Stone Groove

by Erik Carter

  He hung up and rushed out the front doors. The noise was coming from the south. He stepped over to the opposite side of the parking lot and stood on a sidewalk, facing the sound.

  It was louder now. Getting closer.

  A man and his son stood on the sidewalk as well, staring into the distance, frozen in confused paralysis.

  Dale grinned.

  The sound that was approaching from the other side of the horizon was unmistakable to the aficionado’s ear, but to the father and son, it must have sounded like a piece of construction equipment run amok. Dale knew just what it was—the throaty exhaust of a De Tomaso Pantera.

  It was Arancia.

  He’d wondered why Wilson wasn’t at the hospital when he arrived. Now he knew. Wilson had left to deliver Dale’s machine. The thought of having a strange uniformed officer driving her for 150 miles—not knowing what he was doing to her—had been bad enough. But now that rotten Wilson was driving her. At least, Dale reasoned, Wilson’s anal-retentive qualities ensured that he wasn’t doing anything wild with her.

  A glint of light appeared over the crest of a hill in the distance. It was her well-polished paint shining brightly in the daylight, adding a second sun to the sky. He could now just make out her form—a sleek, low-slung shape pulling itself down the road toward him while its engine bellowed. Dale didn’t usually get to see Arancia in motion from an outsider’s perspective, and it made him smile.

  The Pantera was an Italian-made machine, a sports car, small yet beefy as a Big Mac. It floated low to the ground with long, sexy lines that were a tantalizing mixture of curvaceous and angular. The wedge-shaped hood extended well beyond the two-seat cab. Behind the wide rear tires, the form abruptly ended with a gorgeous rear end and four exhaust tips, two for each of the dual exhausts.

  From those mufflers came about the most beautiful noise that could come to a man’s ears. Low and grumbling. Angry and edgy. A symphony of metal and a pacifier for frayed nerves. The noise began a few feet north of the car’s exhaust from the mid-mounted Ford 351 Cleveland V8, an absurd mass of steel belching out 330 horses.

  She was orange in color. Not bright orange. Nothing gaudy. A faint, yellow-orange. He’d named her Arancia after the Italian word for the fruit. It was a sensuous name, the kind you whisper into the dark void of a sultry night. Arancia, Arancia. Funny how Italian makes any word, even a piece of fruit, sound sexy.

  Dale crossed his arms and nodded his head in appreciation of his girl’s beautiful form. Next to him, the boy now grinned ear-to-ear. His father kept a firm grip on his shoulder.

  “Holy mother of God,” the man said to Dale. “What do you figure that is?”

  “It’s a De Tomaso Pantera.”

  The man squinted and turned to Dale. “What are you, some kind of car expert?”

  “You might say that.”

  Arancia slowed as she turned onto Cantrell Avenue. Her turn signal was on. Dale could see Wilson now behind the wheel. This made him cringe. The boy next to Dale giggled with excitement as the car drew nearer.

  She waited for another car to pass in the opposite lane, and then Arancia pulled into the parking lot, stopping right next to Dale. The man shielded his son with his arm.

  The driver-side door opened, and Wilson got out, struggling to pull himself from the low position. He straightened his suit jacket and stepped up to Dale.

  “Agent Conley?” he said with a smile. “I understand you’re in need of some fast wheels.”

  “I am.”

  Wilson handed him the keys. “She’s all yours.”

  Dale smiled as he looked over the metal beast before him. He put his hand on the roof, feeling the mirror-smooth finish. “Indeed she is.”

  He slid into the black leather bucket seat, leaving the door open. He looked over the brilliant instrument panel, the series of switches and gauges that looked more akin to an airliner than a passenger vehicle. It had only been three days since he’d last seen her, and he’d had severe separation anxiety. He had a problem. He knew this. But he didn’t care.

