Identity Matrix (1982) (28 page)

That's where Victor Gonser had been, back up on the trail, I realized.

Thinking about jumping off a cliff, wasn't he?

I fumbled in the big, cheap purse. Some makeup there, yes, a small towel, and about $230.00. All my worldly goods.

I straightened myself up and went out over to the trucker's store. It was mostly men's stuff, but I found a cute straw cowboy hat that looked really nice, some hankies, deodorant, and other toiletries. Even a spare couple of shirts.

They stuffed the bag to bulging, but it was much better.

I went back into the john and used what I'd bought, carefully brushed my hair, cleaned up, got looking and smelling nice.

Terror there might be, but I had a mind inside this body, and I had this body, too.

I walked into the restaurant. It was mostly empty except for a few truckers talking in a special area reserved for them, sipping coffee or eating hamburgers.

The waitress came over, and I asked for coffee and some eggs, all I thought I could manage.

But I radiated, and I knew it. Nature abhors a vac-uum, and I had a vacuum on both sides of me, while nature was staring from the trucker's lounge.

One of them, a tired-looking man in his mid-forties dressed somewhat cowboy-style, a day or so's growth of beard giving him something of the rugged look, called over.

"Hay!" he said loudly, in an accent that was strictly hillbilly. "Hay Sweet Thang! You lonesome? C'mon' over!"

I drank my coffee and pretended to ignore him. Fi-nally he got up, mostly, I think, at the whispered taunt-ing of two other drivers, and came over.

"What's the matter, gal? Troubles?" he asked pleas-antly. "You look too sad sittin' here like that with that expression on yore face."

I turned to him. "I'm stuck, if you want to know the truth. I used to dance at the Mauritania Lounge here, hut the boss decided he wanted to use me in another end of his business, and I quit. I've just been drifting around all night, trying to think about what to do next."

He seemed genuinely sympathetic. "I know what you mean, I think. Where y'

all headin' now?"

I sighed. "I was thinking of getting a waitress's job or something," I told him.

I had seen a sign near the front door. "Now, I don't know. I have a lot of friends, but they're all back in L.A., and I have no way to get there."

He rubbed his chin, and looked about as sincere as I was.

"Well, now," he thought. "No money?"

"Some," I replied, then told him about the encounter with the would-be rapist.

I told it straight, sparing noth-ing except the fact that I was not about to go back into town for entirely different reasons than the fear of meet-ing him again.

He nodded sympathetically, and there seemed real concern in his voice.

"Look," he suggested, "I've just dropped a load at the air base here, and I'm deadheadin' back to Barstow. You're welcome as far as there. After that, well, I don't think we got a problem gettin' no ride into L.A. for a beaver pretty as you, ma'am."

And it was as simple as that.

He was a perfect gentleman all the way, and I slept the not so long ride to Barstow.

Once he got in C.B. range of the I-15, I-40 junction, he got on the radio and described me in incredible, somewhat colorful language, and explained my need.

The others didn't believe him, and so I got on myself and asked for help.

I hope I didn't cause a smash-up somewhere, but finally the man with the strongest radio got through the jam and we linked up. I kissed my savior good-bye, and changed trucks.

The new man was not as nice or as gentlemanly, but he seemed satisfied to pet and snuggle as best he could with fourteen gears to control, and damned if he didn't wind up driving miles out of his way to drop me at the Farmer's Market!

I had made it with two hours to spare, not costing me a thing, and I was dead tired but little else.

Meeting in the Farmer's Market, I found, was more difficult than anyone would think. It's a huge place, full of stalls selling just about everything, and crowds of people all about. I finally decided that I was too tired to hunt; if I was going to be a magnet, I might as well be one and let them find me.

I got a small bun from a Greek-style bakery stall, and some strong coffee and sat down at one of the picnic tables that were spread all over the inside of the place.

People were all around, and I got the usual looks, but nobody bothered me.

This
kind of crowd, the tourists and the locals, was the kind I liked best right now.

About 11:15, wandering around just looking at things, I heard a familiar voice shout "Misty!" and before I could move Dory was all over me, kissing and hugging. I finally calmed her down and we found a place that, while not exactly quiet, was at least out of the mainstream, and sat down.

