Over Yonder, page 24
“What are you doing?” she said. “Stay in the left lane!”
“I’m not doing this. And you’re not going to shoot me. You probably don’t even know how to use that thing.”
Caroline unlatched the safety, assumed a doublehanded grip, pulled back the slide to arm the weapon, then pressed the muzzle into his shoulder.
“I am asking you nicely to keep driving.”
“Oh my God. You are crazy.”
“I’m not crazy, I’m pregnant. Now follow that Volvo and do not let it out of your sight.”
He mashed the pedal, and the Jetta sped onward into the night, rocketing onto the highway at a breakneck speed, catapulting over the shallow slopes as they raced to catch up with the Volvo several cars ahead. Then the driver reached forward and turned up the radio. The car interior immediately burst forth with music, playing at a volume loud enough to crack plate glass.
“What’re you doing?” she said.
“If I’m going to get shot tonight, I’m going to do it while listening to some Dead.”
* * *
When Woody awoke, he was unable to move. Actually, he wasn’t totally paralyzed; he just had little control over his movements. There was an ineptness to his muscles, like they had minds of their own.
It took a few minutes to realize he was bound. His hands were tied behind his back. His feet were tied. He was seat-belted in the rear of the car. And he was confused. Profoundly. But the confusion was wearing off, little by little, and he was slowly becoming aware of his surroundings.
He felt as though he’d just awoken from one of the deepest sleeps of his life. Which wasn’t altogether unpleasant. He hadn’t slept well since leaving prison.
He could see the bald driver looking at him in the mirror. He could only see the man’s eye patch and his good eye. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses anymore. Apparently the Ray Charles look was over.
“Long time no see,” the man said.
“Hello, Peter.”
The guy laughed. “You know my name. I’m flattered.”
The feeling was coming back into Woody’s muscles. He could sit upright without using as much effort now. He propped himself against the seat.
“You’re probably a little foggy,” Peter said. “Totally normal. It wears off. It’s all part of the fun of getting tazed.”
Woody didn’t reply. He had no memory of being tazed. He was disoriented. There was a gap in his recall of events. He remembered a flaming car. He remembered the lump of soot where Caroline’s body had been. He did not have any memory of how he’d gotten here or why he was so sore all over.
“Trust me,” said Peter. “I know what you’re going through. Your ex-wife tazed the crap out of me. Surprised she didn’t stop my heart. She was a hell of a woman.”
“You have no idea.”
Peter did not react to that.
Woody fell back into his seat. There were stars outside the window. They were on the interstate. He saw exits passing them by, one at a time. His brain was too hazy to figure out where he was. Still, he was trying his best to calculate mileage. Which wasn’t difficult. Calculating interstate mileage didn’t require brain power. Interstate exits are one mile apart. Count the exits; count the miles.
“If it makes you feel any better, this wasn’t supposed to happen,” said Peter.
“What wasn’t supposed to happen?”
“This. You are supposed to be her.”
“Caroline?”
“That was the plan.”
“Would you like me to talk in a high-pitched voice?”
“She wasn’t supposed to die. You were. A lot has gone wrong tonight.”
Woody thought back to the moment he saw Caroline exiting the store. He felt the wave of relief all over again.
The guy let his good eye rest on Woody. Woody could see his face, lit blue by the light from the dashboard. Despite the patch, Woody could see that he was nice looking. Melinda always dated attractive guys.
A highway patrol cruiser was passing them by. Peter wasn’t fazed. He kept pace in the right lane. The man was nothing if not relaxed.
“You’re probably disoriented,” the guy said, “trying to get a fix on where you are.”
Woody was silent.
“But don’t worry about it. You won’t be alive long enough to tell anyone where you are.”
“You think so, huh?”
Peter gave a small laugh. “Sorry, Padre. It’s nothing personal.”
“Oh, well, in that case . . .”
Woody’s brain was clearing up a little, but he didn’t recognize this section of interstate even though it was probably familiar, since they weren’t that far out of town. His brain wasn’t putting images together correctly. By the terrain, he was guessing they were heading northeast. But that’s all he could figure out in his current state.
“Aren’t you supposed to put a gag in my mouth?” asked Woody.
“You watch too many Chuck Norris movies.”
“Actually, I’ve never seen one.”
“Missing in Action, 1984. Great movie.”
“I’ll be sure to add it to my Netflix.”
Woody leaned back into his seat and tried to will his brain into normal working order. The driver kept checking his side mirrors. Little flicks of his head.
Peter hit his blinker and passed a few cars. Woody glanced out the back window. A few vehicles behind, another car was mirroring their movements.
“Apparently you’ve got a friend,” said Peter.
* * *
Caroline’s Uber driver wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt circa 1979. The inside of his dilapidated Jetta smelled like Nag Champa and sweat. The radio was playing music that the touchscreen display was identifying as David Grisman. The car was a wreck inside. There was a mashed banana on the floorboard beneath Caroline’s feet that had become brown with maturity and oxygen exposure.
