“In a few,” said Glen. “Thought I’d clean up while I got the
chance.” He nodded toward the ceiling and the second-floor showers.
“You have a safe drive,” said Martin.
After Glen paid, Eileen took Martin’s coffee away. “This
stops now,” she said. “You’ve got no business comin’ in here and doin’ this.”
“I talked to him,” said Martin. “What’s the big deal?”
“So he remembers the pie. Don’t mean he’s…”
“An alien? You didn’t see what I saw down on 360,” said
Martin.
“And what exactly did you see?”
“I blacked out, but I got it on video. Well, sort of.
There’s a bright, kind of swirly light, then poof, the truck appears.”
“So you didn’t see it? You need to let that poor man be.
He’s probably got a long drive comin’, and he doesn’t need you freakin’ him
out.”
The back door jingled, and Glen headed upstairs with a black
gym bag. Martin tossed a five on the counter.
“That was you sneakin’ around last night, wasn’t it?” Eileen
asked. “I will call the sheriff.”
“Thanks for the pie.”
In all respects, the red Freightliner appeared to be a
perfectly normal truck, one of the newer models with aerodynamic styling. Other
than being a bit cleaner than a truck had a right to be this far from
civilization, there was nothing immediately amiss. Martin hunkered down for a
peek under the trailer. Everything felt solid and freakishly normal. It was
roadworthy, but he wouldn’t call it spaceworthy.
Martin checked that the coast was clear and climbed up
between the tractor and the trailer, almost certain that he’d cross through
some sort of force field, or bump into a disguised hull. A set of snow chains,
real enough, hung on the all-too-solid back wall of the cab. The air smelled
like a blend of oil, diesel exhaust, and hydraulic fluid, as it should.
There were handholds inside the rig’s aerodynamic cowling,
and for a moment, Martin considered hiding there, trying to hang on to the next
destination. He wondered if he’d have the stamina to keep his grip, and to
endure the exposure, like that guy who sneaked into Area 51. Then he remembered
where spaceships went. It didn’t matter how much ninja sniper training he had,
he’d end up a floating Martinsicle to be splatted and swiped across the
windshield of the next ship to come along. Great plan.
Martin hopped down. Still no sign of Glen. On a whim, he
checked the driver’s door handle. It opened. This might be the only chance he’d
ever get. He stepped up on the running board to poke his head inside the cab.
A lumbar support pad had been strapped to the high, bucket
captain’s seat, and the cab was full of all the expected paraphernalia: a CB, a
couple of transmitters, probably to talk to interstate weigh stations. But no
slimy, chitinous, or biological surfaces. Nothing squelched or oozed. Nor was
it a Buck Rogers cardboard interior with washing machine dials and oscilloscope
screens.
An odd smell—something musky but tangy, like a
ferret-and-pineapple smoothie—gave Martin his first real evidence. Then he
traced the odor to the Playboy air freshener hanging from the radio dial.
Martin poked at the bed in the sleeper and checked under the
tangle of dark sheets, a flannel-lined sleeping bag, and a crocheted throw
blanket. Toolboxes and a few plastic grocery bags choked the narrow floor
space. Glen had a penchant for Funyuns.
Martin studied the dash in increasing desperation. It
couldn’t be just a truck. This truck, or ship, or whatever, had been spat out
on a tongue of plasma. Martin wondered how someone would draw a graphic for a
control knob that changed a semi into a spaceship and back.
Martin sat in the driver’s seat knowing he had squeezed
every drop of luck out of this situation. He could make out the shape of his
Subaru in the dark. The coast was still clear. But what then? What if Glen
drove right back to the Gap and into the alien vortex? How would that help
Cheryl? All Martin would have would be a nutty story and some blurry video to
sell to the Discovery Channel. Martin dug out his keys and clicked the fob
toward his car. The lights flashed and the horn squeaked once as the doors
locked. Martin climbed into the bed in the back and concealed himself under the
pile of bedding.
With every breath, the air under the sleeping bag smelled
more and more like hamster cage and failure. Every second he stayed made it
more dangerous to give in to good sense. When he heard the footfalls on the
gravel outside the truck, Martin almost threw up his peach pie. The cab rocked,
and a door opened. Glen grunted and harrumphed as he settled into his seat and
closed the door. He began to hum an unidentifiable tune. He clicked, plunked,
and shuffled, and then the engine rumbled with a torqued roar that settled into
a bladder-trembling vibration.
