Damascus Road (13 page)

“You…you…stay away from her…”

“Don’t you think it’s time Grace met your long lost brother,
James?”

“No…don’t…”

“You know, it’s too bad. You were never there for her,” he
said.

“I…I’ll kill you…”

He leaned into me again, close to my ear.

“Now we’re talking.”

He fist connected with my face and everything went black.

I was out for what seemed like an eternity, but I couldn’t
be sure how long it actually was. I woke with my face in the grass, the soil
moist and pressed against my face, blades of grass in my hair, my ear. I rolled
onto my back and rubbed my eyes. I stared up at the sky and saw the stars, the
clouds. I rolled onto my hands and knees and managed to get to my feet. Ignoring
the pain, the shooting agony in my joints and my side, I quickly stood before
my body's protests could stop me.

Thomas was gone. I shook my head trying to clear it. I
limped to the door and found it still open. I stepped inside. I hit the lights
and found the kitchen mercifully empty. I locked the door behind me.

“Wallace!” I called. “Hey, Wallace!”

No answer.

“Blake! Are you here?”

Silence.

I was still alone in the garage. I searched the place
completely, leaving no closet unexplored, no door unopened. When I was finally
satisfied that I was alone, I made my way up to bed. I kicked off my shoes and
peeled off my suit, leaving it over the back of the chair. I collapsed in the
bed and let out one long shuddering sigh before consciousness slipped from my
grasp and I fell into the warm embrace of the dark.

I did not wake when Wallace came home. I did not wake when
the sun streamed through the bedroom window. I didn’t wake until I heard the
sound of a semi-tractor trailer rig driving past the garage. I heard the purr
of the engine, the shift of the gears, and the drive of the acceleration. The
road was calling to me…

I sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed the nape of my
neck. My head hurt. My body ached. I had been beaten. I stood and walked to the
bathroom. I left my clothes in a pile on the floor. I turned on the shower and
let the water run hot. I stepped in and felt the piercing hot needles try to
invade my skin. It burned my scalp and flooded over my razor burn. There was a
remedy for that. I didn’t need to shave anytime soon. My skin screamed where I
had been injured, but there was no serious injury there.

Stepping out of the shower, I toweled off as I went and
rummaged for clothes. I found a pair of jeans, not as worn as I was used to,
but well on their way. My wallet went in the back, my knife in the front. I
skinned my way into a black T-shirt. My boots were waiting, and I slipped them
on. I pulled on my leather jacket. Looking in the mirror, I ran a hand through
my hair and pushed it into something close to a passable fashion.

Looking around the room, I gathered my clothes and jammed
them into my bag. The closer I got to being able to leave, the more anxious I
became. Somehow the whole idea of spending more time with Blake and Wallace was
slowly driving me mad. It was unfair, I knew, and I could not point blame in
their direction; but I wanted nothing more than the road. I wanted my car. I
wanted the road and gas and distance and miles to go.

I started down the stairs at a slow trudge, then with a quicker
step, then pounding down the treads into the kitchen. Wallace was nowhere to be
found, and that was just fine. I was a big boy and he was giving me space. We
would never be the best of friends, even though we were on the same side. I
walked toward the Hemicuda, still in the garage.

The Cuda was waiting for me, polished and black and silently
ready. She was begging for the road nearly as much as I was. Who was I to deny
her?

I dropped my bag in the trunk and opened the overhead door.
I fired up the engine and she purred, low and long. I let her roll out of the
garage and find the light of day. I could hardly keep myself contained long
enough to close up the garage before I was back behind the wheel.

I sat in the driver’s seat and touched the steering wheel
with both hands.

“It’s okay, baby,” I said. “We’re in this together.”

The engine growled.

“I’m going to take care of you.”

The Cuda idled, ready to run, to go, to eat mile after mile.
I couldn’t keep her waiting.

I pulled out onto the street and fed the car gas. It was
good to be behind the wheel again, to feel some kind of control. Seemed like I
had been playing catch-up since this thing started. I needed to get ahead of it
somehow. Needed to make my next move without someone looking over my shoulder
or weighing me down with some crusade.

