Where the Road Bends

by David Rawlings

  What choice did she have? Her need for water and shelter outweighed whatever danger she might face.

  The haze dissipated and the detail of the road train filled in, dust clouds flying alongside its long, thin body. Her overworked muscles shook—needing the rescue, dreading the threat. She had to get the driver’s attention, regardless of the danger.

  The danger of a random stranger was possible. The danger of dehydration or exposure was certain.

  She jumped into the middle of the track, arms windmilling in the now-still, tinder-dry air. The rumble lowered into a deepening roar, and the giant vehicle slowed as it pulled to one side of the track. Eliza’s heart thudded as she clenched her fists and twitched her calves, tensed for escape.

  With a loud hissing and the squeal of brakes, the road train came to rest with a lurch, the red cabin and shining silver grill towering over her.

  Red.

  Through the windshield Eliza saw large sunglasses under a cap’s visor. The cabin door flew open as every scenario between uncomfortable and catastrophic flashed before her eyes. She checked over both shoulders for somewhere to run.

  The driver jumped to the ground, brushing hands on khaki shorts. Long, slender legs down to thick, chunky work boots. The driver removed the cap, and a rust-red ponytail swished from side to side.

  The woman removed her sunglasses to reveal the most crystal-blue eyes Eliza had ever seen, sparkling above a crooked grin and grease-stained cheeks. “What are you doing out here, love? Not lost, are ya?”

  Eliza fell to her knees, her chest heaving. But the tears wouldn’t come. Not in front of a stranger.

  Twenty-One

  The flat, brassy horns and chugging guitar drifted across the pub from the jukebox, along with an impassioned, croaking scream:

  Out where the river broke

  The bloodwood and the desert oak

  Andy pushed aside the tiny plate, now filled with only a few pastry crumbs. “Do you have a car? How can we get back to the campsite?”

  Smithy nodded along with Midnight Oil. “Where is the campsite?”

  Embarrassed, Andy laced his fingers behind his head. He’d had no idea where the campsite was. “We are with Outback Tours. Two guys—Eddie and Sloaney. Do you know them?”

  Smithy shook his head. “How did you end up here?”

  Andy’s conscience answered the question at a different level, and it didn’t like the answer. “I walked. I woke up on a cliff above a river, which should be around here somewhere.”

  Smithy shrugged. “That could be anywhere out here.”

  Andy heaved a sigh, his pulse racing as an unwelcome option presented itself. He needed to stay off the grid and below the radar. “They’ve got a satellite phone. Could you call them for me?”

  Smithy nodded at Andy’s phone, facedown on the table. “Why can’t you?”

  “No coverage. So what can I do?”

  Smithy took great care to place his glass back on its coaster. “We need to get you going where you need to be. Let’s work it out. How long were you walking for?”

  Andy’s mental gears creaked into action. He woke at seven and it was now after two. His phone beeped and he shoved it across the table, unable to face the message.

  Smithy frowned at him. “I thought you said you had no coverage.”

  How could he explain this? It would be hard enough to talk about being abandoned on a cliff top. It would be impossible to describe a disconnected phone that still received messages. And he couldn’t talk about the deepest truth of all.

  Another roar bellowed from the corner. Now a dozen people followed the parabolic path of the copper coins through the air.

  Smithy put down his bite-sized pie and leaned toward Andy, a kindness in his eyes. “Is everything okay? You look a bit, I don’t know the word for it . . . hunted?”

  Andy’s face warmed as his voice emerged in a staccato burst. “What makes you say that?”

  “The way your gaze darts around the room, checking out everyone. Not wanting to use your phone. The only thing you look like you’re interested in is the game of two-up.”

  “What’s two-up?”

  “An old gambling game that’s been played since modern Australia began. Deceptively simple—all you need to do is bet on how two coins will land.”

  “Sounds likes it’s pretty easy to get into.”

  “The best traps are.”

