No Such Creature (16 page)

FOURTEEN

M
AX WAS NOT A MAN TO CLING TO A MOOD
, Sabrina had to give him that, and breakfast always seemed to make him positively sprightly. Her storied father had been a spiky bundle of negativity in the morning. Set your juice glass down too hard on the kitchen table and he’d reach across and give you a swipe on the ear. All you usually saw of him were his hands gripping the newspaper, which he snapped and rattled as if it were responsible for the outrages it reported. His moods made mornings a time of trepidation for Sabrina and her mother, and she realized now, sitting in the sunny nook of the Rocket, that they coloured her perception of breakfast to this day.

Max was humming and whistling in the galley, fixing coffee and poached eggs. He commented, cajoled and exclaimed over his cooking in several different accents. Just in the course of cracking eggs he went through Scottish, Irish, Indian and a Southern black bluesman accent that made Sabrina laugh in spite of herself.

“You’re a one-man United Nations,” she said. “Doesn’t it get crowded in there?”

“Desperately, my dear, desperately,” he said, setting a plate in front of her. “Eat ’em while they’re hot.”

“These are great,” she said, sprinkling salt and pepper on two perfect eggs. “I never actually ate poached eggs before. It must be an English thing.”

“One of the many amenities we gave to the world, along with Shakespeare, Sir Larry and the Beatles.”

“Don’t forget slavery,” Owen put in.

“Slavery existed long before the British Empire, boy.”

“Not in this country.”

“Please. No politics at breakfast.”

Owen switched on the television at low volume, flipping channels until he found a local news show,
Breakfast Television
with Rick and Rona. It was one of those set-ups where two manic hosts make jokes at each other between reading the news and interviewing people involved in unusual pursuits.

The male half of the show went solemn at the next item. “A dinner party ended in bloodshed last night as two armed men robbed and terrorized guests at the home of Bradford and Cassandra Blake. Tork Williams is live at the scene.”

A shot of the Blake residence showed crime scene tape and forensic officers coming and going. The reporter breathlessly recounted how the two men had interrupted the dinner and robbed the guests of cash and jewellery that “could be” worth up to half a million dollars.

“Local businessman Reeve Chandler was shot as he tried to stop the men. He was taken to County General, where he’s in critical condition with gunshot wounds to the chest and abdomen.”

Sabrina didn’t like morning television, but Owen seemed riveted. Even Max had gone still to look at the screen.

“A security camera got a shot of the two men as they made their getaway out the front door. One of them is an older man—described as an Australian with a shaved head. The other is late teens/early twenties with dark hair and long sideburns.”

The screen showed low-definition, jerky shots of the two making for the door, looking back over their shoulders. Their panic was obvious, the bald man with the gun still in his hand stopping at the door to turn around and brandish it again at the people they had robbed.

Max sat down and shook pepper all over his eggs, then let fly with a mighty sneeze. “Navigator,” he said to Owen, between blowing his nose and wiping his eyes, “what’s our heading?”

They set out east on US 80, straight into the morning sun. Sabrina sat behind Max and Owen, listening to Feist on her iPod. Her T-shirt and jeans were feeling a little lived-in, but there had been no question of going back to the hotel to retrieve her luggage, not with Bill parked in the lobby.

They passed a sign announcing Bisbee.

“How now, good Bisbee, what news?” Max said. “Owen, instruct us in the lore of Bisbee. How came it hither and wherefore.”

Owen pulled out a Blue Guide and flipped through it. “Used to be a big silver mining place,” he said. “Copper, too. Home of the famous Queen Mine and the Lavender Open Pit. In July 1917, a thousand striking miners were rounded up and hauled out of the state and dumped in the New Mexico desert.”

“Respect for the working man,” Max said, “is what made this country great.”

