Decline and Fall of Alternative Civilization

by G S Oldman

  ~ ~ ~

  The fuck of mirrors and depression:

  Semi-perfect retaliation would always be better than perfection.

  She and June had no real band to speak of, so why the hell did anyone outside of their circle of jerks and jollies have to know that when there was Reality! Virtual! Computers! and who's to know otherwise? And fuck them if they can't take a joke. Too many things in life were jokes enough already, and so many jobs she had done for aspiring and established bands left her wondering what the goddam hell? Joke? A record collector geek she knew pointed out how a band from the previous decade had etched "Life is a travesty; more than an old joke" in the runout grooves of their classic vinyl album. That was enough for her.

  In a strictly business sense, an artist needed a good media buzz or a manager/agent with influence (or good drugs). Their non-band had neither of these. They had Dedra and that was plenty. Let Batman and Batwoman save the day; let Boris Yeltsin save the other Republic for which it stands; let Ronald Reagan and George Bush save the free world from the other communists and desert dictators; let Madonna save sex and hedonism for which it falls, no matter whose bed it falls on; and let Bono save Jesus an All-Access laminate; but let Dedra Save, Save As?, Multiple Paste, split the Pantone pie, and Save Again the typefaces and images that steam up from inspiration itself. To prove that the pen was mightier than the sword, she was mightier than the adage itself. A wise writer once amended the adage by proposing: "Though the pen is mightier than the sword, the sword speaks louder and stronger at any given moment." But her mouse could roar more loudly still. And at that given moment, though Daniel Webster had beaten the devil by the sheer eloquence of his spoken word, victory would have been his by a single brochure had he Dedra as an ally.

  For months they tried to give the non-existing band a name for the hell of having some kind of identity but none of the crappy names they concocted were worth remembering until, whilst commiserating on one day's work struggle, Junie insisted, "I swear I heard her say 'my brain wasn't small enough so I decided to pierce my eyebrow.' Then she ordered a short stack of pancakes and 'could we have four plates with that, please?' One of Saturn's real winners at a faux toppa just for me."

  "Did they tip?" Dedra asked.

  "Oh, puh-leeze. Zombies have more brains."

  "And what did you call?a foe what?"

  "Faux toppa?"

  "Yeah. How do you spell that?"

  "Faux? f-a-u-x."

  "Oh, faux. I get it."

  "Uh huh." June heated leftovers.

  Feeling her own pancake flipping, Dedra lit up like a Fourth of July pinwheel. "Whoa. Faux Toppa. That's totally damn cool!"

  "Faux toppas are never cool."

  "Wow! No, it's totally cool beans!"

  "Faux?"

  "Faux Toppa. That's us. Let's call ourselves that!"

  "Omigod." June yelped. The microwave dinged. "You're right. With forks you get genius."

  "With spoons you get Junes."

  "And"-high five-ing-"a half-dozen cartoons!"

  Ecstatic, the little blonde had the motivation she needed. In a couple of weeks, a full, albeit bogus, press kit of Faux Toppa was sent first class mail to the offices of South by Southwest (aka SXSW)-the 1994 edition of the lauded music and media festival was coming up. With it went a fully mixed demo tape featuring her vocal cords fronting a band that didn't exist. No one knew other than Dedra and the friend who had a basement recording studio where languished the incomplete multi-track tapes of a few defunct local bands who either were unable to pay their bills or had simply disbanded during the recording process. Her friend was a musician and engineer who appreciated an uncommon challenge. They traded for some graphic artwork he needed. She sang her band's songs to him the best she could, he sat and figured out chord changes and rhythms, and with some clever cut-and-paste editing, and redoing a few guitar and bass tracks?voil?. A reasonable facsimile of Faux Toppa.

  Bravo. A farce was born.

