Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  He hurried back to his own car as Rick Spelman screamed and sobbed for help. Needle-dacked baby, that’s what you are, Spelman.

  Before he turned down Old Madelyn Road, he flicked his headlights on. He drove sedately, then, as he turned, it occurred to him that it was possible someone could have heard the crash, specifically that old whore Cassie Halloway, who lived nearby. And if her boyfriend, the chief of police, heard it, too, that could be a problem. Turning off his headlights, he slowed to a crawl as he approached the dimly lit house. He stared hard, searching for Baskerville’s cruiser. His luck held—it wasn’t in sight. After idling in the middle of the road a moment, he pressed the accelerator and peeled out.

  10

  Tom Abernathy

  “SO WHY’D YOU THINK I WAS THE SHERIFF?” HE ASKED ALEX Manderley over his second cup of coffee.

  It was too dark to see if she blushed, but she sounded embarrassed. “I don’t know. I looked up and saw you on that beautiful white horse—”

  “Belle’s a silver-gray,” he interrupted.

  She smiled. “Silver-gray. You looked like Gary Cooper riding into town to shoot the bad guys.”

  “Ma’am, you do know how to turn a man’s head.”

  She laughed. “It wasn’t intentional, was it, Eric?”

  The young man smiled. “Alex always says what she thinks.”

  A distant crashing sound, metallic, reverberated against the canyon walls.

  “Do you have any idea what that was?” Watson asked.

  “Probably an accident down on the interstate.”

  “That far away?” Alex asked.

  “Well, I hope so,” Tom said slowly. “Sounds like that can get amplified and distorted by the canyon walls.” But even as he spoke, he realized the hairs were prickling up on the back of his neck and his thoughts turned to Marie. She’s nowhere near any cars, you fool. He stood up.

  He walked over to the edge of the encampment, but hills blocked the view in every direction. “You folks picked a funny spot for sky-watching. You’re not going to see anything that’s not directly overhead.”

  “A local boy guided us here and we thought we’d wait until morning to move.”

  “Good idea.” Tom walked back to the researchers. “Thanks for the coffee. I’d best be getting on home now.” He shook their hands again. “Look me up at Madland or the ranch if you need anything.” Feeling an urgent need to get moving, he climbed into the saddle and gave them a salute. “See you, folks.

  “Okay, Belle, let’s go see what’s going on.” He urged the mare forward and she moved more quickly than wise in the dark hills. She was a smart horse, damned impatient, and too curious for her own good, but that’s why he liked her so well.

  11

  Moss Baskerville

  “YOU EVER NOTICE HOW DAVID LETTERMAN ALWAYS TELLS PEOPLE they smell nice?” Cassie asked.

  Moss Baskerville stretched his arms across the sofa top, then dropped the left over Cassie’s shoulders and pulled her closer. “That’s a little weird, if you ask me.”

  Cassie poked him in the ribs, then snuggled closer. “I think it’s nice.”

  “That’s because you have the hots for him.”

  Cassie shot him a smirk, then turned her attention to the TV.

  Baskerville had had a hard time relaxing tonight, but he started getting it right because Cassie, as unruffled as ever, had refused to let him spend the entire evening worrying about the goat or the graffiti on her mailbox. Then, about fifteen minutes ago, he’d heard squealing tires in the distance and something that sounded like a crash. He’d wanted to have a look, but Cass had taken his chin and stared into his eyes and sternly reminded him that he’d left his best man, Al Gonzales, in charge tonight.

  His only man. Since Jay Kettleman left two months ago, he hadn’t bothered to hire a replacement because he and Al seemed to be enough. But when he heard those squealing tires, it had occurred to him that things might not stay so quiet. A third man was needed to keep an eye on the outskirts of town: to occasionally stake out Thunder Road and discourage the teenagers from racing.

  And then there were those damned Apostles. They were getting pretty rabid lately and they’d be too much for a lone cop if they decided to invade Madland and harass the tourists en masse. Usually there were only a few and easy to run off if they got obnoxious, but he thought things could get ugly as the eclipse—the Apostles’ chosen day of apocalypse —approached.

