by Rio Youers
Over the next three days I got to know Abilene very well. I enquired at every non-franchise business I could find, from the mom-and-pop stores downtown to the farms scattered on the outskirts. I checked rental accommodations, the public library, the Eisenhower museum, even the Smoky Valley Railroad. The photograph passed from person to person. A string of hands and faces. It started to crease and fray. All for nothing.
I don’t know how many variations of the word no there are, but I heard them all.
As the sun rose on my fourth morning in Abilene, I sat on the edge of the bed in my motel room feeling dispirited, not to mention foolish; Sally had evaded Lang and the hunt dogs for nine years, and while I’d uncovered a significant piece of information, it was still crazy to think she’d be in the first place I looked. Just because Sally had mentioned Abilene, that didn’t mean she’d be here, or that she hadn’t changed her mind in the years since.
I took the photograph from my pocket, smoothing the creases with my fingers.
“Where the hell are you, Sally?”
There were two cities nearby: Salina and Junction City, each considerably larger than Abilene. I’d driven all the way out here, so thought I’d pay them a visit, make some inquiries. It was thin, but it was all I had.
Before this, I cruised the streets of Abilene one final time, romantically attached to the idea of finding Sally right at the end, waiting for a bus, maybe, or stepping out of a grocery store, bags bundled in her arms. Because life is like that sometimes. It throws these little moments at us. We attach words like destiny and serendipity, but really it’s just life being wonderful.
It happens. It really does.
But not this time.
As if to epitomize my gloom, clouds rolled in from the west and a cold rain began to fall.
I checked out of my motel and put Abilene in the rearview.
* * *
It happened like this:
I’d planned to grab lunch in Salina, but eight miles west of Abilene I passed a cozy family restaurant called the Stovetop. It put me in mind of Marzipan’s Kitchen so I pulled into the parking lot and went inside. As with every establishment I’d entered in the last few days, I wondered if I’d find Sally there. My expectation had been whittled down to nothing, but—almost a habit now—I rehearsed my line anyway. No sign of Sally. No surprise. My waitress was golden-haired and full of shimmering teeth. “Be right with you, sweetie,” she said. I grabbed a seat by the window and ordered a grilled cheese without looking at the menu.
I sat there eating, looking at the folksy décor, contemplating my hopes, doubts, and disappointments. The best I could say about all this was that I tried, and if the hunt dogs found Sally before I did—if Dominic Lang took back his power and set fire to the world … well, it wouldn’t be my fault.
I was still hungry after my grilled cheese so ordered a slice of peach pie off the specials board. While I waited for it to arrive, I fetched my backpack from the truck, took out my Book of Moments, and started to read. I looked for anything I’d missed, any tiny clue or something hidden between the lines.
“This your girlfriend?” the waitress asked. She had arrived with my pie and picked up the photograph of me and Sally from where I’d placed it on the table. It had been pressed between the pages of my book, trying to work out the creases.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, dragging myself from my reading. “My girlfriend.”
“Pretty smile.”
“Yeah.” I figured I may as well go through my routine. “She’s missing. She suffers from depression, so we’re all real concerned. I heard she was in the area.”
“That’s why you’re out here?”
I nodded.
“How long’s she been missing?”
“Since August.”
“What’s her name?”
It was useless giving a name because she would’ve changed it, but I had to say something.
“Sally.”
The waitress shook her head, lips turned down. “Can’t help you, sweetie.” She placed the photograph back on the table. “Chet Nettle’s new girl arrived at around that time, but her name’s Clarice or Clara or some such.”
A piece of peach pie fell off my fork and landed on the table with a splat.
“Chet Nettle?” Something fluttered in the pit of my stomach. My heart started to jump. “Where can I find him?”
“He runs a little farm store on Nineteen Hundred Avenue.” She gave directions, using her entire arm to point, like a traffic cop. “Take Old Forty east, then south over the railroad tracks onto Eden Road. Carry on for a couple of miles and you’ll come to Nineteen Hundred. Hang left and you’ll find Nettle’s just a little toot down on your right.”
