Chasing the Dragon

by Nicholas Kaufmann

  And then, signs of life. Modest single and bi-level homes appeared alongside the road on patches of dry, brown grass. Cars passed her on the street, children played in yards until their parents called them in for dinner, streetlamps and door-side lanterns switched on as twilight turned to night, and Georgia felt like crying. She felt like throwing open the car door, hugging the nearest person and shouting, “You’re alive!”

  I’ve gone mad, she thought, completely off my rocker, but she couldn’t help grinning at the idea of scaring some bewildered townie with a random display of affection.

  The residential neighbourhood eventually gave way to a small downtown area with a movie theatre and little specialty shops lining the sidewalks. A tiny post office stood across from the theatre, the sign over its doors proudly proclaiming the town’s name to be Buckshot Hill. It struck her as an odd choice, considering it was built on some of the flattest land she’d ever seen, but she couldn’t deny the name had a certain Wild West charm to it.

  Downtown Buckshot Hill was teeming with life. She drove slowly, watching people navigate the sidewalks and get in and out of their cars. Locals out for a carefree night of going to the movies, of pie and coffee, and then it would be home and early to bed, kiss the kids and turn off the light. They didn’t know how close the Dragon had come to their little town. How close they’d been to death. How could they? Most of them probably wouldn’t hear about the massacre at the diner until tomorrow morning’s news, and even then they wouldn’t know the truth behind the headline.

  The Dragon was her burden and hers alone. She couldn’t tell anyone. They’d gape at her like she’d put a cat on her head and proclaimed herself Queen Elizabeth. She’d seen the look before. It had been all over Drew’s face the day he walked out on her.

  She tried to push Drew from her thoughts, but the scenery wasn’t helping. Young couples were everywhere, holding hands while they dashed across the street in front of her, sitting close together at umbrella-topped tables outside the ice cream parlour. Girls looked adoringly into the faces of their high school sweethearts, tossed their freshly brushed and styled hair while their boyfriends pulled colourful varsity jackets around their broad shoulders. Georgia frowned, bit her lip. Drew had owned a similar varsity jacket when they met in college. He told her it belonged to his brother, a high school football star, and that he himself only wore it with a sense of irony, so he’d always remember football stars made more money than philosophy majors. He said it would keep him humble when he eventually won the Nobel. She’d laughed at that, and looking back, she was pretty sure that was the moment she’d stupidly fallen in love with a dorky philosophy major from Topeka with a girlfriend waiting for him back home.

  But she’d been nineteen, full of wisdom and certain she knew everything there was to know. She thought she could hang out with him all semester and keep her feelings at bay. But the night they went together to see an excruciating Drama Department production of Guys and Dolls, everything changed. It felt like a lifetime ago . . .

  They walked out of the campus theatre trying to keep their laughter inside until they got far enough away, but it didn’t work. Drew broke first, laughing so hard Georgia thought he was going to cry, and then that made her laugh too. When they caught their breath, she reached out without even knowing why and touched his varsity jacket. She ran a hand over it like it was the finest silk, gripped the hem at his waist and gave it a playful tug. Drew turned, and the next thing she knew, her back was against the wall and Drew was kissing her.

  “I hope that was okay,” he said, “because I’ve kind of been wanting to do that for a while. In fact, I kind of want to do it again. A lot. Is that weird?”

  “I . . . what . . .” Georgia tried to focus her thoughts. “You have a girlfriend.”

  Drew leaned close again, propping himself against the wall with one hand. “Not anymore. It wasn’t her I wanted to be with. It was you. Right from the start. There’s something different about you. I felt it the moment I met you. I don’t know what it is, but sometimes I see you across the quad or in class and it’s like you’re . . . glowing. You’re all I can think about, George.” George was his nickname for her. She didn’t particularly like it because George was also her father’s name, but suddenly it sounded kind of cute the way he said it. “I know this is weird and sudden and crazy, and I wouldn’t blame you at all if you never wanted to talk to me again after springing this on you.”

