I wanted to beat my head in, but Barbara swallowed it whole.
"Let's get this show on the road," she said, shifting into gear.
By all rights Jeremy's comment should have landed him on the sidewalk. So many crossed expectations sent my head spinning. And we were only just beginning.
We emerged from the inner ring of old commercial crud on Broad Street and entered the younger crud of Willow Lawn. Ten miles later we approached the new crud, huge warehouse outlets and a spanking new mall where geese ignorant of recent changes in the terrain led their goslings out of the local ponds for a stroll and squash. I hate birds a lot less than I hate people, and I hated to see the feathered puddles in the vast parking lot where we turned off to orientate ourselves.
"So what intersection are we looking for?" Barbara asked.
"What makes you think we're looking for an intersection?" Jeremy said.
"You said 'the first cross', meaning first crossing, right?"
"Yeah..." Jeremy turned halfway in the seat and looked at me. "Got an opinion?"
"No," I said. I never did. A handful of half-assed conclusions was about all I could manage.
"Do you think it means the first crossroad?" Jeremy scrutinized me for signs of life.
"You'd think," I said. Then, feeling the weight of his disdain, I ventured, "Or it could be a trick, to throw someone off."
"Like us," Jeremy sniffed.
"Maybe a church?" I continued.
"That's an idea," said Barbara.
It certainly was. It was also wasted air. The instructions were so vague that they did not even include the first cross after what. Short Pump was no longer the one-horse town it had been when I was a child, where Broad Street petered out into cow pastures. Man's immortal longing for shopping malls was fulfilled to the max: open malls, enclosed malls, strip malls, regional malls, super regional malls, outlet malls...all surrounded by fake townhouses that disguised parking lots and real condos that contained fake humans. For someone from the earthy misery of Oregon Hill it was a bit like Hell, where human dysfunctions were compartmentalized and fermented. I got the feeling that commercial America had bitten off more than it could chew, as evidenced by all the empty shops festooned with For Lease banners. Listen folks, all we need is a Mom and Pop and a roof over our heads. Just try to find a proper éclair at Orvis or orange pop at Nordstrom.
I doubted Jeremy or Barbara shared my sense of esthetics. To them, the junk of the Hill was just a smaller version of the junk malls. They didn't see that the crap of our old neighborhood was fully integrated with the residents, whereas Short Pump was an alien ship that had crash landed and just sat, untowed, out of place and out of tune. Barbara's eyes wandered over the marquees. She would return to pick out a little bit of overpriced Heaven to take back home.
"Knock-knock," Jeremy said, rapping me on the head. "Anyone there?"
I jerked back. "Why—"
"I said we should just get back on 250 and head west. Maybe we can't recognize the clue until we see it."
"Sure," I said, rubbing my head. Jeremy's knuckles hadn't changed. If anything, they'd grown harder. Or my skull had grown soft.
There were plenty of intersections in the first mile. It was hard to say where Short Pump ended and the rest of the world began. We passed Strange's Nursery without seeing anything that fit the puzzle. I saw a man carting something that looked like an overgrown weed to the back of his pickup. It could have been something else, a shrub out of season or something. Or maybe weeds were in fashion.
"Skunk hunt," I said.
"Huh?" my brother and sister asked in unison.
"This whole thing stinks," I elaborated.
"I thought you might have an opinion," said Jeremy without turning around.
We entered a stretch that was semi-suburban, semi-country, semi-scenic, semi-desolate and completely tedious. We stopped at a couple of churches, didn't see God or anything else interesting, and moved on. Our interest was piqued by a cemetery and we tooled around the graves for about fifteen minutes. The tombstones were lawnmower-friendly, flat on the ground. There wasn't a standing cross to be seen. Costco graves.
We were ten or fifteen miles from the Town Center when Jeremy gave an un-Skunk-like yelp.
"Turn around!"
"What did you see?" I asked.
"Turn where?" Barbara said frantically.
It's amazing how problematic turning a car around can become in the countryside. All the wide open spaces were blocked off by ditches and fences, and there was just enough traffic coming the other way to discourage Barbara from attempting a U-turn.
