Desert Son Trilogy: Desert Son, Wayward Soul, Spiritual Intervention (Books 1-3)

by Glenn Maynard

  Mr. Jenkins grabbed Carter abruptly by the arm. “Beautiful service, Carter.” Mr. Jenkins surprised Carter at the moment he thought he had made a clean break. Five steps separated Carter from his car.

  “Uh, wasn’t it?” he responded, remembering how much of an enigma Mr. Jenkins could be.

  “I’m sorry…”

  “And I’m…leaving…town,” Carter interrupted, not willing to accept any more unwanted sympathy. “Yeah, uhm, I feel it’s best to get away for a while.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Carter paused, looking at the elderly widower who was like a father-figure to him all of those years. Mr. Jenkins stood there as his full gray hair rode in the breeze. The feeble old man looked concerned for Carter, the orphan. That thought shivered Carter. He blurted out, “Just keep an eye on the house for me, would ya? I’m not sure how long I’ll be.”

  “Sure thi…”

  Carter shut the door and started the engine simultaneously. Now his ticket out of town became urgent. This boat was leaving, and Carter would surely be on it. He would have done anything to escape town, and more importantly, escape the house.

  Out of the cemetery he blazed, thoughts of the west pervading his mind. This was the first time it had even occurred to him. The west, yes, I’m gonna explore the west, he thought. It would be a first for Carter, and that would be a clean break if ever a break there be. The West…it sounded so wild to him, and by the time he turned onto the Mass Pike, flinching as he passed the sight of the accident, Carter became nearly obsessed with the west. He did know one thing, that it was west of Boston, and if he headed west he would definitely run into it.

  Carter had to pass his house on the way out of town, but when he tried to pass the exit, he could not. He had to at least pull into the driveway and look at the house one more time. He gazed at the front door of the house, and then shifted his view to the side door, and the back yard, until he drifted into a trance. When he finally came to, he was surprised at how much time had elapsed, and he shut off the car. He sat for a bit, staring at the house.

  His exhaustion mixed with creepiness and discomfort, but the end result was not enough to deter him from opening the car door and walking up to the house he had called “home” his whole life. The front door was locked, as usual, but he had left the side door unlocked, so he went inside.

  Once inside, Carter immediately went into the refrigerator and grabbed a slice of cold pizza, then walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. He shifted his butt into the comfortable niche that he had carved over the years, and he grabbed the television remote and turned the TV on as he began munching on his slice.

  Since he was so exhausted from the day, he fell asleep in front of the TV only to awaken with the chirping birds at 4 AM. The house was so unusually quiet to Carter that every sound was magnified. Yes, he did attribute or try to attribute some of the sounds to his parents trying to contact him, like the breeze opening and closing a door upstairs or any slight creak. He knew he was fully awake and wasn’t hallucinating. But he also knew it was likely wind and nothing more. However, Carter’s mind was too hypersensitive and he began focusing on every little sound and turned each one into a worse-case scenario.

  He began sweating and felt pins and needles on his scalp, which was a feeling he only got in situations like when a giant bumble bee whizzed past his head or when he spotted a snake. He could feel the pulse in his neck beat faster than ever before, and although he tried to think of calm memories, the steady beat persisted because he could never get that mental trick to work.

  The creaking he heard coming from the upstairs did not help, but at least it took his mind off his thumping heart. Carter pictured the ghost of his father coming down to confront him because he lived through all of this and his father did not. It was not fair, and Carter believed that he was going to pay, come hell or high water. Carter also believed that his father was pissed about the way this all turned out.

  Carter’s attention then moved to a creaking door. He had this noise as his mother sneaking her spirit into the house to get Carter out. Carter did not need any convincing, and by the first ray of light upon dawn, he was looking at his house in the rearview mirror of his car.

  Carter then had flashes of those mountains he had seen in his life review. They might be part of the west, he thought, which was part of the reason behind his wanting to head there. However, there was really no telling if they were part of the mountains of the east. Since the woman’s message and impulses pushed him west, that’s where he headed.

  He could only follow his gut, and maybe he’d arrive at answers. Maybe the accident and his miraculous recovery gave him powers that would help him find these answers, but for now he felt he should follow his gut. Mr. Gorman certainly opened up the possibility of indefinite travel for Carter by giving him all the time off he needed.

  Carter felt he could not go back to the house right away. He could not be subject to constant sympathy and reminders of what had happened to him. He could not go on through life not knowing the truth about his identity, especially if he had truly been tipped off while above. He could not return to work any time soon. Rather, he had to follow signs, which he was doing, so back to the pike he drove.

  He had to investigate the mountains and the house. He also had to investigate the desert, which he imagined he’d find out west somewhere. He only knew of deserts in Arizona. There was that woman. There was Carter’s insatiable drive to drive, and there was a highway long enough to satisfy all these dreams and hopefully connect the dots.