He had told her his name was Rumack, and he had been speeding down the interstate breaking every traffic law in existence. Now they were doing an even eighty.
“Shouldn’t we be going to the hospital if you’re having a baby?” he asked. “The hospital’s the other way.”
The Volvo ahead changed lanes.
“Just keep following that car.”
Rumack gave her an appraising glare. He nudged the wheel left and shot past cars in the slow lane. Caroline was impressed at the man’s driving ability. Although he was large and gangly, he had the reflexes of a caffeinated squirrel. He turned the wheel with remarkable ease and athleticism.
“You’re a really good driver,” she said.
“Thanks. PlayStation. KartRider.”
“Why am I not surprised.”
* * *
They were definitely heading northeast. Woody could tell by the foliage. A great rural chasm lies between Alabama and Georgia, just off the American interstate. Metropolises with names like Milton, Florala, Geneva. They were tiny towns, with more acres of farmland per capita than they had capita. They were approaching the Donalsonville exit (pop. 2,826).
Woody’s wrists were hurting. The man had secured his hands too tightly. He could feel the duct tape digging into his bones. He stared out the windows. The gentle rises and falls of hillsides, the copses of pines, lit blue by the glow of a waxing full moon.
“How you doing back there?” asked Peter.
Woody’s mind was becoming clearer with each passing mile. He was starting to feel like himself again. Whatever the Taser had done to him had miraculously made his heart feel stronger. He’d read about medical interventions involving shock treatments for the cardiac muscle. Then again, maybe it was just adrenaline.
“Having the time of my life.”
The wilds of Georgia flew by like a blurry smudge. Peter glanced at him in the mirror again. “You need to use the bathroom or anything?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the bad guy?”
“Doesn’t mean I have to be inhumane. You want something to drink? I have bottled waters.”
“Pass.”
“I’m sorry. None of this was supposed to happen.”
“If you really feel that bad about it, you can let me go.”
A chain of semitrucks passed them by. Peter followed the draft of the great vehicles.
“Sorry, Padre. You’ve seen a little too much for your own good.”
“This is all because of what I did to your eye, isn’t it?”
Peter didn’t reply. He kept his eye on the side mirror. The car was still behind them.
“Can I ask you a question?” Peter finally asked.
“I’m a captive audience.”
“You ever seen gold?” he asked.
“Never.”
“I’m not talking jewelry or little wedding bands. I’m talking gold. Pure gold. The stuff the conquistadors were after. The largest force Spain ever sent to North America; that’s how important gold was back then. That kind of gold.”
“So that’s what this is all about? Gold?”
Peter looked at his side mirror again. “Oh, I think you know that already, Padre. I think you know a lot more than you let on.”
Woody was silent.
“You never expect gold to be as heavy as it really is. And you aren’t prepared for the reflectiveness. If it’s polished, it’s like looking into a yellow mirror. Plus, it’s stable. Physically speaking. The only existentially stable money in the world, really.”
Woody didn’t feel like listening to a history lesson. He tried to tune him out, but Peter waxed on.
“America has 147 million ounces of gold in the treasury. They keep it at the United States Bullion Depository, big golden bars that weigh about twenty-seven pounds each. This gold used to represent, more or less, the entire US economy. But that gold doesn’t mean nothing in today’s world, not really. Our currency isn’t backed by gold anymore. No country has used gold-backed currency since the 1970s. It’s a shame, if you ask me. America has fallen so far.”
They rode in silence for a while. The miles were heaping up behind them, but the scenery never seemed to change.
“Where are we going?”
No answer.
Woody used his bound hands to itch his nose.
“You believe in free will, Padre?”
“I thought we were talking about gold.”
Peter laughed quietly.
“You believe in the freedom to choose your own path, Father? Freedom to change your own eternal destiny?”
Woody shrugged. “Not in your case.”
“You think I’m evil, Father?”
“Probably not.” Woody stared at the man. “I think your problem is that your mom dropped you on your head.”
Chapter 57
Pretty girls had always had a way of making Rumack do stupid things. He had dated a pretty girl once. Once and only once. And that was enough. Dating her was a mistake. Namely, because knockout women already knew how pretty they were. And this made them biologically willing to accept offers from the highest bidder. You couldn’t hold on to a pretty girl when you looked like giant ball of hair wearing a Jerry Garcia T-shirt and your mom still did your laundry. There was no reason this girl in his passenger seat should be any different from the pretty girls who had come before her. Yes, she had a gun. But he probably would have done whatever she asked even if she was brandishing a toothpick at him.
They sped along the highway heading eastward as “I Need a Miracle” pumped through the stereo. They had been in this car for a long time, driving heaven only knew where.
“You’re a liar,” he said.
Caroline was still holding the weapon on him but not as aggressively as before. She was trying to get her phone working using one hand, the phone balanced on her knee. But the device wasn’t cooperating.
“I said you’re a liar.”
“I heard you.”
“You’re not in labor.”
She did not respond.
“I knew it. You lied to me.”
“Get over it.”