  When the letter arrived confirming the band's acceptance and the festival's desire to feature them as an indie act they declared "worthy of notice," the fat lady cleared her throat. Seattle Mystique was running rampant. They weren't exactly being offered the moon, but a good seat on the space shuttle might be fun. Dedra's digital prank had backfired magnificently and it was all the music world cared about in the early '90s. What did real credentials matter if the virtual and Internet world were busy buzzing about the latest buzz? Like the childhood days of throwing hands above her head on the first dive from the summit of the roller coaster, life again had audacity. But how to explain to her best friend who was dead serious about playing music and would die for the chance to get on that stage with no excuses, no pretense, just the guts to do it?

  When confronted about the situation, Big J gave Little D a hard, steely glare. She walked to the living room, fell into the comfy chair, a dark cloud filled the space and her fingertips tapped out a telegraph of dejection. The little blonde felt very, very small. It took minutes, but she followed and entered the room at a distance.

  "June?"

  No answer.

  "June? Are you angry with me?"

  No answer.

  "I don't know what you're thinking. Please say something."

  "We don't have a band."

  "But?uh?"

  "No, De, we don't have anything even resembling a band. Why did you do that?"

  "Oh, gee." Advancing to the couch she sat and raked her hair back with fingers that pulled tightly against her skull. "June, you can kill me if you want but?gee whiz?"

  "Gee whiz what?"

  "I couldn't help myself."

  "But why?"

  "I needed to do something."

  "But why that?"

  "Because I am so sick of all the stuff I have to do at my job that makes no sense other than the big paycheck I get. It was just an idea."

  "Just an idea," June burlesqued.

  "OK, it was a JOKE. I did it as a JOKE. Just because I could do it and see what the hell would happen. OK?"

  "You little whore."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm a whore. I'm a class-A whore. And all I did was something I could do. I'm good at it, too." She jumped up and marched around the room. "Do you understand? It's something I'm good at. I'm damn good at it. And for once I'm gonna goddam defend that whether you or anyone likes it OR NOT!"

  June stood up. "But why did you do THAT?"

  "Because?I COULD!"

  "But?but?oh, god." She fell back into the cushions, speechless, limp, laughing.

  "June, I?uh?" Dedra stopped marching and faced into the far corner. She threw her head back after few a seconds, trying to suppress the growing sense of merriment.

  "You sure know how to fuck things up, don't you," said June.

  "Yeah, I sure do, don't I."

  The girls held their heads and accepted the fucked-up, good-luck charm of things.

  "I didn't mean any of this personally, y'know. But?"

  "OK, stop," said June, "This is fucked up but I'm sure you didn't." She stood momentarily, then sat down. "But you know how I feel about these things."

  "Yeah, I do." Dedra sat on the couch. "Look, I'm sorry if I?"

  "Shut up, De. We need to figure this shit out."

  "Huh? What do you mean?"

  "Hell, I don't know what I mean."

  "Oh, gee. I don't even know where to begin."

  June threw up her hands, laughing again. "No matter what, we will not even think of approaching Wendell about this."

  "Wendell? Oh, hell no!"

  "And not any of the other bozos we played with."

  "Nnnnuh uh."

  "But damn, Dedra. Seriously. Is there any way we can pull this off?"

  "You're asking me?"

  "Uh huh."

  "Gee, I don't know. I know this is my fault but?I don't know. Is that what you wanna do?"

  "Uhhhhh, could we?" June froze. "How long
do we have to give 'em an answer?"

  "But who do we?" Dedra ran to her room and broke out the whiskey. It would be a long night of figuring out a game plan. Bryan was always there when the chips were down, right? And June still had Prez's phone number?right?

  The next day they soberly called both gentlemen with a proposition. The roulette wheel was spun. Neither refused at first, they both needed to sleep on it. Two days later the roulette ball wagered that Prez could put together a touring van. He was working as a full-fledged Mr. Goodwrench mechanic and convinced he could bring it in for under any reasonable budget. Dedra's flexible finances were ready to commit to the flighty venture. Bryan, as gloomy fate would have it, faced the prospect of his current bands falling apart. He was game so long as it took no money on his part. He had none, anyway.

  Touch?.

