by Jeff Strand
My neck is bandaged up, and I've occasionally been holding an ice pack to my face. My leg is bruised up pretty badly but apparently it's nothing that requires a visit to the emergency room, unless I want to go just to be sure, which I don't.
Finally, one of the cops we've been talking to, Detective Jamison Tanson, a young freckle-faced ginger (he's shaved his head bald, but you can tell from his eyebrows), calls us over to his desk.
There is, he's sorry to report, no sign of the culprits. There's an APB based on the descriptions I provided, but I never saw their car, so it's something of a challenge to pull them over at night. Many witnesses were questioned. The motel didn't have security cameras. Well, they did, but the feed stopped working a few months ago and the manager was too much of a cheap-ass to get it fixed, according to the front desk clerk.
Nobody got any cell phone pictures of tonight's events, at least not that they're admitting. As Tanson explains, it's not the kind of motel where many of the occupants are there for a night of completely moral and legal rest.
Pulp is gone.
"There are traces of blood," says Tanson. "The lab guys will be working on that, but I wouldn't expect an answer on his identity anytime soon." He looks over at Harriett. "We're also going to try to trace the guns, although of course the serial numbers have been removed. Did you really disarm them?"
Harriett nods.
"That's kind of badass, if you don't mind my saying."
"Thank you."
"You really shouldn't do that, though. Good way to get shot." He takes a drink of coffee. "So that's where we stand. They're gone. We're looking for them. We've got your contact number, and we'll be in touch if any new information comes to light."
They found my phone. The screen is cracked but it still works.
"What about protection?" I ask.
"That's not really our line of business."
"Seriously? These men tried to kill us. They may have followed us all the way from Florida."
"I understand. And if you're staying at a local hotel, we will absolutely drive by and keep an eye on things. But if you're talking about twenty-four-hour protection, you'd need to hire a private service. I can put you in touch with somebody, if that's how you want to proceed."
"No. We won't be staying here."
"Like I said, I'll be in touch."
"Hold on. Harriett, is it okay if I talk to him privately for a minute? It'll be quick, I promise."
She stands up. "Take as long as you want."
After she leaves, I say, "I hate to ask this, but are her parents dead? Did her story check out?"
"She didn't say anything about her parents dying."
"She told me they committed suicide."
"If so, there's no record of it," says Tanson. "She has the same address as her parents, Elizabeth and Donald Lancaster, in Bradenton, Florida."
"Is this something you should investigate?"
"It's a bit out of the scope of what we're doing here, Mr. Portin. That would be a matter for the Bradenton authorities or the FBI, not us."
"Seriously? You're not going to check into it?"
"If you're intrigued by the mystery of Harriett Lancaster, have at it. But, no, it's not part of our investigation. We don't have the time or resources for that. "
"The whole thing is just weird."
"Weirdness isn't a crime. She's an odd one, to be sure, but if she wants to go on a journey of self-exploration, that's her right. Do I find it strange that you two are traveling together? Yes, sir, I do. Are you both consenting adults? I have no reason to believe otherwise."
"All right. Well, thanks."
"Not a problem. Like I've said, we've got your contact information."
* * *
Harriett and I walk back to my car. "What did you talk to him about?" she asks.
"I asked about your parents."
"What did he say?"
"That there's no record of their death."
Harriett nods. "There wouldn't be."
"You didn't report it?"
"Who would it benefit? They didn't require anything but a proper burial. I didn't require anything but a shovel. We already had the shovel."
"You buried them on your property?"
"Yes."
"I'm pretty sure that's not legal."
"I didn't spend a lot of time mulling over the legality of it."
"Why did they kill themselves?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Let's talk about it."
"They went peacefully. At the same time, while I was asleep. They left a note to say it had to be this way, to mark the beginning of my journey. If they had ever talked about it with me, I wouldn't have allowed them to do it, which I suppose is why they didn't talk about it with me. And I don't wish to discuss it any more." She extends her hand to me. "Anyway, I just want to say that I truly appreciate what you did for me, and I'm sorry that you were put in mortal danger."
"It's okay."
"It's not. You look terrible. I don't mean that in an insulting manner; I mean that your face has an unsightly bruise and the bandage on your neck is also not aesthetically pleasing. I wish it hadn't happened to you."
"Really, it's okay. It doesn't hurt that much." I touch my bruise and wince.
"Are you going to shake my hand? It feels unnatural keeping it extended like this."
"Why are we shaking hands?"
"I assume that we're parting ways now."
That's kind of what I'd assumed, too, so I'm not sure why I suddenly feel like I'm being dumped. "Yeah, we're going our separate ways, but I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to be walking alone so close to where they found us."
"I can defend myself. You've seen ample evidence."
"I know, but being inside a car is an even better defense. Let's get you out of town."
"I accept your offer," says Harriett, opening the door. "And I vow to do whatever I can to protect your life."
"Thank you."
We drive away from the police station and get back on the interstate. We'll go past two more exits, and then I'll drop her off and begin the long drive home. I'm worried that the guys might be tracking us, but maybe having one of them go crunch on the pavement has dissuaded them from pursuing this matter further.
