Damascus Road (3 page)

“Why?”

“They said they knew that Chris was coming to talk to you.
That they knew what it was about. Said it was God’s will that you be at that
funeral.”

“God’s will?” I said.

“I didn’t understand that part either,” Tyrell said. “What
did Chris come to talk to you about?”

“Salvation,” I said, my voice was a whisper. I choked back
tears, wiping at my eyes with the heels of my hands.

Tyrell walked toward me and though I could tell it made him
more than a little uncomfortable, he patted me on the shoulder.

“We all could use a bit of that,” he said.

I nodded.

“Here’s the deal,” Tyrell said, clearing his throat.
“Senator Marlowe told my supervisor that I am to escort you to the funeral,
then I will release you to the Senator. If you’re willing to comply, no
criminal charges will be filed.”

“Did Chris’ family agree to this?” I asked.

Tyrell nodded.

“Why?”

“Beats me. If I had my way you would be in jail for what you
did,” Tyrell said. “I don’t think you belonged on the road that night and I
think Chris Beck is dead because of you. His family aside, that’s something
you’re going to need to live with.”

I had no answer. No justification. I didn’t want to defend
myself. In my own eyes, I deserved whatever I got.

“You’re being released today. The doc will come by, sign you
out,” Tyrell said. “I’ll drive you up to the funeral. It’s tomorrow at 1pm.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Just outside of Itasca Lake in Minnesota,” Tyrell said.
“Beautiful area. It’s a real shame we have to be there for this kind of
business.”

Tyrell walked out of the room without looking back.

The next day, I flexed my left hand as we rolled up to the
funeral home in Tyrell’s car. My arm was in a sling. The cast itched. My tie
was too tight, and my suit was too loose.

“You look uncomfortable,” Tyrell said.

“You should take the detective exam,” I replied. “Very
perceptive.”

He grunted at me, a slight smirk on his face. I think he
liked me, but hated to admit it to himself. I was some pseudo ward of the state
until he turned me over and the idea of consorting with prisoners troubled him
more than a little.

We arrived at the cemetery, and Tyrell parked the car. I had
expected anger from the relatives, from his father, especially from his mother.
That didn’t happen. There was sadness, of course, but also a joy. I didn’t get
that. Their son was dead. For all intents, he was dead because of me, at least
that’s how I viewed it. Why weren’t they mad at me?

Their kindness bothered me. Maybe it shouldn’t have. But it
did. I did not think less of them. I didn’t question their capabilities as
parents or as people. I just didn’t understand the lack of fury. I kept
thinking to myself: had I been in their shoes, I would have leaped across the
casket and choked the life out of the person who drove the car in which my son
had died.

The wake had been glorious. The funeral home was massive and
almost castle-like in its size. Towers rose above the grounds. Side rooms were
everywhere for mourners, but none were in use. Everyone sat in the pews of the
chapel. A small symphony of a half dozen musicians were playing, violins and
cellos and a piano melting together in wonderful harmony that filled the hall
with melody.

I walked down the central aisle to the side of the open
casket, feeling like every eye in the house was on me. Tyrell was at my back, a
respectful distance behind, hands folded in front, waiting patiently.

Lying there in his casket, Christopher Beck looked to all
the world as if he were sleeping. Gone were the blood and auto glass, No
scrapes from the blacktop. No fractured vertebrae, crush fractures, or visible
catastrophic injuries. His pillow was silk, his suit was Sunday best. I cried
at his side, unrestrained, unashamed.

Tyrell stepped forward after a moment and, without saying a
word, handed me a handkerchief from his inside pocket. I took it, nodding my
thanks. His head dipped once. You’re welcome, it seemed to say.

I saw Chris’ mom and dad after the service. I was standing
in the back, waiting, watching as people walked through, condolences being
made. Finally, I could wait no longer and stepped forward.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just wanted to say that… that I’m
sorry for what happened. I have no explanation. I’m so sorry.”

Chris’ dad approached me. His name was William. Bill Beck.
We stood within arm’s reach and I braced myself for him to punch me. A hard
right cross to the jaw at any moment. I was ready for it. But it never came.

“It’s God’s will that you be here, James,” Bill said. He
clamped his hands on my shoulders and smiled, tears in his eyes. He hugged me,
and I nearly died.

“We’re so glad you could come,” Sally Beck said from behind
her husband.

Afterwards, Tyrell and I walked back to his car. The other
cars were pulling out, courteously finding their way out of the lot one after
another in an unseemly display of civility.

“You okay?” Tyrell asked.

“Hmm? What was that?” I said, still watching the cars.

“You don’t look so good, Marlowe,” he said.