  He put his right hand on the shift knob and looked back to Wilson. “Only got room for one today,” he said, pointing to the passenger seat where there was a pile of equipment from his stakeout of Willard Ledford. Cameras, tripods, microphones. He shut the door then thrust the key into the ignition, depressed the clutch and turned the key. The V8 thundered to life, a giant awoken from a peaceful dream. He pushed a button and lowered the electric window. “I don’t have much time. I’ll catch you back at the station.” Dale looked at the man and his son. They hadn’t moved. The father was still staring with a kind of mild dread. The boy was beaming. Dale winked at the boy. “Gentlemen.”

  Reminding himself of the urgency of his mission, Dale stomped the gas pedal and pulled off the clutch. The big tires in the back squealed, and the rear end tore to the left. But Dale’s expertise easily calmed Arancia’s thrashing nerves, pulling her back into line. Dale slowed down briefly to check the traffic and then hammered the gas again, screeching off through Harrisonburg to the amazement of the folks on the street.

  Chapter 27

  Dale had always wanted a performance car. His initiation had been through American muscle. The idea of a big hunk of metal hurtling itself down the road through sheer force of a gigantic engine was thrilling and purely U.S. of A.

  He watched the muscle cars progress through the years and for a time considered getting one. He particularly liked the Camaro, Challenger, and Torino. But he always found his mind wandering back to F1 races and the European sports cars that he so loved. Slinky bodies that clung to curves. The exotics were, of course, the most coveted cars in this group. While he loved their looks and the jaw-dropping performance numbers—and even considered trying to hunt down a used Lamborghini Miura—the lofty price tags turned Dale off. He could afford one after the success of his books, but he didn’t like things that were exclusive to rich bastards.

  The answer to his automotive prayers arrived in 1971 in the form of the Pantera, a joint effort between De Tomaso and Ford. The Italian styling and engineering was paired with Ford’s massive V8. This was as perfect a blend as Dale could have hoped for—the raw, insane power of American muscle planted squarely in a true sports car. And at ten thousand dollars, though certainly not cheap, this was a vehicle that was available to more than just the superrich.

  At times like these, an Italian supercar sure came in handy.

  Arancia roared up Highway 33 toward Shenandoah National Park. Heading out of Harrisonburg, it was a straight shot through the Valley, hitting the towns of McGaheysville and Elkton. Massanutten Mountain with its sloped southern peak passed on the left. Picturesque rolling meadows and patches of woods spread out on either side, and the blue mountains of the park sat directly ahead, looming in the distance. It was a beautiful drive and one that Dale had taken countless times during college. But today it flew past him in a blur.

  Arancia’s siren wailed, something Dale had installed along with a CB radio when he first joined the BEI. He had a red emergency light that he could hang from the rearview mirror when needed—he didn’t like the idea of using one of the magnetic types on the roof. The chances of paint scratches frightened him.

  As he swung the light side to side with his right hand, the cars on the highway pulled over for him. They were slow to react, evidently unaccustomed to lights and a siren emitting from a sleek sports car.

  Dale smashed the accelerator and kept his hand poised for downshift at a moment’s notice. Arancia’s pointy nose sliced a path, the whole car pulsing with energy as though it was tearing a rift in the very air surrounding it. Dale’s ears echoed from the screaming of the V8, which sat right behind him in its mid-mounted position.

  The Valley ended, and Dale was hurtled up into the mountains, following the tortuous road through the thick, green trees. Arancia’s wide tires twittered as Dale pulled her around the sharp curves, his hands holding tight to the wheel. He throttle-steered her around one fina
l curve, and her back end kicked around, sliding side to side until he stabilized her.

  He entered the park.

  Minutes later he slid to a stop in a gravel parking lot, kicking up a cloud of dust. He looked at his watch.

  1:50. Just over an hour to go.

  At the trailhead was a wooden sign with an informative panel. Across the top of this structure in big, yellow, carved letters was “Old Rag Mountain.” There were rows of pamphlets at the bottom, and he grabbed one of them. He pulled it open and traced the trails with his finger. It was a decent enough hike—3,000 plus feet of elevation. He checked his watch again, stuffed the pamphlet in his back pocket, and sprinted into the woods.