We pass two more exits.
Then another.
And another.
Screw it. I want to know how this all plays out.
I keep on driving.
CHAPTER NINE
When I'm too exhausted to drive any more, which happens soon after we cross from Louisiana into Texas, we stop at a rest area. We spend about fifteen minutes searching the car for tracking devices, and though neither of us know what a tracking device would look like, we don't find anything that we think might be one. I recline the seat and go to sleep, while Harriett sits next to me and reads her book.
I open my eyes. Daylight. 10:13 a.m.
We have a lovely breakfast of vending machine snacks, and then the drive resumes. Harriett reclines her own seat back and goes to sleep, cradling her pole to her chest.
About half an hour later, she sits up.
"North," she says.
"You want us to drive north?"
She nods vigorously. "Yes."
"How far?"
"I don't know that yet."
We roll down the windows, crank up the music, and drive.
* * *
"We're getting further and further from Arizona," I inform her, an hour later.
"I realize that. But it's the correct path to find the second hero."
"But you don't know how far?"
"No."
"So, technically, he or she could be up in Canada."
"Technically."
"Do you have a passport?"
"Yes."
"Really?" Harriett doesn't seem like a passport-carrying kind of lady to me.
"Yes. I'm permitted to cross borders even though I never have."
"Well, I wasn't anti
cipating a trip out of my own country, so my passport is in my safe at home. Hopefully we'll find your hero before we get to the top of the United States."
* * *
"Are you positive we're still going the right way?"
"I was never positive. I was very sure."
"Are you still very sure we're going the right way? We're almost to Oklahoma."
"I'm still very sure."
* * *
"So Kansas is coming right up. I'm not trying to suggest that you're leading us astray. I just feel like I should check in at least once per state."
"I still feel that we are following the correct path."
"We could've taken a more efficient route. Your prophecy isn't really helping us maximize our travel time."
"I apologize on the prophecy's behalf."
* * *
"Oh, look. 'Welcome To Nebraska.'"
"Have you ever been here?"
"No," I say. "Well, I spent an hour in the Omaha airport once. Doesn't count."
"So you're getting to see more of this beautiful country that you call home." Harriett points out the window. "You've never seen that particular cow before. I'm enriching your life."
I think she's being sarcastic. I'm not one hundred percent certain.
"I'm not saying that your prophecy is a dick, but it should have given you a heads-up about the all-day detour. In the time we've been driving north, we could've been driving west, like we'd planned, and we'd have been in Arizona by tomorrow. Can you imagine if you were on foot? You'd be walking north for weeks not knowing how much longer you had to go."
"I agree with you. It is not a considerate prophecy."
* * *
"South Dakota! My second favorite of the Dakotas!"
I've mostly quit watching for signs of somebody following us. With this bizarre detour, Reggie and his men (man, if poor Joel didn't make it) can't possibly be anticipating our destination. I've seen nothing to justify any paranoia that they're behind us. I think we're okay.
Twenty minutes after we cross into South Dakota, Harriett says, "I know where he is."
"Where?"
"Aberdeen."
"Is that in South Dakota?"
"I believe so."
"Well, good. We don't have to worry about me not having a passport, then."
"Definitely Aberdeen. I'm very relieved. I didn't want to say anything, but I was starting to worry that he might be on a different continent."
"You're in charge, so we can do this however you want," I tell her. "But it's my opinion that showing up late at night gives a big extra boost of weirdness to the situation. We should get a hotel and talk to the hero tomorrow."
"No. I don't want to lose him."
"Like I said, you're in charge."
I'd hoped that Aberdeen was right on the Nebraska/South Dakota border, but it's about three-quarters of the way up the state (that's my precise geography training kicking into gear) and we don't arrive until a few minutes after midnight. I'm not going to lie; if we'd seen the "Welcome to Aberdeen" sign right at the stroke of midnight, the timing would have freaked me out a little, but a few minutes after midnight isn't particularly eerie.
Aberdeen's nightlife doesn't quite match that of New Orleans. Downtown is mostly deserted. I assume that nobody would flash me even if I had any beads to throw.
"Here," says Harriett. "Park your vehicle here."
I pull into a spot next to the sidewalk. "It looks like everything's closed."
"It does look that way."
"Sleep?"
"Not yet."
We get out of the car. As always, Harriett takes her backpack and pole with her. She closes her eyes and is silent for a long moment. When she opens them, she says, "Graspin the Colossal."
"We're seriously looking for somebody named Graspin the Colossal?"
"Yes."
"That's not his real name, is it?"
"Doubtful."
"Or is Graspin a girl's name?"
"I believe it's a man. He's close." Harriett begins to walk up the block.
I hurry after her. "Okay, I'm not trying to be the guy who's always trying to ruin everybody's fun, but when I hear 'Graspin the Colossal,' I'm thinking male escort. Maybe this should be a daytime encounter."
"You can wait in the car if you're afraid."
"I'm not afraid. I...all right, never mind. Maybe he's just a stripper."
