“Where is Annie?” Scott asked with a grimace as a searing pain shot through his head.
The waitress scribbled something on her pad, tore off the page and handed it to Scott. “It’s just up the road on the right, number 18. You tell Annie that Teresa sent you.”
Scott thanked her, dug a twenty out of his pocket, left it on the table and went to his car.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Scott stood in front of the car just after 7:00. Another restless night of bizarre dreams and fitful sleep combined with too much time sitting in a driver’s seat had Scott dreading the inside of the vehicle. He was not up to getting back in the car, but he was less apt to enjoy a day in the town of Butthole, smack dab in the center of the less than great state of Nowhere.
His eyes looked a bit hollow and his face just a tad gaunt, but otherwise, he had showered, shaved and was wearing a somewhat wrinkle free golf shirt and shorts. His reflection in the mirror had given him a bit of a fright before he showered, but now that he was ready to hit the road, he felt a bit better.
Outside, the air had lost that mountain freshness. A weather front overnight had ushered in a dank pocket of humid still air. The temperature was in the low seventies but Scott broke a sweat before he had placed his bag in the trunk and slid into the Charger. Remembering his CDs were still in the trunk, he climbed back out to retrieve them. Then the all too familiar squawk from atop Annie’s house, a large crow, THE large crow, sat like royalty on Annie’s chimney. As always, a long worm dangled from its shiny black beak.
“What are you looking at?” Scott called to the bird, almost as if he expected it to answer.
The bird did answer, in a way. It took flight, dropping its breakfast, like a trained WWII bombardier. The worm came to rest, draped over Scott’s shoulder, still squirming. Scott muttered a weak, “Ick.” Swiped the thing off his shirt, then stood, mesmerized as it slithered toward the grass at the edge of the drive, the full length of its progress preserved by a milky slime trial. Scott looked from the worm back to the spot on his shirt where it had been, at least there was no sign of it on his shirt. When he returned his attention to the stone path that was Annie’s driveway, the worm was gone, and with it the slime trail.
He got back in the car, forgetting his CDs and quickly fed the key into the ignition, the Charger’s huge engine fired up instantly. The rear wheels began to spin on the damp stones as Scott depressed the gas pedal.
On the road the Charger fishtailed slightly when he accelerated, leaving two black snakelike streaks on the pavement. Not really feeling hungry, but not wanting to have to stop after getting started he returned to the Golden Nugget for breakfast. He sat at the same table as he had the night before. A tall heavy man with dark hair, streaked with gray, wearing a grease-stained white apron trudged up to his table and sat in the chair opposite. He filled the coffee cups in front of him, set the pot down on the table and asked, “What can I get you?”
“Eggs, bacon,” Scott answered not bothering to engage him more than that.
“How do you want your eggs?”
“Scrambled.”
“White or wheat?”
“Sorry, what?”
“What kind of toast would you like, white or wheat?”
“White, thanks.”
“Okie-dokie then,” he said and before he noticed that Scott had finally looked at him, he had left for the kitchen.
First, the dive bomber crow, now the okie-dokie monster is back. Scott was longing for the rude bustle of LA. If he had to deal with one more perky waitress, greasy cook, one more pleasant gas station attendant, or most of all, one more worm-toting crow, he was either going to go mad or puke. Maybe puke then go mad.
A few minutes later the cook returned to set a large plate in front of him. On it was a mountain of scrambled eggs, flanked by toast, bacon and a healthy helping of home fries.
“There you go, sport,” he said. Then, as though he was trying to set him off, he clicked his tongue while pointing a finger at him like a pistol.
Scott stared at him as he turned and went to greet an old man dressed in denim overalls and a John Deere cap. Scott picked up his fork and poked his food, moving his eggs around on his plate. What little appetite he had, had diminished at the utterance of ”okie-dokie”. Then it had been completely squashed when the greasy fry-cook clicked and pointed the same way the bum had a few days ago.
