The Guilt We Carry

by Samuel W. Gailey

  “Too quiet.”

  Sinclair smiled at how quickly Phillip reverted back to his sparse usage of words. “I would think for that very reason it would suit you. Being quiet and reflective in nature.”

  “No.”

  “You like city life?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno.” Phillip adjusted himself in his seat. Rubbed at his square jaw for a moment. “Cuz I like the noise, I guess. Distracts me.”

  “Distracts you? From what?”

  The car approached an old dirt road that wound its way up the side of a hill shrouded by thick foliage. Phillip motioned toward the dirt path. “Up there?”

  Sinclair flicked his cigarette out the window. “Fine.”

  Phillip checked the rearview mirror before pumping the brakes and turning onto the road. The Grand Marquis bumped over the heavily rutted surface, causing both men to jostle upon their leather seats.

  They drove for another mile in silence, the road getting more and more rough and unforgiving.

  Sinclair tapped on his window with his index finger. “This should be far enough, I would think.”

  Phillip slowed the car and pulled it off to the side of the road. He kept the engine running and extracted himself from his seat with great effort, then leaned down and popped open the trunk. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Sinclair unclipped his seat belt and opened his door as well. “I think I’ll join you. Like to stretch my legs for a moment.”

  As both men walked to the rear of the car, Sinclair took a deep breath of the country air. “Well. To the business at hand.”

  Phillip swung open the trunk, reached inside, and grabbed Ernie’s corpse from within the well. The black plastic bag was still securely wrapped around his head, his body already starting to become rigid.

  Sinclair watched as Phillip effortlessly slung Ernie’s body over his shoulder like a baseball bat, and scrutinized the dead man’s sweater, khakis, then finally stared at the worn soles on his shoes. “I never quite understand why people don’t put a little more thought into how they dress. Appearances are crucial. First impressions and all.”

  Sinclair lit a cigarette and motioned toward the woods. “A hundred yards or so. See if you can find a ravine of some kind. And perhaps you should cut a vein. Let the predators take it from there.” He puffed on his cigarette. “And try and hurry. I’m getting rather hungry.”

  Phillip adjusted Ernie’s corpse on his shoulder like a lumberjack carrying an axe, then stepped into the woods.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “AIN’T TOO SAFE, two pretty young ladies like yourselves, hitching a ride with a complete stranger.”

  Alice and Delilah had met the truck driver in The Golden Chicken Diner back in Goldsboro. The man had polished off a stack of flapjacks, a side order of thick-cut bacon, and a sizable bowl of grits smothered in butter and maple syrup, without blinking an eye. He kept a cigarette going during his entire lunch and must have consumed about a quart of black coffee, and never once got up to relieve himself. He talked to anybody that would listen, and even to those who wouldn’t. Waitresses, customers, busboys, deliverymen, whomever. The man was short and burly, shirt open at the neck revealing a thick blanket of black chest hair. A well-worn green cap with no insignia of any kind tilted back on a square-shaped head, his hair neatly trimmed.

  Dale was his name, a name that he offered to anyone. He did most of the talking. Talked about the rainstorm heading their way, how good the thick-cut bacon was at The Golden Chicken, about some damn funny show with some kind of alien puppet that lives with a family. One of them syndication shows—couldn’t remember the name of it. The truck driver discussed the upcoming election and how neither candidate was worth a goddamn. He drove a semi-trailer truck, loaded with pet food—dog food, cat food, rabbit food, fish food, you name it—and was making his way down to Lumberton.

  So, Lumberton would have to do for now—the only current option on the table for Alice and Delilah. Either that, or sticking out their thumbs and risk being picked up by a State Trooper. Alice thought that, once they got to Lumberton, they could figure out how they would then get down to Shallotte. Probably better off this way. The trucker would be able to identify them, and if it ever came to that, it would be better that their trail ended in Lumberton. From there, they could try the whole bus thing again, being able to blend in with a crowd of other passengers.

