Utah: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 7)

by J. J. Henderson

  "Long gone. He figured you'd do better with the cops if he wasn't around."

  "Yeah, that makes sense." She looked at her watch. Nearly two. "So...Jesus, I guess this is it, Rosalita. I gotta make tracks."

  "Yeah, hon, that's right. Time to blow." They hugged. "Well, last time we did this I was out of here forever and came back two years later, so my guess is I'll see you next year, babe."

  "You got family here, Rosie. I ain't got no one but you and Mick and Marcia and a couple of long lost boyfriends. No way I'm coming back." She glowered at her building. "Eleven years and it's down-to-the-wire warfare with the landlord."

  "New York, New York."

  "Like I said," Lucy said, opening the truck door. "Go for it, pup," she unleashed Claud and he scrambled up into the cab. "No way I'm coming back here." She climbed aboard, slammed the door, and rolled down the window. "Listen, Rose, if you get a chance and can stomach it, give Chip a call—he's listed at his old place, or maybe even try the number upstairs—and see what's..."

  "You ripped the jack out of the wall, Luce," Rosa said.

  "Right. Well, whatever...I'll call you tomorrow from whereverville, see what's up, OK?"

  "Sure, hon, I'll check it out...you take care now." She waved and walked east on Broome and out of Lucy's life. Lucy started the engine, set the radio on jazz from Newark, and waited for the light to change. When it turned green she headed west on Broome. Just before the building was blocked from view she turned, caught a last glimpse, and gave it the finger then waved goodbye. Five minutes later she was in the Holland Tunnel and New York City was history.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE HIGH WAY

  Lucy reached Snowywoods, Pennsylvania, a truck stop and roadside mini-resort in the steep, spring-green hills near the Ohio border, at the cool-down hour of twilight. She steered her big yellow truck into the parking lot, found a spot, turned off the motor and had a look: garishly-lit psuedo-colonial architecture beneath a darkening mountain; rows of trucks left loudly running; a herd of campers and rvs under the trees at the bottom of the hillside. Everywhere, shiny, sleek new cars. Though she'd never been in Snowywoods before, she knew the place, for she had cruised the same tacky all-American roadway outpost a thousand times, on the transcontinental runs in her vagabond days, in Oregon childhood, on forays to Long Island or Jersey from New York. But now, as she maneuvered her truck closer to the Snowywoods Diner, in her solitary exhaustion the bland, kitschy familiarity of the place took on a harsh surreality. This plastic-veneered monument to make-believe history was her new home. She had become an alien, an exile doomed to wander in the land of polyester pants, Rush radio, and instant mashed potatoes.

  She took Claud for a quick pee walk, then left him in the cab and threaded her way through the rows of parked cars towards the diner, a low-rise cake-shaped fortress in frontier drag, neon beer signs tarting up the facade in the fading daylight: mini-mart, bathrooms with trucker showers, cocktail lounge, auto supply store, diner cafe with counter service. On one side of the complex was a low budget motel; on the other, the instant community of the rv parking area, from which trails led through the trees up the side of the mountain. Cigarette smokers huddled in the deep twilight under the trees along the parking lot edge, butt-tips aglow, practiced coughs drifting over the sea of cars. She got the hard eyeball from a pair of loitering truckers, but in the parking lot glare she felt no fear. Instead, as she approached the diner entrance, bathed in cheap light and the highway's white music, she had a minor epiphany: she was free! She felt solidarity with the truckers, these long haul heroes headed west into the endless spaces of the mid-American night. A Kerouac song lit up her veins, thrill of the road calling with its romantic, leave-it-all behind refrain.

  Queen of the Road, Lucy in her black sweats and t-shirt and high-tops, truck keys and ten bucks in her pocket, threw open the door and strolled into the fluorescent maw of the diner. Families and elderly couples crowded the tables, and truckers lined the long, chrome-edged counter. She found a seat, planted her elbows on worn formica, and had a look at the menu, printed on a paper placemat. Country twanged in the air, background music to dishes rattling and customers yakking. There was comfort in the noise, and on the menu, which featured mostly big American food. From a waitress with a little pointed hat she ordered the daily special, a four dollar and ninety-five cent platter of ham and potato salad with white bread and dessert. She sipped decaf and stared into the quilted stainless steel of the counterback, watching the wavery reflections of the men lining the counter on both sides of her, momentary elation fading as she contemplated her new identity: woman alone on the road. She had traveled solo across long distances to foreign countries, and she had traveled solo all over Manhattan at all times of the day or night, but this felt different. This was the middle of America at nightfall, a violent country full of frustrated men bearing loaded guns and bad attitudes. Guy on her right was scoping her out. She could feel him itching to talk. Get something started, God knows where it might lead. God knows she didn't want to find out. "I don't know how you can drink that decaf stuff," he said. "Don't taste like nothin'."