He felt queasy, wanted to leave but he was sure he would vomit if he got up. So, he sat, poking his slightly runny scrambled eggs. Oddly, it appeared that the more he poked them the runnier they got. They began to wiggle and ooze, turning his queasiness to nausea. He looked away hoping to regain some control, and when he looked back his eggs were a brown squirming mass. His bacon was gone, the toast was gone, and the eggs were no longer eggs. He sat, horrified at the sight of a wriggling plate of nightcrawlers.
Gathering all that was left of his sanity he jumped to his feet, his thighs banging the underside of the table, sending his plate and coffee crashing to the floor. He bolted for the door.
The cook hollered, “Hey, sport, what do you think you are doing?”
Scott stopped at the door, looked back to him, then to the upset table he had just fled. There, on the floor beside the table, was a scattering of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes. As the apron clad man started toward him, he took some cash from his pocket, peeled off a twenty, tossed it in his direction and dashed out the door.
The cook picked up the money, shook his head at the mess on the floor and announced, “They just keep getting nuttier every year.”
Back on the road, he steered the Charger along the pavement by instinct. It was like his most basic brain functions, the ones that control fear, or maybe the ones that preserve survival had taken control. Those brain functions that prevent you from going too near the edge of the pier if you cannot swim, or tell you to stop the car at a red light even though your attention has been distracted and you didn’t really notice the light change.
The radio was on, Scott was only vaguely aware of it. A caller had phoned to discuss the bald eagle that had taken roost in a nearby radio tower. The local media had named the bird Clair, after the woman who first sighted the bird. The crew assigned to maintain the radio tower was tasked with removing Clair. They claimed they were doing it not only to prevent possible corrosion of the metal where the eagles’ nest sat, but also to protect the bird. They claimed that Clair was at great risk of lightning strikes up there.
The caller, who said her name was Trudy, argued that only the tower was of concern to the crew, not Clair. That bird is a national symbol and should be left alone. She urged people to meet in the mall parking lot to sign a petition, blah-blah-blah. The radio host repeated Trudy’s message, then chuckled and said, “Okie-dokie.”
A commercial started, but all Scott could hear was okie-dokie, drumming in his head over and over again, like a base drum in a marching band, okie-dokie, boom-boom-boom, okie-dokie-okie-dokie. Soon the words took on the voice of the bum from Detroit. Scott’s head throbbed, the drum’s constant booming, he felt nauseous, fevered, cold, then hot, then cold again.
The Charger ate up the pavement, not going anywhere in particular. Scott was guiding it between the lines, keeping it on the road, but not navigating its progress. The odometer clicked off mile after mile, up steep inclines, around sharp bends, and s-turns, bypassing stunning views of towering trees and rock walls, all the while Scott’s heart continued to race, and sweat beaded his face. The sky was a pale blue against the charcoal gray peaks that climbed through the trees. An occasional cloud briefly hovered near the summits, before being whisked away by the stiff currents of the upper atmosphere. The air rushing in through the open windows of the car smelled of pine and would have been pleasant were it not for the overpowering humidity.
The landscape could have been the painted backdrop of a movie set, except for the slight sway of the trees in the unseen wind, the scene was motionless. Scott didn’t notice the highway was empty. The Charger cutting a path through the hot mountain air was the only hint of life. It was as if the whole of Colorado had closed after he entered. The only evidence of civilization was this paved strip winding through the mountains. He had not seen most of the signs at the highway’s edge. Destination signs, signs advising trucks of steep grades, signs that gave warning of traffic merging from scenic viewing areas. Signs sparingly placed along the edge of the road zipped by on the Charger’s right, unnoticed by Scott Randall.
The sign that did get his attention was an electronic radar sign. As the Charger approached the sign, a big red eighty-nine began to flash, followed by the words, PLEASE SLOW DOWN.
Scott took his foot completely off the accelerator and coasted, eighty-two, seventy-six, sixty-nine, sixty-five. Two hundred yards beyond the first electronic sign, a second sign lit up. Fifty-nine, TOO FAST, Scott continued to coast, the sign flashed again, fifty-three, then in the same big red letters, OKIE-DOKIE. With all his force, Scott jammed his right foot on the brake pedal. Blue smoke streamed out from beneath the scorching rubber, the pungent smell of the burning tires flooded the inside of the car. When the car came to a full stop he closed his eyes so tight starbursts began to explode from his optic nerve to his brain.
