"We just filled up in Barstow, Pops."
I don’t even have to watch the gauge, he told himself sourly. The women in this family monitor everything for me. "In case you haven’t noticed, young lady, this ain’t exactly a compact wagon we’re driving." He let out a sigh of resignation. "If you don’t want anything you don’t have to get out. Steven," he asked, none too hopefully, "you coming?"
"Sure, Dad." To Frank’s surprise his son hopped out and scuttled past him, heading for a high chain-link fence that enclosed a small area between worn house trailer and station.
"Hey, Dad! They got snakes in here, and I think I see a Gila monster, and a chuckawalla, an' a…!"
The attendant or owner would probably want a dollar in payment for Steven’s looking. Frank would gladly fork it over. At last his son was showing some real interest in something besides billboards.
"Look all you want, kiddo, but don’t touch. And keep your hands outside the links, okay?"
"Okay, Dad." Steven quickly and guiltily withdrew his fingers from one gap.
Frank checked the pumps. Somewhat to his surprise he found premium unleaded. Considering the location, the prices were quite reasonable. He unhitched one of the pumps, glanced toward the station office. No one had appeared to greet them. The door that secured the repair bay was closed.
Surely the place wasn’t deserted, as Alicia had suggested. The door to the office was ajar and there were no padlocks on the pumps.
"Anybody home?" he yelled.
There was no response. Not even wind to reply at midday. He shrugged and turned to the motor home. No doubt as soon as he started pumping gas someone would show up fast enough. He flipped the pump switch up, saw the digital readout on the machine’s flank flop to zero, and unlocked the motor home’s filler cap, setting it carefully aside. The nozzle rattled its way into the tank. As he squeezed the trigger, gas began to flow.
The digital readout counted the cost silently. He missed the friendly musical ding gas pumps had made when he was young. Steven was walking slowly around the chain-link enclosure, intently surveying something inside.
"Fingers!" Frank shouted.
"Sure, Dad," his son replied in that special tone children utilize for acknowledging parents' admonitions without actually devoting any attention to them.
The sharp, vaguely threatening aroma of gasoline stung Frank’s nostrils as he topped off the tank. Except for the gurgle of gas it was silent outside the motor home. You could hear a mouse gallop out here, he mused silently. Not a leaf stirred on the salt-tolerant trees that shaded the old station. The petals of a single paralyzed fuchsia drooped tiredly in the sun. Listen hard enough and you could hear ants scurrying underfoot, the slither of a king snake off in the bushes. And one other sound.
Frowning, he slipped the pump back in its steel saddle, then bent to check the tires. An intermittent hissing sound. The tires on this side looked full. Bending toward the ground he spotted a pair of legs walking past the wheels on the other side of the motor home. Rotting dirty denims were stuffed into scruffy brown boots. Boots used for work, not dancing. He still didn’t know the source of the hissing, but at least he’d located the station’s attendant. The legs kept coming. Frank straightened.
"Howdy."
"Howdy yourself." Frank returned the appraising smile.
The old man was tall, well over six feet, and thin as a fencepost. A weathered scarecrow, Frank thought. Shaving was a casual affair and he had stubble the consistency of beach sand. Bright, unblinking eyes stared out from beneath brows fashioned of steel wool. Perched on his head was a filthy baseball cap with a John Deere emblem sewn to the front. Like its wearer, the cap’s original color had been overwhelmed by generations of fossilized grease and oil stains. As threads had broken and unraveled, the torso of the jumping deer had parted company from its legs.
A short-sleeved work shirt was loosely tucked into faded coveralls. Gloves concealed both hands. Frank decided this emaciated ghost of the modern West was old enough to have preyed on migrating Okies back in the thirties, before the interstate had usurped old Route 66.
"Glad to have your business," the relic declared cheerily. "Most folks go on through to Baker. Got three stations there now. A real metropolis." He chuckled. Maybe he’d gone batty living alone in the desert, but he’d retained a sense of humor.
"We thought your place looked interesting. I like stopping off the beaten track." Frank nodded at the sky. "Thought we’d make a stop before sundown."
