by Rich Bullock
“That’s what you want to do? Stay in Tucson?”
She sighed. No, it wasn’t at all what she wanted. Lupe was gone off to Florida, and now that the move was a done deal, she was itchy to strike out. Finding another rental in Tucson had less than zero appeal. Even if she found an RV park near town for a few days to give her and Ember time to work things out, living in the trailer without air conditioning was not an option.
She shook her head, both in answer to Ember’s question, and in denial of her own stupid desire. What she wanted was to find a place by a lake. His lake.
“I…” Ember’s voice was a whisper on the night breeze, tinged now with desperation, pleading. “I’ll pay you to take me.”
Vance’s words from years ago popped into her head. Skyy had been agonizing about deciding a college, endlessly weighing the pros and cons, when her brother said, “What’s the worst that could happen?” That simple question helped her pick a school. If things didn’t work out, she could always change. Choices weren’t permanent.
Except it hadn’t worked out so well for her brother. Had Vance asked himself that same question before he shot up with heroin the first time?
What’s the worst that could happen?
She noticed a small duffel at Ember’s feet. “What’s in the bag?”
“Half my stuff. I won’t take up much room.” There was hope in her voice, fortified with determination.
“Your group home…”
“Every few days they talk to us about leaving to make our own way,” Ember said. “They’ll be glad I’m going early. Frees up space for someone else.”
Skyy looked at the girl’s profile in the dark. Ember’s choice was as uncertain as Skyy’s—a murky future on the road in a tin can trailer with a woman she barely knew. But regardless of risk and the complete unknown, Ember had made her decision.
She thought again about the caller, the young girl named K. Other than offering advice of sometimes questionable value, Skyy couldn’t directly help people online. But here was a chance to help this young woman get a start in life, to actually make a real difference in her future. And Ember had a mind and will of her own. She wasn’t asking Skyy to take care of her, only to allow her to go along.
“You talked to Mrs. Oso about this?”
“Oh, yeah,” Ember laughed, relief filling her voice. “She insists on meeting you tomorrow, before noon.”
“Should I be worried?” Skyy asked.
“Nah, she’s a pussycat.”
Right. That wasn’t Ember’s previous description of the woman.
“Okay,” Skyy said. “I’ll meet you there at 11:00.”
“Thank you!” Ember rose to her knees and threw her arms around Skyy, nearly knocking them both onto the dusty yard. “I won’t let you down.”
“Easy,” Skyy said around the sudden lump in her throat. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. We’re just two gals on the road. You know, like Thelma and Louise—except without the crime and murder and stuff. And the ending.”
Eyes wide, Ember sat back. “Who are Thelma and Louise?”
Skyy waved away the question. Her age was showing. “Old story. Never mind.”
“Gotcha,” Ember said, laughing and pushing Skyy’s shoulder. “I’ve seen it twice. Mrs. Oso shows it every month as an example of what not to do.”
“I think I’m going to like your Mrs. Oso.”
Ember laughed at that.
“What?”
“So,” Ember said, sobering and ducking the question, “eleven tomorrow morning?”
Skyy nodded. “Then we’ll go shopping to get you a sleeping bag, air mattress, and anything else you need.”
Chapter 9
“Hi, all. Skyy D here, and you’re listening to Skyy D at Night on Black Owl Radio, and this is Night Thoughts. Hope you’re having a good evening. Thanks for dropping in for my ramblings and to hear some great music from independent artists all over the world.
“A word of warning: I’m broadcasting tonight from the parking lot of a coffee shop. Sort of borrowing their Wi-Fi, so don’t tell anyone. If I disappear for a while, or permanently, Big Jerry might have to step in.”
Skyy clicked the next queued song, signaling Big Jerry to begin the fade-in. “Here’s a new one by Rocket Dogs out of Orlando, Florida. Tell me if you like their Latin punk.”
“Latin punk?” Ember laughed. She sat in the passenger seat of the Cherokee, balancing the laptop while Skyy held the microphone.
