Ride the Lucky

by Kendric Neal

  “If we find out, we're taking it home.”

  “We could chain it in the basement.”

  “I'll feed it, I just want more.”

  “Sure you could do this every night? I'd worry about your health.”

  “Who cares?”

  “The neighbors might call 911.”

  “Screw the neighbors.”

  “Which ones? I'm partial to Mrs. Klingman, myself. Nice cleavage. Down around her navel, but nice.”

  Hope laughed, hard to do as she was still out of breath. She drank the rest of the water she'd left on the nightstand after their earlier romp. Actually, Neely thought, that water was at least two romps old. “I'll get some from the fridge. Mineral or regular?”

  “Surprise me.” She suddenly tried to sit up, “Jesus, Neely. We need to come here more often.”

  “Let's sell the house and buy this place.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Put a tent in the backyard for the kids.”

  “Someone else's backyard.”

  He laughed as he grabbed two cold mineral waters. “You know you'd miss 'em.”

  “Who?”

  “Of course, I'm having trouble wrapping my brain around Jess in a tent.”

  “She said she loves it.”

  “What? What'd I miss? When did that happen?”

  “June. She went with Hayley and Cassie.”

  “Camping?!”

  “Well, maybe not the way you're thinking of it. They had a generator, wi-fi, Bluetooth.”

  “That's not camping, that's a rave. Guys, I assume?”

  “Marco and Caleb. Found that out later.”

  “DUI Marco?”

  “That's the one.”

  “How'd all this happen without my hearing about it?”

  “You were in Spokane. I told you about it.”

  That explained it. He was at Harrah's New Orleans, actually, highly distracted. Two nights, no sleep, does a number on the short term memory. “Oh yeah.”

  “Hayley's mom was there, so was her stepdad.”

  “I hope so.”

  Neely slept fitfully that night, worried he might dream again and not wanting to see what came on the night train express. Dreading it so much brought it on, though it wasn't the full-fledged nightmare like the previous night's but the shooting gallery frames of a mind in agitation. Science says sleep is required to clear the air, to do a data dump of the information taken in during the day, but it was also like that computer virus a client of his once had where no matter how many times he scrubbed it and reinstalled the OS, it was back the next morning like some mad jack-in-the-box. “You're the lucky winner! You're the lucky winner!”

  Finally, he'd pulled the infected drive, drove over it with his car and thrown it in the dumpster. He put a new one in, fully loaded, and told his client problem solved, good to go. Took a loss on his time, but well worth it. Too bad this one wasn't going to be that easy. What was that movie where you could go and get your memory selectively erased? You could make a billion dollars with that, couldn't you? Not to wipe it all clean, no, just the ones that nagged you, that intruded on your most pleasurable moments, that woke you up at night convinced they were happening again, that just, well, haunted the crap out of you and colored everything you did. He'd pay good money to cherry pick that old woman off the hard drive. They could name their price.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Pack was back. He remembered now, neither they nor the Falcons had been scaring anybody that season. They were evenly matched, the line up for grabs, The birds were sitting Rollins at OLB and the game was in Green Bay. No score the first quarter, then it started to rain. Who would that help the most? That was the debate on WRTY. Once Kerrigan hauled in a 42-yard deep ball, the Packers didn't stand a chance, a caller said.

  That sort of thing always bothered Neely, people wanting to make things so much simpler than they were. Especially when he had his money on the other side. And a lot of money, too, he'd laid down $3900 at no line. It never made sense to bet big on games between dogs fighting for last place, but he'd had a bad week and was trying to salvage it (another sign of addiction, thank you, Capt. Obvious). He'd had a feeling. Never ignore those feelings. They never talked about those on the betting shows or ESPN recaps.

