The Nightcrawler

by Mick Ridgewell

  Looking in either direction down Main Street, it isn’t the bowling alley, or the shops that catch your eye. Not the gas station or the high school. It is the clean tree-lined streets. Almost too clean, like they were actually on a Hollywood set and Gene Kelly was going to come dancing down the middle of the road any minute. There are no concrete light poles standing twenty feet above the road. These are the old-fashioned black iron light poles, the kind with the frosted white spheres on top.

  One block north or south of First, Main turns residential, with grand old houses from days gone by. No two alike on the full length of the street.

  On the corner of Main Street and Maple sits a stately Georgian two and a half story. It is a brown brick colonial with a row of windows on the second floor and a bay window on each side of the beautifully framed front entrance. The front yard is small and surrounded by a knee-high hedge, trimmed with geometric precision. In front a sign, “Shady Glenn B&B”. In the driveway next to the hedge, a red 69 Dodge Charger with Michigan plates dripped with dew left by a cool humid night.

  Scott Randall walked out onto the porch. He was dressed like a man on his way to the links. Tan shorts and a dark-blue shirt. He turned as the door squeaked open and a kindly looking woman, who Scott thought had to be a sister to Alice from the Brady Bunch stood in the opening. She wore her hair in a bun, a floral print dress that went just past her knees and a white apron.

  “Would you like to have breakfast in the gazebo, Mr. Randall?” she asked him.

  “Just a coffee and maybe a Danish if you have any.” He didn’t bother to look at her. His mind was on the road. He hoped to make up some time today.

  “Well, that’s no kind of breakfast. I’ll bring you some eggs and toast. You just come right in and sit down at the table and let Lizzie take care of things.”

  Scott turned to look at her now. He was smiling and thoughts of his grandmother trying to get him to eat breakfast came rushing through his head. Whenever he stayed at Gran’s she always tried to get him to eat. Have another sausage, Scottie, eat all your pasta, it will put hair on your chest, have some cake, Scottie, you’re too skinny. Lizzie stood holding the door open with a look that said, come in and eat, or you can’t go out to play with your friends. He went back inside and Lizzie followed.

  Scott didn’t have much time to read The Indianapolis Star that Lizzie had left on the table. She returned in minutes and put a plate with eggs, bacon and hash browns down in front of him. She left without a word and returned moments later with a pitcher of orange juice and four slices of toast.

  “I just started a fresh pot of coffee, Mr. Randall. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Well Lizzie, you can start by calling me Scott and I think I’ll pass on the coffee after all.”

  Lizzie went back into the kitchen and returned with a small mug in her hand. She put it down on the table opposite Scott and sat down. She sipped the coffee then asked, “So Mr. Ran…, I mean Scott. Do you plan on being in the area for a while?”

  Slightly amused by her questioning, Scott explained that he was passing through on his way back to LA. Being a true ambassador to her community, Lizzie tried to interest him in some local attractions. Forest Glenn Country Club, it was private she explained, but her nephew worked there and could get him a tee time. The wineries just about forty miles from Muncie were beautiful and she felt the Heritage Car Museum might interest him considering the old Dodge in her driveway.

  Scott finished eating while she gushed on about the local charm that was Forest Glenn. He had put his bag out on the front porch earlier and when he got a break in Lizzie’s sales pitch he stood, thanked her for the hospitality and walked to the front door. There was no hustle and bustle of daily life out on Main. The only sounds were birds, a barking dog in the distance and a lawn mower next door. He stepped out onto the porch, bid Lizzie goodbye, descended the steps and walked along a small garden path that crossed the front of the house leading to the driveway. Snapdragons and marigolds bordered each side of the walk. He passed through a small gap in the hedge, tossed his bag in the backseat, got into Thomas’ car, opened his road atlas and planned the day’s route.

  He wasn’t happy with the progress he had made yesterday. Now Sarah and Grace were just fond memories. He would make up a little time today, and tomorrow he would be in better shape. He closed the atlas and left it on the passenger seat. He would head toward Indianapolis then take I-70 across the heartland to Utah. He had been skiing there many times, but had never seen the mountains in the summer.