  Andy found another option with a snap of his fingers. The barman. “Back in a moment.”

  He pushed through the crowd and leaned on the bar as the tanned, sinewy young man in the red, yellow, and blue shirt downed the last of his beer. “Just in time, mate. Your shout?”

  Shout? “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll keep my voice down.”

  The young man clapped a hand on Andy’s shoulder with a laugh. “Shout. It’s Aussie for your turn to buy.”

  Andy shrugged off the hand whose grip was tightening. “I’m sorry, I’ve got no money.”

  The man’s smile slid away at the rebuff, as from the jukebox the brassy horns slid down the scale into silence, broken by more familiar finger-picking guitar. “On a warm summer’s evenin’ . . .”

  The barman’s meaty forearm landed on the bar. “It’s okay, Tex, I’ve got this one.” His expression hardened, his eyes like flint. “What can I do you for?”

  Andy tried his broadest smile. “I was hoping to use your phone.”

  The barman jerked his head toward the door. “There’s a pay phone out there. Takes coins.” He reached for the cloth hanging over his shoulder and polished his way down the bar as he collected empty glasses.

  Another dead end. Andy made his way back to the table, and Smithy drained his glass. “How did you do?”

  “He’s no help.”

  “Well, I can help you work out how to get you back on track.”

  The coins spun in the air again. Andy’s little finger twitched as the coins clinked on the polished floorboards and rolled to a stop. All he had to do was guess how two coins would land, not pull off the point spread in the NBA Eastern Conference. How easy was that?

  He reached for his drink, and Smithy’s eyes clouded with a stern concern. “You’ve got a gambling problem, mate.”

  A statement, not a question. “How did you know?”

  Smithy’s head bobbed in a slow nod. “I’ve seen it before. Can’t take your eyes off it. Each time you look for a little bit longer, the corners of your mouth twitch. Gotta tell ya, it never ends well.”

  “It’s only two coins.”

  Smithy cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “It’s more than that. Much more. It’s the rush, the temporary denial of consequences. It’s the devil-may-care concern for the future to feed the uncontrollable desires of the present.” The rough Australian in front of Andy appeared to have gone.

  The doors to the kitchen swung open as the waitress hefted the largest deep-dish pizza Andy had ever seen. The waft of onion and tomato drifted in her wake, and Andy’s mouth dropped open at the mound of meat and cheese now sitting on the table next to them. Andy implored Smithy. “Don’t you have any more money?”

  “Do you?”

  “I’ve got to find a way . . .”

  Smithy placed a hand on the table between them. “This is how it always starts, doesn’t it?” His eyes hardened as they drilled into Andy’s soul. “The desire rises and you justify how easy it is, how it won’t be like last time. First with something small, then something larger. You dig to fill a small hole that your first gamble created, only to find that when it’s full, you’re standing in a larger hole. And that needs filling too.”

  Smithy’s oddly poetic language belied a blunt, rough-and-tumble man still covered in the dust of the outback as he described every morning of Andy’s year and his journey from college, starting with a first bet placed at Lincoln’s insistence, whose insider news on the Flagstaff College basketball team made it a sure thing.

  A wide crack ripped down the middle of Andy’s resolve, and
he could no longer hold back his story. Staggering through the outback while he lost hope. Waking on a cliff with no memory of getting there. Surviving an overnight dust storm. Enduring a campfire intervention by friends horrified at the depths to which he’d sunk. Lodging at the campsite in a crater in the middle of nowhere.

  Smithy took it all in. “That’s not all, is it?”

  Andy dropped his head. “I thought I could disappear for a while. Get away from some big gambling debts.” Guilt covered him like a heavy blanket. “Big ones.”

  “How big?”

  Andy started to answer, then stopped. He swallowed hard and gave it a second run as he owned the size of the millstone around his neck. “In total? Seven hundred thousand dollars.”

  Tears formed in the corners of Smithy’s eyes. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve been able to admit that to yourself.”

