Eddie mumbled something, but Rebecca couldn’t quite make it out. She stared at him for a moment longer and then turned forward, closing her eyes and enjoying the morning air. She guessed that Eddie might simply be exhausted, as he’d been working as many hours as, if not more than, anyone at the Home. She knew that in addition to security matters, he’d been busy shuttling staff back and forth to Cottonwood in the golf carts, and certainly had made dozens of trips already. Besides, she had issues of her own to think about.
After what she guessed was only about five minutes or so, Rebecca felt the cart come to a stop. She knew it was too soon to be in town, and she opened her eyes, looked around at the empty highway and trees, and then over at Eddie.
“Why have we stopped?” she asked.
“I’m better than him,” said Eddie flatly without looking over at Rebecca, but keeping his arms resting across the top of the steering wheel.
“Better than who?”
“Matthew,” said Eddie, now turning and looking directly into Rebecca’s eyes.
Whereas Matthew’s eyes were always a clear, bright, and soothing mountain stream, Eddie’s eyes at that moment were darkness and fire. Rebecca’s heart beat faster, and a sickness burned into her stomach.
How much did Eddie know? More importantly, how did he know?
“Why do you say that?” Rebecca asked, hoping for, but not expecting an honest answer.
Eddie turned away and was once more looking ahead down the deserted highway. “I’ve seen—” he began and then stopped.
“You’ve seen what?” Rebecca asked. Her mind racing. “What have you seen?” How could Eddie know about them? Where had she slipped up? She was sure she hadn’t mentioned Matthew to anyone at work; she had been careful around her fellow employees and patients.
Eddie turned and looked at her with the same eyes, like two small raging volcanoes. “Don’t play games with me, Becky. You know exactly what I’m talking about, and I’m smart enough to know you only think you love him. But he’s been gone a long time, and he’s gonna learn that he was gone too long.” He then turned and stared toward the road once more.
Somewhere she had slipped up. It didn’t matter how or where, but already Eddie knew more than he should. “Eddie,” said Rebecca, trying to steady her nervous voice, “where did this all come from? What makes you say these things?” Rebecca stared at Eddie, but he didn’t reply right away.
After a long pause and continuing to look straight ahead, Eddie said, “Becky, it doesn’t matter how I know what I know, because you don’t love him anyway.” He then slowly turned and looked at her, and now the fire was gone from his eyes, being replaced by something sure and steady, but not comforting. “He’s confused you by coming back here, that’s all. I don’t blame you for that. He’ll realize his mistake soon enough.” He then turned away, and the cart suddenly accelerated, tossing her back in her seat.
Rebecca stared down the empty road. It was a turn of events that she hadn’t expected; her mind began grasping for answers. She had scarcely seen Eddie the night before, as he had disappeared somewhere shortly after they’d talked in her office. She realized then that perhaps she should have seen that as some kind of a sign. She had fully expected him to be hanging around throughout the night. Though she thought she’d been polite enough with him, maybe even then he’d been off brooding somewhere, already somehow knowing about her and Matthew. But how did he know?
She then reflected back on the conversation between the three of them on her front porch. Perhaps Eddie gleaned some sign or signal from that brief meeting—some look that passed between them or their tone of voice, or maybe it was just the whole sudden reappearance of Matthew in Cottonwood. She knew Eddie had always been jealous of them and had been thrilled when Matthew moved away, but all of these possibilities didn’t quite fit with what she now heard in Eddie’s words and saw in his eyes. There was an intense certainty there—he knew she loved Matthew. He must have heard her say it! Her phone calls home were the only remaining possibility.
“Eddie,” Rebecca began, looking over at him, though uncertain if it was wise to be so blunt with him, but needing to know. “Is there any chance that you might have been listening in on my phone conversations last night?”