My head still spun to digest everything. Tom Marlowe was
alive. He hadn’t been killed in Afghanistan. I couldn’t put my finger on why he
had covered up his own death, or at least, let us believe he was killed. Tom had
been a professional soldier. He knew the dangers of serving under Ellis and
yet, he blamed him for what had happened. Somehow Tom thought that I was the
favored son.

I absentmindedly began humming “Fortunate Son” by Creedence
Clearwater Revival. I took the turn onto the main road and leaned on the gas,
letting the speed ease my mind.

Without much trouble, I found the cemetery. It was immense
in all its stone garden glory. The place had been built in what must have been
a massive woods at one point. I couldn’t imagine all of the trees being planted
as saplings to garner the effect. There were willows and oaks across the
property, allowing for great stretches of shade over some of the plots.

I saw the funeral procession waiting. I stopped short. I
couldn’t do it. There was no possibility in my brain that would allow me to
stand by my father’s graveside that day, knowing that my brother was
responsible for his death. There was no debate. It was like asking me to
breathe underwater. It was not a matter of really wanting to, but being afraid.
It was a physical impossibility.

The procession was moving then, and I watched them go. The
line of cars was led by the hearse as they made their way onto the back acreage
of the property. I let them and found a service road that ran parallel. When
they stopped, I stopped. I parked under an elm tree and killed the engine. I
stepped out and clicked the door shut behind me. I pulled my Oakley sunglasses
from my jacket pocket and let my eyes hide behind their impenetrable shade.

The graveside service was starting. I walked a bit closer to
get a better view, but stopped before anyone could see me. I saw Blake Harrison
there and Wallace. They did not look around for me. I didn’t know if I should
feel disappointed that they didn’t miss me or glad that they trusted me to know
what I was doing.

I saw the honor guard and remembered too late the ritual for
military men. They stepped to their position and raised their rifles to the sky
and fired a volley of rounds to the heavens. The shockwave traveled through the
trees and hit me in the chest and I felt choked up. It happened again and I
took a shuddering breath. I hated military funerals. Something about firing
rifles when a military man died just rang false.

The honor guard stepped back, and the officiator moved in to
say a few comforting words. It was better that I didn’t hear them. There was no
comfort for Ellis Marlowe. His season had passed; his time was gone. I had as
much ability to help him now as I would have had trying to stop the seasons
from changing.

“Tommy, what have you done?” I whispered aloud. I looked
around quickly, half expecting him to be there if only by virtue of speaking
his name. He wasn’t, and I felt stupid because of my superstition.

Tom had promised to go after Grace. It was obvious to me
that he had a plan, an agenda now. As much as I wanted to be in control, I
wasn’t. Mom told me to see Grace and to make things right with her and she’d
been right. Perhaps I would have seen Grace, taken my time and called first and
tried to ease my way back into her life.

But Tom’s threat the night before changed everything. He was
in my head. He knew where I was weak and I had to stop him. He’d tried to kill
me when Chris Beck had died. I wished for a moment that it had ended there.

I groaned and looked up. The funeral party was dissipating,,
the service over. A fair distance away, I saw the maintenance crew waiting,
smoking their cigarettes, giving the family time to grieve, to say good-bye and
to move on. Even in death, you have people who have plans for you, whether you
want them or not.

I couldn’t watch anymore. I turned back to the car, walking
back with my head down. I fished the key from my pocket. Key. Single. I only
had the car. No home. No garage. Just the car. And for now, that was enough.

I didn’t see the crow perched on the hood of the Hemicuda
until it cawed. I cursed and backpedaled. It was within arm’s reach, and I
hadn’t even seen it. I was close enough to see its ebony eyes and satin black
feathers. It looked at me like I had invaded its space. Like I was the
trespasser, not him.

I stood, perturbed at my own reaction and the audacity of
the bird. I nearly fell and brushed myself off. I felt oddly weirded out at
being so close to the crow, but regained my composure.

“Get away from me,” I growled.

I walked toward the door. The crow hopped down and looked at
me.

“What?”

Blink-blink.

The crow hopped closer, too close and pecked my boot.

“Dah, you freak!”