"Glad you did." The old man was standing close now. A soiled handkerchief protruded from a pocket of the coveralls. For a change the stains weren’t from oil or grease. Red or maroon paint, Frank decided.
"I heard a funny noise. Kind of hissing, or sniffing like."
"That was me, all right." He still hadn’t blinked, Frank noted. "Thought you might’ve had a gas leak." A gloved hand patted the motor home’s flank. "These self-propelled trailers got so many pipes and lines crisscrossing underneath 'em, you never know when one’s going to rub against another and make a hole. First you get a leak, then you get friction, and then" — the old man’s eyes went startlingly wide — "bwoom! Charcoal time."
"Yeah." Charming sense of humor, Frank thought.
"Where you folks staying in Vegas?"
"How’d you know that’s where we’re going?"
A soft chuckle. "Where else would anybody be going east on this road?"
"We’re not sure yet." He jerked a thumb at the motor home. "We were gonna stay in this, but the kids and wife don’t think that’s much of a vacation. I got outvoted."
"Nothing personal, but I’d side with them." Stepping past Frank, he used the soiled handkerchief to wipe gas from the still-open filler cap before flipping the cap cover shut. "Folks these days in such a hurry they don’t take the time to appreciate the world around 'em. One of these days the end’ll come and then they’ll be damn sorry for what they missed."
Uh-oh, Frank thought, detecting the first faint whiff of an oncoming sermon in the air. Time to be moving on. He reached for his wallet.
"I don’t see the stickers. You take credit cards?"
"Ain’t really big on plastic around here. Usually like for folks to pay in kind for what they owe. But I’ll make an exception for you, you being such a relaxed customer and all. Most folks get to this point, they’re pretty nervous and upset. Not you, though. Coolest one I’ve seen in some time."
"Thanks." Frank felt flattered without knowing why. "American Express okay?"
The ancient shrugged. "Good as any of 'em, I expect." He took the card, then seemed to freeze. As Frank stared, the man sniffed ostentatiously, tilting back his head and flaring his nostrils. He walked toward the back of the motor home and sniffed a second time. "You smell something funny?"
Frank joined him, took a few sniffs himself, feeling foolish as he did so. "Just the fresh gas."
The attendant straightened. "Reckon you’re right. Just me and my suspicious nature, I expect."
"If you think there’s a leak why not take a whiff underneath?" Frank asked curiously.
"Fumes would rise. The underchassis’d stink without any leaks. Get a truer appraisal standing up." He waggled the card at Frank. "Be right back with your bill. Got to get an authorization number, you know." He hesitated. "You didn’t by any chance pick up anybody down the road apiece? Somebody stranded, somebody’s car broke down? Like, maybe, somebody hitchhiking?"
Most people would have responded instinctively to the casual inquiry. Frank Sonderberg had spent too many years in business, too much time listening for the real meaning behind obfuscatory soliloquies to offer a straight reply without giving the matter careful consideration. Instead of answering, he evaded.
"That’s a funny thing to ask." He turned and gestured at the highway. "I mean, who’d be dumb enough to stand out on that stretch of road and hitch this direction, when it’d make more sense to go back to Barstow?"
"Depends how anxious they are to
get somewheres besides Barstow." The old man was staring at him with perverse intensity, unexpectedly alert. And he had yet to blink. Of course, Frank had looked away from him several times. He could have blinked then.
Instead of replying, Frank checked his watch. "Getting late." He’d planned to accompany the old man inside the station, hoping for a glimpse of such treasures as antique bottles and fifties-era advertising posters. Now all he wanted was to regain the comforting interior of the motor home and gun the big Detroit powerplant. It occurred to him they hadn’t passed or been passed by a highway patrol car all day.
The oldster slumped slightly. "Guess so. Be dark soon. Don’t want to hold you up. Just that sometimes folks come through this way, they ask to use the facilities and then they just kinda walk off with something. You know, forget to pay for their soda or candy. Not that many people pull off here. Somebody swipes something from a small dealer like myself, it hurts."
"Are you saying somebody stole from you recently?"