  Drew’s face was right in front of hers, the tip of his nose touching her cheek, his breath warm across her lips. Their faces were so perfectly aligned that Georgia wasn’t sure exactly when they’d begun kissing again, or who’d started it this time, or if it even mattered. She thought it was the most perfect night ever created. A night that had come into being only so this kiss, too, could come into being.

  Sitting in her car, watching the kids shout and roughhouse and make out on the sidewalks, Georgia remembered that kiss, remembered a passerby telling them to get a room, and they had, eventually deciding to live together the first year after graduation. But then her parents —

  She swallowed hard, pushed away the image of what the Dragon had done to her mother and father.

  After that, everything went to hell. Suddenly it was her turn to take up the hunt. The legacy of her forefathers. She had to quit her job at the graphic design firm. She couldn’t tell Drew why she’d quit, where she kept disappearing to, or why she would come back sometimes wide-eyed and shaking. He accused her of doing drugs, threatened to leave, and so she told him the truth. She thought he’d believe her the way her mother had believed her father, so she told him about the Dragon and about who she was and who her ancestors were, and he’d gaped at her like she was the cat-crowned Queen Elizabeth . . .

  “You need help, Georgia,” he said. Georgia, not George. Drew shook his head. He looked sad, defeated.

  “I can’t. This is something I have to do alone. It’s too dangerous for — ”

  “No,” Drew interrupted. “I mean you need help.” And he’d walked out. She never saw him again, only received a terse letter from Topeka telling her to box up his things because a moving company was coming for them.

  Orphaned, jobless, alone — there’d been nothing left for her but the chase, and the vast, insurmountable loneliness of knowing she could never share her life with anyone. The Dragon had done that to her. Destroyed her life. Taken away everything that mattered.

  Lost in her thoughts, Georgia almost missed the red light at the intersection in front of her. She slammed on the brakes. A young couple had just stepped out into the crosswalk, and when Georgia’s car screeched to a halt, the girl sneered at her and the boy flipped her the finger. Charming. A continuous parade of happy young couples passed in front of her, each seemingly happier than the last. Georgia turned away, annoyed, and spotted a man in stained, shabby clothes sitting on the sidewalk beside an ATM vestibule. His hair was long and stringy, a knotted beard drooped off his jaw, and he shook a Dunkin Donuts coffee cup whenever someone walked by. Most kept moving, but a few dropped change into the cup.

  The hobo looked in his cup, counting his take. Then he stood up, scrawny in his oversized clothes, and started walking. Georgia recognized the way his body trembled and shook with each step. The junkie dance. She turned back to the steering wheel just in time to see another young couple staring at her from the curb. Above the crosswalk, the light had turned green.

  “Hey, dipshit,” the boy called. “You forget how to drive?”

  Georgia stepped on the gas and pulled away just as the girl shouted, “Stupid bitch!”

  These were the people she risked her life to protect? You’re welcome, she thought bitterly, then immediately felt guilty. It wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know.

  She needed some rest, that was all. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept. Little Rock maybe, or Wichita Falls. It was hard to tell. One place was the same as any other when all you did was blow through on the Dragon’s trail and hop
e this wouldn’t be the place you died. But after the fight at the diner, what she wanted more than anything was a long hot shower, a nice meal and a comfortable bed. Unfortunately, she would have to make do with a vending machine and a cheap motel with a rock-hard mattress and sandpaper sheets, as usual. At least they usually had showers.

  She found a motel on the far side of town, the Buckshot Motor Inn according to the rotating neon sign, though the placard on the office door said BUCKSHOT MOTORIN’. The office was a small room with a pickup truck calendar thumbtacked to the wall, a mostly empty spinning rack of brochures for local tourist attractions, and an empty aquarium that bubbled and churned despite the lack of fish. A boy who couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old sat behind the counter, watching a small TV. The boy’s face still bore the ravages of teenage acne, his brown hair oily and uncombed. On the TV, a man with a thick moustache and black hat called someone in a saloon a “cocksucker” and pulled a knife. The boy looked up at Georgia and grinned sheepishly, revealing metal braces wired across his teeth.

