Stone Angels
Michael Hartigan
Merrimack Media
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015947295
ISBN: print: 978-1-939166-79-1
ISBN: ebook: 978-1-939166-80-7
Copyright © 2015 Michael Hartigan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permissions in writing from the copyright owner.
Published by Merrimack Media, Cambridge, Massachusetts
August, 2015
Dedication
For D & Sweet Pea, my very own angel wings.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 1
We were clearly lost and the dashboard light blinked desperately, telling me I was running on empty. Voiceless, it screamed for help, saturating the car’s interior in a red-orange hue, in a last-ditch effort for my attention. What the little light didn’t know was that I was already responding to its begging cry for help.
I turned my Ford Explorer from the highway onto the next available exit ramp, prompted by a large blue fluorescent road sign promising twenty-four hour fuel somewhere down the road. I obliged, proud of my attentiveness to my surroundings and the mechanical effectiveness of my aging sport utility vehicle. But as the interstate fell away into the darkness of the rearview mirror, so did any further direction as to where this mysterious gas station was hidden. So disappeared my confidence.
The smooth, state-maintained highway quickly crumbled into a cracked and rocky backcountry road. The asphalt—I was surprised there even was asphalt—rose and split under my fog lights, wreaking havoc on my car’s aging shocks. There were no street signs or streetlights along the road. It was darker than the highway was and much narrower, wide enough for one vehicle. Imposing southern pines soared along both sides of the pavement, like sentinels guarding a secret. I tried to see just how tall they were through the moon roof but all that could be seen was a hurried onrush of colorless clouds. No moon. No stars, either. The treetops peaked somewhere in the infinite darkness above.
Nature was being very difficult. Granted I was attempting to refuel a manmade gas-guzzling nature-killer. I couldn’t blame her for refusing to lend a hand. Nevertheless, I could have benefited from some moonlight, a few stars or hell, even a swath of fireflies.
But no such luck. I was on my own.
The three other people in the car were sound asleep and useless. Even if I were to wake them, this was only their second trip through the American South. The first being a week ago when we drove right past this very exit in the opposite direction, southbound. At that time none of them were paying attention, I was sure of that. They were too occupied by anticipation for the Florida sun and our last spring break vacation as college students.
The two girls on our trip, Emily and Lindsey, had terrible senses of direction. And Marcus—or Shoddy as we all called him—was most likely hung-over, if not still drunk, on both the ride down and up the Atlantic coast. All too often he was caught sleeping off the booze and mistakes of the night before.
I felt his pain. Like him, I had a pounding headache. Unlike him, it wasn’t only because of rum drinks.
I turned my attention back to the unforgiving darkness stretched out ahead. The station had to be up around a bend. If only I could see farther than the ten yards of pavement illuminated by my headlights. Maybe then I’d notice if there were any bends.
There weren’t any. Not even a slight bow since we left the exit ramp. I drove a straight and steady path deeper into the unknown, what seemed like ages away from the relative comfort of the interstate.
I’m usually a very reserved young man. Which to many is odd for a college senior. One would expect craziness, frat boy intensity or at least intermittent jubilation at the upcoming death to homework.
Not me. I kept it all inside, which isn’t to say it did not exist. It did. But long ago I had erected a wall in front of my emotions intended to keep all that in, and everyone else out. For the most part, it worked. Very few people ever got past that wall. I locked away a lot of things back there.
Recently, for various reasons, the wall was weakening. The very real danger of running out of gas on a backcountry road at midnight threatened to add to those recent chinks. Running out of gas was more than just a logistical threat. There would be very real consequences. I’d have to wake up my friends. My mistake and failure would be evident. I’d be vulnerable and scrutinized. The wall would be unguarded.
The headache still lurked behind my eyes. Rubbing my temples didn’t help.
Again, I tried to focus back on the road and the task at hand. My mind was being easily distracted. I set my gaze through the windshield and thought only about practical solutions. I’d probably have to leave the car and find the station on foot. Marcus should stay in the car with the girls. I’d have to change into sneakers instead of the flip-flops I had on. I should probably carry some sort of weapon, just in case. Did I still have that heavy metal flashlight in the spare tire well?
I could not help but get nervous after another ten minutes went by with no gas station. The emergence of a soft but urgent ding ding ding that began emanating from the dashboard did not help. That little orange light wasn’t kidding around anymore.
My practical questions quickly diverged toward paranoia. Did I have my AAA card? Would a tow truck find us? Would a service station be open this late at night this far away from real civilization? What if the tow truck driver was suspect? Would I call 911 or was that too extreme? If not, did I even know what number to call for assistance?