“Takes all kinds,” Skyy said. “There are dozens of genres of punk, but I like Rocket Dogs because they’re straightforward, good-time club music.”
“Great idea. We should go dancing,” Ember said, staring out at the dark parking lot. It was as deserted as the rest of the town, and it wouldn’t be odd if a rabid coyote skulked around the building’s corner. Club probably wasn’t a term often used in the same sentence as Gila Bend, Arizona.
Their travel plans began derailing this morning when the right-side trailer tire blew 45 minutes past Casa Grande as they drove west on Interstate 8. Ember had lifted a skeptical eyebrow at the spare tire’s glossy black, but cracked, sidewalls as they struggled to tighten the lugs. Sure enough, it endured only to the outskirts of Gila Bend before it dramatically self-destructed like its brother. Skyy limped into Harv’s Fuel Stop, the tire throwing chunks of rubber all over the weed-sprouted pavement as the steel rim gouged the surface.
Harv himself helpfully pointed out a bulge on the sole surviving tire. Decidedly un-helpful was the fact Harv didn’t have any of the 14-inch tires in stock, nor a new rim to replace the mangled one sinking deep into the hot blacktop. Naturally, the nearest tire distributor was closed for the night.
Skyy kicked herself for choosing I-8 instead of I-10 where there was more help available, but she’d wanted to avoid the heavier traffic around Phoenix while she got used to towing the trailer. That’s what she’d told Ember. The fact that Canon Truax was working near the Mexican border might have influenced her route. I-8 entered California at its southern-most part. Not that she knew where he was. Not yet.
“Earth to Skyy,” Ember said, poking Skyy’s forearm. “Song’s over.”
Skyy cleared her throat, pushing away the image of the lawman exiting the surf.
“Hey, all. Have you ever wondered about choices and how they change your life? For instance, the reason I’m hopping on a coffee shop Wi-Fi is I’m stranded in a small town until tomorrow with two flat tires. If I’d chosen a different route, I might have been in the bigger city with more services. Or, if I hadn’t chosen Loser Boyfriend that night at the dance club, I might have found a better guy a few days later.
“Have you made a big choice lately? How do you know if you made the right one? Post your thoughts or call in. Meanwhile, here’s “Me Talking to Me,” by Ciara Olivera from Austin, Texas.”
While Rocket Dogs had been an upbeat opener, Olivera’s song sought meaning out of a life of disappointments. The lyrics told of the singer’s attempt to encourage herself. Skyy could use some of that right now. She shook off the fatigue that plagued her all day.
“I thought you were talking about integrity tonight,” Ember said, sliding the laptop onto the dash. There was just enough room between the seats to reach the small cooler in back. She popped the top on an orange soda, her fingers fiddling with the can’s aluminum ring. “Are you having doubts about me coming along?”
The words were playful, but the way she wouldn’t meet Skyy’s gaze spoke the real meaning.
This morning while Ember packed her last belongings at the group home, Amelia Oso had cornered Skyy.
“Ember shows a lot of outward bravado, but it’s a fragile façade.”
Mrs. Oso was five feet tall and had the personality of an irritated badger—reinforced by the whitish streak in her black hair. She began frowning as soon as Ember excitedly introduced Skyy and disappeared upstairs.
“She talks about you all the time, Ms. Delaney, but it’s a mistake for
her to go with you.”
When their girl bounced down the stairs with two black garbage bags and a big smile, Mrs. Oso leaned close to Skyy and growled, “Do not screw this up.”
Tendrils of desert cool trickled in through the cracked car windows. Not enough to drain away all the day’s heat, but it was a start.
Don’t screw this up. Skyy touched Ember’s arm and waited until their eyes met.
“No doubts, Ember Peyron. I’m glad you’re here. You could go anywhere, yet you picked a nearly broke trailer-park woman with bad tires who has no idea where she’s going. That’s bravery.”
Ember laughed, and this time it reached her eyes. She grabbed the laptop off the dash, and Skyy lifted her mic.