"Well," I said to her. "You don't look exactly worn down and away. Tell me what happened after we split up.

"Well," she echoed me, "after you went off with Mr. Middle America I stood around for a while, then walked into the bar—and immediately got challenged for my I.D.! I didn't believe it, but I had to leave, and they escorted me completely out of the casino.

"So, there I was, out on the streets with no place to go. I saw some of the Redeemed selling their flowers, and I wanted to get away from there."

"I know," I responded with a slight shudder. "I saw some on the way here. It's a wonder they aren't all over here."

"They wouldn't allow it," Dory said flatly. "They're selling, so they'd have to have a stall." She twisted in her seat a bit, getting more comfortable. "So, anyway, I didn't want to be around those creeps, and so I headed for the bus station. I saw all the stakeouts, but I figured that if this getup wouldn't get me past them then I was gone anyway, and they gave me barely a glance!"

I took a deep breath, thinking of my own fears and what that had led to, and said nothing.

"Well, there I was, so I bought the ticket and started to come here. They were pretty thorough—had somebody at the ticket counter and bus gate, too. Well, anyway, I passed, and got a seat, and a few minutes later this young black guy, a real cool sort, took the seat next to me. He tried to look disinterested, but I've been around. We got to talking, and he was very nice.

"So we got in about a little after one in the morning, and we took a cab to his apartment—"

"Dory! You didn't!" I exclaimed.

She smiled. "C'mon, I said he was a nice guy. I spent the night there, he had a real nice place. A computer programmer, I think he said. He played some records—Man! Are they ever weird now!—and blew some smoke and had a real great night. He was gone to work when I got up, so I fixed myself some breakfast and came on over. You know, I heard they didn't have any busses in L.A., but they do—occasionally. I got here, and that's all there is to it. What about you?"

I hesitated, feeling a little funny. I didn't know exactly what I felt, or why I felt it, but it was a crazy sort of combination. Joy that she was here, and safe, and with-out any problems, some resentment that she'd done it all so easily after what I'd gone through, and, for some reason, a touch of possessive jealousy, strange from some-one like me.

I tried to push it back and considered how much to tell her. In the end, I felt a little mad at myself and thought, hell, this is
Dory,
dammit. I told her everything, sparing nothing, and she listened in quiet concen-tration. When I was through, she sighed.

"You've had it rough, even though most of it was of your own making. After all, you had over two hundred bucks. Hell, you coulda taken
a cab
to L.A., at least to Barstow, anyway."

I was thunderstruck. It simply hadn't occurred to me. Now that she'd said it, I saw a dozen easy ways that a girl with money could have gone.

Blind, dumb fear had done it to me.

I started to cry, and this upset her. "Now, don't do that, or I'll feel bad and we'll both be bawling," she said sharply. "Look, you just went through something that every woman grows up with, has to face. It's the real world. Men can sympathize, but they can never
feel
it, so they can't ever understand how limiting it is to be a woman."

There was nothing I could say. Once I'd written of my hatred and contempt for all restraints, for anything that limited choices.

But there were some decisions you couldn't escape from.

Unless you went Harry Parch's route, or The Associa-tion's, and gave up
all
choices.

I glanced over at a clock nearby, and gasped. "It's after twelve," I said suddenly.

We moved out into the mainstream again, got some drinks, and started staring at the increasing crowds of people milling about, eating, and going back and forth.

Over two hours later we were still waiting.

I couldn't conceal my mounting agitation, and neither could Dory. Neither of us, though, would say it for some time more.

When it got to be three o'clock, she finally uttered the unspeakable.

"I don't think they're coming," she said softly. I sighed. "So what do we do now?"

"I think we take a bus and go shopping for some clothes with that money of yours, then find a place for the night," she responded.

I nodded glumly. "Then?'

She shrugged. "We come back here tomorrow, same time. And the next day, and the next. If they don't show by then, I think we both go out and get jobs."

