Paskagankee (39 page)

Actually, “Stop drinking entirely,” was what the quack doctor had said, “before it kills you.” The guy spun some bullshit about mitral and tricuspid valve deficiencies and plaque buildup in the arteries—apparently Earl's achy-breaky heart had less to do with love and loss than a weakening muscle critical to the body's continued operation, at least if he believed the quack, which he didn't—just before hitting him with almost a three hundred dollar charge. Earl had ignored the outrageous bill just as he had ignored the diagnosis, vowing at that time never to return to the frigging quack's office.

That was three years ago, and look at him, still sitting at his table just beyond the far end of the bar, still drinking—more, if anything, not less—and still very much alive. Sure, he suffered from the shakes some mornings, most mornings if he was being honest with himself; and sure, there were those disconcerting moments when he had trouble catching his breath climbing a normal flight of stairs and was forced to stop and rest halfway, but that sure as hell wasn't due to heart trouble. After all, Earl reasoned, he was only in his late twenties, and achy-breaky hearts were for geezers, Billy Ray Cyrus's opinion on the matter notwithstanding.

The front entrance swung open, then slammed closed. Earl barely noticed. It was almost midnight and the Runner was hopping, so the damned door seemed to be on a freaking swivel. Plus it was early summer, meaning the cold air that normally accompanied the arrival of a new patron had gone on vacation for a few months. It would be back soon enough, but for now, the only things that might have entered the bar were a new customer and a few mosquitoes, and Earl couldn't care less about either one. As long as he could still get Bo's attention when his thirst demanded another beer, he didn't give a damn if it was Billy Ray Cyrus himself who had just walked in.

His disinterest didn't last long, though. He glanced up, bleary-eyed, and discovered it was a woman who had entered, and a woman he did not recognize, at that. Aside from Blanche Raskiewicz, who had been frequenting the Runner longer than Earl and whose skin was so weathered and dried out it looked like her face had been patched together out of strips of old leather, the “fairer sex” tended to stay away from the Ridge Runner. It was not an establishment that saw many female faces.

Especially female faces like this one. The woman was young and beautiful. Long raven hair cascaded in waves halfway down her back, terminating in lazy ringlets a few inches north of her butt, which was accentuated in skin-tight faded jeans with no visible panty lines. Earl knew because it was the first thing he checked. His eyes might be red-rimmed from all the Budweiser and he might almost have reached the point where he would begin seeing double, but he was as much an expert in panty lines as he was in achy-breaky hearts, and he would have bet his miserable life this chick wasn't wearing any.

The face framed by her jet-black hair could fairly be described as angelic, with flawless copper skin, a delicate, slightly upturned nose and the most intense green eyes Earl had ever seen. Her mouth was a slash of vivid red as she pursed her lips in concentration, walking slowly through the crowd, clearly searching for someone. Ridge Runner patrons parted before the beautiful young woman like the Red Sea before Moses. She didn't seem to notice. She was probably used to it.

She meandered through the bar and the raucous cacophony of drunken voices dimmed, eventually fading away entirely. Even the music seemed to have stopped for the time being. An occasional cough and the shuffling of boots on the dirty floor were the only sounds. Earl wondered who the lucky bastard was that she was looking for and, more importantly, why. He knew pretty much everyone in here, and all of these dim bastards put together didn't have the class this babe had in her little finger. That much was obvious.

Earl didn't care, though. He had a prime view of this chick's pantiless ass and that was good enough for him. She had made a hard right turn after entering the bar and was moving steadily counterclockwise around the outside of the room, still searching, looking left and right as she walked. Soon she would pass directly in front of Earl's mesmerized face and shortly after that would be right back at the front door where she started.

Obviously, the guy she was looking for wasn't here, which was hard to believe. Earl figured if
he
was the lucky son of a bitch who had made plans to meet up with this hot piece of ass at the Ridge Runner, he would camp out a couple of days in advance, just to be sure he didn't miss her. Although, in his case, that wouldn't have meant doing much of anything different than usual. His waking hours more or less coincided with the Runner's hours of operation, anyway.

The girl reached Earl's rickety table and instead of continuing past as he assumed she would, she took a seat, easing onto the empty chair next to him and fixing him with those curiously green eyes. They were spellbinding, and it took a few seconds for Earl's brain to process the fact that she had just spoken to him. “Uh . . . ‘scuse me?”

A knowing smile eased across her face, as if she had this effect on men all the time. Probably she did. “I said hello,” she repeated. “How are you doing tonight?”

“Just great. Getting better all the time.” It finally occurred to a disbelieving Earl Manning that
he
was the one she had been searching out, as hard as that was to believe.

“Buy you a drink?” Earl asked, frantically attempting some basic math in his alcohol-addled brain. He wasn't sure he had enough cash left to buy anything for this gorgeous specimen, but didn't really care, either. If he couldn't pay that asshole Bo Pellerin at closing time he would worry about it then.

“White wine,” she said, still smiling, her eyes locked onto Earl's. God, but they were captivating.

Earl signaled Bo and the bartender approached with a look of incredulous disbelief written all over his face. Earl figured the same look was probably on his own face. “White wine for my friend, please,” he said, wondering if anyone had ever ordered wine before inside the Ridge Runner.

For just a moment he thought Pellerin was going to make some sort of wise-ass remark. The Ridge Runner's owner didn't, though. Instead he turned without a word and walked back behind the bar. Bo grabbed a dusty bottle Earl had never noticed before off one of the mirrored shelves and poured the contents into what Earl guessed was a wine glass. Who the hell knew? Hopefully the damned thing was at least clean, although that seemed unlikely.