  Who was this guy? This dusty, solid water tank of a man had pried secrets from him in minutes and he somehow felt better for it. “Who are you?”

  Smithy’s voice was quiet. Soothing. Unthreatening. “I’m a guide. We all are.”

  “All?”

  “Yes, all. We’re here to help you on your journey.”

  “To get back to the campsite?”

  “It’s far more important than that.”

  Andy’s stomach growled. Like a lion caged with its meal outside the bars. “If you want to help me on my way, I really need something to eat.”

  The waitress placed another pizza on the bar, and Andy’s resolve deserted him. The steam rose to the shimmering heat flickering beyond the window. He couldn’t venture back into the oven of outback Australia with no transport, no phone, and no idea of where he was headed. His hunger needed attention. “This is crazy. I should be able to talk the barman into helping a lost tourist.”

  Smithy shook his head. “That’s not your biggest need.”

  Andy made his way back to the bar. The barman absentmindedly picked at his fingernails with a corkscrew and raised an eyebrow. “Found some money, did you?”

  Andy pushed aside the shame and nodded to the menu board with imploring eyes. “I’m a visitor to your country and I’m lost. My friend here is out of money—”

  “Friend?”

  Andy threw a glance back to the table. Smithy was gone. He would have to fix this on his own. “Look. I need something to eat, so maybe I could wash some dishes for you?” He lowered his head, hoping for mercy, expecting the inevitable crushing blow of rejection.

  Andy looked up into the barman’s nearly complete smile. “I tell you what, mate. You look like a bloke who likes a flutter, so how about you gamble for some lunch?”

  Twenty-Two

  This had to be a setup. The leather chair cracked as Lincoln retreated one seat back from Alinta. “What’s going on?”

  She offered him another shy smile but nothing else. “I can help.”

  “Help what? Get me back to the campsite?”

  “No.” She reached a hand toward him. “I can help you get out of the mess you’ve made of your life. Get back on track.”

  Lincoln shot to his feet as he scoffed at her. “The mess I’ve made of my life? Weren’t you listening before? Once I get the convertible—”

  “You’ll drive yourself to an empty home.” She padded away from him into the stationmaster’s office.

  Lincoln stormed after her, his eyes hunting for the hidden cameras he was certain were there. Probably being fed directly back to a truck his friends sat in, wicked smiles perched in front of the screen, enjoying his discomfort. This wasn’t a competition. It was a setup.

  “The others have to be behind this. There is no other way you would know details like that.”

  Alinta leaned back on the desk and crossed her feet. “I’ve never met your friends. Others have been chosen to provide them with guidance.”

  Lincoln closed his eyes in head-shaking exasperation. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “How did you get here, Lincoln?”

  “How did I get here? I woke up in this strange building—”

  “No. How did you get here at this moment in time, this juncture on the road of your life?”

  Lincoln folded his arms to put a barrier between himself and this strange woman. “This juncture in my life?”

  “Yes. How did you arrive here, with an impending divorce and the threat of losing it all? Where the disappointments of the past guarantee the roadblocks of your future?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about your life, Lincoln. I’m talking about locking away the pain of your past but ensuring the unhappiness of your future. You locked yourself in here—”

  His anger exploded. “How many times do I have to tell you that I didn’t lock the door—”

  Alinta quieted him with a raised hand. “What do you think I’m talking about?”

  He was thrown. “This building, clearly.”

  “No.” One word, pregnant with a weight of information. “I’m talking about your life. Your unhappiness. The relationships that grind to a halt before they start. A marriage doomed before it began. Why do you think that is?”

  Lincoln’s indignation fought to the surface. “So I’m unlucky in love. Who isn’t?”

  “Maybe you hold the key to your unhappiness, but you don’t realize it.”

  Keys? Unhappiness? He checked the timetables pinned to the wall to see when this woman’s train was coming. “I don’t buy any of this.”