  "I drink real coffee after five I don't sleep," Lucy said, and risked a look. About her age, greased-back black hair, black t-shirt, blue jeans, interesting creases in his face. He smiled. Had all his teeth. Wasn't too thick, didn't smell bad.

  "Well, I drive a long haul so I gotta stay up all night anyways, so...hey, what's your name?"

  Here we go. "Lucy."

  "Mine's Tim. Tim Bob. Timothy Robert Alden, that is, but my friend's call me Tim Bob. Nice to meet you, Lucy." He tipped his coffee cup in salutation. She did the same.

  "Likewise," she said, and her food arrived. "Well, if you'll excuse me," she said, "I gotta eat, so..."

  "Oh, don't mind me," he said as she dug in. "I'm just relaxin' a while 'fore I head out. Hey, that looks pretty damn good. What'd you order, the special?" He had heard her make the order, but perhaps cracking wise to point that out would not be appropriate. She glanced at him. His eyes flickered from the food to her body and back. A certain lizardlike quality had become evident.

  Lucy, her mouth full of ham, nodded. And wished this guy with two first names would go away. She swallowed. "Yeah, it's not bad." She decided to be blunt. "Tim...Tim Bob, is that what you said? Listen, I, um, I don't mean to be rude but I'm really tired and hungry, and I have a lot to think about, and I...sort of want to be alone to..."

  "Hey, Lucy, take it easy," he said. "This is a public restaurant and I'm just having a cup a coffee. I can sit here and do that. Won't bother you none. Hey Grace," he called to the waitress. "How 'bout a refill?" The waitress obliged him. He said "Thank you Ma'am," then turned back to Lucy. "So anyways, like I was saying, not to bother you but I was wondering what a pretty young lady such as yourself was doin' alone on the road. Don't see too many folks like yourself out in these parts 'less they're headed somewhere's else and there's usually a family, or..." he trailed off, sipped his coffee, and grinned at her. "I sure would like a smoke right about now, but they don't allow it in here anymore since these damn anti-smokers came along. 'Nuff to drive you right crazy I tell you."

  Lucy half-smiled in his direction and kept eating, not sure how to respond. He stood up and threw money on the counter. "Well, gonna go have a smoke. Nice talkin' with you, Lucy. Have a nice trip now." He walked away. Lucy exhaled deeply, sighing with relief, and got down to eating. Maybe the guy wasn't so bad after all. Only wanted to chat a bit. Nothing wrong with that. She just wasn't in the mood. She worked her way through the food too fast, saving half a slice of ham for Claud. She paid up, wrapped the meat in a napkin, and headed out. She stopped and pushed open the door to have a look into the adjacent cocktail bar. Might come back for a glass of wine if the urge struck. Damn! There sat Tim Bob, nursing a beer and a cigarette. She backed out of the doorway, but not before their eyes met for an instant.

  Long enough to give him an opening, maybe. Not if she disappeared into a room
for the night. She headed over to the truck, got dog and overnight bag, locked up and went to the hotel. They had a room with a double bed cost $24.95 with cable $19.95 without, she took it with, and paid another five bucks for the privilege of having the dog in her room. She walked Claud along the exterior of the building, washed in the glare of security lights, then up a concrete stair and inside to stroll down a sad corridor to room 243. The room interior looked like a stage set for No Exit, an existential drama she read in college: some people trapped in a room somewhere, no way out, only themselves, each other, forever. Orange wall-to-wall, pale green walls, ten dollar paintings of snowscapes, furniture all sculpted and scrolled and mahogany-looking till you touched and found it plastic. Claud leaped up on the bed, pinkish and skinny in his summer haircut, and his smart brown eyes glowed with worry. What are we doing here, in... Hell? He wanted to know. Hell was not other people, hell was a hotel room in Pennsylvania. "Good dog," she said, scratching his head. "Don’t worry, you'll like Seattle." She fed him the ham and prayed that he would like Seattle, and that she would too, and that they would be there safely and soon.