  Baskerville’s ulcer, long dormant, took a little twist as his thoughts leapt to his other problem: missing people.

  Joe Huxley, he wasn’t sure about. Nobody was missing him, and he’d taken off before, though he’d always made sure to arrange for someone to take over his night watchman job in the park before this. That’s another reason you need another man; we’re pulling double duty cruising the town and the park.

  He was virtually certain that Kyla Powers had met with foul play, but until a few days ago, with the disappearance of Madge Marquay, he’d been pretty sure that whatever had happened to her hadn’t happened in his jurisdiction.

  Cassie snuggled closer, tucking her hand around his elbow, and Baskerville pushed his worries aside—he was here to get some rest, after all. He’d been working too hard, and he knew he needed a night off, but it was hard to make himself do it.

  On-screen, Letterman was torturing a new guest, a chef who was laboring in vain to get the host to bread a piece of fish. Instead, Dave was flicking it through the air and humming the tune to Jaws. “So, Cass, what is it you see in that scrawny little smart aleck?”

  “Well, now, Moss,” she drawled, “a man who notices how people smell makes use of all his senses, and that means he’s probably pretty damn good in the sack. Besides, he’s funny,” she added as the fish went flying toward the band. “He thinks of unusual things to do with everyday objects.” She gave him a coy smile. “He’d know how to make a lady feel appreciated.”

  Baskerville knew a hint when he heard one, and bent his massive head to nuzzle Cassie’s neck. “Mmmm. You smell like sweet petunias on a hot summer night,” he murmured, then kissed the soft white hollow at her shoulder blade. “And I’ve got a few tricks of my own.” She moaned softly as he worked his way up to her ear and sucked the lobe into his mouth, wriggling his tongue over it the way he knew she liked.

  She turned slightly toward him, running her hand up his chest, undoing a button on his tan uniform shirt and slipping her fingers inside to comb them into the thick chest hair. “You smell pretty good,” she said softly, “for a cop.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, ‘for a cop’?” His hand trailed down to cup one of her breasts.

  She chuckled softly and undid two more buttons. “Like a man. Warm. Musky.” She put her mouth to his flesh, gave it a little lick. “Salty. Tasty.” She kneaded one nipple, gently, then moved her hand down to his belt buckle. “Wanna fool around?”

  He kissed her, tasting her lips, yielding, slightly open. “What about Dave?”

  “Let him get his own girl.”

  Her arms went up to circle his neck and he scooped her into his arms, then rose. Though she was tall, she didn’t weigh much over a hundred pounds, and there was something about carrying her to the bedroom that always excited him. As he stepped around the couch, he saw a brief flash of headlights through the north living room window as a car turned onto old Madelyn Highway. It was moving slowly. He waited.

  “What’s wrong, Moss?”

  “Maybe your graffiti artists are back.” The car was crawling down the road. “Better check.” He lowered her to her feet.

  “Moss,” she protested, “it’s nothing.”

  “Honey, it’s my job. You just remember where we left off.” He went to the front window, stood to the side, and peered out. “Turn off the light, will you, Cass?”

  “Sure,” she said, her tone indicating boredom. “Nobody’s going to pull anything with you here, you know.”

  “I parked in back, remember? They don�
�t know I’m here.”

  “For surveillance purposes,” she said, sounding long-suffering now. “I thought it was because you were spending the night.”

  “Of course I am.”

  With nothing but the television’s glow illuminating the room, he could just make out the car. It was crawling along the road, still a little north. Suddenly it stopped moving and its lights went out. An older car, he thought, with round headlights—or, nowadays, it could be a brand-new one.

  “Cass,” he said, moving across the room to the kitchen, “I’m going to go out the back way and sneak a look. Whoever it is, is just sitting there in the dark.”

  “Be careful,” she called softly as he headed out the door.

  Gun drawn, he walked to the south side of the house, past his cruiser and Cassie’s little vegetable garden. As he moved toward the front, the car suddenly revved, burned rubber, and tore down Old Madelyn, lights still out.

  Baskerville ran to the front, squinting, but saw nothing but dust and one flash of brake lights as the vehicle neared a pothole. Only a local would know about that.