Eddie’s jaw tensed and his face reddened lightly. Rebecca saw it, and Eddie knew she saw it; he was like a child getting caught stealing a cookie when he’d least expected someone else to be watching the cookie jar. He did not answer at first, but Rebecca watched his face closely. She knew she had found out some secret that Eddie must have thought would never be discovered. She had opened a small but critical first crack into the unseen and secret life of Eddie Flynn, but that crack quickly sealed itself closed as Eddie’s face changed again suddenly, like a cloud passing across the moon at night—the flush was gone, the jaw relaxed.
Eddie turned to Rebecca and said calmly, “Becky, I’ve never listened in on your phone conversations. I swear to God about that, and it hurts me that you believe I’d do such a terrible thing.”
Rebecca searched his eyes and saw a tangled mixture of something that was both the truth and a lie; she was confused by that. She was certain he was telling the truth, yet she also knew he was hiding some even greater lie. His flushed face and tense jaw meant something, and though the crack was now closed, she knew what she had seen.
For her, Eddie had always been just one among the small crowd she’d grown up with in Cottonwood. They played together as kids, and even occasionally hung out together when they were older—though less and less in high school. She knew he’d always had a crush on her, and despite his constant flirtations, even while she was clearly dating Matthew in high school, she always made it clear to Eddie that she wasn’t interested. She endlessly hoped that he’d find someone else to focus his attentions on. She also hoped that when he went away to the army for several years—like many of the kids did after high school—that he’d also be one of those who permanently found a life for himself outside of Cottonwood; however, those she had hoped would return, never did, and when Eddie came back from the army, he immediately began flirting with her, buzzing around her like a fly, she thought, who had escaped through a screen door. When he eventually got the job working in security at the Home, it was as though the fly had instantly invaded the part of her life that brought her the most satisfaction. Now, for the first time in all the years she’d known him, rather than being simply a fly, something darker in Eddie Flynn had suddenly been revealed to her. Just enough had been exposed, through that small and momentary crack, to spark a primal fear in her. It was the kind of fear that only women can ever know—a fear that comes from the terrifying revelation that they are sitting next to a man who is all at once deceptive, jealous, and much stronger. The revelation was that the fly might, indeed, be a wasp.
As Rebecca stared down the road, the cart’s already slow speed seemed doubly so. She considered her options—she could jump out, but where could she hope to run? Though she was in good physical shape, Eddie was as well, and he could easily track her down in the surrounding forest. Jumping out might also tip her hand in showing him her fear. She knew instinctively that she mustn’t let him know she feared him. The very act of jumping out might provoke some more extreme reaction that he wasn’t currently inclined toward. After all, he hadn’t actually made any direct threat toward her. But she needed to do something. It was torturous sitting next to this man who had suddenly been transformed from an old though annoying friend into someone she couldn’t fully trust anymore.
“Eddie,” began Rebecca, looking over at him and trying to think of some way to temper whatever anger he was feeling. “I don’t know how you’ve come about your information, but Matthew and I are just friends—really. He’s been gone a long time, and he was only helping me—”
“C’mon,” interrupted Eddie, his voice not sounding angry at all, but close to calm and reasonable. “I know that whatever is between you and Matthew isn’t real, and so you don’t nee
d to lie to me. You’re just confused right now; I know that, and you’ll come to realize it, too. Now, let’s not talk about this anymore. I think it’s just upsetting both of us.”
For a moment, Eddie seemed nearly rational to Rebecca, though under his now calm voice, she could feel a deep and terrifying energy—something dangerous and explosive. She didn’t want to do or say anything that might cause that energy to come to the surface. Eddie’s offer of not talking about it anymore had a kernel of wisdom to it. She fought back her instinct to jump from the moving cart, realizing its futility. They were moving toward Cottonwood, and that was comforting enough, for now.
The two remained silent for the remainder of the trip. Rebecca glanced only occasionally at Eddie—his stare remaining expressionless and fixed on the highway ahead. She watched the yellow lines on the highway slowly pass by, one after another, each one of them like a rectangular stepping stone across the river of blacktop, bringing her ever closer to home and her new husband. She held tight to the cart’s handhold, while also keeping her emotions in check and setting her hopes and vision on home and Matthew; her constant thought—please be home when I get there!