I looked over at Tyrell and somehow the cool, night air
didn’t seem quite as comforting as it had on the walk out. Three quick steps
and I threw up in the bushes.

“You okay?” he asked again.

“Definitely.”

“Don’t do that in my car, okay?” Tyrell said.

“Fair enough,” I said.

We joined the procession of cars to venture out into the
cemetery. I looked out the window of Tyrell’s car and stared at the headstones.
Acres and acres of headstones. People that had lived, loved, died.

We got out of the car together and followed the crowd to the
graveside. We stood together, listening to the preacher give the eulogy. Ashes
to ashes. Dust to dust. We sang a hymn at Bill Beck’s request. Amazing Grace.

Amazing Grace…

How sweet the sound…

That saved a wretch, like me…

I couldn’t argue with that. It rang too true.

AFTERWARDS, THE FAMILY SLOWLY
DISPERSED. The Becks shook my hand, and they hugged me. I just didn’t
understand these people.

Bill Beck pulled me aside.

“James,” he said. “I understand your car was wrecked.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve also got quite a journey ahead of you.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“Chris was working on something that he left behind before
he came to visit you. I think he would like you to have it.”

Bill Beck reached in his pocket and held something out to
me. I took it.

“Car keys? What--?” I said.

“It’s a 1971 Hemicuda. He rebuilt it,” Bill said. “I can’t
think of anyone else who would be better served to have it.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You’re on your way to see your father, am I right?” Bill said.

I nodded.

“I knew General Marlowe before he became Senator Marlowe,”
he continued. “Things are different now. You need to reach out to him. Tell him
what happened to you. How things have changed.”

He was right. But I realized, I had just gone from the
frying pan into the hellstorm.

Ignition

TYRELL SHOOK MY HAND AT THE STATE
LINE. He followed me in his squad car until we reached the border, him in his
squad car, me in the Hemicuda. The Cuda had been a shock to me. Bill Beck
showed it to me in their garage. He pulled back the tarp, and I saw it. I saw
the handiwork of Chris Beck. Bodywork and engine work and tuning. Starburst
yellow with black accents. Wide tires and heavy rims. Leather seats and
shifter.

I settled into the car and hit the road. The leather seat
was home now. The windshield showed me my kingdom. I had nothing but miles
ahead of me. I stepped on the gas and watched the center line click past me in
a steady beat-beat-beat of yellow. It stretched out in front of me like an
endless ribbon, hugging the road, riding it over hills and around corners.

I was following the Mississippi River down out of Lake
Itasca in Minnesota and pointed the car south. I knew where I was going without
GPS or maps or directions. I watched the sun rise on my left and drove with the
intent to continue on until it set on my right.

I stopped at midday and pulled off the highway. I
accelerated up the off ramp and found a diner to the right. I pulled into the
lot and found an open slot near the door. I walked inside and found a seat in a
booth.

“Hi there!” It was the waitress. Her name tag proclaimed her
name as Karen. She looked like she had worked the diner for a few more years
than she intended, jockeying coffee pots and going home smelling of
cheeseburgers and western omelets, but with her pockets full of loose change
and a fist full of singles from tips.

“Hi there,” I replied. I smiled my best smile.

“Coffee?”

“Was there ever any question?” I replied, trying to be
pleasant. I flipped my cup over to accommodate her pour. She filled the
stoneware cup to within a fraction of an inch of the lip.

Karen giggled. Actually giggled.

“Do you need a minute?” she asked.

“For what?”

“Your order of course,” Karen said.

“I’d be wasting your time if I came in here without a clue
of what to order, wouldn’t I?” I said.

“True,” she replied. “So?”

“What’s good?”

“The restaurant up the road,” she said with a straight face.

I laughed. Couldn’t manage a giggle.

“The cook makes a halfway decent Farmer’s Omelet,” Karen
went on. “Hash browns and sausage on the side.”

“Sold,” I replied.

Karen giggled again and disappeared toward the kitchen. I
sipped my coffee and found it alarmingly hot. I rubbed my lip. In the city,
some poor misled fool might consider suing for coffee so hot. Muy Caliente, the
warning would say.

I was musing over my coffee when the three robbers entered
the diner. Their guns were drawn. Each held .38 revolvers, the finishes chipped
and worn, the barrels waved this way and that.

“Hands up!” one of them yelled. He was the smart stooge, or
so I thought of him. The other two, Curly and Larry, wore matching ski masks,
but said nothing.

“Put your wallets in the bag, cell phones, all of it,” Moe
shouted. His fellow stooges produced burlap bags and they worked the diners,
starting at the far ends and moving back to the middle.

