Prodigal Blues

by Gary A Braunbeck

  "Edna," said Earl. "The boy doesn't want to hear about your sister's problems."

  So I was right, they were related. Chalk one up for my side.

  Edna let go of me, then Earl stepped up and squeezed both my shoulders. "You done good, son. You done good."

  "Thanks," I said, trying not to wince from his car-crusher grip. We stood there looking at each for a few more moments, until Earl saw another news van pull into the parking lot. "You'd best get on to your room. We'll make sure your dinner gets to you."

  I was just walking away when Edna called: "I almost forgot—your wife phoned a little bit ago. She left a message; said she'd try back."

  I double-timed it back to the room. The red message indicator light on the phone was blinking. The phone rang as I was reaching for the receiver.

  "Are you naked, baby?" I said as I picked it up.

  "No, but now I'm gonna think things," said Cletus. "I hope to Christ you were expecting this to be someone else."

  "Sorry. Edna said my wife called and I thought you might be her calling back."

  "That's a relief. Listen, I gotta ask you a kind of personal question."

  I figured he'd already heard about Denise and was expecting him to quiz me on that, but instead he said: "Does your brother-in-law like you?"

  "Not really. Why?"

  "Remember when I asked you about the 'Check Engine' light? I been poking around in that heap and found out a couple of things you need to know. Besides the master cylinder leaking, the coolant fan is shot—I don't know how many guys looked at this car before me, but there's no good goddamn excuse for them not to have caught this."

  "You're losing me, Cletus; remember, I don't speak your language."

  "Your brother-in-law knew you were pulling off his lot in a bad and probably dangerous car. That engine was guaranteed to overheat on you, but that's not the thing I called to tell you about. I called to tell you that the bulb—you paying attention here? This's important—the goddamned bulb in the 'Check Engine' light was removed. You got me, Mark? Good old Perry had one of his mechanics get inside the panel and pull the bulb so that there'd be no way you could tell the engine was overheating."

  I felt my grip tighten on the receiver. "Are you certain it couldn't have been some kind of accident? Maybe one of the other mechanics mistakenly removed it when they were looking at the—"

  "Take my word on this one, Mark—you can't remove that bulb by mistake. It's something you go in with the intention of doing. Your brother-in-law meant for you to have a breakdown somewhere along the way. He's lucky you didn't get hurt or worse. I'll testify to that in court."

  "Thanks, Cletus. I appreciate this."

  "Even though I ain't naked? Good to know." We said good-bye, I sat there taking several deep breaths to calm down, and then listened to Tanya's message:

  "Hello, you sorry perv," said Tanya's voice. "I just got off the phone with Perry. He's a bit put-out with both you and some guy named Cletus. You tell Cletus I said 'Good for you.' Perry's probably still trying to put out the fire in his ear hair—nobody calls my man the names he called you. And, no, we're not paying him for repairs or hauling costs or any of it. He's also going to pay us back for your motel room and the tow and the car rental, which he's none-too-happy about—doesn't that just tug at your heart strings? My guess is he's whining to Mom and Dad about it right now, but it won't do him any good—I was always the favorite.

  "I'm really sorry that this happened to you, sweetie. But at least you were lucky enough to find out before you had a serious accident. Edna tells me that everybody there's really taken with you. They sound like a great bunch of folks. By the way, I promised her that you'd make sure to get her cookie recipe before you leave, so don't forget. I've got to run some errands before heading over to Columbus to pick up Gayle and the kids—somebody wants me to buy him a cell phone, wonder why—so I probably won't be home when you get this… just make sure you call me back tonight, okay? I don't care how late it is, you call me.

  "By the way, I was so naked when you called. And still wet from the shower. Should've seen me. Water trickling between my boobs and pooling near my belly button. It was really hot. And I was talking to my brother instead of you. That's just wrong. Oh, well…."

  I called her back immediately and got the voicemail.