  “Didn’t hear you come in,” he said, turning down the volume. “My dad doesn’t let me watch this show normally, on account of all the swearing and ti . . . uh, nudity, but whenever I get the chance while he’s out . . .” He shrugged. “Anyway, what can I do for you, miss? You looking for a room? Guess you must be. No one comes here just to hang out, right?” He smiled again, then closed his mouth quickly, as if suddenly embarrassed by his braces.

  “I guess they don’t,” Georgia said. “I need a room for one night, maybe two. Something with a hot shower and privacy.”

  “No problem,” the boy said. He stood up and walked over to a row of keys hanging on pegs. “All the rooms got hot water, and they all got curtains and locks so no one disturbs you. You, uh, here with someone?” The acne on his cheeks disappeared in a deep blush. “Sorry, I just mean . . .” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Focus, Wilbur. Do it like Dad taught you.” He opened his eyes again. “Single occupancy or double?”

  “Single,” Georgia said, trying not to laugh. It was hard keeping it inside. She hadn’t laughed in a long time. “Any bags?”

  “One in the car. I can handle it.”

  Wilbur took a key off its peg and returned to the counter.

  “That’s thirty-five a night, including tax, and we need the first night’s up front,” he said. Georgia handed him two twenties still greasy from the diner’s cash register. He handed her a five in return and asked her to sign the guest ledger. When she was done, he swung the ledger around to look at her name. “Georgia, huh? Like the state. You from there?” She shook her head. “No, I guess no one from Georgia would be named Georgia. It would just sound silly, wouldn’t it? Like, ‘I’m Georgia from Georgia,’ you know?” He handed her the key, his face burning red with the realization that he was babbling again. “I can show you to your room if you want.”

  “I can manage. You don’t want to miss the rest of your show.”

  Wilbur nodded. “All right. Room nineteen, like it says on the key chain. Just hit zero on the phone if you need anything. It’s just me tonight, but I can, you know,” he shrugged, “whatever.” He grinned, keeping his lips together this time, but he seemed a little deflated. Poor kid, she thought. She could tell he liked her, even if she had a good decade on him. She could also tell he was shy around girls. She felt bad for him and threw him a smile as she walked out of the office, but he was already engrossed in his TV show again.

  She found her room nearly all the way down the long porch from the office. The door had the metal numerals 1 and 9 bolted to the wood, but the 1 was chipped in half and looked more like an apostrophe. She dragged her suitcase into the pitch-black room and switched on the bedside lamp. The bulb flared, flickered and went out. She tapped it lightly, and it flickered again before blowing out for good. Georgia sighed. Sometimes it seemed like the whole world was falling apart around her.

  The lamp on the other side of the bed worked, though, and in its light she saw a motel room depressingly similar to every other one she’d stayed at. There was the usual double bed with a floral bedspread way too chipper for the run-down surroundings, a TV whose rabbit ears probably wouldn’t pick up anything but static, a dresser with a single drawer and, in the rear, a bathroom whose toilet was so close to the shower stall she wasn’t sure she’d be able to sit without banging her knees. But the water was hot and the pressure was good, and as she stood under the shower nozzle and let the spray run through her hair and down her back, she reached for that elusive blanket peace again. She let her mind go blank so that there was only the hot water and the pores of her skin opening like receptive flowers. She tried to imagine what her life would be like if there were no Dragon, if she were just a normal girl sitting outside an ice cream shop and holding someone’s hand without a care in the world.

  The fantasy didn’t last long. As soon she stepped out of the shower and wiped the steam off the mirror, her reflection was there to remind her of the truth. She’d grown thinner. Too thin, her mother would say if she were still alive, and she would be right. Georgia thought she looked as bony as something out of the dinosaur wing of a museum. She could count her ribs through her skin. Her chest, never that big to begin with, now looked positively boyish. Worst of all was the ugly gash in her left hip. She twisted around to get a closer look, touching the skin around it where the rosy pink was tinged with grey.

