Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  The sheriff turned and walked back up the stairs and into his office. Though the stalled traffic and oddness of Matthew Duncan concerned him, and he would begin to deal with them shortly, his immediate attention was needed at his desk. The objects of his desire were tucked neatly inside a small white wrapper with red and yellow lettering on the side that read Tim’s World Famous Tasty Burger. His mouth watered as he thought of their salty and greasy deliciousness. He pulled one from the wrapper and chewed it eagerly. God, how he loved the pure Idaho goodness of Tim’s World Famous Tasty Burger french fries.

  Thirteen

  Emergency Room Report

  Maybe it was the journey to the higher altitude of Mount Rainier or perhaps because he had left so early and had skipped breakfast, but Agent Westmore felt an especially big appetite as he sat down in a small diner in Yakima, Washington, and looked over the menu. He ordered the lunch special, which was salisbury steak, as well as a chef’s salad. While waiting for his lunch to come, he picked up his cell phone and dialed his department supervisor in Seattle. Though the agent didn’t generally care much for any sort of supervision, he liked his current supervisor more than most—simply because his style was to leave the agent alone to do as he liked. Harold Reed was a consummate bureaucrat but knew when to leave well enough alone. Agent Westmore had a strong track record of catching those he was after, and Harold was not about to interfere with that success. There was one rule, however, that Agent Westmore knew he always had to follow—he was to check with Harold before leaving the state of Washington on any official business.

  “Colorado?” asked Harold. “That’s kind of far, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve got some very strong information that my escapee has gone there,” said the agent, leaning back as the waitress brought his chef’s salad and set it in front of him. “That’s where he’s originally from.”

  “It’d better be damn strong to go all the way out there.”

  “It is,” replied the agent as he began eating his salad.

  “How soon will you fly out?”

  “Actually,” said the agent, “I’m planning to drive. It’s a small town in western Colorado, and I won’t be able to get a direct flight from around here to anywhere close. By the time I make several stops in different airports and then rent a car, I might as well just drive. I figure I can get there by Sunday.”

  “Well,” said Harold, “that’s certainly not the normal routine, but I always figure you know what you’re doing. You know that Superintendent Tremont is an old friend of mine, and I feel obligated to give some extra effort on this case. He’s never lost one from Monroe, you know, so catching this guy means a lot to him. Just make the usual contact with the local authorities once you arrive, and let them know what you’re up to.”

  The agent hung up and continued relishing his salad. Nearby on the table was the next document to be read in the Matthew Duncan case. Though he’d gotten a big break from his visit with Ranger Kenton, he still wanted to know as much as he could about the man he might have to confront in Colorado. He moved the document near him, getting a small bit of salad dressing on the paper as he raised his fork and took another bite. The next document read:

  Emergency Room Shift Report

  Edgewood Medical Center

  Shift Summary Report

  Shift: 7 a.m.—7 p.m.

  Shift Supervisor: Dr. Rene Berkheim

  Summary of Patient Admissions: There were twenty-two admissions during the shift, four of those were by ambulance, seventeen were by private vehicle, and there was one walk-in.

  One of the admissions required emergency surgery, eleven were treated and released, nine were treated and admitted to the general medical floor for further care, and one was treated and transferred to the Psychiatric Unit for further evaluation.

  Significant Events of Shift: A twenty-eight-year-old white male was delivered by U.S. Forest Service personnel. His supervisor had made previous contact with ER personnel and sought advice after an apparent fall the patient took at Mount Rainier National Park. The supervisor indicated that the patient had not made any verbal or other communication since the fall. The patient was admitted at 4:05 p.m. and was seen and treated by me and RN Glenda Hastings. The patient had a small head wound and very minor abrasions on his back, but otherwise appeared normal. A basic neurological and physical exam indicated no abnormalities. The patient appeared responsive and alert but made no attempt to answer questions, either verbally or nonverbally. On one occasion, the patient did appear to smile as he turned and stared for a while at a blank wall in the treatment room. This wall has no interesting features on it, no windows, and is simply the adjoining wall to emergency surgery. It was unclear if his smiling and staring were intentional or some random neurological events. One could draw the conclusion that the patient was “playing a game” with us, though a private conversation I had later with his supervisor indicated that the patient was not likely the type to do this. I remain skeptical. The patient was transferred to the Psychiatric Unit for further testing and analysis.