"Maybe, maybe not." The brown-toothed smile made a curtain call. "That ain’t your problem, though, is it? I’ll get that authorization number and be right back with your card."
Frank discovered he’d been holding his breath. Now he exhaled as the attendant sort of loped toward the stone building to be swallowed by the single door. With the old man gone he could hear Wendy and Alicia chatting inside the motor home.
What’s with the nerves? he asked himself. So the old fossil’s peculiar, so what? Living out here alone would set anybody slightly off kilter. He found himself remembering the stained handkerchief that hung from the coverall pocket like a linen leech. Red or maroon paint — except it didn’t really look like paint. But what else could it have been? And the John Deere cap with the familiar image of the leaping stag. With the legs separated from the body. Those legs had been sewn in awfully strange positions. Skewed, as if they’d been torn away only to be replaced haphazardly beneath the jumping torso.
Not much of an imagination, he told himself, but what little you’ve got is making a break for it. He rubbed at his cuticles, a nervous habit he’d failed to break in twenty-five years of trying. At least he didn’t bite his nails anymore.
Old fart’s taking his time. Of course, phone service to an outpost like this might not be in the best of repair. Even in downtown Los Angeles it could take awhile to get through if the volume of calls to the authorization center was heavy. Probably had to use a rotary phone without an automatic redial, for chrissake.
"Hey, Dad!"
"What?" Frank looked down, saw Steven flinch. The boy had come up quietly behind his father. "Sorry, kiddo. Find something interesting to look at?"
"Sure did. Birds and lizards. Something else, too. I went around the back and there was a place where it looked like something had tried to dig under the fence. I saw some stuff sticking out — it was on my side of the fence, honest, Dad — and so I sorta picked it up. See? Neat, huh?"
He held up a handful of old bones. They were deeply scored and mostly detached from one another. Too big to be chicken bones. Most likely from a holiday turkey. Not hog or cattle.
Frank accepted the offering, nudged them with his finger. "Interesting. But maybe the gentleman who owns this place doesn’t want strange kids digging around in his yard. That hole under the fence could’ve been an exit for a rattler. You could’ve been bit. Did you think about that?"
Steven looked downcast, his initial enthusiasm muted. "Naw. But it’s all right, Dad. I was careful. Besides, you said snakes and stuff don’t come out this time of day 'cause it’s too hot. I didn’t see anything moving."
You had to hand it to the kid, Frank thought. He remembered. Then a cold chill ran down his back and the waistband of his shorts was suddenly tight against his skin.
Not all the bones were disconnected. A few were still attached to others. Three of them in sequence, which he carefully held up to the light. At the tip of the last small bone was a suggestion of something besides bone. It was broken and brief, but unmistakable.
A nail.
Frank was no anatomist, but he was pretty sure he was holding most of a human finger. A small finger, bigger than an infant’s, smaller than a man’s. A woman’s, perhaps, or a teenager’s. There were spots on the bit of nail, but too old and dirty to tell if they were polish.
Fighting to contain his emotions, he let the amputated finger bones fall back among the others. "Steven, I want you to listen to me very closely." The boy’s eyes got wide, as they usually did on those rare occasions when his father turned solemn. "This is private property and should not have been disturbed. So I want you to put them back exactly where you found them." He glanced toward the station office. Still no movement there.
"I want you to put them back in the ground, quietly and quickly." He handed back the bones.
"Aw, gee, Dad. I was kinda hoping that if the man didn’t want 'em maybe I could…"
"Put them back." Frank kept his voice low. "Now."
Steven stared up at him. "Is something wrong, Dad? I mean, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong."
"It’s not a question of right or wrong. You just don’t bother other people’s property, understand? Go on. Go bury them back and then get your butt back here and inside. We’re leaving."
"Okay, Dad." Steven shrugged, turned to scamper back to the enclosure. Frank noticed for the first time that the fence was a high one. Higher than was needed to keep snakes and lizards in and the prowling coyote out. High enough to keep strangers from climbing over to disturb the inhabitants. Or to keep anyone from climbing out. The four posts that held the chain link taut were oversized and sunk deep.
