Текст книги "Prodigal Blues"

Автор книги: Gary A. Braunbeck

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

9. Buttercup and Buckeye Lake

If the girl at the drive-thru window noticed the dried blood on my shirt, she gave no indication of it.  I paid for the pies with money Christopher handed to me, then accepted the pizzas, cinnamon sticks, and already-chilled 12-pack of Pepsi, thanked her, and drove off without getting the change.

"You owe me six bucks," said Christopher.

"Sue me."  I doubted he'd hit me since I was the one driving.

He gave a short, sharp whistle.  "My, my, my—everyone's growing a set of brass ones around here all of a sudden.  Fine, Pretty Boy—take the on-ramp coming up on the right.  After that, we're going in a straight line for a while."

"How long?" I asked.

"Why do you need to know that?"

"If you're going nap-out, then I need to know how long I'll be driving before I have to take an exit, and if you don't tell me how long then I'm either gonna get us lost, run out of gas, or will have to look at a fucking map and if I have to look at a fucking map then I'm gonna know where we are and it's my understanding that my knowing our location would irk you somewhat."

"Listen to my man go!" said Arnold, laughing.  "I didn't know anyone could talk that fast."

"You yammer on like this every time you're scared or nervous?" asked Christopher.

"Not since the last time I was kidnapped and held at gunpoint."  For some reason, this struck me as funny, and I laughed.  Then Arnold joined in.  Then Thomas, then Rebecca, and pretty soon Christopher was laughing, as well.  We were all laughing so hard I almost missed the on-ramp.  Then we laughed about that.

"Pizza's getting cold," I said.

"Let 'er rip," Arnold said, and the boxes were opened, the Pepsi passed around, and everybody got a couple of the cinnamon sticks and at least three slices of pie.  It was the best meal I'd ever eaten.  For those ten or fifteen minutes as the food was being inhaled and the CD player kicked in with The Marshall Tucker Band again, I don't think I was nearly as scared as I'd been up until now; the sun was almost gone, but not quite—a bit of purple twilight still hung around near the horizon, not quite finished with the world and the road yet.  The highway itself looked clean and uncluttered, like an endless sheet on a clothesline, caught in the wind and stretching back toward the still-purple horizon.  Damn, it was almost nice.

"Ninety minutes," said Christopher, stretching back in the seat, propping his knees up against the dashboard, and covering his face with a captain's cap he pulled from his shoulder bag.  "If I'm not awake in ninety minutes, give me a jostle."

"One question."

"Make it fast."

"How do you know that once you're good and asleep I'm not going to just get off at the next exit I see and find the nearest police cruiser?"

He tilted back his head, peeking out from under the cap.  "I can give you four good reasons why you won't do that:  One, you know that the last guy we grabbed who tried to pull something is dead—and by the way, the only reason you're not keeping him company right now is because I missed back in the room; two, I know where you live, so even if you did manage to get away, we'd be seeing each other again real soon and I don't think Tanya would appreciate the surprise visit; three, whether you've admitted it to yourself or not, you want to help us; and, four, you want to know what we've got back in the trailer, and the only person who's going to let you see it is me.  So be a good Pretty Boy and drive for a while and let me catch forty winks.  I might even be more pleasant once I've gotten some rest."

"How long's it been since you guys slept?"

"Three days, at least.  Are we done now?"

"Yes."  I checked my watch; 9:15 p.m.  "I'll wake you up at a quarter till eleven."

He was asleep in five minutes.  After that, it took less than fifteen minutes more before I could hear the soft, warm sounds of sleep from behind me.  I chanced turning around in the seat once and saw that all of them were down for the count, then turned my attention back to the road.

Christopher nailed it on all counts, including my curiosity about whatever was in the trailer; but mostly he was right about my wanting to help them now.  Jesus—even a complete stranger could read me.  Had I become that tiredly predictable over the last ten years?

My dad would have called it "being dependable."  And he would've known; the man worked the factory line for over thirty years, never called in sick even when he was undergoing radiation treatments, almost never complained, paid his bills faithfully, squirreled some away for a rainy day, always checked to make sure Gayle and I were doing fine (even after we both married and moved out), did the dishes every night so Mom could rest, and retired just in time to discover the prostate cancer we'd all thought had been taken care of years ago had returned, only this time it brought along family who took up residence in his liver, right lung, stomach, and brain.  He died in hospice sixteen months after he clocked out at the plant for the last time; he never got to go fishing near Buckeye Lake (he'd splurged and bought himself a new rod and reel), never got to see an OSU football game in person, never got to take my mom out for a "night on the town" like they used to have when they'd first been married and didn't have any kids to drain their energy and bank accounts.  He went from the factory floor to the chemo ward and then into the ground.  I don't think he experienced a truly happy day in all the years I knew him.  Mom died in her sleep ten months to the day after we buried Dad.  Every time I thought about it, I still cried.  They'd both been gone for a little over two years, and I still missed them so much it hurt like hell.