  Dale the truck driver was way too social to be driving a truck for a living, sitting in a cab all alone for miles on end. He eagerly accepted the request to carry two passengers for a spell and seemed downright tickled to be hosting the girls for a few hundred miles.

  The cab of the truck smelled of old socks, salted potato chips, and the pine tree air freshener that dangled from his rearview mirror. He ground the truck into fourth gear and the semi labored up onto the 95 South on-ramp. He lit up yet another Camel Light and tossed the match out the window.

  “We appreciate this. We missed our bus and the next one doesn’t come through for a few hours,” Alice offered up. She didn’t really know if that was true, but she felt the need to have some kind of story.

  Dale waved away the explanation. “Never ridden in one of them Greyhounds before, and hope that I never do. Don’t really like the notion of other folks driving my big backside around. Let me tell you, I make for one poor back-seat driver.” He let out a snort and kept chuckling to himself for a few seconds.

  Alice nodded like he was preaching to the choir.

  “Most folks on the road shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, if you ask me. Yakking on their cellular telephones, doing that texting business, not paying any kind of attention to the road. Hell. Traffic fatalities are the number one killer in America. Did you know that? Forget murders and cancer and all that other stuff. Anyone thinks that they can drive. But that’s just a load of BS. Shoot, most folks should not be driving if you ask me.” He chuckled to himself again. It appeared to be a pattern in the man’s speech: make a completely obvious statement, then chuckle like it was the funniest damn thing on earth.

  Alice slouched in the passenger seat, bearing the brunt of most of the senseless chatter. Behind her, Delilah perched on the edge of the unmade cot in the back of the cab, clearly afraid to come into contact with the soiled sheets where the trucker slept.

  “Well, I’ll be honest with you two little ladies. I normally don’t give rides to strangers and hitchhikers and whatnot. Most of them folks don’t have all their eggs in the carton. Bunch of crazies out there. Shoot, I made the mistake of giving a ride to a few nutjobs in my day, and half the time I didn’t know if they were going to shoot me or crow like a rooster. I tell you what, there are all kinds out there.”

  Dale gave Alice a little wink. A piece of ash dropped off the tip of his cigarette and settled between his legs, but he paid it no mind.

  “But I don’t think I’ll get much trouble from the two of you, now will I? You’re not going to shoot me or crow like a rooster, are you?” Again, with a long, prolonged chuckle.

  Alice shook her head. “No. We might bore you to death though.”

  The trucker exploded with laughter, his hard, low-hanging belly bouncing up and down. “Hell, I won’t bore you to death, but I might talk your damn ear off. That much is true. My old lady says I talk too much, and she’s probably right about that fact. I even talk to myself. Right out loud. I’ll ask myself a question and answer myself right back. And if that isn’t a sure sign of losing your marbles, I don’t know what the hell is.”

  The trucker sucked on his cigarette, checked to see how much he had left to smoke, then stuck it back in the corner of his mouth.

  “Mind if I have one of those?” Alice motioned toward the trucker’s pack of smokes.

  “Hell, no. Help yourself. Got a few cartons of them in the back there. One good thing about driving in the South, the cigarettes won’t cost you an arm and a leg. Next to a good cup of coffee, they’re a truck
er’s best friend.”

  Alice lit up, savoring the blast of nicotine. She let her head fall back against the seat and hoped for a lull of silence.

  But Dale the trucker thought otherwise. “So what takes you ladies to Lumberton, anyways? Winter break?”

  Alice hesitated before responding. “A funeral. Friend of ours passed away.” She hoped that a lie like that would shut the trucker up for a while.

  It didn’t.

  “Ah, hell. Sorry to hear that. Something unexpected? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  Alice felt a little light-headed from the cigarette. “Car accident.”

  The trucker shook his head like he expected something like that. “Damn shame. Never think it’s gonna happen to someone you know. But, God knows, I’ve seen my share of car accidents. They happen in a split second. BAM. Nothing worse than the sound of breaking glass and the crunch of metal on metal. Horrible way to go.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Alice stabbed out her cigarette in the ashtray that was stuffed with old filters—a morgue for cigarettes. “I’m going to close my eyes if you don’t mind. Been a rough couple of days.”