  SXSW had established itself as a friendly, approachable music conference. Held mid-March in Austin, TX since 1987, the city seemed to live up to its enviable reputation as the "Live Music Capital of the World." Media reports painted a laid-back college town with a long-standing music tradition: Janis Joplin slept there; Jimmie Rodgers passed through there; Willie Nelson got stoned and arrested there; Townes Van Zandt got thrown out of most bars there; Roky Erickson lost his mind there. Outlaw country and cosmic cowboys notwithstanding, it spawned some of the best bands of the early '80s punk era-Big Boys, The Dicks, Poison 13, Scratch Acid, Butthole Surfers. In 1988 the county carried a Democrat in the national election while the rest of Texas was in the Bush league. It was enough to recommend the town as a place where musicians or other commie liberals might want to spend a few days.

  Hype? They could find out firsthand if Faux Toppa was a functional band. A SXSW showcase was not exactly a gig. A showcase was nothing more than what it said. In the world of music conferences there were no gigs, only career opportunities to be seen and heard by other career opportunists trying to be seen and heard. It wasn't much, but a band could get out of their hometown and on the road to drinking some different kind of beer than their usual fare.

  Fingers crossed, wood knocked on, June resisted doing or saying anything to release the Jinxes. Bryan was an inspiration-the struggling, underemployed musician who didn't let life's trials and insults affect him too much. He was dependably flaky, a guy who would always be ready with dry towels, blankets and hot toddies on a night of foolish mud activity, and he bought the household some econo packs of toilet paper. Prez proved more and more reliable-a man of his word-and he was a damn good drummer. Wow. Two decent men in the band (with whom the girls were not romantically linked) artistically stabilized things.

  Oh, deep, deep breath.

  Bryan attacked the job with relish. Surprised by his friends' songwriting abilities, he assumed the great role of dissecting words and notes, arranging and soothing, then kicking them in their lovely behinds to make them rehearse, rehearse, rehearse their songs. Not exactly Professor Henry Higgins but he was close enough for trash. Mr. Morales enthusiastically worked his magic. A Chevy man from way back, he had owned and wrenched many bowtie sleds and thoroughly knew the GM parts and interchangeability hierarchies. The fourth Toppa, he promised Dedra, "This will be a snap, my little gringa." They made a deal where at the end of the adventure he could possibly keep the van.

  June fought to conceal her optimism since the SXSW gambit was the most optimistic scenario in a long, long time. The infantrywoman held her ground and doggedly fought trench wars against indecision, messy high-chair occupants, crappy tippers, snarly cooks, the world at large. At the coffeehouse she was a latter-day Yossarian in a battle of wits with the Starbucks-weaned Luftwaffe of coffee hipsters wont to drop the most complicated drink orders in the world. This with extra that. That with extra this. This and that with extra other but definitely no not. Can you make it non-vairy degan with a shpritz of chai-cheeky chambalaya kaw-liga?

  STOP!

  Jesus Fuckin Chrysanthemum.

  And there were no more beatniks, just beatoffs.

  LOGJAM!

  A job was a job and if you were paid to lie to liars, so be it. You might as well lie to yourself because you're being paid to, and odds are you're doing a much better job than the customers who are bandying their lies for free.

  GRIDLOCK!

  Then there was the double latte, the most popular drink, the coffee drinker's equivalent to the Jack & Coke. June called it the Caff-22, the brew of virtual proportions. It could be anything the drinker wanted to believe it was. And it was mild.

  SMOKESCREEN!

  A speed that rains from the sky, dropped from a B-25 rupturing past the ducks in formation, 30 seconds over SeaTackyo. Beans, away! And the customers didn't get it. Oh boy. You could make whatever you wanted of it. A professional caffeine slinger, she could be forgiven her ludicrinations-they served to baffle those bereft of bafflement. But there were no beatniks and she could conjure any names for these drinks she wanted, and that was the Caff: Caff-22. It usually sold in pairs.

  TAILGUNNER!