  The problem with WRTY was they didn't have a contract with the NFL, so they only gave score updates every 45 minutes or so, an eternity to a man on a long, lonely drive home from the casino in Naccahaw who had thirty-nine big ones and his mood for the week riding on the outcome. The law was no texting while driving, there wasn't anything about checking sports scores. Still, he didn't see any point in telling the officers any of that. He wondered if cell phones kept a record and decided probably not. They could pull up your texts and calls, but how could they know if you were checking the Sunday Night score when you looked up and saw a tree hurtling towards you? The rest was just a blur of screeching rubber and scraping metal. Well, no, that wasn't entirely true…There was that arm. The last hurrah, a final farewell, a rodeo star riding off into the sunset, thanking everyone for all the good times. Like spinning his Jeep into the path of a 6000 lb. tree. Like sending him out of control so he could take one for the team while Neely went to the sidelines and sucked down a Powerade. The Pack was back, that's what he remembered. They'd evened the scored and returned a fumble to boot. Up 14-7. It was a smile he had when he looked up at the load loosening on the semi, the trunk hitting the pavement like the world's largest pole vaulter, the i-Ching set of a giant. The Pack was back. Booya.

  He woke in a cold sweat, disoriented. He had a brief moment of panic, all that light streaming in from an unfamiliar direction. The manic sound of birds chirping their morning songs…The utter look of peacefulness on Hope's face…the crumpled cream sheets…the down comforter askew…he gasped once, then twice. That first moment of wakefulness was a killer when you've just been wherever it is deep disturbing dreams take you. One second he was in the crash, the arm waving him a goodbye, the next nestled in a mountain lodge where nothing bad could happen, the demons weren't allowed, birds chirped and forgave and chirped again for good measure. But he'd heard her again and it hadn't felt like the dream. He'd heard the old woman's hiss, felt her leathery hands in his and seen the look of certainty in her eyes. Dead certainty. “Lucky,” she'd said…and he knew where it'd come from, he knew she was there, she'd followed him, she knew what he'd been doing and that he'd tried to escape her.

  The steam rose gently off the surface, its automatic timer having put it to sleep along with its guests.

  The owners had preserved every detail in the Eagle Crest, from the raw, graying wood of the Crib to the lingering horse manure odor of the Barn. Rusted farm implements—cockeyed support beams—short doorways from an era when malnourishment was the norm—the architects had outdone themselves, preserving the illusion the place had hardly changed while bringing all of it up to code and providing heating, cooling, wifi, electricity, and all the comforts of modern life.

  The well was still there, they had only inserted a liner to turn it into a luxurious hot tub. For the first time, Neely found himself wondering if they'd filled in the rest…of course, they must have, the liner filled with water was a lot of weight to support. But the voice he heard was from far lower than the bottom of the liner, it was from the Earth's depths. It had been a deep well, they were in the mountains, it had reached the heart of the mountain itself, connecting to the aquifer that ran through the entire region, hadn't it?

  “What are you doing?” Hope asked, gazing at him through sleep-filled eyes.

  “Nothing. Just—reading the history.” The lodge provided a full-color binder detailing the history of the farm as well as another smaller one giving that unit's own history. It said the well had been dug in 1836 and replaced another one that had never been adequate. It had taken six men three months to complete, had been lined with rock taken from the fields and had reached a depth of 94 feet, three times the depth of any other well in the regio
n. It had been worth the expense—water was the lifeblood of a farm and allowed it to grow into a major operation over the next 40 years.

  “We've read all that before.”

  “Ah, just killing time before your next orgasm. Fella's gotta keep busy.”

  She laughed as he went over to her. “Wait, wait, I gotta pee.”

  She jumped out of bed and danced off as he rolled on his back and looked up through the skylight. He'd never been one to give in to fears and was probably the only guy he knew who'd never been in therapy. Why spend $200 an hour for someone to tell him what he already knew?

  He heard the toilet flush and saw a movement up above. Something moved across the skylight and he heard, underneath the flushing, her hiss—her shadow, he saw her shadow. Jesus, Neely. Taking it a bit far, aren't you? Tryouts for the loony bin now? People deal with grief every day. Survivor's guilt, PTSD, they don't crack up like a boiled egg. Okay, maybe they do, but he wouldn't. He had a family to support and a few hundred grand to make back. Neely was needed.