  “Please. By all means. You girls get some shut-eye. I promise to try and keep my big trap shut for a while. Might sing to myself a little, but other than that, I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse.”

  Alice closed her eyes. She had no intention of falling asleep, just needed a break from his chatter for a while. But the hum of eighteen wheels strumming along the pavement quickly coaxed her in. She heard the trucker strike another match, smelled the sulfur and wave of cigarette smoke, and let herself fold together and slip into the blackness that was determined to swallow her whole.

  * * *

  The sound of the truck engine cutting off finally stirred her from sleep. Not that she would complain about waking up. The dream was another bad one—about Jason again. In the dryer like he always was, his little body banging against the drum, making that awful sound. KA-THUMP. KA-THUMP. KA-THUMP. Alice’s eyes snapped open, forgetting where she was until she looked over at the truck driver, smiling his gap-toothed grin.

  “Gonna go gas her up. Won’t take but a minute or so.” Dale let out a little chuckle and shook his head. “Some kind of dream you were having. Talking out loud, flapping your hands. The whole nine yards.”

  Alice rubbed at the sleep in her eyes and noticed that Delilah had finally given in to her repulsion of the trucker’s bed. She laid curled up in a ball on the well-worn mattress, dead to the world.

  “Get you a soda pop or something?” Dale opened up his door and slid out of the cab, and when he landed on the pavement, only his square head poked above the seat.

  “No. I don’t want to make you stop every ten miles because I have to pee,” Alice said.

  “Heck to that. I’ll fetch you both an orange soda.” The trucker tilted his cap back further on his head and waddled off toward the gas station.

  Alice checked on Delilah again. The girl didn’t stir a bit. Asleep, she appeared even younger and more innocent than a girl of fifteen. Just a kid and already in way too much trouble. Alice knew that she would have been better off leaving the girl back in Goldsboro, staying on the bus and driving away, but for some reason, she couldn’t, and her gut told her that had been a mistake.

  Coffee swished in her bladder and she decided to go search for a bathroom. Another two hours or so until they got to Lumberton, and if she was going to have to listen to the trucker yammering on about his wife or baseball or the price of milk, she preferred to do it on an empty bladder.

  She found the restroom tucked around the side of the filling station and it was as filthy as you’d expect a roadside gas station bathroom to be. Graffiti covered the walls, sketches of women with giant vaginas and even larger breasts. Male genitalia another favored subject, all super-sized as well.

  The mirror over the sink was yellow with age, half of it rusted over from a leak in the ceiling above it. Her distorted reflection stared back at her—she looked like hell. Her face puffy from all the alcohol, lack of sleep, and complete and utter stress she brought upon herself. Her neck had turned a darker shade of scarlet. The scab on her ear had broken open and leaked fresh blood. She barely recognized the murky reflection that stared back at her. This was no way to live. Always running. And not just the last thirty-some hours.

  She splashed cold water on her face and neck, but it didn’t help either her appearance or state of mind.

  Screw it.

  She swung the bathroom door open and swallowed in some fresh air. The sun felt warm on her face, and she wished she had the ability to enjoy it. She headed back toward the semi and noticed the truck driver on the other side of the gas station, pressed up inside a glass phone booth, jabbering into the pay phone. The square-headed man spoke into the receiver with a sense of urgency, waving his free hand in the air in a big sweeping motion. He appeared to be telling quite a tale. Definitely seemed anxious. His lips moved a mile a minute, and he kept glancing back over at his waiting rig.

  Alice held back and watched him for a minute. Wild gestures. Marching in place. Then his hand pointed toward his truck. Dale nodded and listened for a moment, then hung up the phone. The trucker stared at the receiver and rubbed at his face with both hands. He took a deep breath, then waddled in the direction of his rig. He didn’t notice Alice. Too caught up in his thoughts.