  She gave him a bowl of dried food, then turned on the tube and surfed through the options: cheap diamond rings and bad dresses for sale, guys with guns running across the parking lots of Los Angeles, game shows, tabloids, noisy sporting events. She turned it off. Then, contrary to the plan, she headed back out, not quite ready to face herself in that bed, beneath a blanket printed with a pattern she hadn't seen since her last bad acid trip.

  Night had not quite fallen, and she figured Claud could probably use a stretch of the legs. They strolled over to the rv park. In the golden glow of light from Winnebago windows she could see trails leading up Snowywoods Mountain. She unleashed the dog and followed him up the mountain.

  Soon the warm glow faded, but the ambient spill from the parking lot faintly lit the trail, shrouded in darkness under the tall leafy trees. She wandered along slowly, immersing herself in cool evening air, letting the dog run wild. It was eerie in the gloom under the trees, but a glance to the left revealed civilization in all its reassuring roadside glory, and the highway’s not-so-distant moan filled the air. This was the Lucy Ripken rural experience: a walk through a dense forest with a huge parking lot a few hundred feet away, gas, food and lodging available. For all her scorn of truck stop trash culture and its ersatz architecture, Lucy depended on it as much as the next rv-cruising true believer.

  Claud startled her, whipping around a turn in the trail. He flew past headed back down. She whistled softly, and he charged by again. She followed the switchback and continued upwards, hoping to get high enough for a panoramic view of the buildings below. She heard a soft sound, paused, heard nothing more. Must have been a nightbird or a rabbit. Whatever. Time to go back. "Yo, Pup," she called, and whistled again, then headed down. She came around the switchback, and nearly ran into someone—a man, waiting for her.

  "H'lo, Lucy," Tim Bob said softly.

  "Jesus, you scared the shit out of me. What's the..."

  "I was just takin' a walk is all." She tried to step around him, but he got in the way. "Then I heard a voice, and...well, thought you might want some company. Thought you might..."

  "Well, thanks, but I'm going down now. I..." She tried again to pass him.

  He took her arm. "Hey, Lucy, don't worry, I'm not gonna..." She tried to pull loose. His grip tightened "...hurt you, I just want to..." He took her other arm. She struggled to pull free, but he was quite strong.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hissed.

  "Give me a kiss, honey," he said, moving his face closer. "I just want a..."

  "Let go of me, you asshole!" she shouted, and then he clapped a hand over her mouth, wrapping his other arm around her back.

  "You shut your mouth and you'll be just fine, Lucy," he snarled, pressing against her. "Don't mess with me and...hey, what the hell is this?" he smirked. "A white goddamned poodle? That bitch-lookin' dog yours?" Claud stood six feet away, a pale ghost staring at them. "Get lost, you stupid dog," he said dismissively, and struggled with Lucy, trying to force her to the ground. Then a sound stopped him: Claud snarling, his teeth bared. Tensed on all fours, he crouched ready to leap, his face a distorted mask of slavering canine killer instinct. Tim Bob whipped Lucy around to face the dog, and twisted both of her arms high up behind her back, clamping them in place with one powerful hand. "That your goddamned dog?" he hissed. She nodded. His hand covering her mouth smelled of nicotine and motor oil. "Well, listen bitch," he said. Claud's growl grew louder. "I'm gonna take my hand off your mouth and you're gonna tell that dog to back off, and if you scream or say anything else I'll break your fucking arm, you understand?" He pulled her arms up a little higher in back, so it hurt. She nodded again. He took his hand off her mouth. She sucked in some fresh air.

  "Good dog," she said. "Be cool, Claud. It's OK." Claud's lips covered his teeth, his eyes softening. Tim Bob relaxed a little. Lucy jerked loose, jabbing with an elbow, and shouted, "Get him, pup!" She jumped aside as Claud launched himself. The sixty pound projectile poodle knocked the man flat, and then Lucy shouted, "Let's go pup!" as she charged down the trail. Claud caught her in seconds and stayed with her. She didn't stop till she arrived in parking lot glare, surrounded by cars and trucks.

  No sign of him. She panted, her head spinning. She rushed over to the motel office, ready to call the cops. When she saw the dreary face of the man behind the desk, instead she instantly composed herself, and said, "Could you have someone call room 243 at five-thirty am, please? I want to hit the road early."