I have no idea how long I'd been driving or how long I'd been crying when Christopher said, "What's wrong?"

I looked at him for a moment, waiting for either the smartass remark or the threat; when he said nothing more, I turned my attention back to the road.  "Go back to sleep.  I'm doing what you told me to."

He pushed back his cap and sat up.  "What time is it?"

I checked my watch.  "Five after eleven."

"Damn.  I feel like I've been asleep for hours."

"I'm surprised you don't feel hung-over."

He shook his head.  "No.  I feel pretty good, in fact."  He turned down the volume on the CD player; I'd already had it pretty low.  Now I couldn't hear it at all.  And "Can't You See" was just about to start, too.

"So what's wrong?"

"What the hell does it matter to you?"

"I like to keep my hostages happy.  Which is more than can be said for our former keeper."

I wiped my eyes.  "Not that it's going to mean shit—since my sympathy's a little late, as you pointed out—but I'm really sorry for what happened to all of you."

"Thanks.  Seriously."

"Did you really kill the last guy?"

"Yeah, I did.  We didn't exactly grab him like we did you.  He hired himself out to us."

"Who was he?"

A shrug.  "Some drifter we met at a rest stop.  He was trying to bum a ride from anyone who'd take him, but he wasn't exactly the cleanest or most cordial of people.  He needed a ride, we needed a normal face.  He said he'd help us for five hundred dollars.  I gave him half up front.  We stopped at a gas station outside Topeka so he could wash up and I followed him in.  As soon as we were through the door he jumped me and tried to get the gun.  I shot him and he stumbled outside and fell right in front of Denise—Rebecca was taking her to use the ladies' room.  I was madder than hell and just kept shooting until Denise shrieked and tried to run away.  Pissed away a good silencer for nothing.  Lucky that Grendel kept two spares of everything.  Did you know most silencers are only good for about six to eight shots if you're lucky?"

"I was unaware."

He laughed at that.  "Arnold and me dragged his body back into some bushes behind the gas station and then we took off.  I never once saw an attendant or another customer."

"Lucky for you—this outfit you're traveling in isn't exactly inconspicuous."

"That's the whole idea."

I looked at him.  "What do you mean?"

He sighed, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles.  "Grendel, he liked his red wine.  Liked to drink it almost all the time.  Sometimes he'd drink a little too much and get chatty.  Whenever that happened, he'd start going on about his 'methods,' about his 'modus operandi.'  Sick fuck actually thought the way he did things was admirable….

"When you first spotted us, what's the first thing that registered?"

"Silver," I said.  "The first thing was how bright the finish is.  Then I noticed that it was a VW Microbus.  Then I noticed the trailer."

"Right.  Now answer me this; if we hadn't slowed down so you could get a good look at Denise—be honest—would you have even noticed anyone inside?"

I thought about it for a moment.  "No, I don't think I would have."

"Which is exactly what Grendel counted on.  You know the two best ways not to get noticed?  Either be so bland you're invisible or stick out like a sore thumb.  This bus sticks out.  If people see anything, it's the bus, not who's driving."

"But that doesn't make sense.  A vehicle like this draws all kind of attention to itself.  You'd have to be stupid to use this for—oh, hang on…"

"Is that a light bulb I see over your head, Pretty Boy?  You already know the punchline, don't you?  That's right—any cop or Highway Patrol officer sees this thing, they think something like you just did:  'Anybody who'd drive something like that must be a damned careful motorist, it's not like they could blend into the traffic.'  They decide that someone would have to be stupid to break the law while driving this contraption, so they automatically dismiss it."

"Grendel couldn't possibly depend on that being the case every time he went out."

