Zack (9 page)

I fired up Dad’s computer and ran off a copy of my Pawpine research paper, which I added to the pile of stuff on the kitchen table. While I sipped my tea, I consulted the road atlas and planned my route. Then I began to water Mom’s ten thousand houseplants before I turned the garden hose on the lilacs and her little flower farm in the yard.

“So, are you going to miss me?” I asked.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Jen said. “And, no, I won’t miss you. Soon as I get to Calgary I’ll go to a bar and find a guy with a cowboy hat, tight jeans and a nice butt.” She wiped ketchup from the corner of her lips and added, “Are you going to miss me? Or is the excitement of this illegal and crazy trip of yours too much?”

“I wish you could come with me.”

“So do I, Zack. But I’d just get in your way.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you look sexy with pizza sauce on your chin?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to notice.”

“Come here,” she said.

I
have never been a morning person. Although I had set the alarm for six-thirty it was nine before I hauled myself out of bed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, showered and dressed. After Jen had left the night before, I had lain awake listening to the breeze outside my open window, and the Grand River flowing along, wondering if the whole idea of the trip was a mistake. It was late before I fell asleep.

After a breakfast of toast and coffee I packed up all the gear and stowed it in the truck, then I did a tour of the house, checking to make sure all the windows and doors were locked, the timers set on the upstairs and downstairs lights, and the water main in the basement was shut off. It was ten o’clock when I pulled out of Fergus and headed south on Highway 6, my atlas open beside me on the seat.

I followed 6 into Hamilton, stopped at a doughnut shop to use the bathroom and pick up a coffee, and lost half an hour tearing up and down one-way streets, cursing and trying to find the Queen Elizabeth Way. The highway was thick with cars whose drivers seemed bent on killing themselves and each other, along with hundreds of huge transport
trucks that looked eager to help. Unused to driving on big roads, I gripped the steering wheel and kept the Toyota in the right lane, buffeted by powerful draughts from the passing trucks. At St. Catharines I kept my eye open and when I saw the sign for Twelve Mile Creek I pulled over onto the shoulder.

I hadn’t known what to expect. What greeted me was pretty unexciting—a sluggish stream winding through a flat, unremarkable landscape before it slipped under the ugly concrete tangle of the highway, which howled with traffic. I tried, without success, to imagine what the creek looked like a century and a half before, when Pawpine pioneered his homestead there.

Instead of crossing at Niagara Falls I followed the signs for Queenston and drove past the statue of General Brock, big hero of the Battle of Queenston Heights who was killed fending off the American invasion in 1812. Pawpine may have fought there too. No statue for him, though.

I paid the toll and drove over the bridge that spanned the Niagara River thundering and boiling on its way east to Lake Ontario. Behind a huge motorhome from Texas I came to a stop at the row of customs booths. When the motorhome moved off I drove up to the booth and rolled down my window. The agent studied me behind mirror aviator sunglasses and spoke in a bored monotone.

“Citizenship?”

“Canadian.”

“How long do you plan to stay in the United States?”

“A week or so.”

I wondered why he needed sunglasses sitting in a dimly lit enclosure under a shaded roof. His next question threw me.

“What’s your destination?”

“Er, Natchez.”

“Where’s that?”

Was this a test? I wondered. Or was this guy’s knowledge of geography as dim as his eyesight? “In Mississippi,” I said.

So far, I had felt like I was under arrest as each question came harsher than the last.

“What’s the purpose of your visit?”

To pick up a ton of heroin and a nuclear warhead, I felt like saying, but something told me that he had a severe irony deficiency.

“I’m going to visit my grandfather.”

The agent adjusted his sunglasses. “You got proof of ownership for that truck?” he asked.

I stretched across the seat and rummaged around in the glove compartment amid road maps and used-up ballpoint pens until I found the small blue plastic folder Dad used to keep the ownership and insurance slip. I handed it over. The agent examined the papers carefully before handing back the folder. But he wasn’t done with me.

“What’s your grandfather’s address?”

I passed across my uncle’s Christmas card. The agent turned it over, read the inside, then peered at the stamp on the envelope as if he suspected it was counterfeit. He gave it back.

With the warmth of an iguana he said, “Enjoy your stay.”

I threw the truck into gear and pulled away, turning onto Highway 190. The city of Buffalo seemed to be having a pothole competition with someplace. I got to the New York State Thruway and turned west, stopping for gas at the first station. The highway was straight, flat and boring. At Erie I took Interstate 79 south towards Pittsburgh.

By then it was late afternoon. If the road west was dull, this one was worse, pushing though flat, featureless farm land. I was learning that what the interstates offered in convenience and travel time they balanced with boredom. Driving along, I seemed to be sitting stationary on a conveyor belt, other cars and trucks scattered around me, pulled through the countryside at a steady numbing pace.

Near Pittsburgh the terrain became hilly. I bypassed the city and turned west again on I-70. At the Ohio border I stopped at a “welcome station” which introduced me to the state with washrooms, vending machines and racks of pamphlets advertising motels, tourist attractions, stores and other hot spots.

I pulled up in the nearly empty parking area and shut off the truck. After I stretched my legs and twisted the kinks out of my spine, I fished my longdistance calling card out of my wallet and walked to the bank of pay phones. It was time to set Operation Deception in motion.

I made a call to my house. The phone rang only twice before the answering machine picked up, indicating that a message had been left. It was Dad, telling me their hotel’s phone number and room number. I jotted down the information on the corner of a page I tore out of the phone book.

Our answering machine could be programmed from a phone. When it was clear Dad’s was the only message, I used the telephone keypad to erase his message. Then I erased the out-going message, punched in another code number and held my fingers over the receiver.

Pitching my voice as high as I could, I said in a nasal monotone, “I’m sorry. This number is not in service.”