  Scott started the car and began to back out of the driveway. Lizzie remained on the porch, He looked back and gave her a wave. When his attention returned to driving, a man stood on the sidewalk directly behind the car. He jammed the brake pedal and stopped inches from the man’s legs.

  Scott looked up to see an emotionless grin on a face that haunted his mind. It was the bum from Detroit. It had to be, no two people could look that much alike. Scott’s breakfast began to churn in his stomach. He didn’t recognize the emotion he was experiencing. Was it fear, anger, anxiety? He had a strong urge to punch the accelerator and put the rank smelling fucker out of his misery.

  His fugue state was broken however by the sound of Lizzie’s voice. “Archie you old coot get the hell out of the way before you get killed.”

  Scott spun toward the porch and when he looked back the bum was gone and in his place stood Archie, a gangly white haired old man with blue denim overalls and a big straw hat. Archie waved Lizzie off with a swipe of his hand and walked on.

  Scott backed the car to the edge of the road, stopped and watched the senior gent saunter along. The Charger entered the roadway and headed in the same direction as old Archie. Scott drove slowly past glancing over at him, checking to make sure it wasn’t the bum. When he got alongside him, Archie looked into the car with a big yellow smirk, cocked his finger like a gun and pointed it at Scott just like the bum had yesterday. Thoroughly creeped out, Scott punched the gas pedal. With the smell of burning rubber and the sound of squealing tires, Archie was but a speck in the rearview.

  Heading through Forest Glenn, the red Charger slowed down only for stop signs and the solitary red light at First and Main. A slight squawk emanated from the rear tires each time it pulled away from a stop.

  Scott drove out of town taking little notice of the quaint architecture. His head was beginning to ache and the bright sun seemed to be drilling through his eyes to the center of his brain. It seemed that each car he passed had a grubby looking driver grinning at him with yellow teeth. They were all pointing their fingers and winking. He thought he could actually hear them making that fucking clicking sound. He wondered if it might be some kind of mid-west salutation, but he had been in this area several times and hadn’t noticed it before. He blamed the gesture for his pounding head. The damn gesture was a vice and each time he saw it the vice tightened another turn increasing the pressure between his ears. So, he didn’t pass any cars and didn’t let any pass him unless he couldn’t help it. If they did pass he stared straight ahead.

  Chapter Eleven

  By midmorning, Roger wished he had denied ever having ridden a horse. Sure, he and Ed had gone riding a couple of times, but only for an hour each time. Beth rousted him from the guest room at 6:00 am and had him in the saddle by 7:30. After three hours his ass was killing him.

  Not even the ache in his rear end however could dampen Roger’s awe at the vastness of the landscape. The bleakness of central Nebraska had turned quite stunning here. The trees, hills and outcropping rocks were things that together could inspire artists. He hadn’t seen a sign of human habitation in over an hour, not a power line, road, or even a fence post. Back in Vermont there was forest and wilderness, but this seemed endless.

  “Beth, don’t the people around here mind you riding through their property?”

  “I don’t know. I have never ridden off Daddy’s land.”

  “Man, your backyard must be as big as the state of
Vermont.”

  She shrugged, then without warning, kicked her heels into the side of her mount, and hollered, “YAAH.”

  The bay filly beneath her bolted, leaving Roger literally in the dust. He watched her ride off, her hair whipping out behind her. It occurred to him that if he lost her out here he might never find his way back. With a kick and a, “Yeehaw!” his black horse galloped after her. He knew he wasn’t catching up but at least he could still see her. No amount of urging got him closer, but at least he maintained his distance. He would rejoin her when she decided to let him. He knew it, and contented himself with the belief that she would indeed let him. In a few minutes she pulled her horse up and moments later Roger came to a stop beside her. Both horses were damp with sweat and beneath the reins lather streaked their necks. Their chests heaved and nostrils flared as they drew in much needed air.

