It wasn’t a bad life, but it wasn’t the greatest either.
That wasn’t the reason Jesse was having an off night. Sure, his mom had left only a year ago, saying Dad would have wet brain before too long.
No, Jesse had been trying to reunite with Kelly McIntire, paid a visit just a few hours ago, in fact, and it had not gone well. He’d done exactly what his father had done . . . or close to it. He’d called, demanding to talk to her. They’d had a little fight, a little tiff on Friday at school. Nothing that couldn’t be smoothed out with a few backseat kisses and some groping in the dark. He thought she’d been flirting with Curtis Fellows, who played defensive end for the Shepherd’s Grove Cherokees. Curtis had been leering at Kelly, and it had been Kelly who’d been taking care of herself just fine. She’d stuck up for Jesse, but he hadn’t known that, saying her boyfriend would come around soon enough if Curtis didn’t leave her alone. Jesse had gone up to him and cold-cocked the bastard right in the mouth, busting out two of his teeth. He still had a bandage from where the teeth had gashed his knuckles open. He’d stirred up, according to Kelly, the most humiliating scene of her life, yelling and screaming at the both of them, while Curtis was rolling around on the floor, spitting up blood. Her friends had gotten into it, making him feel even worse. She’d been fighting Curtis off and doing a good job, but it hadn’t looked that way to Jesse from a distance, and he’d taken it upon himself to rectify the situation.
He’d been suspended five days because of it. It had humiliated her. Then he’d tried to call a few hours ago and he’d yelled at her mother, making things worse. He’d stopped by to talk to her about ten o’clock that night, and her body language had said it all. There was no forgiveness there. She’d opened the door, and that was it. Jesse could see her mother standing in the background, giving him dirty looks. It had not been pretty. He’d only had a couple beers, but he wasn’t drunk, not like now. Kelly had looked at him, shaken her head, looked down at her mousy feet, not even looking him in the eye. He’d pounded on the door with his hand, then made her cry. She’d walked inside, shutting the door in his face. Her mother had come out seconds later, a tall woman, and told him quite forcefully, “I don’t want to see you around here ever again, Jesse. You got that? And if you give my daughter anymore trouble, you can deal with my husband.”
He said nothing, turned, walked off the porch with his slick black boots, and got into the Charger.
That had been the scene, which brought him to where he was: several beers into the evening, thinking and missing James Dean, listening to ’50’s and ’60’s rock and roll, while cruising the downtown streets in the pouring rain. He’d heard the weather reports earlier, the flash flood warnings, and he’d recently taken the Chippewa Bridge across the Miramac, which, from what he saw, had been a raging beast . . . much like the Charger.
But he had beer. He had the Charger, James Dean, the golden oldies, and all was right with the world. Right as rain, you could say. Like father like son, he supposed, not that it was his goal to end up like his dad, but still it was a good thing. He had all his favorite CDs, Dion and the Belmonts, singing “Teenager in Love,” and the alcohol moving through his bloodstream.
Jesse turned up the volume and pressed the pedal closer to the floor, listening to the beauty of the engine. The music was so loud, it made the entire framework of the car shake, rattle, and hum.
~
The rain seemed to be getting worse, if such a thing were possible, and as Miles drove, the radio squawked:
“Miles? . . . you copy? Every . . . ing all right out there?”
The static was coming and going.
Miles took a deep breath and clicked off the radio. Wally had been waiting for him, but time seemed to have shifted. He felt like he was moving through some gelatinous goop, all because of Boone.
Sure, he’d checked the Miramac. Everything was just fine, chief. No trouble at all.
The flood of 2016 was underway. The waters would seep into the farmlands, covering the roads, if they weren’t already. It would rise high into the downtown districts, and it would, at some point, cover the Junction 21 Turnpike.
The images came and went like lightning flashes: what he saw at the sanitarium, the blood, the bodies, the cold, vapid stares.