We walk along the sidewalk, passing an elderly woman who does not look like her nickname is Graspin the Colossal. I'm not sure why I'm even worried about him, since he almost certainly doesn't exist. We're going to have another awkward conversation like the one at the New Orleans gift shop, then resume our journey without a hero, and continue on to Arizona where we will fail to find a Cyclops. Productive road trip.
Harriett picks up her pace. "It's right up ahead."
We arrive at a small shop. Sapphire Comics & Games. A sign on the door reads "Closed," but the shop is lit.
Harriett knocks on the glass door.
We see a slightly overweight guy in his mid-twenties emerge from a room in the back. He walks past a long aisle of comic books and opens the door.
"Hey, sorry, we're closed," he says. He's wearing a Firefly t-shirt with traces of orange dust on the front.
"We are looking for Graspin the Colossal," Harriett informs him.
The guy grins. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yes. Are you he?"
"Hell no. I'm the Dungeon Master. Come on in."
We step into the shop. I was a heavy-duty superhero geek as a teenager, but I haven't been in an actual comic shop in thirty years. I pick up a Spider-Man comic. Wow. Not what they used to cost.
"Nice cosplay," the Dungeon Master tells Harriett. "Who are you?"
"Harriett Lancaster."
"Anime?"
"Excuse me?"
"Is Harriett Lancaster an anime character? I'm not familiar with her."
"No, that is my name. This is Evan Portin."
"Ah, gotcha. I'm Mike."
He leads us through the shop to a back room. Three people sit around a card table that's covered with maps, dice, and various other role-playing game accessories, as well as Doritos, pizza, and Red Bull.
Two of the people at the table are attractive girls, which is not how it worked in my day. You had to choose between Dungeons & Dragons and interacting with females. The world has changed, and it's kind of unfair to those of us who were geeks decades ago.
"Hey, Seth, you've got visitors."
Seth frowns. Like Mike, he's in his mid-twenties, though I'd call him "moderately" instead of "slightly" overweight. His t-shirt says "I Am Groot." He's got thick glasses that are legitimately nerdy, not hipster nerdy, and short brown hair that sticks up all over, probably not intentionally.
"Are you Graspin the Colossal?" Harriett asks.
"Yeah," he says, looking ready to bolt from the room at a moment's notice. "Uh, can I help you?"
The girls, who were staring at us, are now staring at him.
"Can we speak privately?" Harriett asks.
One of the girls, who has pink hair and a wide array of tattoos on her arms, puts her hand protectively on Seth's shoulder. I think she's actually his girlfriend. Again, not fair to those of us from a different generation. "Do you know her?"
Seth shakes his head.
The girl glares at Harriett. "Whatever you've got to say, you can say in front of us."
"Actually, Liz, I'm okay to leave," says the other girl. "I have to use the bathroom anyway."
"It's fine," says Harriett. "We can do this with an audience." She takes the scroll out of her backpack and sets it in front of Seth.
He gasps as if she's placed a brick of solid gold in front of him. He puts a hand over his mouth and takes several deep breaths through his nose. He removes his hand and says, "Yes, we can speak privately."
"That's so not going to happen," says Liz. "What does she want?"
"I really do have to go to the bathroom," says the ot
her girl. She pushes back her chair, stands up, and hurries out of the room.
Seth unrolls the scroll. He sits there, reading silently. His lips tremble. After about fifteen seconds, a tear drops onto the papyrus.
Is he going to hyperventilate? It's starting to look that way. I almost ask if he needs an inhaler, but I don't want to be the kind of person who would perpetuate that stereotype.
He lets go of the scroll. It rolls back up.
"Seth...?" asks Liz.
"You okay, dude?" asks Mike.
Seth wipes his eyes with his fingertips. "I need a tissue."
"They're in the bathroom, but Margo's in there."
Seth wipes his eyes again and puts on what I assume is supposed to be a brave face, but then breaks down completely and begins to sob.
"What the hell?" Liz asks.
This is unnerving me a bit. Well, more than a bit. A lot. The proper reaction should be confusion, annoyance, and a request that we leave the premises immediately. Graspin the Colossal should not be sobbing right now.
Liz reaches for the scroll, but Harriett snatches it away. "This is not for your eyes."
Liz stands up. "You think I can't take you?"
"Whoa, hold on, stop, whoa, it's okay," I say, taking Harriett by the arm and gently leading her out of range to be able to crack Liz's skull with her pole. I'd very much like to avoid a bloodbath at Sapphire Comics & Games.
Seth is hunched over the table, head in his arms, entire body shaking as he sobs. It's an uncomfortable thing to watch. Liz seems to be focusing less on Seth's well being than on whatever negative feelings she has toward Harriett.
She takes an intimidating step forward. I lead Harriett a step away. Harriett's fist is tight around the pole.
"You know what, I think I should take that," I say, trying unsuccessfully to ease the pole out of her hand. "I'll give it back; I just think we'll all be happier if somebody else is holding on to the pole. Give me the pole, Harriett. Harriett? Let go of the pole. Let go of the pole, please."
"I'm not afraid of her," says Liz.
"That's your own choice," I say. "Harriett? Just open this finger, and then this finger, and then this one..."