  A potentially integral piece of Carter was missing, and Carter would always feel empty without it, so much so that he believed he was returned to earth because of it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Carter had just driven, seemingly forever through the congestion of New England, bullying his way through Connecticut and New York to smooth sailing on Interstate 80. This highway could tote him clear across the country, according to the U.S. map he held in his hands. If Carter wanted the west, this route could carry him through Ohio, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada and California. He didn’t know much about geography, but he was pretty sure that deserts and mountains ran along that path. If he was ever going to travel through the country, this was his chance. He cherished the thought of getting off at any of these stops, which gave him some control over his own destiny.

  At first, he thought about driving straight through to California nonstop because the further away from Boston the better. The fatigue of highway travel began whittling away at this notion. Looking at a map of the United States seemed to have fooled Carter into believing he could drive to California in one shot.

  Carter did have second thoughts about leaving, thinking that this was not his norm. Then he remembered that he had to forge a new norm, and instinct kicked in. He did have to keep reminding himself of his new approach to life.

  Once he made it to Ohio, the furthest west he’d ever been, the land began to sprawl. The west appeared never-ending to Carter. That’s what he needed, and he soon realized that the slow, melodic miles of highway driving provided him with ample time to think.

  Carter’s endless drive across the country on Interstate 80 West put him into a trancelike state at times. He used this time to think about what he was doing and why, even though his answers were not exactly clear. He persevered probably longer than he should have, cutting through America in good time. He took advantage of the truck stops along the way, pulling over for cat naps, even with the trucks constantly running their engines. As tired as he would get from driving, no engine would hinder his sleep. He would put his seat back 45 degrees, and the next thing he knew he would again hear the engines on the other side of his nap.

  After returning his seat to its norma
l driving position, Carter moved along his tarred path. He made it through states he’d only heard about or seen on a map. He marveled at all the meticulous rows of corn. He, at times, had trouble negotiating the road when the heavy Midwest winds kicked into high gear. Maybe it was the gale winds sweeping along this Midwest territory, but Carter was navigating America nicely and in good time. He knew that cat naps could only support him for so long, but that was his plan until that plan was no longer feasible.

  He drove through this Midwest with virtual terror in his eyes. The day brought with it a warm overhead sun that he felt thawed his insides from the long New England winter. If his Oldsmobile Omega was a convertible, he would have had the top down so his hair could fly like caution in the wind. Putting his pedal to the floor, Carter felt invincible, having cheated death because some type of business had been left unfinished.

  A truck stop ahead triggered Carter to glance down at his gas gauge to see that he was below a quarter of a tank. He put his blinker on and cut across two lanes to make the exit, where the middle-of-nowhere truck stop could have used a few patrons.

  After paying ahead of time, Carter walked out of the store to notice a dirty teenage vagrant walking slowly around the back of his car, kicking up pebbles as he did. This guy’s stare locked in to the rear bumper of Carter’s car. Carter noticed that he was filthy. His long, brown hair was mangled and matted, bordering on dreadlocks. Carter stopped and watched his suspicious behavior from about 100 feet away, noticing his oily blue jeans torn at both knees, his flannel shirt covered by a heavy jacket, and his scarred hiking boots.

  Carter used the gas pumps to shield himself from the kid, and then shuffled closer to get a better view. It seemed to Carter that this kid was interested in the license plate because of the way he stared at the middle of the back end. Then he watched as the kid bent over, while simultaneously producing a screwdriver from his pocket.

  “Oh no ya don’t,” said Carter, lumbering toward the kid who did not seem a day over 18 years old. The kid straightened out without an ounce of fear in his eyes, and met Carter’s approach with the screwdriver. He jabbed, but Carter stopped just short to avoid the point and was able to pull it out of his hands.

  There were no immediate words spoken, only glares from both sets of eyes. Carter noticed that the teen’s eyes looked like he was high. The redness to his eyes could have been due to lack of sleep, if he was living outside. However, he also reeked, which gave Carter a good indication that he had been smoking weed. It was a putrid, yet distinctive odor emanating from his clothes. The kid seemed to have gone weeks without a shower or change of clothes.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Carter asked in a gruff voice.

  “Adding to my license plate collection,” the kid replied, and with no sign of remorse.

  “Well you’re gonna have to wait a bit longer for Massachusetts,” Carter returned fire, “because this plate is staying right where it is. Now get lost before I kick yer ass!”

  Carter surprised even himself by his threatening words, but the kid just stared at Carter blankly.

  “Gimme my screwdriver back,” he demanded.

  Carter realized that he would be handing over the kid’s weapon. He also had no screwdriver in his own car and would probably need it in case of an emergency.

  “Not a chance, kid, now get lost.”

  The kid lunged at Carter, who had been holding the screwdriver in his hand. But by merely holding it up, and tightening his grip on it so as to keep it in his own possession, he managed to feel the tip puncture the kid’s chest and scrape against bone, most likely his rib.