I kicked at the crow but it hopped back, away from me, still
regarding me like I was in its space. Like I was driving his car. I moved to
get in again and the crow let me go. It stood looking at me, head cocked to the
side, like I was the oddity here.

I threw the car into reverse and backed out, careful of the
crow. It stood in the cloud of dust and just before I pulled away, it took
flight.

I gritted my teeth, and threw the car into gear and punched
the gas. The road was waiting for me. It was where I was needed. It was where I
belonged. And somewhere beyond the horizon, was my wife, Grace.

Open Road

I TURNED THE CAR SOUTH and headed
out of town as quickly as I could. I drove away from the buildings and bridges
and pushed the car in a general direction that made sense. There's a lot of
things that I am not. I'm not a musician. I can't arrange flowers. I can't tell
the difference between colors on bridesmaid dresses. But the one thing I can
do, is find people.

In the day and age in which we live, seemed like everyone
ran to their computer to find people. And there's nothing wrong with that. I
get it. There's a lot of facts on that information highway. On the other hand,
I learn things better, more easily at least, if I can put my hands on it, touch
it, turn it upside down and see what makes it tick. I have this innate ability
to find a person, a place, a neighborhood, a good steak joint. It's like a
divining rod. I needed to find Grace, and she wasn't going to be in some
internet database or chat room or blog.

The car took me where I needed to go, and I followed the
expressway without a map or a real plan. South and south I drove, past diners
and roadside stands and billboards offering everything from Gethsemane Church
of God to razor blades to fireworks for sale. I drove past them all. At the
interchange to Oklahoma, I slowed. Oklahoma. It felt right. It was the right
area. I couldn't argue myself out of it.

I steered up the off ramp and found a diner away from the
McDonald's and the food joints and gas stations. I pulled into the lot and
parked. I looked around and found the parking lot empty, save for a pickup
truck and a beaten, battered subcompact. I gave them ample room and parked the
Cuda where I could keep an eye on it.

I swung the door open and planted one boot on the ground,
then the other. My body was stiff and achy. I needed to work out the kinks of
the drive, compiled with the kinks of tangling with a couple bad men in the
same week. It wasn't how I usually spent my time. I stood from the car and felt
the leather seat reluctantly release me from its hold. I ached from my calves
up to my shoulders. I raised my arms overhead and heard my spine pop audibly. I
groaned and twisted slowly in one direction and then the other.

I imagined myself in some cartoonish way, stretching and
snapping my own spine, only to flop around in the parking lot, paralyzed. Okay,
perhaps not the most child-friendly cartoon, but it brought a dark smile to my
face.

The diner was decorated with license plates on the wall and
photos on another. I took a seat at the counter and looked for the waitress.
She was older than my mother and not the least interested in me. Her hair was a
true product of the blue rinse and I tried not to stare at it.

"What'll ya have?" she asked as if there was
nothing she could be less interested in.

"Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and a side of
greens," I said without looking at a menu.

She wrote it all down without batting an eye.

"Coffee?"

"Of course."

She turned and grabbed a pot of molten java and spilled it
into a stoneware mug and the saucer beneath. She slid it to me on the
countertop and I had to stop it from landing in my lap.

I looked up to say something, but she was gone, jamming the
ticket up on the pass-through for the kitchen crew to deal with. The coffee was
hot and rich and made my eyes pop in my skull. Sweet elixir to the drivers on
these roads, I imagined.

My eyes wandered across the place, taking in the sights,
anything of interest that might give me some direction. I kept returning to the
wall of pictures. I stood and walked over with my cup of coffee in my hand. The
pictures were mostly group photos. Friends, travelers, people passing through.
But there was something else beyond what lay on the surface. I looked closer.

Here and there were groups of people posing together. I
recognized something in them. There were groups of them, handfuls of people who
were tight clusters that seemed to have the camaraderie of having worked
together. No, it was more than that. I had seen the same look in photos that my
father had brought home of the men he served with. It was the look of people
who had seen something truly terrifying and come out the other side of it.

“You going to eat today?”

My food was ready and Martha was calling me. Martha was the
moniker her name tag gave her, not me.