Christopher laughed quietly.  "Then you want to tell me why he was never caught or so much as pulled over?  These are the only wheels he used.  Every time he ran one of his 'errands,' it was in this.  Fifteen years, Pretty Boy.  Thirty-seven kids.  Six different states that I know of.  Any cop runs these plates, this thing is cleaner than a nun's fantasies—I got that line from an old Robert Ryan movie.  Everything's registered in the name 'Beowulf Antiquities, Inc.'—which also explains the trailer to them, as well as why the windows are covered up on the inside; after all, if you're moving valuable antiques, you don't want the wood finish to be harmed by harsh sunlight, do you?  So this thing sticks out like nobody's business and draws all kinds of attention to itself and yet somehow never got noticed.  As crazy as it sounds, it works."

"God," I said, shaking my head.  "Is that also why all of you dress the way you do?"

"Bingo.  I blend into to any background, completely forgettable.  Rebecca's an average-sized teenage girl with lots of long, dark hair.  And Arnold is just a black kid in a white shirt."

"You learned all of this from Grendel?"

"No, we signed up for correspondence courses.  I got a 'B.'"

"Sorry.  Dumb question."

"Anything else on your mind?"

"I have to call my wife.  I promised I'd call her.  If I don't call, she'll call the motel and when I don't answer the phone—"

"Easy there, partner.  I know you have to call her, I was listening, remember?"  He pulled the cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open, and raised the antennae.  "Looks like we got a nice, strong signal."  He began handing it to me, then stopped.  "You tell her everything's okay, you're tired, and just wanted to say good night.  You'll see her when you get home tomorrow night."

"Will I?  See her tomorrow night?"

"Unless you give me a reason to make it otherwise."

I took the phone from him.  "Were you really trying to hit me when you took that shot back in the room?"

He stared at me, unblinking.  "I can't think of one good reason I should answer that."

I punched in our number, praying that I'd get the voicemail; I'm a lousy liar and Tanya can spot my bullshit without breaking a sweat.

"Hello?"

For the first time in our marriage, I was almost sorry to be talking to my wife.  "Hey, honey, it's me."

"Hello, stranger.  Everyone's fine.  Gayle and the kids are asleep.  I got someone a spiffy new cell phone, you're welcome."

"Terrific.  How was the drive?"

"The Columbus airport's a pain in the ass but what else is new?  Traffic wasn't too bad once we got onto the highway.  The kids kept going on about being so high up in the air—this was their first time on a plane.  You should've seen the way they carried on about it.  God, I'd forgotten how cute those two are.  How're you doing?"

"I'm okay.  I'm tired.  Tomorrow's going to be a long day.  I probably won't get in until late."

"Were you able to rent a car in Jefferson City?"

My balls jumped up somewhere in the vicinity of my throat.

It's amazing just how quickly you can disintegrate into total unreasonable panic:  Tanya had asked a simple question, one that let me know she'd spoken to either Edna or Earl at the motel, which meant they'd told her I wasn't there, which meant Tanya might think I still was in Jefferson City, or that someone else might have already checked my room and seen the mess and the blood, which meant the State Police might have already issued an APB, which-meant-which-meant-or-or-or-or-OR.

It must have registered all over my face, because suddenly Christopher was leaning over and mouthing What is it?

Your note I mouthed in return, then said:  "Uh, yeah.  Sort of.  The rental place I found won't have a car available until after noon tomorrow."

"That's fine.  Every little delay just gives me more fuel to burn Perry's ass with.  By the way—what did you mean about criminal charges?"

"I'll explain when I get home."  Christopher grabbed my wrist and turned the cell phone away from my ear so he could listen in.

"Are you back at the motel now?"

I drew a blank.  I looked at Christopher.  He seemed to be caught off-guard, as well.

I was on my own here.  Wonderful.

"Mark?  You still there, baby?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm still here… uh, what'd you say?  I didn't hear you."

"Where are you, anyway?  Back at the motel?"

I'd lied to her once already and her bullshit alarm hadn't gone off yet, so I had no choice but to press my luck.  "No, I'm still in Jefferson City but I'm going to be heading back to the motel here pretty soon.  I… I ran into a delivery guy who's taking stuff over to Muriel's restaurant."

"Muriel?  Oh, right, right—Cletus's girlfriend."

Damn, they were a talkative bunch.  I kept waiting for Tanya to ask me about Denise, but she never did; which meant no one had told her about it, which meant that the State Police had told everyone to keep it to themselves for the time being, which meant—

"Mark?  Hello, Earth to Mark."