  "You are not going to believe what just happened to me; suffice to say that it involves many witnesses, television news crews, and the State Police. I'm not kidding, pinkie-swear. I'm not in trouble, so don't worry. Give everyone a hug and kiss from me—except Perry, who may be facing some criminal charges when I get home. I'll call you later tonight with all the details. I love you. I miss you." I tried to think of something lascivious to say but couldn't, so I just hung up, then sat on the edge of the bed and let everything finally register… and that's when it occurred to me that I hadn't asked Denise

  (told you it wasn't a stunt!)

  about who she'd been traveling with. Aside from Denise herself, the driver of the butter dishes was whom the police would most need to speak with.

  I washed my hands and face; the cold water felt great and the motel soap was vanilla-scented. Tanya used vanilla soap. It made me miss her all the more.

  I was drying off when I heard a knock on the door—not the door to my room, the door in my room.

  The groovy decorator who'd done this room must have had an even more far-out buddy who designed the building, because this was the first time in over a decade that I'd been in a motel room that actually had connecting doors between rooms.

  "Yes?" I said to the door.

  "I have your supper here, Mr. Sieber," said a rough, sandy voice. "Muriel had us reheat it. I have fresh pie and some of Edna's cookies for you, too."

  I grabbed the latch, which was stuck. While I fiddled with it, I asked the waitress, "Why are you delivering it like this?"

  She laughed. "There are reporters all over the place. Edna has got a passkey—" A nasty series of coughs erupted from her chest. "—sorry. Edna has a passkey she used to let me in. I came in through number ten and just used the connecting doors to get here. You know—so no reporters would see."

  The latch started to give, much to my stomach's joy. "Pretty clever. I wouldn't have thought of that." And I wouldn't have. "Listen, when you get back, do me a favor?" The latch came free and I swung open the door. "Tell Muriel that I forgot to mention—"

  I never finished. Whatever hit me felt like it had been dropped from somewhere near Jupiter and caught a ride on a bolt of lightning. I remember feeling my entire body locking up as my insides burst into flame; I remember feeling my legs buckle; I remember something warm and thick running down the front of my face; I remember thinking the floor was very considerate, the way it rushed up to greet me like it had really missed my company….

  5. I Always Liked That Song

  …jesuschristididnotTHINKhisnosewasevergoingTOSTOPbleedingwhydidyouhaveTOhithimwithsomuchjuiceHADtobesurehewouldnotMAKEanynoisedidinotBUTweagreedABOUTthefacehehastolookALLrightyouknow…

  I came awake in slow degrees. The first thing that registered was the vibrations; I thought I was on the motel bed, "Magic Fingers" massaging away, but then it got bumpy and hard and something solid that was most definitely not magic slammed against my back.

  …sorryweDIDNOTHAVEtimetoCLEANtheroombutYOUARETHEonewhowantedtoGEToutbeforethePOLICEgotthereDONOTstartfightingWITHeachothernotNOWWEaREalmostdone…

  The second thing that registered was the pain in my face; it was dulled somewhat, but it still throbbed back into my skull; the continuous bumps and jostles didn't help any.

  …ohgodiamsoSCAREDwhatifHEISreallyhurtBADANDwecannotgetHIMtoWILLyouBEQUIETyouare

  gettingthomasUPSETwhataboutme….

  The next thing to hit home was the taste of a metallic-snot furball lodged between my tongue and throat; I tried to lift myself awake and pull in a breath so I could hawk it up but my head weighed about fifty pounds, so I decided to blow my nose instead.


  The radio was playing a Marshall Tucker Band song, "Take The Highway." I always liked that song.

  I reached for my handkerchief. Something rattled and clinked and my arm just stopped. A sharp pain encircled my wrist; someone with an ice-cold iron hand was wrenching it away from me.

  I tried pulling free but whoever had hold wasn't going along with things; that didn't stop me from trying again.

  No good.

  Time to rally.

  And-a one, and-a two, and-a—

  This time, as I jerked back with everything I had (which, under the circumstances, isn't saying much), the thought crossed my mind that it might maybe-kinda-sorta be a good idea if I opened my eyes so I could see just what the hell was going on—

  Everything looked like it was being filtered through one of those gauzy camera lenses used in movies to make aging stars appear to not have crow's-feet and face-lifts.