  Beth made a great tour guide. She spoke with enthusiastic pride as she pointed out trees and rocks. She walked him through an archeological dig site. A group of students gathered artifacts the previous summer from what they believe was an Arapaho camp. He loved the sound of her voice and he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. At first, the riding was fun. Roger thought seeing the countryside from horseback could not be equaled, but by 11:00 am he was glad to see Beth climb down from her horse. Happily, he followed suit only to find his legs had gone to sleep. When he swung his right leg over to dismount, his numb left leg buckled and he fell to the ground. Beth burst into a fit of laughter as Roger tried in vain to salvage some dignity by not letting her know that he may be injured.

  “Is that how you Easterners get off a horse?” she said through her giggles.

  “Well, why climb down when gravity is perfectly capable of doing it for you?”

  Beth wrapped the reins of her horse around a tree branch, and then walked over to where Roger’s mount stood grazing. The big black horse trotted a few steps away after his rider fell to the ground at his hooves. Beth secured the second animal then plopped on the ground next to her fallen companion.

  “My legs went to sleep,” Roger said. His voice sounded a bit shaky and his heart rate was still a bit elevated from the fall. Add to that the pins and needles in his legs had begun, as the circulation returned to his lower extremities.

  “I guess I should have remembered, you’re not a cowboy,” she said through another wave of guffaws.

  He shoved her, a bit harder than he had intended causing her to tumble on her side but she continued to laugh. Roger joined in on the laughter, while rubbing and massaging his thighs.

  “How about some lunch, Vermont?”

  “Sounds great, can we get a pizza delivered?”

  Beth didn’t answer that question. She stood and extended a hand, “Can you walk yet?”

  He accepted the hand offered, not that he needed it, and stood.

  “I think I can manage.”

  “Then go get the saddle bag from your horse,” she said pointing.

  He managed, none too gracefully to his horse. Pulled at the saddlebag a couple of times, then noticed the straps. He undid the ties, flung the leather bag over his shoulder like he had seen in many a western. He turned back to Beth seated on a blanket in the shade of the tree where her horse was tethered.

  Roger joined her on the blanket, handing her the pack. She tossed him a bottle of water and a sandwich in a Ziploc bag. “I hope you’re not allergic to peanut butter.”

  Biting into his sandwich he said, “Mmmmm, Peevee thay.” Another round of giggles followed his peanut butter induced speech impediment.

  “Jiffy and Smucker’s, nothing but the best,” she replied.

  She pointed out a colony of prairie dogs, which they watched while they ate their picnic lunch. They even saw one take flight in the talons of a bald eagle. After lunch they walked around, Beth schooling him on the flora and fauna as they went. She showed him some elk, wild turkeys, and even a rattlesnake sunning itself on a rock.

  Roger was in heaven. He hadn’t even known this girl yesterday and today he couldn’t imagine not knowing her. Yet sadness came with that feeling. He had a mission. The canyon was his goal and he always followed through. Quitters never win and winners never quit. Roger Morris was no quitter. He would have to say goodbye soon. The canyon was waiting. He would not lose sight of the goal.

  To Roger it felt like they had traveled three hours in a straight line away from the ranch. If it took half the day to get out here, it would logically take half a day to get back. With the lunch break and the walk through the hills, he was sure it would be well past dark when they returned.

  “Should we be getting back soon?” he asked.

  “Sure, I like to have a swim after riding.”

  Together they shook the blanket clean and folded it. They packed the baggies and bottles in the saddlebags and Roger followed Beth in what he felt sure was the wrong direction, but to his surprise, an hour later they were back at the ranch.

  Chapter Twelve

  By late afternoon Scott was on I-70 just past St. Louis. His headache had subsided to a dull throb. With an empty stomach and nature calling, it was time for a pitstop. A sign displaying the symbols for food, lodging, restrooms and gas at exit 36 was all the invitation he needed to get off the highway. He hadn’t even noticed that he was on empty until he pulled into a Mobil station. He filled the tank and paid at the window.

  “You have a restroom I can use?”