I tossed my wallet on the table. It meant nothing. Larry
snatched it up without looking at me. I sipped my coffee and waited for them to
leave. They regrouped in a tight little huddle, examining their haul.

Moe turned and looked. At first, I thought it might be at
me, but it was not. It was out the window. It was into the parking lot.

“Whose car is that?” Moe shouted.

I turned to look and to my horror, realized that it was none
other than my own. It was the Cuda. My heart dropped and my stomach clenched. I
did not answer.

“The Dodge Charger there,” he said, incorrectly. “Whose car
is that?”

His voice had risen in volume and tenor, shrieky and
chilling.

I saw Karen behind the counter, her face, her lower lip
trembling in terror. It was not my place to subject these people to the whims
of these criminal fools simply because of my love for a car.

I stood, not looking at the stooges.

“Sit down!” Moe barked.

I slurped my coffee loudly, shuffling to the counter.

“Karen! What do I have to do to get a refill in this place?”
I slurred.

In my peripheral vision, I saw the three men aiming their
revolvers at me. Karen opened her mouth to say something to me, closed it, then
opened it again.

“Coming up,” she said and started pouring.

“Much obliged,” I slurred and winked. I turned and plopped
into a stool at the counter.

Moe approached, Larry and Curly in tow. Their handguns were
now at their waists, close to their sides.  Moe leaned closer, watching me blow
on my coffee.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hmm?” I replied.

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Cuda.

“Is that your car?” Moe asked.

“That one?” I said, acting thick. “Oh. Yep.”

“Give me the keys,” he said, pushing the gun into my line of
sight.

“Oh! I see…” I said. I fumbled in my pocket and produced the
car keys. “Here you go.”

Moe reached for the keys and they slipped off my finger and
hit the linoleum at our feet. I saw them move in unison, all of them looking
for the keys, all of them bending, straining in interest.

I slammed my knee into Moe’s head, sending his skull
rebounding into the adjoining table. I splashed my coffee into Larry’s face,
who reeled backwards. Curly tried to raise his revolver, but I was already
moving, slamming the stoneware mug into the side of his head, shattering it. He
dropped to the ground.

My arm was still in a sling, so I kept it in tight to my
body and backfisted Larry in the jaw. His eyes went blank and he fell, landing
on Curly.

I turned in a circle. Three down.

“Thou shalt not steal,” I said.

I retrieved the revolvers and my car keys and sat back at my
booth. I opened each cylinder, dropping the shells on the counter, until I had
emptied all three handguns.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the air. I looked up
and found the diner patrons looking at me. Truckers and families, men and
women. I looked back at Karen behind the counter.

“Could I get a new cup?” I asked.

The police arrived at the same time as my omelet. Karen told
the police the whole story in a rush, words tumbling out of her mouth of what
had happened and the shock and how fast I moved and how I saved all their
lives.

When I looked, up I saw the police officer looking at me as
his fellow law enforcement officers led away the stooges. He did not say a
word, only stretched out his hand and shook mine. He nodded and I nodded back.
He walked out and left me to my breakfast, which is what I wanted in the first
place.

I crossed the city limits of St. Louis while the sun was low
in the sky. After the open roads of the highway and straight stretches of road,
the gridlock of the city was stifling, frustrating. Bumper to bumper, sucking
exhaust in the city, praying for an opening, a hole in the wall of traffic. It
never came.

Truth be told, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing my father
again. If the situation were different; if I were the person I was a year ago,
the second I was outside of Officer Tyrell’s jurisdiction, I would have turned
the Cuda west and hit the gas. My dad would be in the dust and I’d never have
to talk to him again.

But I wasn’t that person, and it was disturbing to me.
Somewhere in the course of all that had happened with Chris and the car crash
and Tyrell, I had lost myself. I was no longer the James Michael Marlowe I had
grown up with. I was uncomfortable in my own skin.

My father was Ellis Marlowe. Growing up, I remembered moving
from town to town following my father. I watched him put on his uniform. I
watched the rows of ribbons grow on his chest. He told me that he was being
deployed to Grenada, Panama, Guantanamo Bay… when I was a senior in high
school, Colonel Marlowe was deployed to Iraq in Desert Storm. He left with
hardly a word to me or my mother.

My brother, Thomas, joined the Army to be closer to my
father. Went through boot camp. Next was Ranger training. He was in a unit that
was deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan under the watchful eye of my dear old dad.

It would have been a sweet story. Like father, like son.
Things don’t always turn out that way. No story book endings. I had to pick up
the pieces at home. In the end, home wasn’t even really home anymore, so I took
to the road.