  I blinked several times, then—against my better instincts—shook my head. The pain snarled forward and I bit my lower lip, wincing… but when I opened my eyes again, things were a lot clearer.

  I almost wished they hadn't been.

  I automatically clicked into janitor mode, examining the entirety of the mess at first glance, then breaking it down into bite-sized pieces of disorder.

  Disorder first: I was on the floor of a van and the van was moving; so much for the "Magic Fingers" scenario.

  Disorder second: The pain was getting intense in a hurry.

  Disorder third: My ankles were manacled together with one of those strap-and-chain numbers used on violent murderers being marched into a courtroom.

  Disorder fourth: There was dried blood all over the front of my shirt, which had been torn and was missing several buttons.

  Disorder fifth: I couldn't move my arms because each wrist was handcuffed to an iron ring soldered to the wheel wells on either side; I lay in an almost perfect crucifixion pose.

  Disorder sixth (and for the moment, the most immediate): I had to—in Cletus's words—make a pause for the cause.

  I tilted back my head, and for my efforts got a forced-perspective view of the folding (and currently upright) seat I was chained behind. I opened my mouth to say something and suddenly remembered that scene from Last House On The Left (one of Tanya's favorite horror movies for some reason) where the killers, just to degrade one of their female victims, force her to piss in her pants before murdering her.

  I concentrated on keeping my bladder under control; I had to, otherwise I'd have no choice but to think about this really honestly seriously goddamn scary situation, and I wasn't sure I could handle it.

  "Hello."

  I looked up and saw a girl's face that was, from this angle, all hanging black hair, lower lip, and nostrils. There was a strong smell of makeup about her.

  "What… happened?"

  "You hit your face against the phone table when you fell down. The Taser was set a lot higher than I thought. I am sorry. Are you okay?"

  "I have to… go to… the bathroom."

  "Anything else?"

  "My head… hurts."

  "Okay, then." She disappeared from view. "He is awake and says he has to use the toilet. I need to go, too." I recognized her voice, even though there wasn't a motel-room door between us. This close, it sounded as if she had something wrong with her throat; her sandy voice was even rougher that I remembered: it sounded outright painful.

  "Check the map, will you, Arnold?" said a hollow-sounding male voice. "There should be another motel coming up."

  Paper rustling. "I think you are right." This voice sounded very young, a boy of maybe eleven or twelve. "Exit… Exit 24A."

  "There is 23," said the first voice—I assumed the driver's. "Check the computer, just to be safe."

  "Do I have to? I just checked it a little bit ago."

  "Humor me."

  "Please do not be mad."

  A sigh. "I am not, I promise. Just make sure, will you?"

  Someone began tapping keys.

  "May I see?" asked the driver.

  "It is not in blue," said the younger voice. "See?"

  "Excellent," said the driver. Then he called out: "Can you hold it for five more minutes?"

  It took a moment before I realized he was talking to me and not the girl. "Uh… I think so."

  Hair, Lip, and Nostrils came back over the seat. "So… how much does it hurt?"

  "Kind of a lot."

  "Honest?"

  "Honest."

  "Okay, then." She disappeared again. Something with latches was opened, and when her hand came around the lower side of the seat to grab my arm I almost let go right then, it startled me so much.

  "Do not wriggle around, please? I do not want it to break off ." Only her arms and hands were visible. She felt along my arm, slapped it a few times to raise a vein, and started to administer a shot. "This will make it better, I promise. Demerol."

  "Hang on a second," I said, but it was too late; she'd already sunk the plunger.

  "You should be okay now."

  It took about sixty seconds. The last thing to consciously register was that "Take The Highway" had ended and "A New Life" was starting, which meant it wasn't the radio, they were listening to a tape of The Marshall Tucker Band's Greatest Hits, an album I'd been meaning to buy, and promised myself I would buy if I got out of this alive, then the Demerol sang a different, shinier song that was suddenly all I wanted to hear….