Every second the truck idled, Martin felt his resolve
melting away. He gave himself to the count of three to throw back the covers
and cry uncle, when, with a healthy growl, the truck lurched into gear. Martin
followed his inner ear out across the lot and through a right turn onto 360.
The truck’s brakes squeaked them to a stop at the junction. If Doris was right,
Glen would drive his disguised spaceship straight, back toward the Gap. What if
that didn’t happen? Martin hated to think. Damn you, Stewart. Why did you have
to come to my apartment? And Doris and Eileen, you ridiculous busybodies. Where
would I be without your guidance? Oh, yeah, safe in bed.
Another truck grumbled by, and the cab rocked in the
buffeting wake of wind. Go straight, Martin willed. Go straight. A bit of
static and unintelligible chatter crackled over the CB, but Martin didn’t hear
a blinker. Then another roar and buffet of wind.
The cab lurched and gears engaged. The rig rolled forward
slowly, too slowly. Martin feared it would turn, but it picked up speed and
bounced straight across the junction onto 360 southbound proper. Martin bit
back a cheer. Then he remembered that in a few minutes he’d be sucked into the
Gap’s electric maw. He probably should have thought this through a little more.
Who would even realize that he was gone, let alone dead? His
rent wasn’t due for a couple of weeks. A few accounts might wonder why he
hadn’t shown up, but they’d shrug him off for at least a week. The next
FastNCo. shipment was due at the storage unit—when?—he couldn’t remember. No
one in Brixton would give him much thought. They’d think he’d gotten on with
his life like he should have in the first place. He’d be dead in less than five
minutes, and no one would care.
Then he stifled a groan. Rick would care. He’d check FASsys
and start calling and pinging him. Wonderful. He’d be known in the papers as
Marty the missing Screw Man. Screwed Man was more like it.
Was he going to be blasted into another dimension? Wormholed
to the other side of the galaxy? Get up, you idiot. Say something. Groan and
pretend you’ve been beaten up and forced into the truck. More chatter crackled
from the CB, not alien but distant, staticky, meant for other ears.
Martin eased his cell phone out of his pocket and checked
the time. Almost midnight. Another minute clicked by. They would be there soon.
A heavy object landed on Martin’s gut, and he couldn’t
stifle a surprised cry. And then the world let Martin go. He tumbled off the
mattress onto the Funyuns. His head struck a toolbox cushioned by the crocheted
blanket. The truck shuddered, and Martin felt himself being tossed about the
floor by physics and his own stupidity.
Everything stopped, still and quiet, except for the vibration
of the idling engine. Martin untangled his head from the blankets to find a
shiny switchblade six inches from his face and a black duffel bag on his lap.
“Don’t move a muscle,” said Glen, groping behind him. He
kept his eyes on Martin as he found the CB handset and keyed the transmitter.
~ * * * ~
The reddish-brown stain on the concrete floor resembled
three, maybe four, tarantulas squashed together with an iron. Martin didn’t
want to know how it got there, and yet he empathized, found it kindred. The man
on the far bench had been snoring since Martin had arrived, but he woke with a
nasty, phlegmy cough. He was dressed like he’d had a long day’s work at the
chicken farm and had the worst hat hair Martin had ever seen.
“What the hell time is it?” he asked. The reek of liquor
wafted across the cell.
“The sun’s up,” Martin said, nodding up to the barred window
near the ceiling, which had been light now for a couple of hours.
“That sucks. I’m supposed to be at work,” the man slurred.
He staggered to the gate and shouted, “Derrick. Derrick. I gotta get to work.”
He banged on the bars, then turned around. “What you in for?”
“Reckless driving,” said Martin.
“I didn’t even drive,” said the man, then shouted through
the bars. “You hear me? I wasn’t going to drive.”
A door buzzed and a deputy strolled into view. “Wells,” he
said.
“What about me?” said the drunk. “Come on, Derrick. I gotta
get to work. Norm’s gonna fire my ass.” The deputy opened the cage and let
Martin out.
“Sally’s on her way,” said the deputy, clanging the door
shut.
“You didn’t call Sally. Dammit, Derrick. She’s gonna kill
me.”
The drunk’s shouts echoed after them. At a counter, someone
handed Martin a Ziploc bag containing his wallet, cell phone, keys, belt, and
shoelaces.