  The parting shot: In order to get to the basis of a lie, one must understand truth; in order to understand truth, one must know how to lie. A steaming precedent that flew over many dark oceans of thoughts as liquid as they were vague. The customers had no idea what Caff-22 meant or that it even referred to an idea.

  CROWBAR!

  Comfort laid in the idea that milky ways of worldliness moved some consumers to think, and maybe she represented a stubborn lifeline back to coffeehouses where humans lined up difficult bank shots in their brains not knowing if their English would send the ball to the corner or side pocket, or result in a scratch, but were willing to find out. Where were those humans who pondered on the faintest of stars and, overcome by its twinkle, snapped fingers, lit a cigarette, scribbled a word to an idea that was far too big to be put on paper?

  HUBBA HUBBA!

  And then there was that day:

  The day Dedra dropped in on a lunch break to get away from those damn monitors and report that Prez and Bryan had found a van. June hardly heard a word. The graphics expert had scored big time. A thrift shop coup, never had a vintage Girl Scout uniform been so eye-poppingly provocative. VaVaVaVaVoom! Somewhere Boy Scouts were feverishly tying knots and trying to start fires. After the requisite verbal blushings June gritted her teeth in scorn. "The goddam fuckin' latte. Beatoff drink of the century. It stinks."

  "Sounds like you've got an axe to grind."

  "I've got axes and beans to grind. But seriously. The latte is so goddam stupid."

  "Why?"

  "Cuz it's coffee for people who were raised on sugary cereal. On fruity loops and frosty flakes." She waved hands and twiddled fingers. "Mommy, will you fix me some warm milk? I'm scared! Where's Daddy?"

  "No."

  "Yeah. For people whose mommies never breast-fed them."

  "Oh my gosh. Did your mom breast-feed you?"

  "Geeezzz, I hope not." She dummyslapped herself.

  "June, uh?do you ever get along with your mom?"

  "Uh??that's a loaded question, y'know."

  "Yeah, I know. Hope ya don't mind me bringing it up."

  "No, it's OK." June sidestepped, reaching for ceramic cups. "Yeah. I guess we get along as long as we don't speak. Or have anything to do with each other."

  "You hate her, then."

  "No, I don't hate her."

  "But do you love her?"

  "No. How can I after? There's too much?"

  "That's so sad." Dedra feigned adjusting the new bifocals, her thumb and forefinger pressing against her eyelids.

  "Yeah." June shook her head. "Yeah, it is. If only someday?maybe something?I could find the strength to forgive her." Leaning against the counter, she gazed straight ahead. "You love your mom, don't you?"

  Wiping the new lenses clean with a napkin, the little Girl Scout twitched and said, "Oh, June, you have no idea."

  Wanting to be a sympathetic Boy Scout, the Big J adjusted her own o
wlish glasses. "You have no idea how lucky you are."

  "Yeah, but I miss her so much."

  "I bet you do."

  Customers prattled through the front door. De fiercely returned the spectacles to her face. "I'd give anything to have her back. She didn't need to die like that, goddamit."

  Bracing for the flurry of dipshit coffee orders, June snapped to. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to? Look, we don't have any lollipops, but how about a big cookie? Would a big cookie cheer you up? Make it better?"

  "How 'bout a double latte with lotsa sugar?"

  "Will you get the hell outta here, ya little twit!"

  XI

  "Finally, in conclusion, let me just say this."

  -Peter Sellers

  Human kindness can drag legs along the same parade routes as the solemn processions of human sorrow. One muted trumpet, a tuba and a drum, and it's hard to know whether the march of life follows the trail of dead or if they follow the tin cans kicked by children who only know that this is just another day. There are thanksgivings and remembrances and balloons tethered and trying to escape to heaven only to melt back unto the earth losing air, unable to breathe, losing anima. Oh, human kindness, where is the tin can in a street full of strangers?

