The Trail

by Brian Francis

  Chapter Seven

  Kim turned to Susan and smiled. “Hi. I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Kim.”

  Jack interrupted. “Oh yeah, sorry. Susan, this is Kim. Kim, Susan.”

  “Hi,” Susan said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You too.”

  Jack the idiot, Kim thought. Always too dumb to introduce people. Probably because he’s thinking about himself again. Thinking about his next stupid joke or little line. Completely self-consumed.

  Throughout the summer, Jack had often left her standing awkwardly on the outer rim of a circle of strangers, waiting for an introduction. She’d smile and nod and finally just introduce herself. This was one of the reasons she’d never seriously date Jack. Bad manners were a real turn-off.

  “Lemme help you with that,” Scott said. He grabbed Kim’s blue suitcase and yanked it out of the tailgate, then placed it gently on the driveway.

  “Thanks, Scott,” Kim said.

  They were unloading the truck, assessing all of their equipment, and reloading. Jack and Kim had not come equipped for camping, so Scott found two extra sleeping bags for them in the garage. Kim’s smelled a little musty, but she didn’t mind. I’ve slept in worse places, she thought, and smiled to herself.

  Kim surveyed the driveway. It looked like something out of an L. L. Bean catalogue. Rustic wool sweaters, reclining camping chairs, two blow-up air mattresses. All sorts of yuppie nonsense. “Scott,” Kim called.

  “Yeah?”

  “Is that your air mattress?”

  “Uh-huh,” he admitted, averting his eyes.

  “Wow, you’re really planning on roughing it this weekend, huh?”

  “I didn’t, ummm—”

  Kim laughed and walked to the other side of the truck, leaving Scott standing there hugging a case of microbrew beer in his arms.

  Kim resented all of the catalogue crap in the driveway. All of the foolishness. All of the wealth.

  Unlike Jack, she hadn’t grown up in a ritzy development in Western Vermont. She’d grown up in the woods. The real woods of Vermont. Where it got dark as hell and your dad came home drunk, and the only reason for camping was to avoid a beating or to fuck your boyfriend. Kim’s dad hadn’t sent her to college. He’d sent her out of the house when she was eighteen with nothing but scars, both real and emotional.

  The other night she’d called Jack a “trust-fund hippie”. He got pissed, but it was true. His daddy gave him everything he had. Hell, his dad even scored weed for Jack because he was some sort of doctor and had connections for medical pot. Jack was nice, but they were so different. Jack lived in an all-inclusive vacation. Kim washed the dishes and took out the garbage.

  “What time is it?” Susan asked.

  “Almost nine,” Jack answered.

  “Almost nine? Christ! Let’s go, let’s go,” Scott urged. “I want to be there by noon.”

  The belongings were segmented off into four neat piles in the driveway.

  Scott’s pile had tents, maps, flashlights, and most of the camping gear.

  Susan’s pile consisted of bug spray, a mirror, magazines, and a small pink backpack.

  Jack’s pile had two cases of beer, a small duffle bag of clothing, and toilet paper.

  Kim’s pile wasn’t really a pile at all. Just one blue suitcase. The suitcase contained sweaters, jeans, bras, panties, socks, lipstick, and cigarettes.

  And a gun.

  Chapter Eight

  It took them forty minutes to escape the traffic and sprawl of Philadelphia. Once Scott maneuvered the green Ford Explorer onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike westbound, he leaned back, cracked a window, and turned up the radio. He was happy. Happy to be away from deadlines, from articles, and even from his house.

  He liked Susan, but the rut of domestic life had worn him down, and he was eager for a change. He needed to go wilderness camping again. How many times could they discuss their day at work—the inane battles lost and won? How many times could Susan ask him what he wanted for dinner tomorrow? How could he know what he wanted tomorrow? It wasn’t tomorrow.

  “Don’t the Amish live around here?” Kim asked.

  “Sort of,” Scott said, looking into the rearview mirror.

  Kim and Jack sat in the backseat staring out of separate windows. He wondered again if they were dating. He wanted to ask, but he’d yet to have a moment alone with Jack. They certainly showed no outward signs of affection toward each other. Jack had often claimed that he didn’t like his relationships to be “pigeonholed by labels.” That vagueness meant that Scott often had difficulty understanding Jack’s relationships.

  His thoughts drifted to his own marriage. Jack had called him “whipped”, back in college. But Scott had changed a lot since then. If he appeared to be playing the role of good husband, it was just that—a game.

  Scott said, “To get to Amish country, we’d have to get off in about three exits and take a few back roads.”

  “Why do you want to know about the Amish, Kim?” Jack asked. “Do you want to go to Intercourse, Pennsylvania?”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m serious. That’s the name of an Amish town. Good old Intercourse, PA.”

  “He’s right,” Susan said with a giggle. “There’s also a town called Blue Balls.”

  “Blue Balls!” Kim squealed in delight. “That is wild! Jack, that’s where you’ll be spending the night.”