"I'm sorry, babe.  I'm using a cell phone and it keeps going fuzzy on me.  Look, I gotta go, my ride's getting ready to leave.  I really need to get back and get some sleep.  I'll call you if anything else happens—but if you don't hear from me, it means everything's fine, okay?"

"Gotcha."

"I love you, Tanya."

"You'd better.  Love you, too, baby.  See you tomorrow night."

"Tell Gayle and the kids I… I can't wait to see them."

"Will do.  'Night."

"Good night."  I snapped closed the phone, then looked over at Christopher.  "So?  How'd I do?"

"You think fast, Pretty Boy.  You did good.  Real good."  He took the phone.  "I'd almost forgotten about that note."

"I don't like having to lie to my wife."

"Sorry.  On the bright side, by this time tomorrow night, more or less, you'll be home, safe and sound."  He pulled one of the laptops out from underneath his seat, fired it up, and checked something, all the while making sure to keep the screen angled away from me.  He checked the screen, then looked up as we approached a sign.

"I'm not looking at anything," I said.

"I know you're not."  He read the sign, then checked the screen once more.  "Let me ask you a hypothetical question:  Say you're me, and you know something the others don't.  But this thing you know, it would upset them.  But at the same time, it's something they would want to know, regardless.  Got it?"

"I think so."

"Would you tell them?"

"No."

He blinked, surprised.  "You didn't even have to think about it."

"What's to think about?  They've got more than enough to deal with for the rest of their lives.  Why upset them anymore?"

Christopher looked back.  Rebecca, Arnold, and Thomas were deep asleep.  "I really love them."  He looked at me.  "If you believe nothing else I say, believe that."

"I do."  And I did.

"Remember the silver square on the map?"

"Yeah…?"

"I was going to skip it—that's why I decided to nap-out for an hour-and-a-half.  But I woke up.  So you're going to help me with this.  The next rest stop's coming up in two miles.  Pull in.  You'll have to park on the 'Trucks and Campers' side."

I remembered Arnold's explanation of the color schemes.  "That's a red spot."

"Your point being…?"

My stomach felt suddenly queasy and tight.  "What are you going to do?"

"Wrong pronoun, Mark."  This was the first time he'd called me by name.  "You mean to say, what are we going to do."

I saw the rest stop entrance up ahead.  Everything about this felt wrong.

And bad.

Very, very bad.

I pulled off the highway and drove around to the proper side.  Christopher had me park at the farthest end, as close to the exit as possible, and in a straight line across four parking spaces; whatever we were here to do, he did not want to waste time afterward backing out.

There were six semis and one behemoth Winnebago parked over here.  I started to turn off the ignition but Christopher shook his head.

"As long as the engine's running, they'll stay asleep."

I checked the gas gauge; three-quarters of a tank.  I'd forgotten what great mileage these things got.

We sat in silence for several minutes, the only sounds that of our engines and those of the park and darkened semis.

Three slices of pizza, two cans of Pepsi, and a very tense drive.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I said.

"Good.  So do I.  You go first."

I made it to the toilet just in time.

As I was washing my hands, I noticed something in my shirt pocket and pulled it out.

Cletus's business card, with his home phone number written on the back.

The bathrooms were inside the main building.  In the lobby—if that's what they called the common areas in rest stops—were a couple of large maps mounted on the walls, several shelves of brochures, a couple of water fountains… and a bank of payphones.

I checked my pockets and was shocked to find thirty-seven cents in one of them.  How the change hadn't fallen out when the pants were being washed and then hung over a shower curtain rod, I didn't know and didn't much care.  It was a good bet that I was well out of local-call range, but I could call collect.  Something told me Cletus was the type to accept the charges.

I walked out of the bathroom.  Slowly.

I wondered if Christopher could see the payphones from the bus.

I thought about Tanya.  About my sister.  My niece and nephew.

I looked at the card in my hand.

And then I thought about Dad; whenever I find myself in anything remotely resembling a moral quandary, I tend to ask myself what he would do were he in the same situation.  My dad was one of the best people I'd ever known.  It wasn't just that I'd loved him, I'd liked him so much.  He was a decent, dependable, hard-working man; he had his faults, no arguments there—he could be a royal pain when he was in a bad mood, and he was a mean drunk (though he didn't get drunk very often)—but he was the one his friends always turned to when there was a problem they couldn't handle on their own.  So tell me, Dad, what the hell would you do if you were in my shoes?

I'd keep my word, is what I'd do.  You said you'd help them.  So, help.