  He jumped at a knock on the door. His heart raced for a second before he realized it was the breakfast he'd ordered. Yes, of course. He threw on a robe and opened the door, thinking for a second it might be the old woman after all. Of course it wasn't. It wasn't a waiter either, but that shouldn't have surprised him. This wasn't on the room service route, they'd sent a maintenance worker, one he'd seen a few times before who didn't seem to speak any English. The man smiled and motioned to the tray he had in the back of the cart. Neely took it from him and motioned for the man to wait for a tip, but he smiled and shook his head and drove off with a cheery wave. A wave that reminded Neely of…

  “Who was that?”

  “Breakfast service.”

  Hope came out and gave him the look of undying love he'd been hoping for. “Wonderful!”

  “But listen, you lazy lima bean, I told them not to bring it tomorrow. For our last day we're going to go up to the lodge and have the full Monty.”

  “We can do that today.”

  “No. It might cut into our frolic time and that would be unacceptable.”

  “Jesus, my Superman.”

  “Eat hearty. You're going to earn that breakfast, kid.”

  “Yes, coach,” she said, pouring herself a cup of cafe au lait, taking a croissant, and purring. Yessir, he thought, admiring her naked figure…cookies in the oven. Yes indeedy. He'd swear she was three times more beautiful as when he'd first laid eyes on her, no mean feat, and twice as sexy, also nothing to snort at. He'd never felt so secure around a woman in his life, he thought he could have told her anything in that moment and she'd forgive him. What's that, honey? You joined a cult? We're giving all our things away and moving to Nicaragua? When do we leave? I have a hair appointment Tuesday, should I cancel? What's that? You're a homicidal sociopath? We'll go to counseling. Hmm? Oh? You killed that Native American guy? You're still gambling? All our savings gone, including the 529's? Well, we'll just have to scrape by, make do, and work a little harder. Because we're in this together babe, and the thought of leaving you would never cross my mind. Now come over here, Tiger, and give me some loving.

  “We're gonna have to get a move on,” Hope said, interrupting his thoughts. “We've got a big day.”

  The first time they'd come they'd done Angel's Flight and now it was something of a tradition.

  He only had himself to blame, he knew, he'd been a show-off back then, still shaking off his geeky aura, and it had formed an integral part of their relationship. He dared her to do dangerous things and she slowly let herself be dared. She'd been a serious athlete and nationally-ranked swimmer in college. He'd briefly been engaged to Kelly Mirsch, a girl whose only sport was competitive shopping, so embarking on wilderness trips, bike tours, rafting adventures, mountain treks and perilous hikes with Hope was a form of nirvana. In the early days.

  Calling it Angel's Flight was clearly intended with a sense of humor.

  It consisted of a series of progressively steeper jagged ridges that required hours of uphill climbing before leading to the top of a slope that could have been covered in 35 minutes if they'd cut a direct trail. Of course, the views got more and more spectacular but that was also because the distance between the hiker and the drop-offs got smaller and smaller.

  She packed snacks, water, a rain poncho and her usual “just in case” items while he finished a last cup of Sumatra in the room. It was later in the year than they'd ever hiked it, but the trail was still open and that was all she needed to speed around the first bend. They'd never seen any other guests on it, although it was rumored to be popular with the younger folk in mid-Summer. The usual well-heeled visitors to Eagle Crest weren't the daredevil types and Neely guessed most of them killed time with golf or idle chatter until cocktails on the veranda became socially acceptable. It was the rich people's kids who frequented Angel's Flight, so desperate to get away from Mom and Dad they were happy to risk life and limb to do it.

  At the first mile marker they stopped for water. He managed to sneak a peek at the stock ticker on his phone when she stepped out onto a rock to take a panoramic photo. At least he got great coverage up here, Mt. Issa had all the antennae in the area and he could see it clearly. He was up again, Linden alone was up 9%. That meant—“Neely! You've got to see this!”—$1700 and it wasn't even noon yet. “Look at that!” she said, pointing to a line of billy goats climbing the opposite side of the canyon. They looked like they were taking a stroll, not climbing a near-vertical rock face.