"There's a driveway!" Jeremy shouted.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Barbara complained as we flew past.
"You didn't see it?"
"There was a dirt lane—"
"That was the driveway!" Jeremy thumped the dash with his fist.
"Don't hit my car!" Barbara warned. "And a dirt lane isn't a driveway."
"Out here it is." Jeremy peered ahead. "There's a cut by the road. See it? Right there?"
Barbara slowed down for a moment, then sped up. "It's too close to the ditch."
"You've got to be..."
My limited view from the back prevented me from joining the debate. I wanted to tell Jeremy to shut up and let Barbara choose where to turn. Captain of the ship and all. Even if my brother was right, Barbara was too nervous for precision. It would do none of us any good if she got stuck.
Finally, only a mile and a half down the road, we came to a Fast Mart and Barbara pulled off. She drove up to a gas pump.
"What are you doing?" Jeremy screeched, becoming less and less like Skunk by the second.
"My tank's empty," Barbara answered with a smile of satisfaction. "Bet you didn't notice that, did you, Mr. Smarty Pants?" She held out her hand. "Give me twenty."
Jeremy crossed his palm over hers in empty salute. "There's five."
"I've got a few dollars," I said, willing to suffer financially for the greater good.
"If Doubletalk can afford a sports car, he can fork over twenty," Barbara said, suddenly chock-full of authority.
Jeremy saw determined patience in her eyes and shrugged. "I'll use my card." He got out, a huff of disgust springing out of him as he stood.
"Goddamn," I murmured as he swiped his card at the pump.
"What?" said Barbara cheerfully, basking in one-upsmanship.
"A Gold Card," I said. "Jeremy has a Gold Card."
"Big deal," Barbara said, unwilling to grant him any credit for credit. "I know someone with a Platinum."
"Who's that?" I asked.
"Some guy."
"Your sugar daddy?" Brothers can say such things.
"Go to hell," was her bland response. "Most everything I own is in my name."
I decided it was beyond my sibling entitlements to ask what she owned that wasn't in her name. Only her car and her lease would have dotted lines, in any case. One or both must belong to someone else. If it came to a split with her benefactor, she could at least keep the jeans and mascara and (presumably) kinky underwear.
The gas pump nozzle rattled in the tank. Barbara let go with an oath and stuck her head out her window. "Don't be so cheap. Fill it up!"
Jeremy said something to the effect that that was probably the line she used on her johns, and for an instant I thought Barbara was going to start the engine and leave him behind. Jeremy must have thought so, too, because he reinserted the nozzle and let the gas run until the cut-off trigger clicked.
"See the sign?" he said when Barbara protested, directing her attention to the 'Please Do Not Cap Off' sticker on the side of the pump.
All of this put a dazzling shine on our mood as we backtracked Route 250. None of us said a word until Jeremy pointed: "There."
Leaning up in my seat, I could see the cross at the side of the road, one of those plain white memorials families and loved ones plant for traffic victims. Luckily, there was a gravel turnaround close by that s
uited Barbara. She parked without qualm or complaint and we got out and crossed the road. Within twenty feet of the cross it became apparent we were in the right place: 'Andrew McPherson' was stenciled in neat black letters on the transverse. Drawing closer, we saw an ichthus beneath the name. Inside the fish was a tiny outline of a skunk.
"I can't imagine Dad ever being called 'Andy'," said Barbara.
It did sound too commonplace for a man of Skunk's extravagant character. We stared down at the cross with a solemnity that would have been more appropriate to a real grave. I suppose the possibility that it held a vital clue added to its religious significance.
"What's with the car hood ornament?" said Barbara, referring to the ichthus.
Jeremy walked around the cross like a boxer checking out an opponent. "So?" he said, and answered himself: "So nothing."
"You don't suppose it could be buried..." Barbara began.
"What, right here?" Jeremy stopped and looked down. "Like X marks the spot?"
I surveyed the area for mounds and raw earth. "It doesn't look like anyone has been digging here."