Miles, how come you’re not calling it in?
He didn’t know. Anymore than he understood why he was driving around looking for Boone and ignoring Wally, as though some dark force were manipulating his flesh.
When he reached for the radio, his hand paused through no choice of his own. It was the feelings he had for Boone. He didn’t understand it. He just knew it was the right thing to do. That did not make sense, but then again, nothing had made much sense since the night began. Everything would have to wait: Wally, the coroner, the people in the sanitarium. They would be fine on their own, because they, like him, were on a collision course with Boone.
And he had no idea where Boone had gone.
Or did he?
“Sure,” he said, and felt his crotch tighten.
“Boone, Boone, a troubled you man . . . killed your mother with your own two hands.”
He drove and thought about that.
Things would have to wait. Just a little while longer. That was all. He had some things to do. Because this was the biggest story for the Grove since . . .
Well . . . since Boone.
~
The Dodge Charger screamed down Main Street in the rain, tires squealing around the corners, music blaring. Inside, Jesse was another beer into it. He’d reached that stage where the alcohol enveloped his brain like a cool, peaceful blanket. It was moving through him with steady purpose, his eyes a tad heavy, but he was feeling fine. All his senses were clear, reflexes in check. What he should’ve done was get another six-pack because he was afraid the one he had wasn’t going to be enough.
The JBL speakers were rocking with The Crystals, “Be My Baby.” A great fucking song, if ever there was one. He’d been driving with enough RPMs and loud music that you couldn’t help put your foot on the gas a little more.
The local reports had mentioned staying off the roads, but in the downtown area of Shepherd’s Grove, all was well. A little wet and slippery, but nothing the midnight Charger couldn’t handle. The warning sirens from the police station had been going off as well, telling people to steer clear of the Miramac, and the storm seemed to be getting worse, but the wipers were brand new and on full blast. The streets were clean, empty, and filled with rain. The storm seemed to have stopped over this part of the valley and just circled, dropping water.
But this was good; it was his world, time away from the old man, from Kelly, not thinking about his mom, and letting the cool intoxication and the hum of the Charger do all his talking.
“MOTHERFUCKING JAMES DEAN!” he cried, holding tight to the wheel, not realizing in that moment, that he’d probably be James Dean if he weren’t careful. The way he was driving and the alcohol were all recipes for disaster, but he was in control (or so he told himself), and he was making it happen. He didn’t think about Kelly (that wasn’t entirely true) or anything like that. He was just letting the music, the speed of the car, and the beer take him to another place altogether. Some reckless abandon was good for the soul, especially when your mother walked out on both you and your dad, your girlfriend stabbed you in the back, and your father might as well be on Mars. Those were good things, fine things, things he could easily forget with the right amount of speed, alcohol, and music.
It wasn’t even midnight yet, and they still couldn’t predict the end of the storm. It could go on for days. Looking below to the west, and into the valley, he could see the waters of the Miramac, like a giant deepening pool.
The Charger was muscling along under its 400-hemi power. There were some dips, some pools in the road where the water gathered, and the Charger rocketed through, sending blasting sprays in both directions. It was better than the water ride at Disneyland, and he was the only one o
n the road, the only one brave enough.
“Or stupid enough,” he said, and grinned.
Hands on the wheel, beer at his crotch, Jesse kept his thoughts from all that had gone wrong tonight. All a man needed was time behind the wheel of his own car.
Was that a line from a movie?
But the more he tried not to think about her, the more he did: Kelly, her mother standing in the background . . . the door open.
Jesse picked up the beer, downed a good portion of it, and shook his head. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
What had she done? Stared at her shoes? Didn’t even look at him. The whole fiasco played itself out in his mind, and here he was trying to rid his brain of that very thing. If that didn’t call for another Rocky Mountain Lager, nothing did.
