I wanted a drink, anything to ease the ache in my chest, even though I knew it wouldn't. Alcohol offers itself as a panacea, promising to fix all your problems if you'll just let it. One more drink will wash the pain away, it says, but it's a liar. It only makes things worse. Harry told me that, and he was right. Instead of whiskey, I poured a glass of orange juice and took some aspirin for the headache I felt building at my temples.
I carried the juice into the living room and turned on the TV. Something mindlessly entertaining might keep my thoughts about Sara and Andrew at bay. Settling into the recliner, I picked up the remote and tried not to think.
The electronic burring of my cell phone pulled me to consciousness some time later. My cheeks were wet, and the phantom smell of smoke from my dream filled my nostrils. Despite the aspirin I'd taken, it felt like a construction worker was in my head working my brain over with a jackhammer. The taste in my mouth led me to suspect the cat had used it as a litter box while I lay in a stupor, and a large Rorschach blot of orange juice from the empty glass now lying in the floor stained my slacks. Another night in paradise.
I looked at the digital clock on the cable box. Who calls at 12:17?
An overwhelming certainty seized me: something had happened to Sara on the way back to Henderson. A drunk driver or juiced-up trucker, maybe, losing control and slamming into her, two lives destroyed in a fireball. Or maybe she nodded off at the wheel and drifted onto the shoulder, waking just in time to realize—
My cell phone rang again. I pulled it from my pocket and answered the call.
“Matt Freeman?” a woman’s voice asked.
Great, a telemarketer.
“I'm not interested in buy—”
“Mr. Freeman, I’m an operator with AT&T, and I have your son on the line. He says it’s an emergency. Will you accept the call?”
Her words stung me like a slap. Why would someone play such a cruel joke?
“Listen, lady, I don’t know who you’ve got on the—”
Then a single word that took my breath away.
“Daddy?”
I would know that voice anywhere. He sounded tired and scared, but it was my son. My baby. Alive.
“Will you accept the call?” the operator asked.
“Yes!” I nearly screamed. I struggled to catch my breath, but my lungs didn't want to cooperate. In my mind, I knew it couldn't really be Andrew. I remembered his death, and the funeral. All the well-wishers hovering around Sara and I for the first few days, offering their support.
I knew it in my mind, but my heart told a different tale.
“Daddy?” he asked again, and burst into tears.
“Where are you, buddy? Tell me where you are!”
“I don’t know,” he sobbed. “At a store by the road.”
“What road? Where? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I was out of the chair, pacing. Frantic.
“I’m okay. Please come get me, I’m scared!”
My cell phone beeped, a sound I knew all too well. The battery was low. I didn't have much time. Sudden terror gripped me. What if I lost him again?
“Tell me what you can see. What’s the name of the store? Is there a sign?” As I spoke, I hurried back to the second bedroom, where I kept my computer.
“There’s writing on the side of the store. It says ‘Little Alley Inn.’”
“Hang on, buddy, I’m trying to find you,” I said. A quick Google search showed lots of Little Valley Inns all over the country, but no Little Alley Inn. Panic rose in me like a dark tide. “Can you see anything else?”
“Just the road. It’s really dark here, and there’s nothing around anywhere. I want to come home!”
“I’m coming for you, Andrew, but Daddy has to figure out where you—”
Of course. Caller ID.
I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at the tiny screen. Area code 775. I added the word “Nevada” to the search phrase and tried again.
The Little A’le’Inn, Rachel, Nevada. I felt a glimmer of hope.
“Andrew, is the ‘alley’ on the sign spelled A-L-E?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I knew exactly where he was.
Rachel is a wide spot in the road about 150 miles from Vegas, a place where the nuts gather to look for extra-terrestrials and UFOs near the infamous Area 51 at the Groom Lake Air Force base. The Little A’le’Inn got its name from a play on the word ‘alien.’
“Daddy’s coming to get you. Just stay on the phone with me, you hear?”
I checked my pockets for my keys and wallet, and ran for the front of the house.
The cell phone beeped a second time. Please God, just let me make it to the Jeep and I can get it plugged into the charger.
“Hurry, Daddy, I’m scared! They’ll be coming for me when they find out I’m gone.”
His words stopped me cold. “Who, Andrew? Who’ll be coming?”
“Bad people.”
An icy finger traced its way up my spine.
“Do you know who they are? Where are they coming from?”
“I—”
With a third beep, the cell phone shut itself off.
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