  Impatient fools do not understand the meaning of meaninglessness. Birds roasting on an oven fire and lights burning on trees should be enough to gladden the soul in the dark months of Winter. But, no?clergies insist on salvation and worship to the detriment of compassion and survival. As ancient christians co-opted ancient pagans in terms of the solstice, so can modern pagans co-opt modern christians. Then they hope-once the gift giving is done-all things will come out in the $piritual wa$h down by the riverside where imps and orbs unload the picnic baskets of a movable feast.

  In the beginning of December there was rain. When the rain let up, rivers paraded past forests of sightless legs and occasionally scattered trees marched down to their roots, once or twice seeing the water. Floods become rivers, rivers become rivulets, death becoming dissipation, dissipation becoming the poetic movement of evaporative rites in an atmosphere fondled by leaves of trees taking deep breaths and drowning in the passage of night rushing into a shorebreak of day.

  It was one of those days when June wore a dress. At 6:35 a.m. she stood outside the back door of the house ready to make the trek to work; she would be clocking in on the opening shift. Beneath a baggy sweater her clothes were unusually warm and comfortable. Even the dreaded bra held like a friend and the slip seemed willing to follow the curves of her body-no binding or bunching. A faint breeze wrapped itself around her legs and chilled its way upward. Morning weight loss made her light on her feet and, leaning against a cold post, she was lightheaded as well. Detail oozed up from the darkness and the struggling light of dawn injected shapes and angles with weight, the backyard becoming a still life of bones emerging from a pool of oil; a darkroom print of pre-contrast paleontology.

  A glass of tap water cupped in her hands, winds of ghosts buffeted her face like spirits fleeing the advance of day, caressing the last longing touch of the body. Of the blood. Before the submergence to darkness. She wiggled toes inside worn, battered sneakers that, having no strings, served as slippers, she mulled over how many people in the city had died in the night and she thought about her brother Tom. It was two years to the day, almost to the minute, he left this world for the next. The day she snuck into the hospital to see him, he had been waiting for that very moment-yet again, the puppet master pulling her strings, weakly greeting, "The coming of the Princess of Bogs." They spoke-he made sense, he didn't make sense-and, a momentary Lazarus at the edge of a weaver's grave, he lifted his body and his eyes blazed like those that had once pinpointed her across dining tables. He bade, "Go. Now," and sent her away to spend the rest of that day a zombie, walking homelessly in the rain.

  Light pushed more of the earth into view and she saw the ground sparkling. Faint, soft sparks dancing against a deep velvet cushion of mud. The wind lifting a lock of hair from her forehead, a mist tricked the shade of human essence. The prophecy. What Tom had meant. Walking to the center of the yard, she recalled his words: "You'll know. You'll know it's me."

  Babbling?

  Nah.

  He wasn't being cryptic; he was being excruciatingly exact.

  The wide ribbon of runoff laughed across the mud, rippled like a leprechaun joking a secret to be plucked from the gloom. His penultimate words to her in the hospital had been a riddle: "Why did the faerie cross the stream?"

  There was no need to consider the answer. It was too simple.

  Life was a travesty, the joke was on her, and he was having the last laugh.

  June bent forward, reached down a hand, the groundwater swirled through fingers that pressed into the sodden earth. She pulled up a handful of mud and mashed a thumb into it, rubbing in a slow circular motion. Drawing hand to mouth, she anointed her lips, her tongue tasting across the fingers. She dropped the hand into the cup, swam fingers around mixing the earth, the water, brought the vessel to her lips, partook of a generous sip and swallowed. The remainder she cast upon the ground.

  A perfect second following the splash, a brazen gust shook a branch of the big elm tree. A few big drops of water struck June in the face, one of them landing in her left eye. Her feet were wet too, she realized, the old sneakers being possessed of the hole-y soles. "Tom," she admonished, "you jerky putz." She turned and shquish, shquish-ed across the yard to the house. At the back door she stepped out of the soggy shoes and carried them inside, depositing them next to a pair of mud-caked work boots. It was 6:39. A cold is a bad thing to catch. She would have to change her tights and she didn't want to be late to work.