  Carter panicked, and froze while the kid went from out of touch with reality to completely limp, falling to the ground before the license plate he’d kill for. A poof of dust arose from his impact with earth, and Carter just stood there trying to process what had just happened. It even occurred to Carter that this kid was pulling a prank. He needed gas, and had already paid for it, but even though the place was nearly desolate, there was a smattering of people inside the store and the restaurant.

  Carter knew he had no time for gas, and had to take the chance that he could find gas further on before word got out. He wiped the handle of the weapon with the kid’s shirt and placed it on the ground beside his groaning body. He didn’t need the tool that badly since it represented a whole new meaning. He slid the garbage pail that sat between the two gas pumps over several inches to block the kid’s head. Carter believed that might be his only body part that protruded above the cement island.

  Glancing around the lot, Carter had to make an inconspicuous exit. He shuddered with a now pale face, then ripped open his car door and took a seat. A car was pulling in from the exit. Carter had noticed it in his rearview mirror. “Damn it!” he said aloud. He turned the key, revved the engine to a roar, and kicked up rocks against the gas pumps, creating enough dust to blind the body for a while as he peeled away toward the entrance to the highway. The cashier whom Carter had just paid was running toward the side of the car, yelling something and shaking his fist in the air. The roaring of the speeding car slightly overshadowed the pounding of Carter’s heart.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Carter’s fatigue from highway travel should have been whittling away at him at this point, having reached Ohio’s version of the Midwest. He wanted to plug along as far as his eyes could take him, searching for signs that would lead him to where he wanted to be. He relied on letting life take him, but never thought he would be getting in serious trouble before he even arrived to wherever it was he was going.

  Now instead of driving as far as he could because of choice, he was driving as far as he could away from trouble. Not a chance in hell could he stop now, and even if he did, sleep would never overcome him. His adrenaline ran higher than ever before. Carter never remembered getting in serious trouble even through his teenage years, and now here he was running from the law on possible murder charges.

  Life continued to deal Carter a bad hand. He felt he had to drive as fast as he could to get further away from the truck stop, and speed didn’t matter anyway because what the hell did he have to lose? He felt that the worst he could lose was his life, but this bargaining chip became more and more insignificant with each passing mile. He didn’t even worry about getting stopped for speeding at this point, and might even lead the cops on a high-speed chase should it come to that.

  Carter looked down at his speedometer and saw the needle just over 90 MPH, and all he could do was smile. He stopped smiling when he glanced again to see that he was past empty. There was nothing he could do at this point. He needed to stop for gas again, but this time he had every intention of getting his money’s worth. He just had to be careful.

  The traffic increased as the morning sun began to rise. People heading off to work were unaware that they were also making it harder for the police to find a suspect. Carter knew that he still had to play it safe, so his speed slowed down to 65 MPH as he merged with traffic heading into Sandusky.

  The first sign of gas teased Carter, and he went for the bait. As he ramped off the highway and arced into town, there were two police cars waiting for him at the end of the ramp. Carter thought about the calmness of that teenage punk, and how it made him feel, and he tried to emulate that reaction so as not to cause any suspicion.

  He had no choice. He had to go right into the fire no matter what. He inhaled and exhaled a couple times to let his heart rate catch up, then slowed to a stop as the officers slowly stepped in front of his car. He remained calm, but began to think about driving away if they asked him to step out or made any indication that he was a wanted man. He felt as if he was untouchable because heaven was not ready for him.

  One of the officers appeared at the driver’s side door. Carter pushed down the clutch wit
h his left foot, while his right foot anticipated the gas pedal. He could feel the little balls of sweat on his forehead as well as the balls of sweat by his ears rolling down his neck. He pushed the stick into first. The officer peeked into his car, eyeing Carter from his neck to his waist. He stared in at Carter and said nothing at first, increasing the intensity in the air.

  “You’re all set, sir. You can continue on,” he said.

  Carter drove away from the ramp, hanging a right toward where the signs for gas pointed. He could only surmise that he had gone through a seatbelt checkpoint, but had zero interest in confirming it. There was a gas station ahead, and Carter pulled in and tried it all over again.

  This time Carter made a point of putting gasoline into his car after having paid for it. He even had to concentrate on such an effort. He was wired, but he was able to continue on. This was a good thing, because now he had to get as far away from the scene of the crime as he could, and figured they would be looking for him en route to Massachusetts instead of the other way. The punk would be able to mention what his plate said, and perhaps the attendant could as well. Carter was so relieved that he had used cash on his previous gas purchase. Cash leaves no trail, and to think he had at first pulled out his credit card for the purchase before deciding to use cash he had tucked into his wallet prior to leaving. His fingerprints are all over cash, he thought. Everybody’s fingerprints are on that bill, he tried to reason. These psychological battles accompanied him into the next gas station.

  Even though he hadn’t slept in 24 hours, Carter was still bright-eyed, and somehow able to take in every minute detail of his surroundings. He hated having to do this. Here he was wanting to be a wanted man and not wanting to be a wanted man.