  Scott glanced in the rearview mirror at his old roommate. “Or Bird-in-Hand, PA.”

  “Ewww, Scott,” Susan laughed. “Yeah, Kim. That’s the name of a town, too.”

  “Bird-in-Hand? Why are these religious towns so weird? Come on, can we please go see Amish country?” Kim begged. “I’ve never been here before. Let’s do Intercourse, Scott!”

  The last sentence hung heavy in the truck, and Susan stiffened. If they’d known Kim better they would’ve laughed at the pun. But the only thing Scott knew about Kim was that she was very hot. And a tremendous flirt.

  Scott cleared his throat and said, in the most neutral tone possible, “I don’t care. Does anyone else want to go?”

  Jack pushed forward between the seats, his curly hair brushing Scott’s shoulder. “Yeah, roomie—let’s go. Let’s see us some Amish!”

  Scott looked over at Susan. She nodded.

  Kim clapped her hands in victory. “What’s all this roomie stuff? How long were you guys roommates in college?”

  Scott looked in the rearview again. “The whole time.” He flipped his turn signal on and shifted lanes. A semi passed on their left.

  “Well, almost the whole time,” said Jack.

  Scott looked in the mirror. “I left for a little bit.”

  Susan bit her lip.

  Kim reached behind her and grabbed her sleeping bag. She gathered the bag into a makeshift pillow, tucked it under her chin, and peered out the window.

  I left for a little bit, thought Scott. If that’s what you want to call it. He hated to think about what had happened on the last day of his freshman year of college. It always made his stomach hurt. But now the seed was planted, with nothing but miles of turnpike in front of him. Even the classic rock on the radio couldn’t bury the image of Todd Stork’s face.

  He kept his eyes on the road as his mind drifted back to that night. He had been tired and sweaty from the countless trips up and down the steps to his seventh floor dorm room, arms full of everything he owned. Jack hadn’t been around to help him move, of course. At last, the room was almost bare except for the mattress and frame, both school property. He noticed that he’d forgotten to remove the four concrete blocks he’d put under the bed frame to gain additional storage space.

  He looked out the window at the quiet, dimly lit alley below. Nobody was walking around outside. He decided to drop the blocks out of the window, watch them explode on the concrete in a tremendous crash, and simply sweep up the debris later.

  The first three blocks hit the pavement with a muffled crack and shattered
into pieces. A student walked down the alley. The fourth block dropped. The moment before impact, Todd Stork looked up. The block connected with his left eye and drove Stork’s head into the pavement. The blood was immediate and everywhere.

  When Scott ran downstairs, a group of students had already gathered around the body. Stork’s legs flopped wildly. A section of his skull was smashed off, exposing a fleshy pink brain that pumped furiously.

  Todd Stork died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

  Scott was charged with involuntary manslaughter, but received a suspended sentence due to the diligent work of his lawyers.

  He missed most of his sophomore year due to legal matters.

  I left for a little bit, Scott thought.

  Chapter Nine

  Sheriff Adams had taken the call about the missing hikers five minutes ago, and now he sat on his stool at the Pine Meadow Diner trying to decide if he should finish his Spanish omelet or have Nicole wrap it up. Eggs never taste as good the second time around, he thought, so he hunched over his plate and continued devouring breakfast.

  Then he ordered another cup of coffee.

  “Thanks, Nic,” he said, as she placed a steaming mug on the counter.

  “Watch yourself, sheriff. You’re getting some of that in your mouth.”

  He looked down and saw toast crumbs and egg bits in his lap, like uneaten goldfish flakes collecting on the gravel bottom of a tank.

  “Har, musta missed that,” chuckled Adams. He pinched his fat fingers around his groin and came up with a few specks of food. He jabbed the contents into his watering mouth. “Nicole, I do believe that’s the best damn omelet you’ve ever made. Out of this world.”

  “You like that?” she asked, tucking a stray end of brown hair back into her bun. “Not too many folks order the Spanish omelet.”

  “Cause there’s no spics around here.”

  “Well, sheriff, you don’t have to be Spanish to order the Spanish omelet.”

  “Yeah, but you’ve got to have money to order one,” said the sheriff, taking out his wallet and placing a crisp ten dollar bill on the counter. “And you’ve got to have a job. And I’m not talking no mowing lawns, Nic.”

  She exhaled deeply. “Sheriff, what you don’t understand is—hold on, I have to check an order.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

  Damn, he thought. He’d offended her in some way. Nicole wasn’t Spanish. What is her problem? He could never figure that girl out. He watched her as she emerged from the kitchen and walked over to wait on another customer. He loved the tight spiral of brown hair. He loved the pencil that poked out from behind her left ear. He really loved the way she made eye contact when taking his order—she listened to him like his order was the most interesting story in the entire world.

  Hell, he loved her ass, too. He had to admit that. Not bad for a girl in her forties. Perfect in those little black pants she wears. Sometimes he’d order more coffee just to watch her walk.