Fifty-Two
Detour
No history of the Western United States would be complete without mentioning John Charles Fremont—the aptly nicknamed “Pathfinder” to the West. As a young army officer, he conducted early cartography explorations, crisscrossing the rugged territories that eventually became the states of Utah, Colorado, Nevada, Idaho, California, and Oregon. Guided by the belief and principles of “Manifest Destiny,” Fremont both explored the West and then wrote about it, piquing the imaginations of easterners, some of whom were so enthralled with those writings that they packed up their lives and headed west.
There is some discussion among historians as to how much Fremont’s wife, Jesse Benton Fremont, had actually been the guiding ghostwriter of her husband’s popular books. Not coincidentally, it was Jesse’s father, the powerful Missouri Senator Thomas Hart Benton, who was a strong voice for the idea of Manifest Destiny, and had given the directive to Fremont to map the wilds of the West and make it sound attractive to easterners who would eagerly digest his adventurous travel journals.
During his expeditions, harsh weather and difficult terrain often forced Fremont to seek detours, sometimes going nearly a hundred miles out of his way to find passage through difficult terrain. Multiple detours, twists, and turns were an allegory for his entire life, for in addition to becoming popular through his explorations and his, or Jesse’s, writings, John Fremont’s life was filled with a startling variety of accomplishments—he became wealthy after gold was discovered on land he had purchased in California, only to see that fortune lost through a series of bad business decisions; though successful as an early explorer, he went on to be court-martialed for other misdeeds; though he became a popular U.S. Senator, he ran unsuccessfully for President of the United States; though he fought in the Civil War and was Governor of Arizona, he died nearly broke and in relative obscurity in New York City in 1890.
Despite the many detours in his life, in the end, John Fremont’s role as the “Pathfinder” to the West remains his most acknowledged accomplishment, and the rivers, counties, towns, schools, and mountain peaks scattered across the West, all bearing his name, testify to his lasting mark upon history.
Agent Westmore had slept soundly at the Golden Spike Restaurant & Hotel in Ogden, Utah, and woke energized and refreshed. He was on the road before sunrise, heading south along I-15 to the town of Spanish Fork—a route once traveled by the Pathfinder himself, John Fremont, during his frequent navigations across the Utah Territory. At Spanish Fork, the agent cut over to U.S. Highway 6 and followed its meanderings to the southeast through scenic mountains and valleys punctuated by stark desert. Near Green River, he refueled and turned east on Interstate 70 toward Colorado. Listening to a constant stream of music from his radio and sometimes whistling or even singing along, the agent comfortably cruised the road, inside the artificial bubble of his air-conditioned car, unaware of the oppressive heat and dryness of the Utah summer boiling just outside the thin glass layer of his windshield. John Fremont had once traveled the nearly exact terrain the agent now followed, though the Pathfinder knew and felt the heat and parching dryness of summer or the bite of winter, often wondering, no matter what the season, how many of his men or horses would survive until the next sunset. The agent, however, traveled along I-70 toward Colorado, nearly oblivious to the reality of the natural world the Pathfinder had known, and completely oblivious to the fact that another sort of pathfinder had recently traveled the same direction, blazing a trail directly to Cottonwood.
He arrived in Grand Junction shortly after the noon hour, gobbled down a greasy fast-food lunch, once more filled up his tank with gas, and headed south on Colorado State Highway 50 toward Montrose. About 15 miles south of Grand Junction, he noticed a large flashing electronic sign of the kind that is often used by highway crew or the state patrol. It rested on the right shoulder of the road, and as there were no cars behind him, he slowed down to a near stop and read the scrolling electronic text:
DETOUR AHEAD...HIGHWAY 550 SOUTH FROM MONTROSE CLOSED BEFORE COTTONWOOD...USE HIGHWAYS 62 & 145...NO TRAVEL TO COTTONWOOD AT THIS TIME... FOR MORE INFORMATION CALL THE COLORADO STATE PATROL IN MONTROSE AT 970-555-8792...