Chapter Thirteen

A hundred bucks doesn't go far these days when you're shopping for clothes, but Dory was ever the practical one and it's surprising what you can get at big discount and drug stores.

For another forty we found a room at a cheap hotel, not the kind of place I really liked but the most we could afford in these days of $150 rooms. That left about $70 for food, transportation, and emergencies. It wouldn't last long, but it only had to last until Monday, when, I hoped, I could find a pawn shop.

By early evening I was dead on my feet and just about passed out. I think I slept ten or eleven solid hours, but, despite a headache, I felt better than I had since I'd last been in Stuart's little chair at IMC.

It was a little after ten on Saturday. Dory came into the room from the outside, newspapers in hand. "Well! Sleeping Beauty awaketh!"

I managed a smile, and shook the sleep from me. I took a cool shower to get fully awake, then got dressed, sticking to the casual outfit. It was warmer in L.A.

than I'd expected.

Trying to manage with the city's less-than-great mass transit system was a pain, but we couldn't afford cabs at today's prices, not now. We got to Farmer's Market just before noon, and I managed to get coffee, a danish, and some aspirin. We idly read the papers, thin for a Saturday, which contained little of interest to us, and waited.

Suddenly, thumbing through the inside back section, Dory let out a little gasp.

"What is it?"

"Listen. 'Man, Woman Die in Flaming Crash. Victor-ville, October 2. An unidentified man and woman were killed tonight when their car swerved to avoid a pedes-trian and rolled over, bursting into flame. The car had been reported stolen in Las Vegas hours earlier. High-way Patrol officers are investigating.' "

She looked up at me, a pained expression on her face.

"You don't suppose . . ." I managed, supposing ex-actly that.

She nodded slowly. "Sure. It fits. Although it's almost certainly not the way it really happened."

I thought sadly of poor, gentle Stuart, and of the strange alien who called himself Dan Pauley. I couldn't bring myself to believe it, although, deep down, I knew it was true. Stuart, in particular ... The thought of a world without him was almost unbearable.

They were gone.

I fought back tears, not very successfully. "So it's over. The great expedition to save the world is over. Well, if anybody saves it, it won't be us, now."

Dory nodded glumly. "No use hanging around here any more."

"What do you want to do?"

"Get drunk, or stoned, or both. Then wait for the Sunday papers and see what's available."

"Like hell I will," I snapped, getting mad now. "Damn it, I'm through running.

Where's a phone booth?" She looked at me strangely. "What ... ?"

I stalked over to the booth, picked the receiver up, fed it a quarter, dialed 0

and got the quarter back. "Operator? Give me Al Jordan, Stateline, Nevada. I don't know the area code but I know the number." I gave it to her. "Collect," I told her. "Tell him it's Misty Carpenter."

I listened for all the relays and operator-connected conversations. I was using Al's private number, though. If he were there—and he almost certainly was about this time, I'd get him.

"Hello! Misty! Good to hear from ya," he enthused.

"Listen, Al, don't give me that bullshit," I shot him. "You're a no-good son of a bitch in the pocket of Harry Parch and I know it."

"Hey! Wait a
minute,
Baby!"

"Just shut up and listen, Al. I know you can call Parch. He's in Vegas, most likely. You call him and tell him to call off his dogs. We surrender. We want to have normal lives. I want to open that club, All I want to pick up where I left off!

And I don't want any Harry Parch or his type whiskin' me off anywhere in the dead of night. You tell him Dory and me'll keep quiet, we'll be good girls and he can check on us all he wants, but we've had it, we're through, all we want is to be left alone, as we are—as we
are,
Al—to live normal, decent lives. Y'hear me?"

He was silent for a moment. Finally he said, "Jesus, you can get mad! O.K., O.K., I won't bullshit you. I can get ahold of Parch. But I dunno if he'll buy it—or if you can trust him if he says he'll buy it, Babe."

"He's a skunk and a rat but I think he
will
buy it, Al. How long do you figure it'll take to get hold of him?"

He thought a moment. "Give me 'til eight tonight, at least. Call me back then or give me a number."

"Uh uh. I'll call. Talk to you later, then. And, Al . . ."

"Yeah, Babe?"