I instinctively pulled my cell phone from the center console and checked the service bars. Full. Thank God. Apparently whatever Southern municipality we trekked across was in tune enough with the Twenty-first century to have erected a cell tower. That was good, in case the tow truck driver happened to be a serial killer.
I had to chuckle at myself. Nothing had even happened yet and already I thought of the worst possible scenario, something straight out of a low budget horror movie. This sort of thinking spoke to the doubts I held about my own ability to handle a potential crisis situation. Which was actually not that foolish, considering the crises I had dealt with in the past and their horrifying outcomes.
Regardless of my failing confidence, the only choice I had was to continue on the current path and hope the blue highway sign was no liar; hope the fumes we coasted on lasted just a few minutes more. Turning around wasn’t feasible. I doubted I had enough fuel to make it back to the interstate. Besides, I had no idea how far away the next exit was or whether or not I’d face the same problem
there.
I had to hope the gas station promised me would rise out of the darkness like the Emerald City, ready to fulfill my needs. But I didn’t need a brain, a heart or some courage. I needed gas. Gas to help me get home.
Five more minutes went by, the dinging grew more frequent. My body tensed.
Then suddenly the road was smoother. A few yards later it curved.
I must have understood a change in road condition to mean a change in luck. Here was the bend I was looking for.
At the same time the dinging from the dashboard got faster and louder. It was telling me this was it, the last push. We weren’t even riding on fumes anymore, just lingering particles. Some people might have stopped then. I usually would have stopped then. But for some reason adrenaline stopped me from stopping. Subconsciously I increased the speed of the Explorer. The dinging hurried and I sped up more, trying to keep up with its urgent pace and maybe beat it to the gas station I was now sure existed. It had to, right up around the bend. I instinctively psyched myself up. My body reacted naturally. My pulse quickened. My body arched forward in the driver’s seat, knuckles white gripped around the steering wheel. I came alive. The hours of driving in virtual silence and darkness slipped away like the blurred pines lining the road.
The words of someone I once loved flashed behind my eyes. “Before this is over, I’m going to lighten you up. I’m going to make you come alive,” she said to me. Amen to that. Screw my cracking wall. Screw my sleeping friends in the car. Screw the serial killer tow truck driver. If I were going to break down on a backcountry road, I’d at least get a thrill doing it. If I were going to open myself up to failure, I’d do it speeding around a hairpin turn.
One gradual curve right followed by a wide arc to the left then a twenty-yard uphill straightaway. At the top I sped through another curve left around an especially looming group of dark pines at fifty miles per hour. A quick S bend, my pulse quickened and another wide sweeping turn to the right. Was that perspiration on my forehead? A hard right, sharp left, the speedometer fluttering excitedly. We spit out onto another straightaway and ten yards ahead the road dropped down over the horizon like a cliff.
Without hesitation I took the Explorer over the top, hitting sixty-five miles per hour. As the car breached the hill and came into its descent a sliver of silver moonlight split the clouds above; the high beams from heaven. All at once the full expanse of the road and the decline ahead was visible. The black curtain parted and I saw down below, nestled at the bottom of the hill, a dimly lit gas station. The moonlight mixed with its orange fluorescent bulbs gave it an eerie green, almost emerald glow.
My head, now full of adrenaline, still throbbed. Respite ahead but we were still lost. Maybe clarity was up ahead too.
Chapter 2
I barely took the keys from the ignition before I jumped from the driver’s seat. The excitement of finding the station kept my blood pumping fast. The adrenaline kept rising while I popped the tank latch open and removed the gas cap. It only subsided when I reached for my wallet and pulled out my Visa student credit card. My headache had disappeared.
I went to swipe my credit card. There was no place to swipe a credit card.
“Dammit,” I said to nobody.
It was then that I became aware of my surroundings.
All around was darkness. In the time it took to descend the hill, the clouds had re-covered the moon and that initial shimmering emerald glow around the station had evaporated. The same southern pines that led the way here now formed a three-sided barricade around the lot’s border. Even though the station’s existence was our salvation, the trees’ effect was more fortress than oasis.
Without the moonlight or my headlights we were bathed solely in the orange fluorescent light from four large street lamps situated at the square lot’s corners. Two double-sided gas pumps sat in the middle of the square, just barely illuminated by the perimeter lighting.
The Explorer was parked at one of these gas pumps. Old gas pumps. The retro, non-digital kind that had rotating numbers and a flip up handle. The orange light accentuated their rusty front panels.