“Who are all these people?” I asked, waving my coffee cup at
the wall of pictures.

“Fools… idiots…” she grumbled.

Martha didn’t walk away though. In fact, a wry smile was
warming on her face. She wanted to talk about this. I waited, hoping to drag
her out. She caved in under half a minute.

“What you see there are folks that passed through,” she
said. She came around the counter to stand next to me. She seemed impossibly
short, as if life was wearing her down to a nub. “But those people… those are
the crazy ones.”

“How so?” I asked. I sipped the coffee. “Great coffee, by
the way.”

“It’s dreck, son. Don’t patronize me.”

I laughed and nearly blew hot coffee out of my nose. This
amused her to a great extent, so she went on.

“These people,” she pointed with her crooked finger and with
unerring accuracy picked out the photos I had been scrutinizing. “These people
are the storm chasers.”

“Storm chasers?” I asked. “People actually do that?”

“People will do anything for a thrill,” she said. “Most of
them are what I said…”

“Fools? Idiots?”

“You pay attention.”

“I try,” I said.

“Most of them show up out here in Tornado Alley with their
mama’s car and a video camera and a bunch of their brainless friends and try to
film a tornado,” she said.

“Why?” I asked. It seemed the obvious question.

“To put up on the internet I guess,” she shrugged. “Post it
on MyTube or YouSpace or whatever the hell it is that kids do these days.”

“What did you do in your day, Martha?” I asked.

She leaned in close.

“I tipped over cows while they were sleeping,” she
whispered.

We laughed at that.

“You were a rebel, Martha.”

“There are some of these people that… well, I don’t know if
they really know what they’re doing, but they’re educated. As much as a
weatherman in a car can be educated, I guess,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, some of these storm chasers come from schools, big
universities, and they have all kinds of weather equipments and radar and
whoooo, anything you could imagine,” she said. “They seem to know what they’re
doing.”

“Have you seen one of them come through lately?” I asked.

“You just missed one,” she said. “Came through this
morning.”

“Know where they were headed?”

“Usually these folks are scattered to the four winds, but
this group…” she thought. “They mentioned heading for Tulsa. Some of the worst
tornadoes are there, and the weather’s supposed to turn hairy.”

“And they were the good ones?” I asked. “I mean, the
educated ones?”

She nodded, but had a critical look in her eye.

“You’re not one of them, are you?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” I answered. “If it rains, I hide in the
cellar.”

She laughed at that. I pulled a worn picture from my wallet
and held it out to her.

“Oh, she’s pretty,” she said. “Who is she?”

“She’s one of the good ones, ma’am.”

I sat at the counter and ate my food quietly. Martha poured
coffee and told me about every team of storm chasers that came through that was
worth anything, as she said. The ones with some sense came with money and
equipment, and they used a little precaution to protect their investments. The
glory hounds didn't care and rushed into the fray. Stories were rampant of
storm chasers who got too close trying to get the right shot and getting
pummeled by debris or worse. She wouldn't elaborate, but I could imagine.

The meal was delicious and filling. I tipped heavily and
thanked Martha wholeheartedly. I walked out of the diner and saw the clouds in
the sky beginning to darken. Nothing imminent. Not immediately. But in time.
The wind was picking up, and I looked up the road in one direction, then the
other. I spotted a gas station not far off.

Back in the car, I fired up the engine and let her grumble.
I never got tired of it. I checked my mirrors and backed out in a tight 180
degrees before pulling out of the lot. I hit the pavement and cruised up the
road to the gas station. It looked like it had been bombed at some point, but
the rough exterior was more likely due to the weather than to domestic
terrorists or mischief makers. The place had been a service station at one
point, but with bigger operations moving in, the owner gave up the losing
battle and remodeled the place into a convenience store. Which was exactly what
I needed.

The interior of the place was only slightly less ramshackle
than the exterior. A cooler was laboring against one wall and I retrieved
several bottles of water. I surveyed the place for anything remotely
nutritional. I gave up all hope of health and fell back to something that would
at least fuel the machine. I grabbed a couple candy bars with nuts and headed
for the check out. The cashier was also the owner and on first appraisal looked
to be dead. I cocked my head and considered checking for a pulse when he let
out a low wheezing snore from under the brim of his baseball cap. His breath
blew at his shaggy mustache and smelled of Fritos. I dropped the water bottles
on the counter and he snortled back to life.