  The Dragon had taken a chunk out of her months ago, the last time they’d met. Mauled her and, for reasons Georgia still didn’t understand, ran off instead of finishing the job. She stared at the scar. It had already healed over, no longer the red gaping maw it once had been, but the ragged concavity in her side repulsed and frightened her each time she saw it. She bit back the tears welling in her eyes. The life she’d been born to had already taken whatever hope she had for happiness, cut away everything she’d loved and left her with nothing but the Dragon. Sometimes she wished she had died that day. Then she could have blanket peace forever.

  Georgia tied her hair back in a ponytail, put on a t-shirt and sweat shorts, and left the motel room. Outside, the temperature had dropped and the air felt dry and cool. Two vending machines stood on the porch just outside her room, one selling candy bars and bags of nuts, the other selling Coke and bottled water. She bought herself a big bag of cashews and was dropping coins in the second machine for a can of Diet Coke when the door to the adjacent room opened. A pudgy, middle-aged man in a dress shirt and slacks stepped out. A moustache brushed his upper lip, and a ring of tightly curled black hair circled a bald pate the colour of dark chocolate. He closed the door behind him gently and tugged at the open collar of his shirt as if he was used to loosening a tie that wasn’t there now. He pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket, then turned to her and gasped.

  “Oh, Lord,” he said, stepping back with a chuckle. “I didn’t see you there, girl. You gave me quite a start.”

  “Sorry,” Georgia said. She pulled the Diet Coke out of the tray at the bottom of the vending machine, popped open the can and, suddenly aware of how thirsty she was, drained half of it in a single go. Her throat complained, still sore from the meat puppet’s grasp, but she didn’t care. It felt good to drink something. It felt normal.

  The man stuck out his hand and said, “Marcus Townsend.”

  She shook it. “Georgia Quincey.”

  Marcus nodded, lit his cigarette and gazed at the stars twinkling just above the forest across the street. “Bad night,” he said. “Did you hear the news? Terrible.”

  “Hear what?” Georgia’s empty stomach rumbled. She tore open the bag of cashews and popped a handful into her mouth.

  “It’s all over the news tonight. Something went down at a diner a few miles outside town, back toward the Interstate. The place was robbed, but whoever did it were a bunch of maniacs. A lot of people are dead. Must have been a whole gang of ’em with shotguns and, I don’t know, machetes by the sound of it. It was a bloodbath. Must�
�ve been on a real rampage because they said even the building was so damaged it was falling apart when the police got there.” He shook his head, still staring off into the distance, and muttered, “White people.” Then he turned to her and smiled. “No offense. I’m just saying. We don’t get this kind of crazy in Detroit. I hope the cops catch the sons of bitches that did it.”

  They won’t, Georgia thought. They wouldn’t even know where to start looking. The Dragon kept to the shadows and avoided major population areas. She struck too infrequently, and rarely twice in the same vicinity, to develop a clear MO the authorities could work from. In fact, after Georgia collected her shells, the only solid constants at each scene were her own tire tracks, and it was only by the grace of jurisdictional rivalry and good old-fashioned bureaucratic incompetence that no one had pieced it together yet and put out an APB on her car. Still, her luck had to run out sooner or later. Someone would connect the dots, and then there would be questions, accusations, explanations the police would never believe. And all the while, the Dragon would keep killing.

  She shook the thought from her head and figured it was time to change the subject. “What brings you to New Mexico?”

  “Business,” Marcus said. He sucked on his cigarette and blew smoke up over his head. “I’m in textiles. Artificial fibres, mostly. Polyester, acrylic. I’m heading out to Albuquerque, go there every year for the trade shows, but I brought my boy with me this time ’round. He’s old enough now that I thought I’d make a vacation out of it, show him some of the country so he doesn’t think it’s all high rises and housing projects, you know?” He looked back at the door to his room. “He’s sleeping now. Tomorrow we’re going to see a rodeo or some shit.” He chuckled softly. “What about you?”

  “Business,” she said, nodding.

  He looked her up and down and arched an eyebrow. “Business? You’re too young to be going on business trips, girl. What are you, right out of college? Hell, you should be living in a loft in New York with eight other kids trying to figure out what to do with your life, not travelling all over the damn place on business. That’s not what being young’s about.” She didn’t say anything, and Marcus looked away. He nodded at her car parked in the spot before her door. “That yours?”