  The group of hippies shouted as Dale pushed through them. He apologized as he ran by. They had been laughing and carrying on, but now they were all yells and jeers.

  “Hey, man,” one of the men said.

  “Love assassin!” screeched a woman who looked like Janis Joplin.

  Dale continued running, not turning around. “Damn hippies,” he muttered.

  He was sweating profusely. The trail was steep. It wasn’t the sort of trail that would usually give him trouble, but he wouldn’t normally take it at a run. He was going as fast as he could, but he was slowing rapidly.

  Ten minutes later. Halfway up the mountain.

  The front of his T-shirt had patches of sweat, and he could feel that the rear was completely soaked, clinging to his back. His running had downgraded to a jog. His calves had ignited. His thighs were steel blocks. The forest was shady and cool, which was helpful, but the rocks and roots crisscrossing the trail exacerbated his challenge. He checked his watch.

  Fifty minutes to go.

  He pushed on.

  He had completed this hike a handful of times, but it felt like the mountain had grown a couple thousand feet since his last visit.

  Finally, though, the sign appeared before him, the one with an arrow that read “Old Rag Summit.”

  He was within yards now.

  Chapter 28

  The Man in Black was so excited he could hardly stand it. Now was the time he was going to reveal himself to Dale Conley.

  He was at the edge of the woods near the outcropping of rocks at the peak of Old Rag Mountain. He fidgeted with the mask in his hands. He was delaying on putting it on. There were a lot of people milling about the rocks in front of him, so he didn’t want to draw attention to himself until he had to.

  He’d had quite a scare back in Raleigh, and he knew it was because of his own carelessness. Unlike the Norfolk and Western headquarters, where he’d taken careful precautions to disguise himself, he had chosen not to take any measures to hide his face. He’d been wearing his hooded sweatshirt, after all, and he didn’t think there was any chance that Conley would take more than a fleeting glance at him.

  He certainly didn’t anticipate that Conley would chase him up a fire escape. But that’s what he liked about the guy, that indomitable spirit.

  Conley would be arriving at any moment, and when he did, the Man in Black would emerge from the forest, wearing his mask and his all-black clothing. It was all going to be very dramatic. This was the first time Conley was going to come face-to-face with the Man in Black, so it had to be impactful.

  There was a noise in the distance, from the direction of the trail. Commotion, raised voices. Then he saw a figure running up the trail headed toward the rocks. It was Conley.

  The Man in Black put his mask on.

  “Showtime.”

  Chapter 29

  Dale reached the summit. He burst out of the woods into the open, treeless peak. A stone expanse dotted with people lay before him. The sudden rush of sunlight made him squint. He took out his sunglasses and checked his watch. 2:54. Six minutes left.

  The top of Old Rag Mountain was an area of large, rounded stone, something like a lumpy pile of gray ice cream, which, along with its impressive views, lent to its popularity. The green tips of the mountains created a rolling expanse that could be seen all the way back to Harrisonburg. Since the hike up the mountain was tame—that is, if one wasn’t sprinting—it wasn’t surprising that there were a couple dozen people relaxing on the stones. Dale scanned the scene, looking for anyone wearing antique clothing. There was a family sharing Wonder Bread sandwiches. A young couple necking. Some college girls taking pictures.

  Then someone caught his eye. A man dressed all in black standing in the woods behind the stones. All by himself. The black hood of his jacket was pulled up over his head, and he wore a black Halloween mask—a smiling jester face.

  The Man in Black.

  The two of them looked at each other. There was a warm breeze on the peak of the mountain that seemed to be channeled in the space between them. No one crossed their line of sight. The Man in Black touched his arm where a watch might be and made a dramatic swipe of his arm across his forehead, as though wiping away sweat. Then he pointed. Toward the rocks.

  Dale turned. Barely visible over the crest of one of the stones were the head and shoulders of a man and a woman. He could just make out that the woman was wearing one of the Marshall Village bonnets. They appeared to be sitting.