He reached over and grabbed the last beer rolling around on the floor. He popped the top, took a chug, and replaced the one he’d just emptied, tossing the can on the seat next to him. Down fast. That was the ticket. Get that beer moving through you.
He pressed his foot to the gas, driving in a 35mph zone, but doing 50 easily.
~
Boone enjoyed every minute of the rain. Despite the visual and audible assault to his senses, it was the only thing that gave him peace.
Lightning flashed, the drawn out rumble of heavy thunder. The squawk boxes over the houses mocked him as he traveled on. Mud squelched between his toes.
Boone stepped over small creek beds, which were no longer small, but like miniature, turbulent rivers. It felt like he was moving through a swampland.
Downtown was just ahead. He’d taken the Takamine Bridge to cross the Miramac, which was just behind him now at a steady roar.
Boone stepped through the marshy ground, around small hillocks, and waded through shallow ponds. He came to a fence made of stone, a house nearby. There was a stable, a pen. He could hear sheep bleating.
The real noises were coming from up ahead, the thump and heavy bass of loud music, a stereo making the metal framework of a vehicle vibrate.
Boone made it to a rise of earth, which ascended toward the highway, the Junction 21 Turnpike. The police station was just on the other side.
He climbed up the hill, slipping in the dirt and mud, but held tightly to the axe. He made it to the guardrail, lifted one leg over, until he was on the road, and headed north.
~
“Miles! Goddamnit! What the hell are you doing out there? Miles? Do you copy! Goddamn that sonofabitch!”
The heat rising up into Wally Manwaring’s throat and chest wasn’t doing his blood pressure any good. Miles going incognito wasn’t doing his blood pressure any good. He would have to call Reba. Sunny Side Up was open till one in the morning, and she’d still be there. She wouldn’t be happy about it, but this was an emergency, and that’s what she’d signed on for. He was missing a deputy, and now he’d have to call Remy as well. His little romantic escapade would have to wait for another day. The town wasn’t that big, and Miles shouldn’t be hard to find if he hadn’t gotten himself drowned in the Miramac.
This was turning into quite a mess. No doubt Old Hartford and Wheatridge were experiencing the same. He didn’t think they’d have officers to spare, so he didn’t bother calling. The phones were down at the hospital, but the landlines, as far as he could tell, were still working downtown. This God-forsaken storm wasn’t helping matters, either. If anything, it was getting worse. The parking lot was turning into a lake from what he could see out the front windows. According to the weather reports, the only thing to do was stay off the roads and stay indoors until the storm passed. Easy for them to say. He’d heard some kid dragging along Main Street in his muscle car, too, the dipshit.
The river worried him. If it wasn’t such a big bastard, it mightn’t have bothered him at all, but it was a deep, wide, and turbulent monster. The damn thing spooked him, always had, like some giant leviathan cutting through the Grove. He’d heard stories about people pulling catfish out of there six feet long. That wasn’t a fish. That was a shark. But if the storm continued at the rate it was going, it would spell disaster for the lower regions of the Grove. Even as Miles had been talking to him on the radio, Wally could’ve sworn he’d heard the damn bridge creaking in the background. That could have been his imagination, but still . . . it wasn’t something he wanted to deal with.
He’d called his wife earlier, telling her they had trouble at the station, and he might be out all night. He was glad they lived east of downtown, where the land was higher.
What bothered him, though, was that goddamn Miles. He was a good deputy, not careless, so even though Wally’s blood pressure was on the rise, he still hoped the little jockstrap was okay.
He keyed the radio again. “Miles? Miles, are you there? Copy, you wet-behind-the-ears, sonofabitch. I said, copy!”
But there was no reply.
~
James Dean had died on the road. It wasn’t what Jesse had set out to do, but he wondered: the booze, the speed, the slick rain. He needed a change in CDs as well.