  “Nicole,” he said as she passed by. “Why’d you suppose they call ‘em Spanish omelets?”

  “Dunno, honey, maybe the peppers or something,” she said, and sauntered back through the double doors into the noisy kitchen.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  He knew he was fat and ten years her senior, but sometimes he wondered if he just might have a chance with her. Nicole’s husband had died two years ago, and as far as he knew, she wasn’t dating anyone.

  “Died” is too nice a word, the sheriff thought. Goddamn guy blew his head clean off with a Remington double-barrel shotgun.

  He’d been the first cop on the scene. In his thirty-two years on the force, Adams had never witnessed anything more brutal. He remembered it clearly—the body splayed across the bed, the head missing. Blood splattered across the back wall, the headboard, the nightstand, and the wedding pictures. Above the neck, blood collected in a black pool on the mattress and saturated the box spring, finally settling in a puddle of slick gore on the hardwood floor.

  There must have been a hundred candles lit in the room, all blazing away. The shotgun lay beside the bed. The dead man’s right hand clutched a strand of rosary beads.

  Adams shook off the memory and watched as Nicole stood on her tiptoes to reach a box of sugar.

  What sort of fool would kill themselves with a piece like that waiting at home, the sheriff wondered.

  He pushed the bill forward on the counter, winked at Nicole, and exited the diner. As he approached his patrol car, Adams heard his radio crackling.

  “Hey Adams, Officer Bryson here.”

  “This is Adams,” the sheriff said, fumbling with the receiver.

  “What’s your location?”

  “Pine Meadow Diner.”

  “Did you get the report about the two missing hikers?”

  “Yeah, I’ll check it out.”

  “Thanks, sheriff.”

  Adams replaced the receiver, threw the patrol car in reverse, and started backing out of the parking lot. The radio crackled again.

  “Adams—you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. What is it, Bryson?”

  Bryson cleared his throat. “Someone’s been messing with the trail markers.”

  Damn, Sheriff Adams thought. Not again.

  Chapter Ten

  Amish towns are nothing much, Susan thought. Sort of crass and commercialized. She looked around at the loud fringe stores that had popped up like mushrooms next to the working farms. Tee shirts selling the experience. Susan liked her trips to Europe with Scott because he knew how to avoid these schmaltzy scenes and get underneath to the real experience. When she traveled with her husband, it felt like she had her own personal insider’s tour in every city.

  “It fits,” said Kim, adjusting the black bonnet on her head as she came out of the souvenir shop. On the Amish it looked fine, of course, but on Kim, it somehow looked slutty and stupid. Susan hadn’t forgotten Kim’s “intercourse” comment.

  Kim flopped in the back seat, bounced around, and blurted, “Why’s everyone so quiet?”

  No one answered.

  They started driving again. Susan sat in the passenger seat, continuing her silent protest against Kim’s rudeness. She looked over at Scott. He was silent, too. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was thinking about Todd Stork and freshman year.

  God, what an awful night that was. She hadn’t seen the body, only the maroon bloodstain on the concrete hours later. In a weird way, she believed Stork’s death had brought her closer to Scott. Scott had spent hours unloading his soul about the accident, his goals, his dreams. It was during those talks that she had fallen in love with him.

  “Shit,” Jack said.

  Susan looked up and saw black clouds swirling above the bucolic farmland. In the distance, a hill peaked on the horizon. Susan squinted and saw three distinct markers on the hill, spaced equally apart. As the Explorer rounded the bend the markers revealed themselves: three crosses. Crucifixes. Like that story in the Bible, Susan thought, the two thieves and Jesus, dying on the cross together. More details emerged

  The crucifixes were splattered with red paint.

  Gooseflesh prickled on Susan’s arms. Scott let out a low whistle.

  “Jesus,” whispered Kim.

  Two things happened at once: the sky ripped open with rain, and the gas gauge on the Ford Explorer flashed the “near empty” warning.

  Scott thumped the wheel with the heel of his hand. “Dammit, I forgot to get gas back there,” he said, gesturing to the empty road behind him. “I guess I got distracted. Okay, we need gas pretty soon. I think there’s a town coming up. Should be a station.”

  Scott slowed the truck as they approached an Amish buggy on the side of the road. A man, dressed in black from head to toe, crouched on the ground examining the back left hoof of his horse. The horse’s brown hair was matted black from the rain, and its straggly mane clumped off to one side. As the Ford Explorer passed, Susan saw the great flanks of the horse twitch and shudder
, and the whites of the animal’s eyes grow wild with pain.

  Behind the horse, in a buggy, sat a boy around eight or nine, with his hands neatly folded in his lap. Susan had never seen someone so pale before. His skin, almost translucent, exposed tiny tracks of blue veins. He looked directly at Susan. The horse shrieked, and then they were past, the buggy receding in the distance.

  The gas station was another three miles up the road. Everyone except Susan piled out of the truck to explore the small convenience store and use the bathroom. Susan remained in the truck. She knew it was silly, but she wanted to retain her silent boycott of Kim.