What the hell?!
He pulled over completely onto the shoulder of the road, directly in front of the sign, and watched the message scroll several more times, carefully noting the phone number during the last one. He dialed the number on his cell phone. The agent got a recorded message that said:
“You have reached the Colorado State Patrol information line for the Southwest region. There are currently no construction or weather advisories in effect. For further information, please call back between the hours of 7 a.m. and 4:30 p.m., Monday through Friday. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. Thank you.”
How could this be? A major highway was shut down, and all he got was a recorded message telling him to call back the next day?
He tossed his cell phone on the passenger seat and gunned his engine, blasting the electronic sign with small rocks and sand as he accelerated down the highway toward Montrose.
He had only driven a few more miles when, in addition to several more of the electronic signs displaying the same message about detours and the highway closure into Cottonwood, he also began to see commercial billboards along the highway for a hotel by the name of the Slumberjack. They featured a drawing of a classic unshaven lumberjack with a cap, plaid shirt, and suspenders, sprawled across a puffy cloud-like mattress with his wool stocking feet hanging off the end. The lumberjack was fast asleep with cartoon-like little zzz’s coming out of his mouth. Next to the bed were his axe and a pair of big black boots. The captions on the billboards were all different and said things like, “You won’t slumber right tonight unless you slumber at the Slumberjack—Downtown Montrose,” or “Do you hear that sound? It’s the sound of a good night’s sleep at the Slumberjack—Downtown Montrose.”
About as frequently spaced along the highway as the billboards for the Slumberjack, he started seeing signs for a fast-food restaurant chain he’d never heard of called Tim’s World Famous Tasty Burger. Those signs always had the same caption on them: “Find out what a burger is meant to taste like! Taste the World’s Best Hamburger in downtown Montrose.”
He continued south on Highway 50, passing through the small towns of Delta and Olathe, and finally arrived in Montrose, where he slowed and began looking for the state patrol office or any signs that might indicate its location. Finally, at an intersection near the center of town, he spotted a blue sign with white lettering that read STATE PATROL, with an arrow underneath pointing to the right. He turned and drove slowly along, scanning both sides of the street, and after a few blocks, he found what he was looking for. It was a small brick structure with a fenced-in lot behind it. Two state patrol cars were p
arked in the lot, one of them with a badly damaged front end. He pulled up in front of the building and parked.
Hanging from a metal chain on the inside of the glass front door was an orange plastic sign with white letters that read OPEN. Underneath the sign was a smaller handwritten note that read The dogs are friendly. He opened the door and walked into a small reception area with a counter on the right, and to his left was a seating area that included a couch, coffee table, and two chairs. Coming from somewhere in a backroom of the building, down a hallway off to the left of the counter, he heard what sounded like the drone of a television. The distinct aroma of slightly burned popcorn hung in the air. A moment later, he was officially greeted by two bloodhounds that came rambling down the hallway, tails wagging and noses enjoying the new scent in the building—him. He stood still as the dogs sniffed up and down his pant legs and around his shoes. As the two hounds continued to sniff, he noticed a bell on the counter and tapped it lightly on top.
“Hello,” he said as the ting of the bell caused the hounds to begin barking and then suddenly scurry off down the hallway in the direction they’d come from. When they were well down the hall, he heard them let off a few final, low, halfhearted barks. He assumed they were trying to get the attention of someone in the room with the noisy television—to announce the arrival of a visitor.
He rang the bell again, this time hitting it harder, and from the backroom, the dogs began another round of their barking duet. “Anyone here?” he yelled, this time favoring the direction of the hallway toward the sounds of hounds and television.
A few moments later, he heard the distinct sound of a toilet flushing, and shortly after that, the two hounds came back down the hallway, followed by a middle-aged, physically fit man with a full head of short, curly red hair. He was wearing a Colorado State Patrol uniform—his shirt looked freshly tucked in.
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