"What do you have there?" he said before his eyes
adjusted.

I wondered if he always awoke that way, blurting out the
same warning greeting even in his own bedroom.

"Hi there," I said, intentionally too loud.

He looked at me like I had offended him by trying to engage
in actual conversation.

"Hi," he croaked. "What do you have
there?"

"Couple water bottles and some candy bars," I said
easily.

He grunted in agreement.

"You have many of those storm chasers come through
these parts?" I asked.

He didn't look up, but let out a low whistle.

"Yep. Foolhardy individuals, they are," he said.

"Couldn't agree more," I said. "I'm not from
around here. Do you have a map? I don't really want to cross paths with
somebody looking for trouble like that."

"Can't say as I blame you," he said.

"Can you show me where they go?" I asked. "On
a map? Do you sell maps?"

His bushy eyebrows perked up at the possibility of a sale.
He reached behind him and pulled a sun-faded map from a rickety rack. He spread
it across the counter on top of my items and smoothed it with his cracked and
weathered hands.

"Let's see here," he mumbled. He began to read the
names, remembering them, adding some that were not on the map.

Suddenly, he jabbed his finger at the map, scratching his fingernail
across the surface.

"Here," he said. "They were going here."

"You sure?"

"They bought all my Mountain Dew," he said. This
was a landmark moment for him. "They looked like they came from Harvard
and drank all of my Mountain Dew."

He was shaking his head in disbelief.

"How do I get there?" I asked.

He pointed up the road with one craggy, arthritic finger.

"There's a storm coming in fast," he said.
"It doesn't take much around here. They'll come running, looking for glory
and carnage. When they do, don't be there."

I nodded my thanks and paid him for the supplies.

I carried everything to the car and dumped it inside on the
passenger seat. I turned over the engine and gunned it out of the parking lot,
following the direction that he said the storm chasers would go.

The Cuda was begging for gas and with the wide open road, I
could not resist. My boot was heavy and I crushed the gas pedal to the floor. I
watched the telephone poles click by in a rapidly increasing rhythm. The center
line was a golden blur. The road stretched to the horizon and disappeared into
an infinite point that could never be reached. If I still believed in a heaven,
this would be it.

I saw it then, just beyond the rise in the road. The clouds
were beginning to slowly turn. It was almost indistinguishable at first. It
looked like a gentle cloud formation, then it began to turn on itself,
rotating, circling like sharks around their prey.

It was an unearthly whirlpool in the sky, a vortex beginning
to form, to gain strength. I saw it as clear as day, knew the danger involved
and imagined the worst case scenario, but could not bring myself to look away.
Every synapse of my brain screamed to run. Get out of there. Turn the car
around and hit the gas. Head for daylight and never look back. I fought
against, resisted instinct and preservation and forged ahead into the heart of
the best.

The sky was blackening and for the first time, I heard
thunder growl in the heavens. Lightning crackled across the clouds. I flexed my
hands on the steering wheel and blew out a sigh.

I tore my eyes away from the skies and scanned the
countryside. I wasn’t there for myself. If there were no storm chasers here,
then there was no sense in me risking my life. I saw nothing and only found
open roads.

“One more hill,” I said to myself. “Then I’m out of here…”

I hit the next rise, ready to turn the car around. Then I
saw them. Three teenagers were standing in the field on the north side of the
road. The young man in the middle was standing nearly still, a video camera
raised to his eye as he filmed. His friends, another man and a young lady,
stood near him, jumping up and down and pointing at the approaching cloud
formation. They had parked on the south side of the road and left their truck
unattended.

I slowed when I saw them, but realized what was about to
happen moments before they did. The swirling wind formation touched down and
turned black as it tore dirt and grass and debris free from the countryside.
The cluster of friends jumped back when it touched down. I could see them
shouting to one another, pulling the cameraman toward their truck. He finally
relented and followed.