  “That's wonderful! I'm taking some video,” he said bravely, focusing his smartphone camera on them. By the time they reached the next ledge, he was watching a cloud bank that had been threatening and was now hanging right over their heads. Hope clambered on ahead, and they soon found themselves not just hiking under the cloud, but into it.

  “Why are you stopping?” she asked.

  “It's raining.”

  “I know. Isn't it wonderful!?”

  She spread her arms and ran up ahead, hauling herself up a section of chain despite the torrent of rainwater running between her day hikers. He looked dubiously at the rusted metal chain, sitting outside for how many years? Installed by seasonal, hung-over, minimum-wage maintenance workers into posts that jiggled in their crumbling holes.

  He got to the top of the ridge and saw Hope doing a Sound of Music twirl on the fog-covered green meadow as the rain continued to fall. Your own fault, Neely, you married a crazy person.

  “Come on, winner's choice,” she said with a hip wiggle that belonged to a much younger woman. She continued her jog up the next ridgeline, confident she'd given him the motivation he needed. They'd made love at the top their first trip up, it had been their honeymoon after all, and it was a tradition they'd continued. Tried, at least, because their second trip up they got a late start and the idea of hiking hand-over-hand down chains and shaky posts in the dark had been a serious mood-killer. They never had company but they were certainly, um, rather visible up there to anyone with a pair of binoculars and enough curiosity to look. It had confirmed his earlier suspicion that his wife was an exhibitionist, as she was forever standing naked in front of windows or changing where people could see her. He wasn't sure how it was going to go today, not with their morning gymnastics, the old woman's raspy voice still echoing, and the falling rain to contend with, but he could hardly disappoint her. Hope was a woman who could still have her pick of men and he knew it. If keeping her happy meant having windblown sex on a precipitous mountaintop in a pouring rainstorm, so be it. If it meant hiding his fears and worries no matter how much he suffered with them, fine. If it meant replacing the $300,000 in savings he'd lost before Jess got her first admissions letter, well, damn it, he'd just have to find a way.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sunday Brunch was an exercise in decadence—bagels, cream cheese and lox, sausage links, smoked bacon, hash browns, home fries, crepes to-order, omelettes to-order, cheeses to die for, every fresh bread and pastry i
maginable, gourmet coffee, fresh-brewed tea, steamed dark chocolate with cream…a New York Times by the crackling fire… They'd foregone second helpings so they could make love one last time, then soaked in the hot tub while discussing an easy hike they knew they'd never take. They walked the grounds instead, hand in hand, and took some final pictures. Still not anxious to leave, they'd had an Irish Coffee in the gazebo and talked of the different articles they'd read. The Sunday Times was so gargantuan these days they tag-teamed it, divvying up the sections and sharing what they'd read later. He was happy and relaxed when she ambled off to browse the lodge store, marveling at his unexpected freedom to clock the NFL scores on the bar TV. He wished he hadn't, they were all down. Every damn one, and it reminded him of Sundays past, Sundays he'd forgotten about where his choices went from bad to worse and he felt the food roiling in his stomach. He popped a Xanax, not waiting to pop a second, dreading the agonizing drive home when he couldn't get updates, when he had to content himself with anxious worry while Hope prattled on about things that didn't have ten grand riding on them.

  He was surprised she let him drive most of the way home considering the sleepy-eyed look the benzos gave him. He'd come to have a high respect for Hope's intuitive powers, at least as far as they extended to him. Two vodka martinis at lunch, for instance, and somehow she'd know when he rolled in that night. He'd look at himself in the mens' room mirror and know he was good, there were no outside signs. He'd straighten his tie, eat a bag of chips, drink a Coke before leaving, it didn't matter, she'd still know. It's not that she'd make a big deal, drinking had never been his thing, it was that he didn't want her knowing one of his secrets for fear she might learn all of them. It was nice to marry someone who knew you, as long as they didn't know you too well.

  Yet she'd never once suspected there might be any real culpability on Neely's part regarding the accident.