“Okay, we’re back and talking about choices. Animal-lover in Baltimore says she makes pros and cons columns for bigger decisions. I’ve tried that a couple of times; it works pretty well. Darktrey and several others ask a family member.” Not a luxury for Skyy. Nor for the girl beside her.
“A study by the Arnnesson Institute in Florida found that 67 percent of college students haven’t got a good methodology on making decisions. The majority say gut feeling is important, or whatever makes them happy. To me, that sounds sort of egotistical. The older I get, the more knowledge I gain, but making choices isn’t necessarily easier. Have you heard the phrase ‘You don’t know what you don’t know’? It means there are some important things to consider that we don’t even know exist. That’s where outside help is critical.
“But you have to choose that outside help carefully. According to the study, most consult friends. That can be like pooling ignorance. I mean, if you’ve got a bunch of people with little knowledge or experience, how can they help you with big decisions? Seems like that could get you in a lot of trouble.”
That brought in a flurry of responses. Some accused her of being a pessimist, a couple said she should “listen to the Universe” with a capital U, whatever that meant. Others suggested rolling dice and “going for it.”
“I’m putting up a survey on the website. Vote your favorite P word: parents, psychics, prayer, procrastinate, punt. Meanwhile, here’s music from another P, Phidel out of London.” She clicked the play button for Big Jerry, and a moody, indie pop number typical of the singer began. Skyy posted the P survey on the Night Thoughts page of the Black Owl Radio website.
“I’m not sure which one I’d pick.” Ember balanced the laptop on the dash again and pointed to the survey. “Do you ever pray?”
Skyy thought about the question. A neighbor had taken her to church a few times when her parents first started sliding toward the dark side. The stories and activities with other kids were fun, but most of all she liked the positive messages of love, acceptance, forgiveness, and second chances. With that kind of emphasis, she wondered why going to church wasn’t more popular. Why was it easier to believe in the Universe—capital U and all—than God? Maybe the Universe didn’t hold people to better behavior. No guilt if you chose whatever you wanted and royally screwed up.
“Skyy?”
“Oh, sorry.” Skyy opened her mouth, and then remembered Amelia Oso’s warning: Don’t screw this up. She picked her words carefully. “I think the correct answer about praying is always ‘not as much as I should.’”
What she was really thinking was, Delaney, you’d better get your act together if you’re going to be an example to this girl. Prayer might be a good idea.
She glanced at the laptop screen with its scrolling posts, each signed by a real person from somewhere in the world. It was a lot easier to give advice and be an example to people she’d never met.
Chapter 10
“Finally,” Ember said Monday morning at 11:45. She climbed in the Cherokee and slammed the door. “Let’s blow this town before something else goes wrong.”
Skyy couldn’t agree more. The parts truck delivered the wrong size tires on Saturday, and Skyy and Ember spent Sunday in Phoenix hunting down the correct ones.
She wasn’t even surprised this morning when Harv discovered a worn wheel bearing on the trailer. Fortunately, they were carried by the local parts store. Still, it had cost them a couple more hours on top of the three days. The town was like a glue that wouldn’t let them go.
As Skyy drove out of Gila Bend, she pictured dollar bills scattering in the trailer’s wake like so many leaves, with Harv, the motel owner, and the parts store clerk chasing after them, dancing happily as they snatched up the money.
After forty minutes driving, Skyy shifted in her seat and rolled her shoulders to loosen the knots. She’d been expecting another shoe—or two or three—to drop, for Murphy to show up with his law again. But everything was going smoothly.
“Stop!” Ember yelled.
Skyy stomped the brake pedal, wrestling the steering wheel as the trailer’s weight pushed the Cherokee’s rear back and forth. The Jeep tires slid in gravel on the apron of the freeway as she guided the car to a stop.
“What? Did I hit something?” Her heart hammered in her chest, and dust swirled past the windows, engulfing the car in a tan cloud. She checked her side mirror. Traffic was mercifully light, the nearest car a half-mile back. The trailer was still there and appeared to be level, so it hadn’t lost a wheel.