He turned the volume down, managed to rifle through his case, the last beer still at his crotch. James Dean was speaking to The Kid, and what James wanted was some good old-fashioned oldies, golden oldies. He wanted to hear “The Wanderer,” by Del Shannon. He wanted to hear The Shirelles, and “Are you Lonely Tonight” by Elvis
The buzz was making him slightly giddy, and he was getting hungry for a big-ole double cheeseburger. There probably wasn’t a damn place open this late except for Sunny Side Up, but he didn’t want to go in there drunk.
He did manage to slow the car, taking the turn onto Gilmore Street (he wasn’t that far gone yet), and rifled through his CDs to get the mix he’d made on his computer, 60’s Oldies. He put it in the CD player, and the disk disappeared into the slot.
There was something about the feel in the air, despite the rain, the wet streets, that gave Jesse a deep sense of satisfaction. Everything was going to be okay. Everything was going to be fine. He knew that. Just he and the 426 engine cruising through the late hours like a wailing shadow. There was nothing finer than being behind the wheel of your own car, and again, he tried to think of what movie that was from, but couldn’t grasp it.
The song started, “You Really Got a Hold on Me.” Perfect. This was the night of nights, where he kissed everything and everyone goodbye and decided to go to heaven in his flat black Charger.
Jesse turned up the volume.
~
“Reba, I need you need to get down here right away and operate the switchboard in case Miles calls in. Can you do that?”
“Jesus, Wally, are you serious? I’ve been on my feet for eight hours. Isn’t Remy there?”
“No, Remy isn’t here, and I haven’t called him yet. And you’re just down the street. There’s some trouble with the phone lines. I can’t reach the hospital at all. I’ll call him when I get off the phone, but the storm is screwing with the radio reception. I might need him to help me find Miles. He hasn’t responded to my calls, and I’m afraid something might’ve happened to him.”
There was a heavy sigh on the other end.
“You know, volunteering for this kind of work, means you agreed to be here in case of an emergency.”
“I know, Wally. Jesus. I’m just tired and I wanted to get home and get some sleep.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“Yeah, sure. Give me about twenty minutes.”
“Thanks, Reba.”
“I’ll be the one in the baby blue pancake dress.”
“Wha—?” he started to say, but she’d hung up.
~
If Wally ever found out what he’d done, he’d probably cook him and eat him. First he’d let a murderer go, then he’d left the hospital with all those survivors to fend for themselves.
But Miles could now see things in his future, hear things, a trail, a pilgrimage where there was a light at the end of a very long dark tunnel.
He thought o
f going back to Boone’s house, because another urge was creeping up on him. There was something about the feel of the rain against his skin that reminded him of Boone.
But he resisted . . . at least for now.
Instead, he drove through the evening, the headlights cutting through the dark, the neighborhood quiet and still, and the waters of the Miramac slowly moving in.
~
The sounds had become like booming cannon balls, driving him closer to the source. It was all about extinguishing the source.
Boone was walking along the turnpike, when the little blue Volvo drove right by him. He didn’t think anything of it, just kept on walking.
~
The blue Volvo was Reba Mason’s. Little clicks and clanks sounded from under the hood. She’d taken it into Vandenburg’s Auto a week ago. Terrance had been kind and given her a good deal, but it had still cost quite a bit. She wondered if that was part of his technique: saying he was giving her a deal when he was really ripping her off.
Now wasn’t the time to be complaining, even if the car sounded like a bucket of rusty bolts, as her grandfather used to say.
Wally had her by the balls, or the bra and panties in his case, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Not that she cared. She was glad to help, but tonight had been one of those typical evenings at Sunny Side Up. You had the storm, which you’d think would make people want to stay at home (even when Wally announced it from just blocks away), but not in Shepherd’s Grove. Oh, no. And the people that came in had been the typical, high maintenance assholes that sent back a glass of water for having too much ice. Some were drunk. Some were teens, but all of them were loud, needy, and demanding. Some had stiffed her flat. Some had skipped out on the their bills. An all around swell evening, if ever there was one.
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