  XII

  "Once you have eliminated the impossible,

  whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

  -Sherlock Holmes

  OK?

  ?some things being true, and then some other things being true, out in the west Texas town of Pilchard Sheriff Floyd Roseman was investigating reported thefts of car parts. Nothing like this ever happened in Pilchard, a town with a lot of El Paso envy wishing there were hills over which desperados could come and go. And it wouldn't matter if they were in cars or on horseback. For once, something would be going on to make a lawman feel he was doing his job. He guessed this was better than when old lady Codworth's dog Buck was missing. Damned Pekingese. He was sorry the stupid canine didn't stay lost. He wasted three days searching for it when it had simply been hiding behind the garage with the new neighborhood rabbit. They were in a compromising position.

  For some reason things other than tiny dogs and clothesline articles were disappearing. This time it was distributor caps, of all things. Small 'taters, he figured. There'd been tales of things like this happening in Seattle a few years back, and then the time that Vialto guy got stranded at the Dairy Queen with his band. Strange fellow, but really no stranger than any of the locals who had been out in the sun too long. Hell, west Texas was like that. And geez louise, hadn't there been recent talk of some motorcycle fellow being chased by some nut in a hot rod?

  Roseman wiped his brow and adjusted his mirrored sunglasses as he walked across midafternoon Main Street from his patrol car to the caf?. He had been in Fort Stockton earlier in the day on a vice detail and, damn, he was hungry and needing a good plate of Steak-N-Eggs Delight at Marva's Diner before starting a stakeout on those missing distributor caps. There were a few things he wanted to look into and a few questions he wanted to ask certain locals concerning the case. But that story about the motorcycle man vs the hot rod had been on his mind all morning. Something about it was bugging him and he didn't know what it was.

  After his meal he walked over to the auto parts store down the way to talk to Larry Beaudry, the desk manager, and see if they could figure out any patterns or coincidences on either makes, models or locations of the thefts. They couldn't, really, but they talked about it for a while an
d the subject of the Seattle Capper came up. The sheriff was baffled by all the lore that seemed to exist on the subject. He said, "Larry, I might be dumb or crazy but somethin' about them cap thefts won't leave me alone."

  "Well, Floyd," Larry responded, "I ain't one to question a man's motives or his thoughts but I certainly know that you ain't one to jump to foregone conclusions. You been on the job too long. What are you thinkin'?"

  "Well, Larry"-he paused for a long, Pilchard moment-"I've listened to them radio shows about UFOs and ghosts and things it's hard to get a handle on, but at this point I don't rightly know what to think. Know what I mean?"

  "Well, Floyd, are you sayin' that maybe you do believe in flyin' saucers and ghosts?"

  "Well, no, Larry, I ain't sayin' anything like that at all," answered the sheriff. "It's just that-knock on wood or Formica-who can really say these days? I mean, we got someone stealin' folks' distributor caps, right? And we had a fella from outta state that got hit here a few years ago on that count and lately there's that story about the motorcycle fella bein' chased across two states and he goes into hidin' in New Mexico and a few caps disappear there. Now they're disappearin' here again. And nobody really knows what the hell is happenin' with it all. Well, I sure don't either but if I give my brain a chance, my brain tells me we're missin' something here. Simple as that."

  "So you do believe in ghosts and space aliens," chuckled Larry.

  "No, No, No! You gotta cut that out, Larry! All I'm sayin' is that we may be so caught up in what we think is reality that we're missin' some important idea or clue that, no matter how hard it is for us to fathom, may be completely outside of our view or somethin' we'd never even count on. Hell, it may be somethin' right under our very noses that eludes detection. Think about that for a minute."

  "Floyd, you always make sense but I got no ideas in that regard. Gimme somewhere to look and maybe I can find somethin'."

  "Well, Larry, I'm kinda at a loss here but I did read up on this Seattle Capper fella and it does beat all. I ain't too keen on these big city tales and all their doin's but there was a pattern to it. I sure can't tell you what the pattern means but there was definitely a pattern. I just think, and it's just a theory, that we can't possibly know his modus operandi from where we're sittin' out here in flatland hell. And I use the term as loosely as I can."