The station wasn’t a franchise and there was no canopy or giant neon sign adorned with a Pegasus or tiger. The only identification was a painted wooden sandwich board sign in between the pumps that read, “Welcome to Mo’s.”
At the rear of the lot was a rectangular clapboard building that housed a one-bay garage and a small store. The garage door was up but no lights were on. Inside I could make out the shadowy outline of a tow truck. The store was three windows long and unlike the garage bay, was lit. A paper OPEN sign hung on the inside of the glass door.
Other than a few trash barrels and a picnic table under the lamp in the back right corner, the station’s lot was vacant. Ours was the only vehicle besides the sleeping tow truck. We were the only visible signs of life besides the OPEN sign and lit up store.
It was exactly what I would have expected a gas station to be down a back road in Northern Florida. I should’ve expected a station like this to be cash only. It fit with the décor.
I double-checked the ancient gas pump before sliding my card back into my wallet. Definitely no place to swipe a credit card but there was a small sticker that said cash only. I missed that the first time around.
Fortunately the lack of credit card payment wasn’t much of a problem. We had planned for this to happen at some point. Last Saturday morning, before we pulled out of Providence College’s student lot, the four of us each threw fifty bucks into an envelope and stowed it away at the bottom of the center console. It was Emily’s idea. She argued—correctly—that at some point on our thirty-two hour drive down to Key West or on the thirty-two hour drive back we’d need cash for gas.
If she weren’t still fast asleep in the backseat, I would’ve kissed her in thanks. Well, probably not. That would have been a very bad idea. But I would’ve thanked her regardless. I went back to the driver’s door and retrieved the envelope full of money from the center console. Two hundred dollars should have felt heavier. I opened it to find one Benjamin Franklin starting back at me. Someone had pilfered our gas stash over the past week.
The memory of last Wednesday night flickered into focus in my mind’s theater. We had walked by an ATM on our way down Duval Street. Everyone took out cash, except Shoddy, which was odd since I knew he tapped out his cash the night before at Irish Kevin’s bar. That night, when we reached the Lazy Gecko, Shoddy started buying rounds. And he had taken the car by himself that afternoon to find a package store.
Looked like I had prime suspect number one. I reminded myself to address that with him when he woke up. I never did.
I was surprised Shoddy and the two girls were still sound asleep in the Explorer. Lindsey wasn’t a very heavy sleeper, I knew from experience. But neither she, Shoddy or Emily had even flinched since we left the highway. I was amazed the sharp turns, racecar antics or the sudden stop at the gas station didn’t rouse them.
I checked on them all before walking to the store.
Still sleeping. Emily and Shoddy were out cold in the backseat; Lindsey snoring with her face pressed against the front passenger window. They’d never know how close we were to breaking down. I’d never tell them. I’d just add it to the list of other things, much darker, much more significant things that I wasn’t planning on ever telling them. Compared to those, Shoddy’s thievery from the gas stash seemed trivial. Perhaps I wouldn’t mention it to anyone.
I left my three best friends in dreamland and made my way to the storefront.
Inside was smaller than I expected. To the left, two racks of automotive necessities and snack foods. One drink cooler covered the back wall. Immediately to my right was the checkout counter. A tall promotional display urging customers to change their oil sat on top. A large relic cash register, continuing the retro gas pump theme, waited proudly, to the left of center. A screwdriver and some mechanic’s tools were placed next to it.
The register was
unmanned and upon further investigation, it appeared nobody else was in the store.
I took a lap around the candy racks and only on the way back around did I notice the small door behind the checkout counter. The oil change display must have blocked my view of it. I briefly debated whether or not someone positioned it deliberately.
When I looked inside the door I saw what was probably used as an office. Right on the wall in plain view of the doorway was a small black safe. There was a folding chair and a metal desk upon which were propped the feet of a young man. He had on a red trucker’s hat with the number of some NASCAR driver I didn’t know. He wore a blue, oil-smeared mechanic jumpsuit, the zipper pulled down to his bellybutton. Underneath was a similarly oil-smeared white t-shirt. On the jumpsuit was a patch with the name, “Bobbo” stitched on. I had walked into a stereotype and had to suppress laughter.
I knocked on the counter outside the door. Bobbo didn’t move. I knocked again. Nothing.
“Hey Bobbo!” I finally yelled, pronouncing it Bo-Bo, like a clown’s name.
The man jolted upright, his hat falling over his eyes in the process. He jumped up and immediately zipped up his jumpsuit and brushed it off; as if he could clean the oil stains that way.
“Hey there, sorry to wake you but I just want to fill up out there,” I said.
Bobbo recognized the situation immediately. He must have done this before.
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