The Rocket creaked and rattled along at a stately pace, Max tapping out rhythms on the steering wheel to music only he could hear. Owen turned a couple of times to look back at Sabrina and give her a small smile. He was cute, she had to admit. His uncle was peculiar, but Owen seemed much more solid than most guys his age, despite an upbringing that had to have been at least as unconventional as her own.

They passed Douglas, and continued through the Pedrogosa Mountains. Not that they looked much different than all the other mountains in Arizona—scrubby, with rounded tops, more like big hills than what she thought of as mountains. The light turned purple in the long shadows they cast, and there was something unsettling about them.

“The Chiricahua Apaches used to hide out in those hills,” Owen told them. “Outlaws, too.”

“Outlaws like who?” Sabrina said.

She wanted to hear Owen talk more. She liked his voice, and the way he was interested in different places and things. But he just shrugged and said, “Billy the Kid.”

To pass the time, Sabrina tried to read some of
Much Ado About Nothing
in the Collected Shakespeare she found beside the TV. It didn’t seem nearly as funny as the movie, and she put it aside. She flipped through a case of CDs: there were obscure comedy items, a French instruction CD, Celtic folk tunes, Leonard Cohen, a complete John le Carré audiobook, a lot of Celine Dion, as well as Green Day and Broken Social Scene. There was also a set of three CDs called
Bob Hedge’s Dialect Practice Sessions
.

Here and there US 80 offered a few miles of ragged asphalt, some abandoned buildings and more tumbleweed than anyone needed to see. They listened to country music on the radio and didn’t talk much. Sabrina had never been on any road trips that took longer than a day. It was strange how you settled back into a reflective state. The washed-out glare of the sun, the procession of hills and cactus, the odd herd of goats, took on a gauzy unreality, totally disconnected from the air-conditioned interior of the Rocket.

“We have reached the City of God,” Max said during one of the better stretches. “Somehow I didn’t expect to find it in New Mexico, U.S.A.”

He was referring to Lordsburg, which he slowed to cruise through. The place looked flat and insubstantial. Everything about it said “mining town of the 1880s” or thereabouts. The sun hammered down on the empty streets. The only thing moving was a ratty-looking yellow dog that trotted along with a self-important gait as if late for a meeting.

“Looks like no one’s left in Lordsburg,” Owen said. “Including the Lord.”

“I hope that dog’s all right,” Sabrina said.

“That dog
is
the Lord,” Max said. “It’s the tail gives him away.”

There was a brief flurry of excitement when Max saw a sign for Shakespeare.

“The Swan of Stratford lives! And who would have suspected it would be in the desert?”

“Relax, Max. It’s just a ghost town.”

“All the better. Hamlet, Banquo, Pompei? Will adored ghosts! An obvious must-see.”

Owen waved the guidebook at him. “It’s got nothing to do with Shakespeare. It was a silver mining place that went out of business. It’s privately owned, and it’s only open for tours on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

But Max would not be dissuaded. So they drove along miles of dusty highway until they came to the gate that contained the same information Owen had already reported.

“Bugger,” Max said.

Beyond the gate they could see the main street, the low storefronts and what looked like an old hotel.

“Billy the Kid worked in that hotel,” Owen said. “But he didn’t enjoy washing dishes, so he turned to a life of crime.”

“A common but tragic flaw,” Max said. “Antipathy to manual labour.”

Not long after that, they were back on the interstate. “Did you know,” Max said, “that the town of Deming has twenty-seven gas stations, twenty-one restaurants and thirteen motels?”

Sabrina looked up. “How would you know a thing like that?”

“The State of New Mexico tells me so.” He pointed at a sign that contained exactly the information he had just imparted. Apparently, the State of New Mexico, or at least the part of it along the I-10, wanted to remind visitors of the treats that awaited them in each of its towns and cities. Signs popped up every few miles, keeping them completely, not to say relentlessly, informed.

“I refuse to stop anywhere with fewer than forty-three restaurants,” Max said. “A man has to have choice.”