  A thirty-three-year-old Hispanic male arrived by ambulance and was admitted at 4:45 p.m. for multiple stab wounds to the upper torso and abdomen. The patient was sent immediately to surgery upon arrival, where the ER team led by Dr. Thomas Baxter worked on him for approximately twenty-five minutes. The patient’s heart stopped, and attempts at resuscitation failed, and he was initially pronounced dead at 5:12 p.m. At 5:14 p.m., a very alert ERN Philip Madrid noticed a very faint pulse in the patient, and the death pronouncement was rescinded by Dr. Baxter. Surgery then continued on the patient for another one hour and ten minutes. The patient was then stabilized and transferred to critical care where his condition was serious but stable. Dr. Baxter has filed a separate account (immediately below) of this most unusual of occurrences.

  Report of irregularity during 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. shift as given by Dr. Thomas Baxter: At approximately 4:30 p.m. during the 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. shift, we were notified by Redi-Med ambulance services that they were en route to the hospital with a patient suffering from multiple knife wounds to his stomach and chest area. His vitals were weak, and his condition appeared to be worsening. At approximately 4:45 p.m., the patient arrived and he was immediately moved into surgery. Patient had numerous deep stab wounds to his stomach and upper torso. The patient was a thirty-three-year-old Hispanic male. In surgery, we began to repair damage and cuts to arterial systems and lungs. Also initially noted was what appeared to be damage to the heart, though this damage was not later found.

  At approximately 5:07 p.m., the patient no longer had any vital signs as measured by instruments, and we began attempts at both manual and electrical resuscitation. All were without success. No vital signs were re-established. At approximately 5:12 p.m., I declared the patient dead, and I began the post-surgery protocol. At 5:14, while my back was to the patient, ER Nurse Philip Madrid noticed a faint pulse in the patient as measured by instruments. The team immediately returned to the operating table and continued with the surgery. The patient remained stable during the surgery and was later transferred to the Critical Care Unit in serious but stable condition.

  I have no accounting as to why the patient’s vitals went from a flat line to a small reading and then grew from there to complete stability. I have never experienced or been witness to such an occurrence during my 17 years of practice. All other witnesses in the room will corroborate these facts, particularly the initial lack of vital signs and the repeated attempts to resuscitate the patient. The only possible medical opinion that I can offer is that there was some kind of abnormal delayed reaction in the patient to the attempts at resuscitation. This explanation, though wholly unsatisfactory to me, is the only professional one I can offer.

  Agent Westmore finished the report and noticed the waitress had brought his salisbury steak. He cut a small piece off the corner and began chewing. It was a little salty, he thought, but still moist and tender. He placed the report back into the stack of c
ompleted ones and picked up a small road atlas from his briefcase. With his finger, he traced Interstate 82 out of Washington State to Oregon where it joined Interstate 84. From there, he followed it to the southeast, down through Idaho and then into Utah where it joined Interstate 15. He then followed that highway until it joined with Interstate 70 as it headed east to Grand Junction, Colorado. At Grand Junction, he traced his path south on Colorado State Highway 550, which would take him into Cottonwood.

  The agent finished his meal and left the diner. He yawned slightly as he pulled out of the parking lot and got onto Interstate 82 southbound. He figured he’d drive until he got tired, expecting that to be at least somewhere in eastern Oregon. From all his years of travel and driving, he had a good idea how long it would take him to get to Colorado. It was now Friday afternoon, and he figured he could easily make Colorado by Sunday.

