy's legs—shorts in spite of the late season, scabbed knees, scuffed Keds. A Kodak 8mm, a Brownie, is in your hands, its faux-wood decals bright, and it's heavier than you remembered, laden with footage from the trip to Washington, D.C.
(this is a dream you know it so)
You look out the window and the Blue Ridge Mountains unroll to your left, a dull green with hot spots of orange and yellow. You try, as you always do, to imagine people living beneath those trees, far from towns and cities, and can't believe it, but know it's true. The wood people. The earth people.
You look up and the Temoin father is driving, the mother in the passenger seat. The sister sits in the backseat next to you, a Nancy Drew paperback in her hands.
The father points out
the windshield, opens his mouth and says,
(you think you're better than us boy?)
but his lips don't match the words, like a dubbed Godzilla movie, and the sound is harsh and slurred, incongruous with the look of amusement on his face.
You follow the father's finger and see a pinprick on the farthest rise—another car. Its windshield reflects the sun, heading towards you in the eastbound lane. You aim the Brownie at it and turn back to your father. He's glancing into the backseat, grinning. His temples aren't white, now.
(you think you can just abandon us boy?)
The mother says something, and you don't hear it, but you hear the father's reply as he smiles at her:
(shut it you nagging bitch)
You look back out the window and the car's closer now, the only other car in sight for the first time in what feels like forever, and it's an aquamarine Ford Galaxie, zooming towards the nation's capital.
Something hot splashes on you and a deafening ringing fills your ears. The father is holding your father's Remington 870, smoke pressing against the ceiling, and the mother's head is gone. Gore streaks the passenger side window, the windshield, dots the father's face. He's still grinning.
(all of you nagging me all of you chickenshits fucking UP)
You look out your window and the Galaxie is close enough now to see the family inside—father, mother, kids in the backseat. The back is filled to capacity with luggage.
A boy's voice to your right, thick and hiccupping:
(daddy don't daddy why momma daddy—)
You look and Tim is there, covered in blood, crying and staring at the father with wide eyes.
(shut it you little baby faggot)
The father, no longer even pretending to drive, levels the shotgun and blows Tim's face away. The shot is silent, but the ringing in your ears steps up a notch, and more blood hits you. The smell, like hot metal, clogs your nostrils.
The father's still grinning, but the nose is Roman, the hairline receding into a widow's peak, the color dulling. You know this man.
Out your window the mountains are moving, rising and falling like a flag flapping. The Brownie in your hand is gone, replaced with your father's World War II trench knife, and you grip it so tightly your forearm shakes.