I looked once more at Cletus's number, released the breath I didn't know I'd been holding, slipped the card back into my pocket, and went back to the bus.

"Jesus," said Christopher as I climbed back in.  "Did you fall in or something?"

"Some activities cannot be hurried."

"Yeah, whatever."  He all but ran to the building after he got out.  Behind me, everyone was still sawing logs; Thomas snored softly, Arnold slept with his mouth open, and Rebecca drooled a little bit.  They looked almost peaceful.

I leaned back my head and closed my eyes.  A few minutes later, Christopher was back.

"You're still here."

"Why wouldn't I be?" I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.

"You just passed your first major test."

"I'm thrilled.  What are we doing here, anyway?"

He said nothing, only pointed to where another vehicle was driving around toward our area.

I thought I was imagining things at first, but as it passed under the sole streetlight on this side of the building, I realized it was no hallucination.

Another silver VW Microbus pulling another silver Airstream trailer parked across the lot from us.  If one of the truck drivers were to wake up right now, the poor guy would swear he needed glasses.

I pointed to our doppelganger.  "So what happens if a cop runs those plates?"

"Beowulf Antiquities, Inc., that's what.  These guys are a lot of things, Pretty Boy—stupid isn't one of them."  He reached into his shoulder bag and removed an unmarked, shrink-wrapped videotape.  "I'll go around to the driver's side, you stand by the passenger window."  He sat very still, as if rallying himself.

"What's with the tape?" I asked.

"Grendel has—had—a network of customers who pay top-dollar for entertainment of a very specific nature."  He gave the tape a little wave.  "You're looking at Connie's final performance, with stereo sound.  A thousand dollars a copy."  He nodded toward the other bus and trailer.  "That gentleman over there is one of Grendel's distributors.  He copies and sells this…'entertainment for specific tastes'.  Whenever enough orders are taken, a meeting is arranged.  Grendel had one scheduled for tonight.  We give that guy this tape, and he gives us the cash taken in from the last few orders—minus his twenty-five percent commission, of course."

"Of course."  I wanted to vomit.  "How many… distributors are there?"

"Five.  And they all deal with me.  None of them has ever seen Grendel's face."

"A silent partnership."

He nodded.  "Now it's time for your second test," he said, disabling the dome light and opening his door.  "Get out—and make sure you follow my lead."

"What are you going to do?"  The idea of participating in a transaction like this was more than I could stand.

Christopher slung the bag over his shoulder.  "You'll see.  Leave your door opened just a crack.  Come on."

Sixteen steps.  It took sixteen steps to get from my door to the passenger side of the other bus.  It was one of the longest walks of my life.

Both the driver's-side and passenger windows had been rolled down.  I stood where I was supposed to as Christopher, plastering on as much of a smile as his facial prostheses would allow, went around to speak with the driver, who reached up to disable his dome light and in the process accidentally flicked it on for a few moments, giving me a brief but clear look at his face.

I wish I could tell you that he was a sweaty, pale, beady-eyed little toad who stank of semen-stained underwear, colored his comb-over with shoe polish, had dirty fingernails, a nose covered in exploded capillaries, and a pronounced facial tick; I wish I could say that one look at him would scream 'pervert' to a one-eyed man a hundred yards away in a rainstorm; I wish there had been something, anything about him that set off the gothic bells and brought in the thunderclouds; but like Grendel, he looked utterly harmless:  clean, well-groomed, and conservatively dressed.

"Beowulf Antiquities, Inc., at your service," said Christopher.

"You have a new friend," said the driver, not looking at me.  "I wasn't told anything about you suddenly getting an assistant."

Christopher held up the tape.  "Connie."

"You're kidding?  He finally… wow.  I mean, wow, y'know?"  He reached through the opened window and took the tape, turning it over in his hands with tenderness, even reverence.  "He said this one was going to be special."

"I have a supporting role," said Christopher.

The driver looked back at him.  "Well… good for you.  About time."  He slipped the tape into a canvas satchel on the seat beside him, then removed two very thick brown envelopes and passed them to Christopher, who stuffed them into his shoulder bag.

"This is really going to be something," said the driver.

Christopher's smile spread up into his eyes.  "You have no idea," he said.

And then shot him right in the throat.