Owen opened the CD player, pulled out the disc, and reached back for the case of
Bob Hedge’s Dialect Practice Sessions
. Sabrina got a look at the disc he was holding; it was labelled
Australian
.

Later that afternoon they passed the Continental Divide.

Owen flipped open his cell and dialed Roscoe again, but there was no answer.

“Oh, now, it’s too bad the base Hungarian isn’t here to see this,” Max said. “Him with his Great Dividing Range.”

“That’s the Continental Divide?” Sabrina said. It was little more than a flat ridge of rock baking in the sun.

She had been pretty quiet since Lordsburg. Owen tried to steer the conversation around to Max’s sales prospects in El Paso—the local theatre company, the drama department of the university, a couple of wig shops—but Max was oblivious. He recited some Lewis Carroll verses and told a funny story involving Peter Ustinov and a bottle of vintage port. Mile after mile of scrubland rolled by. The road was empty, wiser tourists realizing the desert is best travelled at night.

They passed through miles of Martian landscape, vistas, dust and weeds that eventually turned into pepper fields, and then they came to El Paso. They settled the Rocket in a campground that was near a crumbling old mission with a solitary priest smoking a cigarette by the front door. They all wanted to stretch their legs, but it was still too hot to enjoy a walk, so they ended up taking the Taurus to a shopping mall. It was like being inside a gigantic refrigerator, and they walked around the Gap and Banana Republic and American Eagle Outfitters until they felt crisp as cucumbers. They had dinner at a coffee shop that provided a car wash while they ate, and afterwards they went to see the new Tom Cruise movie. Owen had a funny sensation that the three of them must look like a family out together, as if they were normal.

Max went straight to bed when they got back to the Rocket, but not before another attempt to persuade Sabrina to visit her father.

“He’s your friend, Max,” she said without looking at him, “not mine. You go visit him if you want to.”

“Unnatural child.”

“He never really cared about my mother, never really cared about me. Why should I care about him?”

“When I wrote and told him I was planning a trip out this way, his only request was to ask me to check in on you. We wouldn’t be together if he hadn’t.”

“Listen, Max, this man you admire so much treated my mother like shit right up until the day she killed herself by swallowing every pill in the house. So forgive me if my feelings about him are not exactly tender, okay?”

Max put his hands up in uncharacteristic surrender, backed into his bedroom, and closed the door with a sensitive click.

Owen switched on the TV and flipped through newscasts, trying to find one from Tucson. Sabrina fiddled with her iPod. They sat in silence together, grazing their separate media.

After a while Sabrina said, “Are you trying to find out if that guy’s okay?”

“What guy?”

“The guy Max shot last night.”

Owen started to protest, but she held up a slim hand and shook her head. “You’re forgetting I grew up with a criminal too. I know the signs—the excitement, the adrenalin, the nerves. You have the hairpieces, Max is master of foreign accents, and I see from your CD collection that you’ve been practising Australian. I have to say, Owen, I didn’t peg you for a violent person.”

He flicked off the television. In the sudden quiet a distant siren threaded its way through the night. Someone in one of the other trailers was playing a banjo. All his life Max had taught him to never reveal what it was they did for a living, no matter who asked. “Discretion,” he had told him a hundred times, a plump finger to his lips. “The world depends upon it, boy.”

Owen had long lived in the expectation of one day facing an accuser. It just never occurred to him that it would be anyone he liked so much. Sabrina was right beside him on the couch, and he had to restrain himself from putting his arms around her. He found he wanted her to know everything about him.

“I’m not a violent person,” he finally said. “Neither is Max.”

“A man is in the hospital, Owen.”

“He attacked us. We didn’t hurt anybody, and then just as we’re leaving he comes leaping out of nowhere.” It sounded so lame, he felt his face begin to burn.

“Lucky for you,” Sabrina said, “it looks like he’s going to survive. They’re searching for the bald Australian who shot him. And you say Max is not violent?”