  The clerk was watching a small TV and didn’t look up. He put a key attached to a long chain on the counter and pointed to the left side of the building. Bright blue doors with the men and women restroom symbols broke the dreariness of the solid cement block wall.

  Surveying the road Scott decided the Wendy’s across the street would fill the void that was his stomach. He could use the drive thru and wouldn’t have to interact with anybody shooting off their fingers.

  With heavy traffic it might have been a bit of a challenge crossing the road, but with the 440’s torque it wasn’t too much of a problem. At the menu board a crackling voice inquired, “Welcome to Wendy’s drive thru. Can I help you?”

  “I’ll have a Classic combo with a Coke, please.”

  “Would you like to make that a large for forty-nine cents, sir?”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  “$6.89. Please drive up to the first window.”

  A minute later a teenage boy handed him a cup of Coke the size of a child’s beach pail. Scott set the cup on the passenger seat and balanced it with his right hand. A much more cumbersome task than the pop cans he’d been used to up to this point. A few seconds later the lad returned and handed him a yellow bag.

  “Wendy’s Classic combo, large?”

  “Thanks” Scott said. He parked in the Wendy’s lot overlooking the road and took a drink from the bucket-o-Coke. He watched the traffic in silence while he ate his burger and fries. When he finished he carried the empty bag and other trash to the garbage can at the corner of the parking lot. It felt good to be on his feet. Scott decided to walk a while to get some blood back to his legs so he got his Coke from the car and walked in the opposite direction he had driven in from the highway.

  About a hundred yards from the corner the concrete sidewalk gave way to a paved shoulder. Scott was the lone pedestrian, which suited him fine. No people meant nobody making gun motions with their fingers. It also meant no smelly vagrants. He watched with some interest as two teenaged boys on a single bicycle passed him on the opposite side of the road. The bike looked much too small. The boy on the seat pedaled with great effort while the passenger stood on posts extending from the rear axel. He saw nothing unusual about these boys. It was a scene that could play out in every town across the nation but Scott watched them until they turned into a driveway and disappeared.

  Crosby Park was what had drawn the boys on the bike. With nothing else of interest within sight, Scott crossed the road. The main attraction in the park was a skateboard area. The cement ramps and hills captivat
ed at least a dozen kids doing their best to find a way to the emergency room. Scott leaned on the fence watching with some admiration as boys with bleeding knees and elbows, flipped and twisted, zipped and grinded with some degree of skill.

  “Higher, Mommy, go higher,” a small child’s voice called out.

  Scott looked to the source of the child’s plea to find a young woman pushing her son on a swing. The boy’s expression was joy, plain and simple. It would have been hard to imagine anything could thrill the child more than what he was doing right then. His mother seemed to share his fun until she noticed Scott watching. Her smile faded somewhat and Scott sent her an awkward smile before walking away.

  An hour had passed when he returned to his car. Maybe it was two hours he didn’t know for sure and didn’t really care. He felt better than he had since getting up from the table at Lizzie’s. He went back into Wendy’s to use the facilities. Picked up another Coke for the road and walked out to the car. The sun was getting quite low in the western sky. It would be dark in a couple of hours and he wanted to get a little more distance in before stopping for the night.

  Across the road next to the Mobil station, a large tractor-trailer pulled up and stopped. He waited for the rig to clear the intersection so he could proceed but it didn’t move. Scott grew impatient as he watched the truck but it remained parked and nobody got out. The sun reflected off the driver’s side window making it impossible to see the inside. The side of the trailer had an orange glow. He could hear a slight clanking of the diesel engine and a hue of blue exhaust rose from the stacks just above the top of the trailer. The traffic disappeared with the arrival of the truck, replaced with a freakish quiet.

  Curious, he squinted at the truck trying to get a view of the driver but his gaze couldn’t penetrate the glare. He began to feel an uneasy presence and convinced himself the source of the anxiety was inside that truck. He backed up parallel to the truck trying to get a better vantage, but the glare off the truck didn’t diminish.