  "Hmm, sounds like you got some kinda idea on it."

  "Larry, I tell ya," the sheriff said while wiping his sunglasses clean, "I know some kinda idea has gotta exist whether we figure it out or not. Look, our boy may or may not mean folks harm but just imagine that he's got no reason to stay in Seattle or any other big city, for instance. So he's got mobility and he ain't been doin' his thing for a while. Why would he feel the need to get back at it and does he really need to stick close to some known metropolis? I don't know the answer to that but suppose he decides to strike some podunk civilians just to throw everyone off track? Civil confusion? I think that, uh?Vialto fella who got hit here was on to somethin' when he said the suspect probably never lived in Seattle. I think there's somethin' to that."

  "Floyd, I don't know what to say." Larry scratched and shook his head. "I wish we could just blame it on UFOs and ghosts and be done with it, y'know?"

  "Well, Larry, there's really nothin' that says we can't do that but somehow I think that'd be too damn simple. Jack the Ripper and D.B. Cooper both pulled off whatever it was they pulled off and to this day no one's the wiser. Somebody missed somethin' then like we're missin' somethin' now."

  Both men decided to drink a couple of Dr Peppers from the pop machine. They changed the subject to sports, wives, anything but distributor caps. Back out in the prairie-dog heat the sheriff walked to his patrol car and gazed far down Main Street to where it led out of town and into the eternal, shimmering mirage of flatland Texas. Same as there was a rational science to sight, there were refractions to throw rationality off-kilter. Leaning against the driver door, refractions of the soul were as likely as those of physics; that is, if nature had any balance at all.

  In the deep distance he saw what appeared to be a moving vehicle, a sharp speck of reflecting sunlight occasionally poking through the sheet of brightness that overwhelmed the dry land. A few minutes later there seemed to be another vehicle out there. He couldn't tell if it was in motion or stationary but it looked dark and didn't seem to be giving off any reflections. Maybe Roseman's eyes were playing tricks on him. He couldn't help thinking about how the paint and contours of stealth aircraft allowed them to resist detection by radar.

  The rest of the afternoon the sheriff deadheaded around town asking a few questions, revisiting scenes of petty crimes, enjoying his air-conditioning til he headed home at the end of the day. No ideas. Tomorrow would be another day, tonight another night.

  Next day was another upper-90-degree skillet of inactivity broken up by speeding tickets out on the highway, an accident report in the town just down the road, lunch with a squad of DPS guys at Marva's. Nothing unusual by Pilchard standards but, once again, leaning against his car and staring into the harsh, reflected glare in the distance, he tried to imagine the motorcycle-and-hot-rod chase that had played out on these very roads. It was strange how neither he nor any other lawmen in the area had heard about it until well after the alleged fact. Thinking about something that Von Questador fellow had said about never seeing the driver's face, he tried to conjure the idea of a modern-day headless horseman.

  There was nothing moving out there but something in the air was catching his attention. Too formless, he couldn't put his finger on it but finally identified it as the sound of an engine rumbling from way off. It could've been anywhere and it definitely wasn't a big diesel tractor that he heard. It was throatier, less stuttering, but it was anyone's guess as to its location. Eventually, the sound faded back into the quiet of day. On his way home he stopped at the Dairy Queen for a sundae and, about halfway through the creamy confection, the rumble returned, this time much closer. He spied the dark shadow of a 1950s-vintage car at an intersection two blocks down. It just sat there.

  Setting down the sundae and walking outside, he met a young boy on a bicycle. Together they watched the automobile loudly accelerate out of sight, out of earshot. The boy asked, "Holy fireballs, Sheriff! What was that?"

  Hooking thumbs on his belt, Roseman stared down the road. Stone-faced, he declared, "Son, I don't rightly know. But I intend to find out. I intend to find out real soon."