Bo placed the glass in front of the chick and walked away without a word and Earl realized he had no idea what the hell to say next. He wracked his slow-moving brain as panic threatened to overwhelm him. This was the most stunningly beautiful girl he had ever had a shot with. The only other one who even came close was that bitch Sharon Dupont, and that had been a long, long time ago, back when she was still a high school kid, years before she had kicked her drinking habit and become a cop, of all things.

His mind snapped back to the present, and to the awful knowledge that if he didn't say something soon, preferably something suave or at the very least semi-coherent, this gorgeous babe was going to think he was mute and maybe mentally deficient, too. The only thing he could think of to say was, “Do you come here often?” which was pointless. For one thing he knew the answer to that particular question, and for another he realized, even in his present state of drunkenness and mounting panic, it was the most clichéd pickup line in the book.

She saved him.

“Do you come here often?” she said, and coming from her it sounded like the wittiest, conversation-starter ever. Bo Pellerin dropped the wine bottle down on the bar and walked away, shaking his head as he went. The girl continued gazing at him, smiling softly, acting like he was Jake Freaking Gyllenhall or something, rather than what he was: a twenty-nine year old rail-thin raging alcoholic with bad skin and a balky heart sitting in a dive bar in the middle of God-forsaken nowhere, a rifle shot from the Canadian border.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” he answered, surprising himself by speaking clearly and not slurring his words. He wondered how long he could keep up
that
little bit of verbal gymnastics. “But I know you don't; I would definitely have remembered you.” Earl had no idea what the hell was going down here, but he was determined to ride this train all the way to the station, and felt like he was doing a pretty goddamned good job so far, even if all he really was doing was hanging on for dear life and waiting to see what would happen next.

She sipped her wine and Earl gulped his beer. “I've been looking all over for you,” she said, as if they were a couple, as if it was perfectly normal for a model-beautiful young woman to be sitting here in the Ridge Runner chatting with Earl Manning. He was acutely aware that every man in the place—
every single one—
was watching them like some practical joke was being played and they didn't want to look away because they were afraid they might miss the punch line. For just a second Earl wondered if that might be the case.

“Is that right?” he finally ventured. “Well, now that you've found me, what are you going to do with me?”

“Everything.” She smiled suggestively, placing her hand lightly on his arm. Earl thought briefly he might lose it right then and there, and wouldn't that be hilarious?

“Wh-whass your name?” he asked, his diction finally betrayed by the combination of nerves and drunkenness. He was a little surprised it had taken this long.

“Raven,” she said, acting as though she didn't notice his little slip-up, although it had to have been obvious. The young woman finally dragged her gaze away from Earl's face and glanced disinterestedly around the bar, only now seeming to realize that they weren't alone. Earl thought it might be the strangest thing he had ever seen. Of course, this whole bizarre episode would probably qualify.

Raven leaned over, supporting herself by placing one delicate hand in Earl's lap, instantly bringing him dangerously close to losing it again. She whispered into his ear, “What do you say we get out of here and get started? I don't think I can wait much longer.” Her voice was soft and girlish and Earl would have sworn her breath shuddered a little with anticipation. Or maybe that was his.

“Okay,” he agreed, rising unsteadily to his feet and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out all of his money and tossed it onto the bar, not counting it, not even looking at it. He didn't care how much was there. If it was more than he owed for this night of drinking then that asshole Pellerin could treat himself to a nice, undeserved tip.

Raven looped her arm through his and began walking toward the front door, leading Earl through the crowd of disbelieving drinkers. Again they parted at her approach and again she seemed unaware. Earl took the opportunity to slip his left hand into the left rear pocket of her jeans. They were so tight he had to work to slide it in, but he figured it was well worth the effort.

The rickety wooden screen door slammed closed as they walked into the gravel parking lot, Raven moving confidently and Earl Manning half-stumbling along behind, hand jammed into her back pocket, feeling like a guy who has just found out he won the lottery even though he didn't buy a ticket. The buzz of excited conversation swelled behind them and then faded with the closing of the door.

The darkness became more pronounced as the pair moved away from the dirty lighting of the tavern. Bo Pellerin had once confided in Earl that he didn't see the need for exterior lighting in the Ridge Runner's lot—not many women came here and most of the ones who did, well, Bo seemed to feel were better-looking in the dark, anyway. Dudes could damn well find their own way to their vehicles. Plus, floodlights were too damned expensive.

Most of the time Earl didn't even notice the darkness as he made his way to his fifteen-year-old Ford pickup. Hell, by closing time he was almost always blind drunk anyway, so what difference did it make? Tonight, though, maybe as a reaction to the strange turn of events, he felt a shiver of fear worm its way into his gut. Anything could be out here. Anything.

Raven tugged insistently on his arm and, seeming to sense his trepidation, whispered, “Please lover-boy, don't make me wait. Stop teasing me!” And just like that, Earl Manning forgot all about the darkness.

The beautiful girl pulled him right past his truck, continuing on to a candy-apple red Porsche parked at the outer edge of the lot next to the massive, looming northern Maine forest. She unlocked the passenger side door with a button on her key fob and dumped Earl into the leather bucket seat, then somehow managed to squeeze in too, falling into his lap and giving him a hard kiss, pressing her body into his.

Then she was up and gone, moving around the little car and sliding into the driver's seat with the speed and grace of a feline. “Where are we going?” Earl asked, more out of a desire to make conversation than because he really gave a damn.

Raven smiled but didn't immediately respond. She pressed a finger to his lips. “You'll see soon enough, lover-boy. And I promise, this will be a night you will never forget.” The engine started with a purr and the young woman gunned the Porsche out of the lot, spraying gravel, peppering the vehicles—mostly pickup trucks—clustered outside the bar. The last thing Earl Manning thought before he fell asleep was that this whole strange episode was like some teenager's wet dream.