"I don't ever remember Skunk going to church," said Barbara. Another pertinent observation.
"He didn't find Jesus in prison," Jeremy said. "That's a good trick, when you think 90% of the G.P.'s spend most their time yanking God's chain."
"G.P.?"
"General prison population."
The way he said it, you would have thought he was explaining the periodic table. We circled around the cross again and again. Passing drivers slowed down for a gander, probably goofballs hoping Barbara had broken down and were hoping to trade a lift for a tumble once they dumped the two goofballs with her. But no one stopped to ask or volunteer.
"Got it," I said finally. Yeah, with a smirk.
"What?" Jeremy asked.
"Look closer." My smirk broadened.
"I will, as soon as I wipe that smirk off your mouth."
I lost the smirk.
Concerned that his jailbird education might be upstaged by his numbskull brother, Jeremy studied the cross from every angle—except the important one.
"Are you putting me on?" Jeremy said, balling his fist. "Because if you are—"
"Look at the sides," I said.
"They aren't painted."
"That's right, but whoever did this wasn't being cheap," I said.
Barbara and Jeremy stood on opposite sides of the cross, scrutinizing the profile, their eyes rising and rising until they met in a joint scowl.
"Okay, look at the scorch marks left by the circular saw," I told them, removing all trace of superiority from my voice.
"Yeah?"
"They aren't scorch marks."
Jeremy looked again and grimaced like the guy who'd missed the fly on his nose. Barbara squinted, then yelped, breaking out in a little dance.
"I see it!"
Why someone would go to the trouble of disguising the message as friction burns from a dull blade belonged to the realm of artistic paranoids. I could be just as loony, as witness my recent justifiable paranoia. But leave the artist out of it. The detail work was impressive: on one side of the vertical stick was written '1149', on one side of the transverse 'Old', on the other side of the transverse 'Petersburg' and on the opposite side of the vertical 'Road'. The letters were slanted in a high-speed scrawl, like someone writing on a moving train, with a downward spin. For all the world like a saw on the verge of sticking, although perfectly legible once you saw the trick.
"It's like whoever is doing this doesn't really want us to find the money," said Jeremy, poking the address into his phone's database. "I mean, why go to the trouble? Why not just hand it over?"
I was sure 'whoever' had his reasons, unknown reasons that were making me increasingly nervous. The letter and temporary website were tolerable, the message on the bottle chancy, and these imitation scorch marks outright ridiculous. It was like someone was obliged to leave clues but was making them increasingly arcane. Either it really was a game to him, or he didn't really want us to get the money. But it was the final possibility that set me on edge: whoever was doing this was scared shitless.
"Funk," said Barbara.
We glanced at her. She pointed at the cross.
"The fish and the skunk," she explained. "Put them together and you get 'funk'."
I suppose she felt the need to contribute something to the process. Between this and her mascara she was a regular Van Pain.
"Any idea where this place is?" Jeremy asked, shooting me a sly glance. I got the impression he thought I was in on some secret. Hey, just because I was the one spotting all the clues didn't mean I knew anything in advance. He just couldn't get over the possibility that I was smarter than him.
"No," I said reluctantly, losing some of my smart-ass veneer. "Isn't that a 'smart' phone? Can't you look it up on that?"
Jeremy frowned. He might have a Porsche, but his phone was stupid. Absence of technology is as much a glitch as technology itself.
"I can Mapquest it on the laptop," Jeremy said. I presumed he was showing off his geek-ness. "Any Wi-Fi around here?"
"You mean like a Starbucks—"
The cross exploded at the intersection of the upright and crossbar.
Fragments flew in every direction, nicking all of us. We all sort of just gaped.
"Booby-trapped!" I said, feeling like a booby.
"Dumb ass!" Jeremy cried, dropping to the ground. "That was a rifle! Get down!"
Barbara gave a squeal of fear. Or it might have been me letting go with an involuntary high pitch as my stomach hit the weeds and gravel. Barbara beat me to the sprawl.
"Someone's shooting at us?" Now she was squealing.