  As he turned on his heel to get his cruiser and take chase, the front door opened. Cassie stepped onto the porch. “You won’t catch him,” she said, reading his mind.

  “Cass, I have to try.” He joined her as she came down the steps, and together they walked out to the mailbox. Nothing new marred it.

  “Another minute and we wouldn’t have heard that car anyway,” Cassie said, taking his arm and leading him back toward the house. “It’s probably just a dumb kid having some fun.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Moss said. “Maybe. You keep this place locked up tight when I’m not here?”

  “I always do.” She kissed him lightly on the lips. “Now, come on, we have some fooling around to do.”

  Baskerville cast one more look out the road, then put his arm around her narrow waist. “If you didn’t smell so good, I’d be after him like I oughta be.”

  “Good thing for me I smell so good,” she replied as they went back into the house.

  12

  Carlo Pelegrine

  PEELING AN ORANGE WAS, PERHAPS, THE GREATEST GUILTY PLEASURE in Carlo Pelegrine’s life. At the end of each day, he turned the OPEN sign on his shop door to CLOSED, shot the lock, and pulled the old-fashioned fringed blinds down on the windows. He then selected an orange from the citrus that he kept in a twig and moss basket in the center of his display of crystals and incense burners.

  Today he chose a thin-skinned juicing orange, and as he moved through the green velvet draperies into the privacy of his card-reading room, he held it to his nose and inhaled the sweet tang of its bouquet. Smiling to himself, he passed the small round reading table with its purple linen tablecloth and straight-backed chairs, and seated himself at a small rolltop desk in the shadows at the back of the room.

  He unlocked the desk, pushed the cantilevered cover smoothly up, and pulled the brass chain on the green case-glass desk lamp, revealing cubbyholes filled with silk-wrapped tarot decks, and shelves lined with well-thumbed books on card reading and palmistry and every other sort of divining. In the drawers were candles and oils, burners, charcoal, and incense; everything the well-prepared fortune-teller could possibly need.

  Setting the orange on a beige linen napkin he took from a small, deep drawer, he then extracted a whetstone and a paring knife. He sat back, letting the chair rotate so that he faced the room. With a contented sigh, he drew the knife across the whetstone, then turned it and brought it back. Eyes closed, he continued the actions, finding calm in the repetition, music in the swish-swish sound of blade against stone.

  Finally he opened his eyes, sat up, and turned back to the desk. He used the edge of the linen napkin to polish the blade, then tested it against his thumb: perfect. Any true pressure would break his flesh.

  He picked up the orange in one long-fingered hand and turned it back and forth in the lamplight, admiring the pebbly texture, treasuring each tiny imperfection in its skin.

  Finally he put the blade to the orange and, as always, felt a shiver of anticipation, one that centered in his groin and spread throughout his body in pleasurable electric tendrils.

  Beginning at the stem, he began to cut at an oblique angle, taking the zest, the color, but leaving the fleshy white covering beneath it intact. His concentration never wavered, nor did his knife, and he steadily cut around and around until the delicate, thin skin, all in one piece, lay in a fragrant mound upon the napkin.

  He set the orange down, the knife, too, and lifted the skin in both hands, bringing it to his nose and breathing in its nectar. He placed it on the napkin again, took the orange and the knife, and repeated the process, this time removing the white underskin, until only the pulpy orange fruit was left.

  Holding the orange in his right hand, he cut carefully between the segments, separating them without piercing the delicate membranes. Finally he set the knife aside and let the orange drop from his fingers into his other, cupped, hand. The smell of oranges permeated the room and he breathed it luxuriously as he opened his hand.

  The fruit flowered on his palm; perfect, untouched, sweet citrus. He took one segment, held it under his nose, then placed it in his mouth.

  Carefully, not breaking the membrane, he felt the segment with his tongue, tasted it, and finally tested the tension, feeling the juice move beneath the thin membrane, so delicate, so lovely. So perfect.

  He bit into the fruit, letting its flavor wash over his tongue, savoring the flesh, chewing slowly. After the first segment, he quickened his pace only slightly.

  It was the biggest pleasure he allowed himself, this small thing. He had denied himself women for twenty years, his unrequited cravings obsessing him, before he discovered this outlet, this relief from sensual pain. Peeling an orange had become his way of making love, though he never allowed himself release.