“Look!” Ember said, pointing out the passenger window.
Skyy leaned across the center console to follow the girl’s finger, expecting to spot an animal carcass lying in a pile of blood and bones. But Ember was pointing to a billboard fifty feet on the other side of a barbed wire fence.
World Famous Date Shakes. Next Exit.
Ember turned to Skyy, grinning, her eyes bright. “Let’s stop and get some.” She must have noticed Skyy’s expression, for her grin disappeared. “What?”
Skyy shook her head and collapsed back into her seat. A shadow darkened her side window and she jumped. A man dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans stood there for a moment, then motioned to roll down her window. As she lowered it, the side mirror revealed a big rig parked behind them, its emergency flashers pulsing.
“You ladies okay?” he asked, bending down and peering inside. “You were all over the road back there.” He had an Arizona Diamondbacks baseball cap on his head.
Skyy couldn’t help herself and started laughing. “I’m okay. But this one…” she pointed a finger at Ember “…I’m not so sure about.”
The man removed his cap and scratched his head.
Perhaps the hot weather caused the long line at the order counter, or maybe it was the shake’s popularity, because every vehicle traveling the Interstate seemed to pull into the parking lot.
It certainly wasn’t the discount pricing. Skyy checked her thinning wallet. She’d have to find an ATM soon.
The cost of the shakes consumed their entire lunch budget, but when the first taste slid down her tongue, Skyy had to admit, the wait and cost was worth it. “Whoa, that’s good.”
“I know, right?” Ember’s cheeks indented as she sucked the thick mixture through the straw.
Skyy didn’t want to know the calorie count, but the sugar content alone had them both in a near coma by the time they climbed back into the Jeep.
“I think I’m too dizzy to drive,” Skyy said, resting her head against the steering wheel. “My heart’s palpitating. It’s as bad as downing a grande margarita on an empty stomach.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Ember said, noisily vacuuming the bottom of her foam cup.
“I hope not.”
“Want me to drive?”
Skyy rolled her forehead on the steering wheel so she could see the girl. “You have a license?”
“Uh, not technically. But I know how to drive.”
“Someone taught you?”
Ember shook her head. “Video games at my last two foster homes. I totally killed everyone on Xbox.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Oh, come on. I can so do this. You’ve already had a shake for lunch instead of your usual heal
thy stuff. Take a risk.”
Risk. That’s what she’d done in the bar in Minneapolis eight months ago, where she’d gone to search for her brother. Vance had called and left a message asking for money. When she called the number back, a bartender answered the payphone.
She hadn’t been an airhead that night. She kept a hand on the drink that the friendly man on the next stool insisted on buying her. At least she thought so.
He was tall, well-shaped from regular workouts, and reasonably handsome. Introduced himself as Eric or Rick or Brick or Brock…or something. They danced to three or four songs—exactly what she needed after a stressful two days hunting for Vance.
He seemed like a nice guy—the man in the bar, not her brother. He coached soccer for his niece’s team and ate dinner at his parents’ house every Sunday. Yep, a nice guy.
Until things got fuzzy and then disappeared entirely.
Police told her that two women coming out of the restroom surprised the guy half dragging Skyy down the hall toward the rear exit. They called him out. He shoved Skyy toward them, then slammed through the door. She woke up in the E.R. hours later with a ripping headache, a missing handbag, and little memory of what happened.
The description the two women gave police matched a sketch of a guy who was a known offender. Seven women told a similar story. Three more women couldn’t tell their stories. They were dead.
Risk—and Eric/Rick or whoever—was dangerous. Which was why, as soon as she returned home from Minneapolis, she packed everything and hightailed it out of Biloxi, landing in Tucson with a new Arizona driver’s license, a new credit card and, hopefully, no perv following her from Minnesota.
She shivered at what she was doing now. Yeah, Canon Truax seemed like a nice guy, but what did she really know? Some guys probably were nice. Some definitely weren’t. How did you tell the difference? She couldn’t shake the feeling she was taking a risk she shouldn’t.