  “So what do you buy? What explanation do you have for this?” Her voice hardened. Honey replaced by steel. “You wake up here with no sign of how you got here. One minute you’re locked in, the next minute—after my request for you to let me in—you are free. What do you think is going on?”

  Lincoln’s anger ebbed, replaced by confusion. None of this made sense.

  “I’ve seen this before—when someone locks in the past to protect themselves from danger or further pain. But it’s what you lock out that causes you to run off the rails.” She fixed her eyes on him. Strong but soft.

  “Locking in the pain? This is a railway station . . .” His explanation petered out. “This has to be a hallucination.” He thought back to the previous night. The bush food. That had to be it.

  Alinta planted her hands on her hips. “So if I’m a figment of your imagination, your conscience must know deep down what the problem is. So why don’t you acknowledge it in case you’re saved? If this is a hallucination. What have you got to lose?” Her eyes drifted to the desk.

  “Are you saying whatever is in that desk drawer is something I put there?”

  Alinta nodded. “Now you’re getting it.”

  “That is insane. That drawer is locked tight.”

  “Like the door was.”

  Lincoln shook his head. “This is ridiculous. Let me show you how ridiculous it is.” He stormed behind the desk, his fingers found the worn groove beneath the handle, and he maintained eye contact with Alinta in preparation of the point he was about to prove.

  He jerked the drawer back, and as it flew open, his shoulder slammed into the wall. There was a gentle rattle as the drawer’s contents bounced around. His brow furrowed as his mind raced. He took one look inside the drawer.

  It wasn’t a key.

  He slammed the desk drawer shut but couldn’t rationalize the mental picture now burned into him. In the desk drawer was a gift-ribboned box, one he’d planned to carry to the deserts of the Sahara to surprise the woman of his dreams.

  And the box contained a ring.

  * * *

  The berries rolled across the cave floor and came to rest against the snake’s pulsing scales. Its tongue tasted her direction and distance and entranced Bree with a silent, numbing fear. She crept backward, her eyes fixed on her would-be attacker. The first steps felt like quicksand, and her pace quickened with every step that put distance between her and a painful, slow death.

&nb
sp; She leaned against the mouth of the cave, her head swimming as she looked skyward, at her only other avenue of escape. Another hundred feet of long slices in the rock, but the slight incline was no longer generous. The wall above her was vertical.

  Her thumb throbbed, now coated with blood as her hands hung at her side. She shivered as the tears came. Frustration. Anger. Fear of failure, of consequences she could not face. Surely the others would come looking for her if she didn’t reappear. But the fear didn’t reach its high watermark like it usually did. She had overcome the crippling, swooning heights to reach the cave. She could do this.

  Bree’s stomach groaned again and she reached for another handful of berries before a thought stopped her hand cold. Bush food . . . Was the snake a hallucination? Maybe these berries had conjured up her greatest fear and placed it in the way of her escape. She spat them onto the cave floor and crept back to the fissure in the rock. The forked tongue sensed danger and the snake’s head cocked back.

  The words came slowly—the repetition building a case to convince herself this was a hallucination. This is not real. This is not real. This is not real.

  The fear pulsing through her disagreed.

  She lifted a foot to take another half step toward this figment of her imagination. The snake jerked as it lunged for her, and she screamed and jumped back. The snake’s head struck a stone, which shot at her and hit her shin. A bolt of pain seared up her leg, and she rushed back to the mouth of the cave. She inspected her leg. Blood oozed from a stinging cut. The pain was very real.

  This was no hallucination.

  Bree cast a suspicious glance at the bowl of berries and the sign. Follow my example. Follow whose example? Was there something more in the wall painting? She peered at it. Kangaroos chased by small men wielding spears. The snake slithering away from the hunter. Should she follow his example? But he carried no weapon—he was drawn midstride, his arms out.

  Fragments of memory dropped into place as she stared at the figure. This hunter reminded her of Eddie and how he’d moved on the snake, his hands wide, his voice flat.

  Follow my example.