  He turned on some music and relaxed. As he watched the lines of the highway click by, he couldn’t help but imagine that Matthew Duncan might have taken this exact route on his own trip back to Colorado. It was the most logical and direct.

  Or would he have?

  The agent wondered what kind of man Matthew Duncan was. What kind of man goes from being a forest ranger to prison escapee? Was he smart enough to take the back roads home after being so foolish in leaving so many clues already? It seemed obvious to the agent that this escapee, though perhaps a complex and shrewd man, had already displayed signs of carelessness—Matthew Duncan was careless, and that would be his downfall.

  Such were the thoughts of David Westmore as he left the mountains of the Cascade Range behind him to drive along the open and flatter terrain I-82 followed through southeastern Washington and into Oregon. Each line he passed on the highway brought the agent a step closer to the eventual realization of how wrong he’d been with nearly all of his assumptions.

  Fourteen

  The Breakdown

  On the south end of Cottonwood, before the highway began winding its way toward Durango, there sat a weathered gray and tan building. Old dead tires, bleached and cracked by the sun, were piled along one side. They were stacked almost as high as the worn-out, painted black lettering that had once read Al’s Garage. The fueling station with repair shop was actually no longer owned by a man named Al. It was now owned by a man named Vince Pasternack. The original owner, Al Strong, had passed away many years ago. Partially out of respect for Al and partially out of the great reputation and name recognition the garage had acquired over the years, and partially out of laziness, Vince decided to keep the name. Someday he even planned on repainting the faded lettering.

  The majority of customers at Al’s Garage were locals. It was the only place to get major repair work done for many miles around, which was fortunate for Cottonwood residents because Vince Pasternack, though lazy in some regards, was nonetheless an outstanding mechanic. He could fix any vehicle, no matter what the problem.

  On any given day of the week, there were usually three or four vehicles Vince was working on. Some of these vehicles needed major repairs and some only minor, but this small steady stream of repair work, along with gasoline and diesel fuel sales, was just enough to keep Al’s Garage profitable.

  It was shortly after noon, and Vince was in one of the bays working on a radiator. Country music played from a poorly-tuned radio on a workbench somewhere back in the shop behind him. As he was tightening a bolt, he happened to look up and noticed two men pushing a car into the parking lot out front. He wiped his hands on an already grease-stained rag and walked out to greet them. He recognized one of the men, but not the other.

  “You boys run out of gas?” Vince asked them.

  The two men stopped pushing the car, and it came to a rest outside the open door of the repair bay. One of the men was much taller, with a full head of curly brown hair. He was Duke McKenna, a long-time friend of Vince’s. The two had grown up in Cottonwood together. The other man was a shorter, thin, gray-haired man. Vince did not recognize him.

  “Nope,” said Duke still trying to catch his breath. “He’s got plenty of gas. It’s just like all the others.”

  “Other what?” asked Vince.

  “I guess you haven’t heard yet,” replied Duke.

  “Haven’t heard what, Duke?” asked Vince while eyeing the stranger, who still seemed too winded to speak.

  “Look down the street,” said Duke, pointing toward downtown Cottonwood.

  Vince looked in the direction Duke had pointed and then toward his left and the open highway. He didn’t see anything of interest.

  “What are you talkin’ about?” asked Vince.

  “They’ve all died,” said the stranger, finally catching his breath enough to speak.

  “Who died?”

  “The cars and trucks,” said the stranger. “They’ve all stopped.”

  “It’s true,” said Duke, “and motorcycles, too. I just bought some ammo at Gravine’s and the old truck quit—right there on Main Street. Damned strangest thing. It wouldn’t even make a noise like it was attemptin’ to turn over. I got out and everyone else was out of their vehicles too. Everyone was just scratchin’ their heads and standin’ there in the middle of the street, wonderin’ what the hell was goin’ on. Then everyone started talkin’ to each other. Colin here had a small enough car and it was pointed the right way, so we decided to push it on down here so you could have a look.”