  "Sure. 243. Five am. I'm off at midnight but I'll leave a note."

  "Thanks. Oh, and if anyone should ask don't tell what room I'm in, OK?"

  Lucy hurried to her room, went in, and double-locked the door. She locked the windows, drew the curtains tight, and moved the dresser in front of the door before undressing for bed.

  So this was life on the road alone. Not quite alone. Thank God for Claud the poodle.

  Heart hammering, she was unable to sleep. Instead she cruised the tube, found 43 channels of bad news, and turned it off. She tried a few calls. Rosa, not home. No answer at her own place, not surprising since she'd ripped the phone out of the wall. No answer at Harlan's East Village place. She tried her mother out in Oregon. She wasn't home either. Nobody home anywhere in the world. And she didn't even have a home. "It's tough, pup," she whispered to the dog, sprawled on his back at her side, blissed out with paws in the air. "Believe it or not, it is really tough out there." He flopped onto his side and nuzzled closer to her. She rubbed his ears, scratched his chest, and fell asleep with her arm thrown across him.

  She beat the wake-up call by ten minutes, and hit the diner by five thirty a.m., looking out for Mr. Wrong, but he was nowhere to be seen. After coffee and an English muffin, as dawn broke she headed out of that ruined roadside paradise.

  Lucy shook off the blues and fell into a good mood, swooping down from the hills and across the border into Ohio in the early morning sun. Wildflowers filled the fields between the towns, and traffic flowed light and steady, flying along at 70 miles an hour. She played loud rock n' roll, and talked to the dog, who stuck his head out the passenger window and grinned into the wind. The corner of Broome and Broadway faded away, and the side of Snowywoods Mountain faded as well, as the rhythm of the wheels rocked into her bones. They passed south of Cleveland and Lake Huron, saw neither city nor water, stopping only for gas and rest stop dog walks. Afternoon they crossed Indiana and bypassed Chicago just short of rush hour. They rolled into Iowa as the long, late spring day edged into evening. The country lay wide and flat under an enormous sky, with small towns, cornfields, and country roads intersected by the hard slice of Interstate 80. Just before dark she pulled off at another roadside outpost. Restaurant. Cheap room. Dog walk, down a well-lit road this time. TV. Sleep. She found the road the next morning by six thirty, headed full-tilt into the big country with three cups o
f coffee and a pecan waffle churning in her stomach.

  She drove all day for the second day in a row and spent the night on the Nebraska side of the Wyoming border. Same deal. Eat, walk, watch tv, sleep, rise, eat, and drive. Mid-day next, fourth day on the road, midway across Wyoming, feeling the tug of the west, she pulled into Johnny Griffin's outside of Rawlins, awestruck out of her road fever into an unplanned lunch break by what appeared to the largest truck stop in the galaxy. Beyond the building stretched acres of dusty parking space packed with hundreds of trucks parked in neat, angled rows. A huge gas station flanked one side of the building, and a car-crammed parking lot the other. The Western-style unpainted wooden building was stripped down to the basics, no bullshit stuff. Lucy parked, last in a row of trucks, turned off the engine and opened the door.

  Claud hurtled himself over her, crash-landed in the parking lot and took off full speed towards a rise across three hundred yards of red-brown dust. Lucy leaped out screaming after him, but in the dust and distance he quickly disappeared. Towards the rise she saw nothing, no sign of her only friend, left her for a rabbit on a hill. Beyond that hill hundreds of miles of Wyoming plain. The wind kicked up as she ran through the swirling dust, yelling herself hoarse. She climbed the rise and looked 360 degrees, watched for ten minutes, for twenty, screaming his name. No sign of him. A Santa Fe poodle, a desert dog in his bones, he'd gone south, this dry dust more home to him than Manhattan ever had been; gone her only friend, Claud the Poodle without whom she could not imagine surviving this lonely trip. She took her broken heart down the hill and back across the wastes of the parking lot—and spied the white poodle streaking truckwards. She whistled loud and clear, and without breaking stride he swerved in her direction, charging full speed, and pulled up grinning. She was too relieved to be angry. They walked back to the truck together. Lucy got him a big bowl of fresh water, gave him a biscuit, then left him in the truck and went to get lunch at Johnny Griffin's.