Apprehensively he opened his eyes; the sign was flashing TOO FAST. TOO FAST, but he was not moving at all. Then a loud squealing of a horn startled him back to where he was, parked in the right lane of a four lane highway. A white streak of a passing car, a high performance four banger whined in concert with the pitchy squeal of its foreign horn. The car was going too fast for Scott to identify the make.
The sign went black again and Scott resumed his course through Colorado. It was mid-afternoon and the Charger was sucking fumes. He settled into a steady fifty-five and squinted into the distance hoping to find an exit sign. Twenty minutes later, he was eating Fritos and drinking a Coke in a one-horse town just over the New Mexico border. He felt focused as he mapped out a plan to end this nightmare. He would drive through to Albuquerque tonight come hell or high water. Get up early; do lunch in Flagstaff, dinner in Phoenix. He would stay in a nice hotel in Phoenix and be home the day after.
It was a good plan, but sometimes, a plan doesn’t always come together.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Beth hated the Interstates. Nothing interesting ever happened on the Interstate, unless of course you consider fatal car accidents interesting. The country should be seen from the county roads and two-lane highways, the ones that pass through the small towns, not by them. It was with some regret when she took the ramp from Colorado Route 69 onto I-25 heading south to New Mexico. She didn’t like what was going on with Roger, she thought maybe the altitude might be messing him up, or even worse, maybe he was unstable and wasn’t taking his meds. Did he have meds? Had she seen any since they met? Her mind began to conjure one unlikely scenario after another. Things like an escaped mental patient, or maybe a cerebral episode that had deposited a cast of odd characters inside his head.
Whatever the reason, she had hoped a change of scenery might be just the ticket. The Jeep labored up steep inclines, and then did rollercoaster type accelerations down equally steep declines. Beth stretched her luck speeding out of Colorado, and she didn’t slow down in New Mexico. The mountains were not nearly so majestic, but still breathtaking at times. The trees became smaller and fewer, almost sparse, as they neared Santa Fe. The landscape seemed to lose color with each passing mile. The sky however, was as blue as she could remember. The air was clean and the wind was whipping her hair around in torrents. If her concerns for Roger weren’t so all encompassing, she would be loving the freedom that was all around her. Beth studied the clouds passing the horizon. They danced across the blue backdrop moving along in an invisible jet-stream. It was almost like watching a time-lapse film.
She stopped the Jeep only long enough for quick meals, to get gas, or use the restrooms. Roger had been quiet, but he hadn’t had any more hallucinations or visions or whatever he was having. She talked him into resting while she drove, but her real reason was to get as much mileage behind them as she could.
They had passed Albuquerque in the early evening and by the time it got dark, they were pitching the tent at a campsite on the edge of the Cibola National Forest. Roger had regained some of his exuberance and tested Beth’s patience, commenting on her quiet demeanor during camp set up. She was exhausted, having done all the driving while at the same time dealing with the stress brought on by her imagination. Shortly after the tent was up, she crawled in and fell asleep before Roger had entered and taken off his shoes. He sat near the door and watched her sleep. Listened to her sleep was more like it. The moon was hiding somewhere behind the earth and the darkness inside the tent was almost absolute. Roger sat straining through the blackness trying to see the outline of her body rise and fall with each breath he heard. A chorus of chirping crickets filled the night with a haunting rhythm.
With growing unease, he unzipped the tent and crawled out into the night. The zipper’s interruption of the silence stopped the cricket song almost as abruptly as turning off a radio. A howling in the distance, a dog, coyote, or maybe a wolf brought a sense of dread. Roger zipped the tent closed and stood surveying the night. The darkness was almost as oppressive outside as it was in the tent. He had the feeling of a shrinking room, the walls closing in from all sides and began to get angry with himself. There were no monsters, no boogey men. So what in the hell was wrong with him? Since when was he afraid of the dark?