I pulled a twenty from my wallet and dropped it on the table.
“But, sweetie,” the waitress said. “From what you told me, Chet won’t be able to help.”
“It’s somewhere to start,” I said. “Thank you.”
I grabbed my book and backpack and whirled from the restaurant. Climbing into the truck, I told myself to calm down—this was likely a dead end. My heart disagreed, though. It sprang furiously. I felt it in my fingertips, in my throat, in the pockets beneath my eyes. Driving east on Old 40 and then south on Eden, I took gulps of fresh air, window open despite the rain. Fallen leaves swirled behind the truck as I motored through the farmlands southwest of Abilene. My hands made claws on the wheel.
I slowed down when I saw the sign for Nettle’s. A long driveway led to a parking lot and farm store. There were a few stalls outside, produce glistening in the rain, and a wagon loaded with pumpkins.
She had dyed her hair dark brown and wore it in a ponytail. No cowboy hat, but she had the boots, the blue jeans. I stopped the truck and watched for a moment, tears stinging my eyes, as she loaded pumpkins from the wagon to the stall. Every now and then she’d wipe her hands down her jacket. I stumbled from the truck and tried walking toward her but my legs wobbled and I had to shoot out a hand, grab the hood.
She turned and saw me. I’d envisioned this moment a thousand times but it didn’t go the way I planned. Her mouth fell open. A pumpkin dropped from her hands and didn’t split but went pok!-pok! as it bounced along the ground. She shook her head and I shook mine.
I had a line. A great line. Powerful and beautiful. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what it was, so I said, “Hello, Sally,” with a cracked voice and reached out with one hand. She came toward me, still shaking her head.
“Harvey,” she said. “You shouldn’t have come.”
I recognized her only from the pictures, not from any memory. She had well and truly wiped herself from my mind. We’ll make new memories, I thought, looking into her eyes, but she wasn’t looking into mine. As she took my hand, I noticed she was looking over my shoulder at the driveway leading down to the road. I turned, and now it was my turn to be surprised.
Silver midsize. Brickhead behind the wheel. Jackhammer riding shotgun. They screeched to a halt twenty feet from my truck and the passenger window scrolled down. Jackhammer extended his arm, his meaty hand curled around a pistol.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Sally said again.
The sight of the gun and Jackhammer’s expressionless face brought everything back in a hurry. I tried shielding Sally but was too slow. I heard a sound—fzzzt—and felt something zip past my shoulder. Sally gasped and staggered backward. I turned and saw the tranquilizer dart lodged in her throat, its fluorescent pink tailpiece too bright in the gray air.
She looked at me. Her eyes whirled.
“Silly Harvey,” she said, and collapsed into my arms.
Fourteen
Jackhammer took aim at me and I ducked behind the truck before he could get off a clean shot. I watched through the driver and passenger side windows as he and Brickhead stepped from their car and strode toward us. Sally moaned. Her head flopped against my chest. I opened the driver’s door and lay her across the bench seat. The .38 Special was in my backpack—
I’d moved it there so it wouldn’t be in the truck overnight—which had fallen into the passenger side foot well. I didn’t have time to open the flap, dig around for the gun, and come up firing. A quick glance at Jackhammer and Brickhead confirmed I had only seconds before they were upon me. I reached across Sally with my long arms, popped open the glove compartment, and grabbed the egg carton. I recalled Dad telling me to put a smoke bomb in my pocket but of course I didn’t listen. I could’ve saved valuable seconds—the difference, perhaps, between capture and escape.
Brickhead and Jackhammer closed in, separating to approach the truck from both sides. I scooped three smoke bombs into my palm, not knowing if they would work, just using whatever I had.
“Don’t try anything stupid, Harvey,” Jackhammer warned. It was like he’d read my mind. A quick glance showed him approaching the front of the truck cautiously, from behind his pistol. I took a deep breath and went for it.