  Dale glanced back at the Man in Black, who made a “shoo” motion with his hands urging Dale toward the people.

  When Dale climbed over the top of the large stone, he found the couple sitting on a checkered blanket and gazing out at the view. There was a picnic basket next to them. They were holding hands beneath a fold in the blanket.

  Dale leaned over and stepped into their line of vision. Their blank stares never broke.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Agent,” the man said.

  “Are you two okay?”

  “We are fine,” the woman said. “We’ve been waiting for you. We were told to ask you a question.”

  Dale looked at the area of the blanket covering their entwined hands, a small mound under the cloth. He furrowed his brow. Something didn’t look right, something about the shape. He motioned toward the blanket. “May I?”

  “Yes,” the woman said.

  Dale slowly pulled back the blanket. Underneath, the couple’s hands were not holding each other. Instead, each hand held a handgun, and the weapons were pointed at the opposite person.

  Dale took a step back.

  “We have been told that if you cannot answer our question we are to fire,” the man said.

  “And you’ll do this?”

  “There is no greater glory than to die for the Maker, our Father, and the Man in Black,” the woman said.

  “What’s your question?” Dale said.

  “What do you call a challenging seed?” the man said.

  Another goddamn game of word association. The kidnapper’s modus operandi was as predictable as Wilson’s wardrobe. Dale took a deep breath.

  A challenging seed … Germ, grain. From Macbeth: “If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow and which will not.” A grain of truth? A nugget of information?

  “Your time is almost up, Agent,” the woman said. “You have less than a minute left.”

  Dale glanced at his watch. 2:59. He ran a hand through his hair. Acid rose from his gut.

  Seed. That was the key. That was the word he needed to focus on, the one that was going to have a second meaning. Kernel, spore, cell.

  The man and the woman turned to each other. Each of them raised their guns and pointed at the other’s head. Their arms remained perfectly still as they held the weapons.

  One of the college girls who had been taking pictures saw this and screamed, “My god, look!”

  A wave of yelling and panic flashed over the people on the rocks as they began to see what was happening. Some of them went screaming for the trail. Others crowded around at a cautious distance.

  Seed … nut? No, something different. Something more abstract. Concept, notion. Maybe something along those lines. Like core beliefs. Faith. But what about challenging? Testing, taxing.


  They cocked their weapons.

  He put the two words together and blurted out the best answer he could form. Something that fit with both words. Something that fit with the theme of the Roanoke colonists, a group of people who’d crossed an ocean to a new land that was little more than legend. “A challenging seed is a test of faith.”

  “I’m sorry,” the man said. “That answer is wrong.”

  They didn’t give Dale even a split second to stop it.

  Two shots. The sound was loud and heavy, and it echoed over the rocks. The woman fell first, just a fraction of a second before the man. Her head snapped hard to the right. The man fell forward, and his body slid down the rock. Blood sprayed over Dale, a warm mist dappled with heavy, hot droplets. He felt it on his cheeks.

  The crowd screamed.

  Dale dropped to his knees. The man’s face was covered in blood. The woman had been struck in the side of the head. Brain matter leaked out.

  And then it hit him. Challenging grain. A challenge is a dare. And grain can mean stone—as in a seed, like a peach stone.

  Dare Stone.

  He whipped back around and faced the crowd. People were screaming, crying.

  “Is anyone a doctor?” Dale yelled.

  A man in a yellow polo shirt and flared corduroys ran up. “I am.” He kneeled down beside the people.

  Dale reached out to pull the Marshall man’s body closer. “I think that—”

  The doctor shoved him away. Dale lost his balance and fell to his butt. “Don’t touch. Just go. Give me space.”

  Dale pulled himself up from the rock, his eyes not leaving the slouched bodies. He panted. The blood was congealing on his face. He slowly backed away then climbed down the rocks. The crowd looked aghast at his blood-covered form as he approached. They split before him, creating a path.

  And then he remembered. The Man in Black.