At first I wasn't sure what happened—or maybe I was and my brain just didn't want to register the truth of it—because I knew I heard the bird-chirp and I definitely saw the white flash but then for several seconds absolutely nothing else happened, the guy just sat there like he'd momentarily forgotten something or was waiting for a fart to finish, but then he jerked around, facing the windshield, and one of his hands moved up to his neck and his index finger probed the entrance wound like the Little Dutch Boy at the dike and when he pulled out his finger the blood started spurting, arcing up against the inside of the roof and running down the windshield and when he opened his mouth to scream the only thing that came out was more blood, slopping over everything, and then he just fell on his side, clawing at his neck, his legs shuddering, feet kicking out, eyes rolling up into his head and thick, wet noises spluttering from the hole where his Adam's apple used to be, then his bladder and bowels gave out at the same time, the piss coming so fast and strong it squirted right through his underwear and pants, spraying the dashboard, and the stench of his evacuated bowels hit me in the face and stomach and I grabbed the door to keep from passing out but the stink didn't faze Christopher one little bit,  he threw the door the rest of the way open and grabbed the guy's legs and when he did that the driver's torso started thrashing around, blood showering outward like it was hooked up to a water sprinkler, and by then I could feel my stomach getting ready to give up the ghost but Christopher was hissing, "Son-of-a-bitch open the door and grab him!" and I did but his arms were flailing all over the place and one of his hands cracked against my nose and for a couple of seconds I couldn't see anything but throbbing bright phantoms, then another punch landed on my shoulder and brought me back but I still couldn't get a grip so I did the only thing I could think of, the only thing that made any sense—if  anything makes sense when you're in the middle of helping someone murder another human being—I climbed inside and grabbed his satchel and slammed it down across his chest, throwing myself on top of it, pressing against it with everything I had until his arms stopped flailing and his legs finished kicking and the geysering blood became a slow stream and then a spurt and then a trickle and with one hard shudder and a quick last spasm from the bowels it all just stopped.

I should've been screaming but I wasn't.  I wasn't even there.  This wasn't my body on top of the bloody corpse, it was something I used to walk around in.  I was out in a rowboat with Dad near Buckeye Lake, watching him cast off his line and listening to him talk about how Mom was going to fry us up some damn tasty walleye for dinner tonight if he had anything to do with it, and sitting there in that boat I decided to turn around and look down into the water where I saw a familiar body lying on top of a pile of meat and I asked Dad, "What would you do, if you were in this situation?"  And without turning around, Dad replied, "I love you, Mark, you know that, but son, I'd never have gotten myself into that situation, so I can't help you, I'm sorry.  Now be quiet, else you'll scare away the fish."

"…me now."

I fell out of the boat and sank down into that familiar body.  My lungs filled with water.  Drowning was supposed to be peaceful, right?  God I hoped so.

"…at me!"

Something hard slapped my face, snapping my head to the side, and the water was gone and so was the boat and so was Dad and I felt my heart sink because, damn, walleye would've been tasty.

I blinked my eyes several times, then righted my head.

Christopher looked at me over the dead guy's legs.  "Don't flip out on me now, Pretty Boy.  Deep breaths, that's it, c'mon, in, out, in… good, there you go… now look at me, right here, right"—he snapped his fingers three times—"over here, that's it.  You with me now?"

"…yeah…"

"You sure?"

I swallowed, tasting blood.  I hoped it was mine.  "I'm… I'm sure."

"Listen to me.  Turn around and close the door.  Stay inside."

"I don't want to."

"I know you don't, and I'm sorry, but you need to do this for me.  And you need to do it now."

I dragged myself the rest of the way inside, yanking closed the door.  I slipped on a puddle and dropped onto my ass, pulling the satchel down on top of me and almost cornholing myself on the stick shift.  I curled up into a ball, hugging the satchel to my chest.  I was now sitting face-to-face with the thing the driver used to walk around in.

"I need to run over to our trailer," said Christopher, pushing the guy's legs back inside and closing the driver's-side door.  "I'll be right back.  Don't go anywhere, okay?"

"…okay…"

Then I was alone.  More or less.

I listened to the sound of something dripping off the seat and spattering against the rubber floor mats; the staccato rhythm seemed muffled, more like the sound made by someone cracking their knuckles through heavy gloves, not liquid at all, but no one in the world had that many knuckles, so I decided they were drumming their fingers against something hard but with a softer covering, a leather briefcase or vinyl seat-cover or even the dust jacket on a book:  tappity-tap-tap-tap; tappity-tap-tap; tappity-tap-tap-tap.  I wished they'd decide on a cadence and stick to it.