I slipped from the cab, crouched behind the bed, and tossed the first smoke bomb high into the air. I prayed it would activate and not thud uselessly to the ground. I had nothing to worry about. There was a deeply satisfying bang and a pillar of white smoke that instantly enveloped their car. The hunt dogs swiveled on their heels, giving me a window. I leapt up and tossed the second smoke bomb at Jackhammer’s feet. Again, the noise was startling. Jackhammer flailed and was lost in a swirl of smoke. A third explosion, a third impressive mushroom cloud—Dad was right, these were the real deal—as I threw the last pellet at Brickhead. The alarm on his face was deep enough to scar. He raised his hands and retreated behind the veil of smoke, which now formed a screen across the parking lot.
I couldn’t see them. They couldn’t see me.
I stood stupidly for a moment, looking at my handiwork, somewhat hypnotized by this warzone in miniature. Two more bangs: gunshots, fired blindly through the smoke from Brickhead’s direction. The first punched through the truck’s rusted tailgate and ricocheted off the bed. The second fizzed across my right arm. It scored my shirt and the skin beneath.
My turn to reel backward, to feel that boot-stamp of alarm. I dropped to one knee with a cry, then threw myself into the truck, pushing Sally along the bench seat until she butted against the passenger door. One glance over my shoulder showed the veil of smoke already dispersing. The hunt dogs stood shrouded, poised to attack.
I cranked the ignition. Dad’s old truck gave a chesty cough and jumped to life.
I floored it.
* * *
A few consumers, and maybe Chet Nettle himself, had exited the store and were watching from the doorway with drop-jaw expressions. I tore past them, clipping one of the stalls with the truck’s front end, scattering produce across the lot. I saw them duck for cover as I ripped around the side of the farm store, and knew they’d call 911 as soon as the smoke—literally—had cleared. Vandalism, gunshots, possible kidnapping, bombs. It wouldn’t be long before every cop in Dickinson County was looking for a beat-to-shit Silverado with Jersey plates. I’d worry about that later, though. If there was a later. I had more immediate concerns.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw the hunt dogs heading back to their car, ready to give chase. A long sob bubbled from my chest. They were here. Fuckers had followed me from Jersey, tucked into the shadows, into the periphery, and the bullet that had scored my right arm assured me they were not playing games. Another wrong move from me—and God knows I’d made enough—and it was all over.
I considered circling back to the road, but the flat, straight blacktop favored the hunt dogs in their slick midsize. They’d catch up to me in no time. A couple of well-aimed shots and my tires would be blown to the rims. I had to stay off-road, at least until there was some distance between us.
I steered between two parked trucks and made a hard right into the yard behind the store. There was a barn ahead of me, both the front and rear doors open. I blew through it at the full sixty, dragging up a swirling tail of hay and feathers. On the other side I checked the rearview. The hunt dogs were there and catching fast. I tightened my grip on the wheel and broke left, crashing through a wooden fence—pieces flying—and into a freshly tilled field. The truck bounced and clattered but even at twenty-seven years old could take the knocks. I wasn’t so sure about the remaining smoke bombs; the carton rattled across the seat and threatened to spill. Nine smoke bombs detonating in the cab was not a good scene, so I rolled down the window and ditched them. There was a volley of firecracker pops. Smoke funneled like a tornado. I watched through the rearview as the hunt dogs fishtailed around it. They balanced for a moment on two wheels—I thought they were going to flip—and then crashed back down to four. Dirt sprayed around them. Brickhead slowed to get the car under control, then roared after me again.
Another wooden fence loomed ahead, this sturdier than the last. I aimed the truck between two posts and kept my foot to the floor—crashed through with a jolt that pushed me against the wheel and bloodied my nose. Busted rails clattered over the hood, cracked the windshield, spun away behind me. I tore across two lanes of blacktop and missed a loaded cattle truck by inches. It offered a godlike horn blast that rattled my skeleton. Through fence number three—twin of the last—and the hood crumpled, the headlights blew. I lost the back end and slid across wet grass sloping upward. Pumping the accelerator, I steadied the wheel and regained control, but not before the hunt dogs had caught up to me. Jackhammer was hanging out the passenger window, gun in fist. I jerked left, then right. Two shots punched the tailgate. Out of nowhere, I drew on the evasive driving techniques Dad had taught me when I was fifteen years old (You never know when you’ll need to escape shapeshifters, he’d said seriously). I touched the brake and the hunt dogs pulled abreast on my right side. The driver’s window was down and I saw Jackhammer aiming across Brickhead. I steered into them before he could pull the trigger. Metal bounced off metal. In the heavier vehicle, the advantage was mine; I nudged their rear fender and sent them into a spin. The truck wobbled, too, but found its line and rumbled on.