  Vince looked at Colin and then back at Duke.

  “You’re sayin’ the whole god-damn town…all the cars died at once?” he asked, wrinkling his brow and shaking his head.

  “Every last one I could see,” said Duke.

  “I just want to get on my way,” said Colin. “Maybe you could just take a quick look at my car?”

  “Pop the hood,” said Vince, moving to the front of the car, “and try to start it.”

  Colin got inside his small Toyota and popped the hood. Vince secured it open while Duke stood next to him and watched.

  “Okay,” yelled Vince, “crank it.”

  Colin turned the key, but there was absolutely no sound from the engine.

  “You turned the key, right?” said Vince loudly.

  Colin nodded his head and turned the key again. There was only stillness and silence. No fuel was ignited. Not a click or a hum or a buzz came from the engine compartment.

  Vince stuck his head low inside the compartment trying to listen for even the smallest of sounds. Somewhere from a tree out behind the garage came the only other sound Vince could hear except for his own breathing. It was a meadowlark. It sang out:

  Tweeta…tweet…tweet…tweetatweet.

  The expert mechanic stood up, looked toward the tree, and scratched his head, as Colin got back out of the car and stood beside Duke.

  “Doesn’t make any god-damn sense,” he said, staring at the silent engine. “It’s like the key and the starter aren’t even connected to each other.” He glanced at the engine compartment light. It was on. “And the damn thing is gettin’ juice. The battery seems fine.”

  Vince tinkered around inside the compartment for a few minutes. He then went to the garage and came back moments later with some tools and started tinkering some more. After a few minutes, without looking up from the engine, he said, “This could take a while boys. There’s coffee inside.”

  Duke and Colin went inside the lobby as Vince continued to work. He tried to think of every possible thing that could prevent this car from starting. He racked and raked and combed his brain for ideas. He came up empty.

  A few minutes later, the two men came outside carrying cups of coffee. Vince kept his head buried down inside the engine compartment. He checked every possible part or connection that could be disconnected, loose, jammed, or clogged.

  After several more minutes of working, he stood upright and looked at Colin. “All right,” Vince said, “give it another try.”

  Colin got back into his car and attempted to start it, but still nothing happened, so Vince walked aroun
d to the open driver’s door.

  “Let me have a try,” he said.

  “I think I know how to start my own damn car,” said Colin gruffly.

  Vince stared at him, and the two men eyed each other briefly before Colin stood up from the driver’s seat, spilling some coffee on his pant leg as he dropped the keys into Vince’s hand. Vince said nothing but got into the car and tried to start it—once, twice, then a third time—nothing.

  “What the fuck?!” said Vince to himself as he sat back in the seat and shook his head. “Makes no damn sense.”

  Vince got out of the car, handed the keys back to Colin, but looked straight at Duke. “They’re all dead? All of them just like this?” he asked.

  “Every one that I saw,” said Duke.

  Vince turned and walked over to his tow truck parked next to the building. He got in and tried to start it. His ears were met with the same silence. He got out of his truck and sat on the front bumper, staring toward the ground. Duke and Colin stood over by Colin’s car, sipping coffee and watching Vince.

  From Vince’s right, he once more heard the sound of a meadowlark coming from a tree near the building. He didn’t know what kind of bird it was, and in over twenty years of working at the garage, he couldn’t recall ever noticing any birds singing before. Why should he? This was a place of nuts, bolts, gas, grease, oil, coffee, and an old radio that played country music. Singing birds never fit into the picture before.

  Without knowing why, Vince stared at the tree, trying to see the bird behind the sound. He couldn’t locate the small creature hidden among the branches, but the meadowlark sang again—sweet high notes that filled the silence now surrounding Al’s Garage and all of Cottonwood. The notes painted that silence with a gentle yet joyful call to life and a celebration of the elusive cause of the stalled-out vehicles that so perplexed Vince Pasternack—changing conditions.