  Alice glanced back at the gas station office and saw a television set above the counter. It looked like a news program of some kind. Someone being interviewed. Someone wearing a cop uniform. In the top corner of the television screen there was a photograph of a young woman. Alice was too far away to see it clearly, but she could tell that the photograph was of someone African American. She didn’t need to see any more.

  When she hoisted herself back into the cab, the truck driver greeted her with twitching eyes, and his big, easy grin had slid right off his face.

  “There you are. Thought maybe I lost you,” Dale said, and tried to chuckle a little. But his voice sounded different. No humor in his laugh.

  Delilah sat up, wide awake now, perched on the edge of the sleeping mattress and chewing on a fresh stick of gum.

  “Had to use the little girl’s room,” Alice said and watched the man fiddle with his keys.

  “Oh. Good. Good.”

  “You already gassed up?” Alice asked.

  Dale stared over at her like she asked him if he beat his wife. “What?”

  “Thought we were stopping for gas?”

  The truck driver kept glancing over his shoulder toward Delilah. “Right. Yeah. Well. Having a little engine trouble, I’m afraid.”

  “That right? Engine trouble? Want me to take a look?” Alice asked.

  He stared at her again, attempted to chuckle, but failed miserably. “No, no. That won’t be necessary. The mechanic there is gonna come take a gander. Might be a few minutes though.” He kept glancing at Delilah. “A few minutes, it might be. So. So, we’ll all just have to sit tight.”

  Alice saw that the man had started to perspire badly. Streams of sweat rolled down his neck. She nodded and helped herself to another one of his cigarettes. “Okay.”

  After Alice lit up, the trucker snatched at the pack and fired one up as well.

  “You forget our orange sodas?” Alice asked.

  “What?”

  “Orange sodas. Thought you were going to grab a few sodas.”

  “Oh. Forgot all about that. I can go get them right now if you like,” the man stammered.

  Alice sucked on her cigarette. “No. That’s okay.”

  “You sure? Just take me a second.” The truck driver talked fast. Fidgeted in his seat.

  “I’m sure. Thanks.”

  It was quiet for a few moments. Dale played with his keys and wouldn’t look at either girl.

  “Delilah, my phone is in your purse. Can you hand me your bag?” Alice looked to the young girl and waited.

  Delilah stared at her purse—ever-present on
her lap—and tilted her head like a dog hearing a strange, new sound. “Your phone?”

  Alice reached her hand back toward the girl. “Yeah. My phone. In your purse.” Alice didn’t wait for Delilah—she snatched the purse and set it in her lap. “Guess I could use the pay phone.” She stared over at the truck driver. “There’s a pay phone, right? Thought I saw you using one.”

  Dale sucked hard on his cigarette. “No … I … What?”

  “The pay phone. Beside the gas station. I saw you talking.”

  “No. No.” Nervous laughter. “Not me.”

  “Really? Huh. Guess you have a twin.”

  The trucker clutched at the steering wheel hard. Ten white knuckles.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “No one.” Then Dale reached for the door handle, heard the click, and looked back at the pistol pressed toward his belly.

  “Is the back locked?” Alice asked, both hands gripped around the gun.

  The truck driver didn’t answer. Just kept staring down the barrel of the pistol, his hands held out in front of him.

  “The back of your truck. Is it locked?”

  Dale nodded that it was. The cigarette burned gray from the corner of his mouth, stinging at his eyes, but he kept his hands right where they were.

  “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to go to the back of the truck. You’re going to unlock the doors and climb inside. I’m betting you’re too out of shape to try and outrun me, so don’t even think about it. Do you understand me?”

  Delilah’s wide eyes matched those of the truck driver.

  Alice nudged the pistol into his ribs. “Do you understand?”

  He nodded that he did.

  “Delilah,” Alice said.

  The young girl remained transfixed by the sight of her own gun in Alice’s hands.

  “Delilah. Stay with me here. Grab my duffel bag while I escort our friend here to the back of his truck.”