His head jerked around to see the attendant emerge from the office. He wore the smile he’d first used to greet his customers. One gloved hand held Frank’s credit card and the unsigned receipt. Steven was out of sight behind the enclosure. Trying to look casual and relaxed, Frank moved to the front of the motor home. The old man changed direction to meet him without breaking stride.
"Here you go, sir. Eighteen even. Guess she wasn’t quite empty."
"Not quite." Do I sound normal? he wondered. Though his thoughts were in turmoil, his fingers were steady as he signed for the gas. Just let us get out of here, he thought wildly. Just let us get away from this place and, I swear to God, I won’t stop until we’re on the Strip.
The old man’s back faced the enclosure. Frank tried not to stare past him, tried not to locate Steven. He wondered if Alicia was in her seat, staring down at him. He didn’t look to find out for fear she’d notice the strain on his face. He signed very carefully, not wanting to tear the fragile paper and have to start over again.
"Here we are." He handed back the pen and clipboard. The oldster didn’t so much as glance at it.
"Thanks."
"Guess we’ll be on our way." He turned to go.
"Don’t forget your card."
"Right." Frank grabbed at the plastic, shoved it back in a pocket without bothering to replace it in his wallet. There was still no sign of his son.
"Something the matter, sir?" The old man hitched up the coveralls.
"No." An awkward moment of silence passed. "Just looking for my little boy. You know kids. Always underfoot until you’re ready to go someplace."
"Yeah, I know kids."
"You have children?"
"Naw. Never been married. Never appealed to me. I’d just rather bang 'em and leave 'em, y’know?" He opened his mouth and laughed, an unpleasant sound, like cats fighting inside a garbage can.
"Right, sure." Frank forced a smile. It turned to one of relief as Steven reappeared. "Here he is. Go on, kiddo. Get inside."
The boy just nodded. He glanced quickly at the old man, who grinned down at him. Then he was safely back inside the motor home.
"Thanks again." Frank didn’t extend his hand to shake the old man’s because he wasn’t sure he’d get it back. "Have a nice day," he finished lamely.
"I’ll sure try to."
Gloved hands plunged into coverall pockets. "Drive careful, now. Don’t take any wrong turns, and watch out for hitchhikers. All kinds of unpleasant folks try to get picked up along this stretch of highway."
"We’ll be careful. We’re driving straight through. I wouldn’t pick anybody up. I’ve got a family to watch out for."
"That’s right. You’ve got a family to watch out for." With a final nod, the attendant turned and strolled back toward the station office. Relieved, Frank turned to reenter the motor home.
What the dickens was wrong with him? He’d been watching too much TV, especially the kind of gruesome R-rated horror videos his son and friends were beginning to favor. The station’s isolation, the soiled handkerchief, the emblem of the deer on the hat, with the four dismembered legs, all had other, more plausible explanations than the one that had made evil connections between them in his thoughts. Been out in the sun too long, he told himself. Alicia and the kids were right, after all. What they needed were not stimulating encounters but air-conditioning, neon, television, and prepared food.
So what about the bones?
Yeah, what about them? What did he know about bones? They could have come from anything. Or they might have been plastic fakes planted there as a gag. That would fit the attendant’s sense of humor. Buy some from a medical supply house and bury them near the enclosure to scare prying kids like Steven. Furthermore, if anything illegal was somehow involved, that didn’t mean the old man had a part in it. It made no sense. Anyone wanting to dispose of a body and who’d take the time to dismember the bones wouldn’t bury the incriminating results only a few inches deep.
As he reached the entrance to the motor home, he spared a last look for the subject of his musings — and paused. There was something moving at the back of the old man’s pants, up near the beltline. He squinted. The bright sunlight made it difficult to concentrate. A tuft of black attached to a wire or stick protruded from a corner of the coveralls. Funny he hadn’t noticed it before, but he’d been looking the old man in the eyes, not staring at his backside. Despite the fact it was still blazing hot outside, a chill ran through him.
To the Vanishing Point Page 5