  6. Contractions

  When I came awake this time, nothing was vibrating, not even my skull. I still felt shiny from the Demerol. And weightless. But mostly shiny. In a weightless kind of way. I tried swallowing only to discover I had a mondo case of cotton-mouth. A drink of water sounded good. Sounded great, in fact. Richard the Third at the battle of Bosworth Field didn't want a horse as much as I wanted some water.

  Opening my eyes, I saw the stucco ceiling above.

  Funny, I didn't remember this groovy room's ceiling as being stucco, but what the hell, I'd enjoy the view, feeling all shiny and weightless and like I didn't

  (…to Mark, Earth to Mark, your circuit's dead, something's wrong…)

  have a care in the world, but something seemed out of place, seemed different… didn't it? Yeah, it sure did. Then I wondered

  (…all shiny from the DEMEROL SHOT, bright guy; is THAT enough of a hint for you?)

  why it felt like I was partially undressed, so I lifted my head and saw that I was, indeed, naked from the waist down. Something cold and heavy was around my right ankle, but at least my hands were free, so I rubbed my eyes and pulled myself up and as I rose into a sitting position all the tumblers fell into place and I remembered the lightning bolt and the considerate floor and bumpy crucifixion ride and realized that wherever I was and whatever was happening, smart money said it wasn't good—

  "Do not scream or call for help."

  Seven words guaranteed to wake your ass up in a hurry. I grabbed a handful of bed sheet and covered myself.

  Then he spoke again: "Please, I meant to say. Please do not scream or call for help."

  He was sitting in chair next to a lighted floor lamp whose low-wattage bulb cast most of his face in shadow. He looked to be around twenty or so, dressed in a tan, short-sleeved cotton shirt, with tan khaki pants and tan shoes under which he wore tan socks. Everything about his appearance was so bland as to make him indistinguishable among a crowd; even his light-brown hair was cut in a style so precise it was invisible; pass him at the mall, on the street, or in a busy truck stop restaurant, and you wouldn't give him a second glance.

  "Please don't hurt me," I said, the words crawling out of my throat.

  "I would rather not," he replied, leaning forward into the light. "But I will not hesitate if I have to. I thought it was only fair you know that, all right?"

  I saw the gun in his hand before I looked at his face; the former was some kind semi-automatic pistol with a silencer attachment, ugly and big and serious as cancer; the latter, while at first glanc
e pleasant enough in a forgettable way, was sharp and smooth and strangely without lines or wrinkles—not that a twenty-year-old face should look haggard and world-weary, but even in this light, with my foggy vision, there wasn't a laugh-line, crow's foot, or blemish to be found on his features: he could have passed for a department-store mannequin. Some people would kill for skin like that and sleep the sleep of the righteous after.

  There were easily one hundred more significant questions I could have asked next—everything from "What do you want?" to "Who the hell are you?"—but the one that came out of my mouth when confronted by this face, this gun, and this situation, was: "Why don't I have my pants and underwear?"

  I heard others laughing to the side of the room but I wasn't about to look away from False-Face and his gun.

  "You wet yourself after Rebecca gave you the shot," he said. "If I had been thinking, I would have told her to wait so that would not happen. I apologize. We took them off and washed them in the bathtub. They should be dry enough in an hour or so."

  "Thank you."

  "You are welcome." So formal and polite.

  "How long have I been out?"

  "A couple of hours."

  The drapes were closed; I couldn't tell if it was still daylight. "What time is it?"

  "About two in the afternoon." He picked up a bottle of pills from the table, looked at them, then slipped them into one of his pockets. "In case you are wondering, no one knows you are missing yet. The girl from the restaurant who tried to deliver you supper figured you were sleeping, which gave us enough time to get you out before the State Police arrived."

  "They'll go to my room and find I'm not there."

  He flinched at something, then shook his head. "No, they will not. You left a note at the desk for Edna saying that you caught a ride into Jefferson City to rent a car, and that you will be back as soon as you can—you realize the police want to speak with you and, after all, you left four boxes in her storage room. Considering all the excitement and confusion about Denise, and so many witnesses in the restaurant wanting to tell their stories, it will be hours before anyone starts looking for you, and morning before it occurs to them that something is wrong."