Pleased with the detective-novel ruse, I hung up and redialled, using the calling card again. Sure enough, the phone rang four times, the machine picked up and I heard myself tell me that our phone didn’t work. So far, so good. Squinting at my scribbled note, I called my parents’ hotel in Montreal and asked to leave a message for Mr. and Mrs. Lane.

“Shall I connect you to their room?” the receptionist asked.

“No, I’ll just leave a message, please.”

“Very well. You may record your message when you hear the beep.”

I reported that our phone was acting up. I said Grandpa had tried to call a few times and got a “not in service” message. “So I’ll call you every couple of days, Mom. Don’t worry, everything’s fine. Bye,” I ended cheerily.

One more call to make.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Grandma. It’s Zack.”

“Hello, dear. How are you?”

“Oh, fine. Just watching the tube, you know. Um, I called to tell you and Grandpa that there’s something wrong with our phone. I can call out but people can’t call in.”

“That’s strange.”

“Yeah, isn’t it, though? Anyway, I’ll be in touch with you every couple of days, okay?”

“Yes, dear, but—”

“Oh, jeez, the kettle’s boiling. Gotta run, Grandma. Talk to you later, bye!”

I hung up quickly, no longer puffed up with my trickery. Fibbing to a machine was one thing. Tricking my grandma was something else.

I climbed into the back of the truck, opened the cooler, made myself a sandwich of ham, cheese and peanut butter and took it to a picnic table under the trees beside the building. Long shadows striped the
parking area and the air was cooling down. As I ate, cars pulled up, travellers walked to and from the comfort station, sat in their cars consulting maps, drove off again. It was a lonely place. Nobody knew anybody else—didn’t want to know. They left the familiar interior of their vehicles for a short excursion and returned as quickly as possible, closing and locking the doors, safe again.

The food made me drowsy and I felt my eyelids droop as I sat on the hard seat thinking those profound thoughts. I climbed into the cab of the Toyota and curled up in the front seat. Just a short nap, I told myself, then I’ll get going.

When I woke up, cramped and a little chilly, it was dark out and the condensation on the windshield blurred the light coming from the building, giving me the sense that I was under amber-coloured water. A slight headache throbbed behind my ears and my mouth was sticky. In the rear-view mirror I saw the yellow dots of light along the top of a transport truck. There seemed to be no one else around.

The clock on the dashboard read 12:42. I pulled the keys from the ignition, locked the cab and crawled into the back. Carelessly I kicked off my shoes. I crawled into the sleeping bag, burrowed deep and went back to sleep.

I dreamed I was trapped in an underwater cave, drowning in white light that burned through my eyelids. I thrashed in panic, desperate to escape.
Groaning with fear, I rolled onto my stomach and pulled the sleeping bag over my head. Darkness fell and I could breathe again. Then came deep hollow voices, the scrape of leather boots on concrete.

“… in here,” a voice said—male, straining with tension.

A fist pounded on a door. It was my door. It was the door of the truck cap.

I snatched the covers from my face and bolted to my knees. The rear window of the truck was an explosion of piercing white light. Blinded, I shielded my eyes with my arm.

A second voice, muffled, deeper than the first. “I see him!”

The door thumped and rattled as the fist struck it again. My heartbeats throbbed in my head as I scrambled for my clothes, as if pulling on my jeans would stop the terror that dried my mouth. I remembered news reports from last winter, stories of tourists in Florida murdered for their cash on the edge of the Interstates. Frantically I groped around for something I could use as a weapon, knowing I was trapped. My fingers closed on the handle of the knife I had used to make my sandwich.

Behind the glare of light a voice boomed. “You in there! Come out now!”

The door handle rattled. I had locked it when I had climbed in. I turned away from the blazing window and looked through the cab out the front of the truck
to see a looming shape, a movinglight. Behind me, the door thundered.

“This is the Highway Patrol. Put down your weapon! Come out of the truck with your hands on your head. Now!”

At first I felt a wave of relief. Cops. I was safe. Then, fear again. What if they weren’t cops at all? I couldn’t see them. Momentarily I considered waiting them out. I was trapped, yes, but they couldn’t get in.

“How do I know you’re police?” I yelled.

For an instant the light disappeared from the window and shone on a human shape. A badge gleamed, then the light returned, full into my face.

“Come out!” the voice boomed. “Keep your hands in sight.”

I dropped the knife and shuffled on my knees, hands held out before me like a beggar. I reached to slide back the bolt on the door.

“I said keep your hands in sight!”

“It’s locked,” I said, surprised at the firmness of my voice.

“Put your right hand on your head. Unlock with your left.”

I did as he told me. My fear had lessened, but not by much. The door flew open and a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt closed on my shoulder, bunching my T-shirt. Fingers dug painfully. I was dragged out the door so violently that I couldn’t get my feet under me. I fell headlong to the pavement, striking my
head, and a new burst of light blazed behind my eyes. The air exploded from my lungs when my chest hit the ground. Dazed, I felt my arms pulled behind me. A knee ground into my back, the skin on my wrists pinched and I heard two loud clicks.

The cops lifted me to my feet and slammed me against the side of the truck. A light was trained on my eyes.

“Where are the keys?”

“In my back pocket,” I gasped. I could hardly breathe.

A hand was thrust into my pocket. My keys jingled. The truck door was opened and noises told me the second cop was searching the cab.

“Could you put that light down, please?” I said. “You’re hurting my eyes.”

The glare dropped away and I blinked the sparkles away from my eyeballs. When my vision returned I found myself facing a very large man wearing a Smokey the Bear hat, unzipped windbreaker, leather belt with gun in holster and nightstick dangling. His face was round and fleshy and his breath stank of cigarettes.