I tried to gauge the angle of the shot. For someone to have hit the cross between 'William' and 'McPherson' he would have to be facing dead-on. But I had to assume one or all of us had been the target, and the lucky shot had actually been a miss. The cross had been facing oncoming westbound traffic. I looked up the road. It was empty, which made sense if the shooter had been waiting for a clear field of fire.
"Those woods," said Barbara, craning her neck.
"Get down!" Jeremy hollered. He began to roll on the ground, his arms sticking over his head. I had the impression that he had learned this maneuver from some lone-commando-vs.-rabid-hordes action movie. There was a thump followed by a yelp as he fell in the ditch. He began yelling "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" as though Barbara and I were the ones holding guns on him. The long-range shooter certainly couldn't hear. With his voice muffled by the ditch, even I had a hard time hearing him.
"Barb," I said, forgetting her pet name in the tension of the moment.
"Yeah?"
"Those woods are on a hill," I observed.
"I can see that."
"But that means even laying down like this he still has a clear shot at us."
"Oh shit," she said in low sob.
A car approached, slowing down as it neared us. I caught a glimpse of a silver-haired woman whose chin disappeared under a dropped jaw. She said something to the driver, who did a Daytona and split in an instant. I wondered if she would call the police on her cell phone.
But if the shooter could see us clearly, he didn't take advantage of it. After clearing my head of muddled fear and my face of stiff roadside grass, it dawned on me that the cross had indeed been the target. I swiveled around on my hip and sat up. When I saw some ants making a beeline for my crotch I surrendered myself to my destiny and stood.
"Mute!" Barbara wailed.
"If this guy was serious I'd be toast already," I said.
Jeremy peeked up from the ditch, waiting for the next whizz-bang to take off my head.
"They can't kill us," I reasoned. "We're the ones getting the clues."
Neither Barbara nor Jeremy were convinced, so I did a little jig. I knew I risked annoying the shooter, if he was still watching. He might decide to pop me for my insulting behavior. After all, there were two family members t
o spare.
"See?" I gestured to my brother and sister, urging them to join me. "They're just letting us know they want their cut."
"They?" Barbara said, rising slowly.
"They. Him. Her. Whoever. The police aren't the only ones who know what we're up to." As I spoke, I watched Jeremy slinking through the ditch on his hands and knees. "Think over the last year or so. Haven't you noticed strangers watching your movements? Not every day, not every night. Just often enough to keep tabs."
"I haven't seen anyone." Barbara brushed off her jeans. "I mean, I've got perverts google-eying me all the time. Day and night. Some of them would follow me home after work. How would I know them from these guys?"
"I guess you wouldn't," I admitted. "But let's face it, we're sitting on a lot of change. It's only normal for certain parties to be interested."
"Idiots," said Jeremy, still prone in his trench. "Someone shoots at you like that, you don't stand in the open and yack-yack."
"I think Mute is right." Since Barbara could not see past her bosom, she had to hand-check her abdomen for bullet holes. This drew a honk from a passing motorist. Barbara daintily flipped him off, then frowned down at Jeremy cowering in the ditch. "You're all muddy."
"Jesus!" Jeremy wept. "You're both lunatics! Look here, I got hit by a splinter from that cross!"
"I think we all got a few nicks," said Barbara, enjoying the spectacle.
I, on the other hand, was appalled by my brother's antics. He was supposed to provide muscle, and at the first sign of danger we got tears.
"Go get the car," Jeremy told Barbara.
"You want us to leave you here?"
"No!" Jeremy cried frantically. "Just pull over to the side of the road here and I'll hop in."
"That's not very gentlemanly," Barbara critiqued. "If you really thought we could get shot, you'd be the one to get the car."
You got that right, Sister. My craven brother was getting on my nerves. He acted (and, at the moment, looked) like those wimpy gookenspiels rednecks love to torment. I personally was on the verge of kicking sand in his face, and I'm the last person on earth to do such a thing—at least when it's beyond the bounds of prudence.
"There's no place to park," Barbara reasoned, visually estimating the narrow space between the road and ditch.
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