The field rose and fell, leveled out, but the grass was slick and the tires slipped. Sally bounced on the seat. She thumped her head on the door panel but didn’t wake. The dart was still lodged in her throat. I crashed through whip-thin trees and bushes, popped over railroad tracks with all four tires off the ground, landed with a thud that spilled Sally into the foot well.
The engine wheezed. Something else knocked beneath the hood. Dad’s truck had taken a pounding and wasn’t going to hold out much longer.
The silver midsize appeared in the rearview again.
“Sons of bitches,” I moaned. My fingers locked around the steering wheel, knuckles aching. Here the ground was flat as a football field but punctuated by sagging trees. I weaved between them to keep Jackhammer from getting off a clean shot. He tried, though. I heard his handgun ringing above the struggling engine—kept my head low.
The field sloped suddenly and I was airborne again. The steering wheel was snatched from my hands on landing and I lost control—went sideways through brittle bush where birds were startled skyward. I jammed my foot on the gas, grabbed the wheel, and recovered. Another gunshot, loud and close. I screamed and waited for my blood to pepper the windshield but the bullet must have strayed. I went sideways again but this time I meant to, steering around a fat old oak before descending toward a stream. It was wide but shallow. I crossed it at a crawl but the spraying water gave me cover. Once clear, I picked up speed again but not too much. The needle hit forty and wouldn’t go higher.
The hunt dogs were right behind me. Their car was beaten, too, steaming from beneath the hood.
“Come on,” I screamed.
Through another fence, this made of high tensile wire that bowed like elastic before snapping. The grass on the other side was full and green, perfect for grazing.
“Shit,” I said.
A field full of cows. Maybe a hundred of them. Hitherto unharmed by my vegetarian lifestyle, but now I had no choice but
to go through the fuckers. I rapped the horn. The cows lowed and scattered, but slowly, and I was forced to brake, to weave. I cleared a path for the hunt dogs who roared up behind me. They crunched my rear bumper and I was thrown forward again, bouncing my cheekbone off the steering wheel this time and causing it to swell. A glance in the rearview showed Jackhammer taking aim. I stomped on the brake and went into a slide. The hunt dogs clipped my back end and lost control. I stopped, threw the transmission into reverse, and backed into them. A satisfying crunch as I punched a deep V into their rear passenger side door. It was met with a gunshot. The truck’s narrow rear windshield exploded, showering the cab with glass. I screamed, jerked into drive, and hit the gas.
The hunt dogs followed.
Most of the cows had bolted in the opposite direction. I steered toward them and again they scattered, thundering on either side of the truck. I clipped one and sent it spinning behind me and the hunt dogs had to zigzag to avoid it. Brickhead fought for control on the slick grass and I saw my opportunity; I slowed down until we were level and steered a hard left, slamming into them from the side. They veered away at speed and I watched what unfolded with fascinated horror.
They drove through a cluster of cows that toppled over the hood, sagged the windshield, crushed the roof. Mooing, broken-legged things, but they gave as good as they got. The battered midsize wobbled out of control, then flipped. Three times, four … five. It landed hard on its roof, a tangle of steel and shattered pieces, wheels splayed on their axles. Smoke gushed from the engine compartment.
I slowed down but didn’t stop, afraid I wouldn’t get going again. I saw Jackhammer’s bloodstained arm flop from the broken window. If he and Brickhead weren’t dead, they were definitely close.
I wasn’t going to stick around to find out.