That’s the thing about the road. It never disappoints. It
never lets you down. It may be rough or smooth, but it’s always there for you.
The yellow ribbon of centerline never doesn’t show up or miss your birthday or
forget about family. It’s always there. Always waiting.

I could hear it, sometimes. It called to me. Let’s ride,
Jimmy. Let’s go for a ride. Don’t you wanna drive?

Let’s go…

Let’s go…

Let’s….

I shook the thoughts from my head and pulled to the curb. I
had exited the expressway without a plan, hoping to somehow find my dad like a
divining rod finds water. He had that ability to attract people. To draw people
to him. People that wanted to be led. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work for me.
Maybe that’s not what I wanted.

Stepping out of the car, I found a coffee shop. It was as
good a place as any to start. I walked inside hoping for someplace quiet. That
wasn’t what I got.

I found a place offering so many kinds and strains of coffee
that my mind reeled. Every genus and strata and constellation of coffee beans
and foam and chocolate shavings known to man. I squinted hard and tried to find
the listing that just said, “black”. Hopeless.

“Coffee, black,” I said at the counter.

Pierre, or whatever his name was, seemed stymied by my
request. Somehow a cup of coffee without foam, sprinkles or doo-dads was akin
to solving calculus equations in your noggin. I felt old.

I found out later that people like Pierre were known as
baristas in the coffee house business. He wasn’t a waiter or a server.
Apparently that title was too demeaning. This guy was an artiste. I’d gladly
take someone like Karen in the diner. Sometimes it’s better to know your place
in life. Accept it. Swallow it. Let it sit in your gut and embrace it. If you
pour coffee, you pour coffee. Let it ride, man.

There was no counter in the place. It was full of tables too
small for anything but a coffee cup and overstuffed chairs that seemed more at
home in a living room than a public establishment. I didn’t get it and maybe
that was the point.

I slumped into one of the chairs and sipped my coffee. It
had depth of flavor, something beyond burnt grounds and being reheated. Right
on, Pierre. You’re the man.

My sunglasses made the place too dark as my eyes adjusted,
so I took them off and clipped them to the front of my shirt. I rubbed the grit
from my eyes and looked around the place.

Beside me was a guy working on a laptop computer. He was
analyzing a chart in glorious Technicolor like it was the Rosetta Stone. He was
about my age, maybe a bit younger. Worth a shot.

“Excuse me,” I said, loud enough for him to hear.

The man flinched like I had poked him. He looked at me with
a mix of alarm and disgust. Ew, another human being… interacting. Ugh… the
horror. He plucked ear phones from his ears. I hadn’t noticed them before. They
were attached to an iPod on the other side of his laptop.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.

He said ‘sir’ but it sounded like ‘cur’. Like I was already
wasting his time.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m looking for someone.”

He recoiled a little. I wondered if he thought I was trying
to woo him or something. I shook my head.

“Who might that be?” he asked.

“Senator Ellis Marlowe,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to
know where his offices are, do you?”

The man actually laughed at me. Laughed. At me.

“His election offices are across the street,” he said. “I’m
Isaac Carter, the Senator’s Chief of Staff.”

He offered his hand, and I shook it. Maybe not such a bad
guy after all.

“I’m Jim Marlowe,” I replied.

Isaac was smiling, nodding when the logic of the statement
seemed to dawn on him.

“Marlowe?” he said, his finger pointing at me in a
semi-accusatory way. “Are you the--?”

He didn’t finish the sentence, so I finished it for him.

“I am. I’m his son.”

Isaac nodded, a little less sure now.

“Can we go see him?” I asked.

I stood and finished my coffee in one throat scalding slug.

“He’s uh…that is, the Senator is about to start a press
conference,” Isaac stuttered. “Perhaps we should wait.”

“Perhaps not,” I said. “Might make for a good story.”

My eyes found the front of the campaign office across the
street, through the window of the coffee shop. I started for the door and
tossed my cup into the trash. Two points. Isaac was at my heels.

“He’s making a very special announcement,” Isaac said.

“So am I,” I replied.

A small crowd of people had gathered outside the campaign
office. I could hear them murmuring from across the street. Some of them held
shoulder-mounted camera equipment. TV cameras. I scanned the street and saw the
vans parked nearby, logos plastered across the sides of vans, broadcast
antennas erupting from roofs. Something was going on.

“What’s going on?” I asked, not bothering to look back.

“Senator Marlowe’s security team has been directed to keep
you away from him today.”

“By whom?” I asked. I leveled a glare at Isaac that made him
squirm.

“By me,” he said. “The news broke about the
scripture-quoting vigilante who subdued three alleged robbers…”

“Nothing alleged about it,” I replied.