Rumack slammed a hand on the wheel. “What are we even doing? I’ve turned down, like, fifty pickup requests. I have no idea where we’re going. Are you even pregnant?”
“Oh my God, stop talking.”
The car ahead got into the exit lane. Rumack eased the wheel right. They took the off-ramp onto a rural highway route.
As she held the pistol against his shoulder, she explained her entire situation to him. The girl seemingly held nothing back when she told the story. Rumack hoped she remembered that the weapon was armed, because she was getting awfully involved in her monologue right now, and sometimes she would get so animated she would begin talking with her hands and waving the weapon around.
The young woman delivered an elaborate retelling of a complex situation involving car bombs, terrorists, a priest, a nurse, gold, a big boat, and a green Volvo. It sounded like the plot of a truly poorly written novel. It seemed the most unlikely story he had ever heard, and that was what bothered him. It was so unlikely that it had the outlandish ring of truth to it.
“So you’re not really going to have a baby?” he asked.
She looked at him flatly.
“I mean, you’re not in labor?”
She was staring at him now as he drove. He could see her from the corner of his eye. She was arrestingly lovely. And when she looked at him, he felt his insides turn into Jell-O.
“I just need you to help me,” she said.
“That’s hard to do when you’re pushing a gun into my shoulder.”
“I know.”
“Are you really going to shoot me?”
She sighed. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“I really don’t want to die tonight.”
“I know,” she said in commiseration. “It really would be a shame.”
He looked at her. “I think you’re delusional, Caroline.”
“No, I’m crazy. Not delusional. There’s a difference.”
“Well, this has certainly been one of the craziest nights I’ve ever had. I’m surprised the cops haven’t pulled us over yet. I’ve been doing ninety in a sixty-five zone, following some random car. How do I know you’re not going to lead us out into the middle of nowhere and leave me for dead?”
“That’s actually not a bad idea.”
He could smell her perfume filling his car. Or maybe it was her soap, or whatever it was that girls used to smell like that. And whenever she looked at him, it was as though her eyes were fracking for oil beneath the coarse and battered bedrock of his interminable soul.
Rumack watched her in the glow of his dome light. “What’s wrong with your phone?”
“It just quit working.”
He nodded. “Welcome to AT&T.”
The Volvo was two cars ahead of them on an old two-lane. Rumack clicked his blinker and moved up one car length. His Jetta engine began to scream as he changed lanes.
And that was when the blue lights started flashing behind him.
Chapter 58
The Volvo pulled off the interstate onto another two-lane, this one dark and twisty. The car that was tailing them was no longer behind them. Woody had lost track of the vehicle when he began drifting in and out of consciousness. He had awoken when he felt the Volvo lose speed. He had been napping. For how long, he couldn’t say. A short time, he guessed. Maybe thirty minutes. He looked at the clock, but he couldn’t remember what time it had been before he fell asleep.
He looked out the windows and didn’t recognize anything. Wherever they were, they were deeper in the hinterlands than they had been. No houses. No headlights in the oncoming lane. No lights anywhere. No nothing.
The Volvo rode through a long, twisting, winding set of meandering curves that seemed to go on forever. Rises and falls. Hairpins and ditches. Dirt roads and rocky gravel. They loped over shallow creek bridges, cantered down narrow roads made of top-dressed gravel with a rooster tail of dust behind them, rising into the night.
On each side of the car were walls of suffocating longleaf pines passing them by like old spirits. Like the ghosts of loved ones, standing tall in their memories, cemented in time.
The ride reminded him of the drives his dad used to take his family on when Woody was a kid. There was a time in this nation when the Great American Family went out for Sunday drives. When did those days disappear? When did we get so busy that we quit enjoying the drive?
Peter rolled down the windows. The cab was filled with the scent of pine, damp earth, and farmland.
“Can you smell that scent in the air, Father?” said Peter.
Woody didn’t answer.
Peter made a big show of drawing in the scent. “Can’t you smell it?”
Woody stayed silent.
“It smells like you’re about to die, Father.”
“That’s funny,” said Woody. “Smells like bull manure to me.”
* * *
Rumack was pulled over onto the shoulder. He could see the cop in the side mirror exiting the vehicle. Light bar flashing. The officer was approaching the passenger side of their car, keeping away from traffic.
Rumack pressed his forehead against the steering wheel. “I’m going to jail.”
Things never went well with the cops. Not for him. He got too nervous, and they always thought he had an attitude. And he was always afraid that, even though he wasn’t high, they would think he was. Which made him act high. A lot of police officers saw the Grateful Dead stickers on the backs of Jettas and started writing citations for misdemeanors before they even got out of the car.
The officer rapped on Caroline’s window.
Which wasn’t good. Rumack already should have rolled down both windows in the spirit of cooperation. But he’d been too busy hiding a loaded firearm with a filed-off serial number in the back seat. Strike one.
The passenger window whirred downward. The cop hunched over and stuck his flashlight into the vehicle. The beam of light traveled to the Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir bobbleheads mounted on Rumack’s dash.