Stewart waited in the lobby of the sheriff’s office.
“Thanks for coming,” said Martin. “I didn’t have anyone else
to call.”
“What the hell were you thinking?” asked Stewart.
“Can we just get out of here?” Martin asked, and led the way
out into the late morning sun. Stewart’s Skylark backfired twice before it left
the county seat and headed toward Brixton.
“At least you didn’t have to pay bail. They’re not going to
press charges,” said Martin. “I’ll pay you for the gas.”
“Damn right, you will,” said Stewart, hitching his oxygen
tank onto the seat beside him.
“You talk to Eileen?” Martin asked. Stewart humphed. “I
suppose everyone’s heard by now.”
“You’re gonna get yourself killed. Or worse.”
Worse? Martin didn’t ask. “You don’t know what I saw out
there,” Martin said. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I know you
believe it. That driver was not a human. He may have looked human. His truck
might fool a Freightliner mechanic…”
“So what? What did you think would happen? What did you
think he was going to do for you?”
“I thought he might take me to Cheryl, or show me the way,”
said Martin.
“You’re a fool,” said Stewart.
“I never said otherwise,” said Martin. The passing mileage
markers and Stewart’s wheezes punctuated a long silence until Martin said,
“Someone has to do something, Stewart.”
“You think I haven’t done everything that can be done?”
asked Stewart.
“What does that mean? What can you do?”
“I’ve left messages on Cheryl’s phone. Either she’s
listening, or they’re listening. Either way, if we haven’t heard back it’s
’cause whoever’s on the other end doesn’t want to talk. I don’t have what they
want.”
“You’re talking about the secret recipe,” said Martin.
“Of course I’m talking about the goddamn recipe. You happy
now? All that crap Eileen and Doris been filling your head with is completely
true. Cheryl’s been taken for the godforsaken rhubarb pie, just like her
mother. There wasn’t a thing I could do about it then, and there’s not a thing
I can do about it now.”
“You told them in the messages that she doesn’t have the secret?”
“Of course I told ’em.”
“What are they doing to her?” Martin asked.
Stewart glared, and Martin made a mental note to never ask
that again. But Linda had come back. Mentally ill, but back. What had they
said? A couple of years later? Cheryl had only been gone a few weeks. She might
still be okay, out there, somewhere. Was that consolation?
“Why don’t you just give them the recipe?”
“It isn’t that simple,” said Stewart.
“Why?”
“For one, no one knows it. It died with Linda.”
“Then why don’t we call and tell them that we have the
secret recipe and want to trade it for Cheryl?”
“Think, Martin. They’ll want proof. Can you bake such a pie?
Cheryl told me you’d never even had rhubarb pie. You think you’ll be able to
fool them? Besides…”
“Didn’t Linda leave behind recipe books? Cards? A diary? A
shopping receipt? Anything?”
“Don’t you think I’ve looked through it all a hundred
times?”
“Couldn’t hurt to have a fresh pair of eyes on it,” said
Martin.
Stewart took Martin straight to Herbert’s Corner and rolled
up alongside the Subaru. Martin handed Stewart all the cash in his wallet and
got out. He unlocked his doors as Stewart drove away. Then Stewart backed up
and rolled down his window. “Will it keep you from hijacking semis? If I let
you see Linda’s stuff?” he asked.
“Scout’s honor,” said Martin.
“You were never a Boy Scout,” said Stewart.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Follow me home. I’ll give you what I got.”
Handwritten on a loose scrap of paper
stuck in a worn ring-bound copy of The Iowa Homemaker’s Cookbook, published
1956, by the Iowa City First Methodist Church Ladies’ Circle
Mom’s Pie
Fill
4 c chopped rhu
3/4 c sugar
2 Tbsp flour
Crust
3 c flour
1 c Crisco
1 c cold water and crushed ice
1 tsp salt
Sugar and cin to sprinkle on top
425 for 15 min, 350 for 35 min
Martin held the piece of paper up to his living room lamp,
flipped it over, even inspected the edge. It had the ragged top and green tint
of a page torn from a steno pad. The author, presumably Linda, had used a blue
ballpoint pen. Her scrawled handwriting was hurried, unheeding of the lines, as
if written for herself, and not for the pastor’s wife to include in the church
cookbook.