  When he was eighteen, he had promised God he would remain celibate for the rest of his life, as penance for his sins.

  He still wondered why he and his brother had taken a shortcut through the alley off Thirteenth Avenue to get to school. Perhaps it was only curiosity. Tall redbrick apartment buildings loomed ahead as he stood at the mouth of the alley, his heart beating quickly, and challenged Vic to a race to the other end.

  Carlo let Victor sprint ahead, never expecting him to stop and stare at the trash cans. Vic, pale, turned to stare at his brother, and as he approached he saw the bloodless hand sticking up from between two bins.

  Carlo stared at it, then grabbed Victor and told him they were going to be late for school. But Vic insisted they had to tell the police, and Carlo acquiesced, knowing it was the right thing to do.

  He was never charged with any crime, was never even under suspicion, but fear nibbled away at him. He managed to finish high school, and then he struck out on his own, telling his parents and friends he was going to travel for a year before entering college.

  He had to get away, because he couldn’t look them in the eye anymore. After six months, he faked his own death and changed his name. Also, so close to temptation, he found his religion again and made his promises to God.

  In the first years, his obsessions were difficult, nearly impossible, to control. He traveled constantly, taking odd jobs, making enough money to get by, and managing to pick up the odds and ends of an education. It wasn’t until he arrived at Madelyn eight years ago that he found any peace.

  Carlo slowly chewed another piece of orange. It had been twenty years since that last crime, and intellectually at least, he knew he was safe. Aside from one bad newspaper photo of himself and Vic in the alley, he’d never had any notoriety. The photo, though it had been reprinted once or twice in true crime books, was of too poor a quality to be a problem.

  He had come to Madelyn by accident. Feeling the old urge to move on, he had left a good job in Cincinnati. He’d been there two years—the longest he’d ever remained in one place—and had a good, respectable job as a chef in. an
Italian restaurant. There, he’d established himself, fittingly, as Carlo Pelegrine, a slightly corrupt spelling of the Italian version of his name, and had been reasonably happy until a platonic friendship with a woman threatened to turn into something more. The woman, vibrant and passionate, was the manager of the restaurant, and though he was mildly attracted to her, it was nothing he couldn’t control. She, however, pursued him. He tried telling her he was gay, but she didn’t believe it, and things got very tense over the next few months.

  And so he left, traveling all the way to California, Carlo felt the old nervousness, and on some level he was sure she would chase him and find out his real secret. He ate another slice of orange and shook his head, smiling bitterly to himself: He never could handle stress. When he was a little boy, his mother would tell him not to worry so much. But even then, he knew he was a monster.

  His motorcycle—a Harley meant for one was all he’d ever owned—ran out of gas in the Mojave Desert, twenty miles east of Madelyn. It was his own fault for not checking the gauge and he felt foolish as he trudged slowly along, pushing the bike, his clothes plastered to his body beneath the horrible August sun.

  When a fancy, double-wheeled pickup truck hauling a horse trailer pulled up beside him, Carlo had no intention of accepting a ride: He was too wary, too nervous. But the man, who introduced himself as Tom Abernathy, had such an unconcerned attitude that Carlo decided accepting a ride to the gas station at Madelyn would be all right.

  Tom Abernathy was a talker, and during that short drive, he managed to fascinate Carlo with tales of Old Madelyn. He didn’t ask any questions, except if he was planning on staying in California for a while—the motorcycle had Ohio plates—and as they pulled into Ray’s Unocal, Tom asked him a second question. He wanted to know if he was looking for work.

  Carlo was amazed to hear himself say yes.

  After he filled his gas tank, they went over to Ray’s Cafe, where Carlo insisted on paying for their pie and coffee; he didn’t want Tom Abernathy to think he was a shiftless drifter. Tom told him there was work on his ranch, and Carlo apologized and said he couldn’t ride a horse. Tom only laughed and responded that he couldn’t ride a motorcycle. Then he announced that he was the general manager of Old Madelyn Historic Park, and that he could also use a gypsy fortune-teller, and that he thought Carlo would make a fine one.