Page 19

The truck was running on fumes when the white glow of the Chevron station crept into view. Almost there. Eve eased into the lot, peering through her windshield. This establishment, bathed in stark fluorescent light, looked more like a glorified shack than a running business. Not even a shiny corporate buyout could hide its rural roots. The walls, shingled and weather-worn, were coated with rusty license plates from almost every state, even a few from Canada. The gas pumps, a grand total of two, looked as though they’d been dragged from a 1960s junkyard and resurrected in some dark magic ritual. Huddled trees encircled the lot, like a crowd of schoolkids gawking at a playground scuffle.

Cautious, Eve steered to the nearest pump, shifted into park, and climbed out. The coarse pavement met her sock-covered feet, an instant reminder she’d not put boots on. She pulled out her credit card, but stopped short. A handwritten sign was taped to the card reader:

$—CASH ONLY—PAY INSIDE—$

Urgent, Eve rummaged through Charlie’s truck, muttering to herself. She dug grimy coins out from cupholders and, reaching, stretching, salvaged some crumpled bills from beneath the seats. That should be enough. Cash in hand, she ran across the lot. As she approached the doors, she caught her shivering reflection in the glass. She looked disheveled, downright unstable. Wide-eyed, dressed in socks, sweatpants, and a dirty T-shirt, her hair tangled up like she’d just gone through a wind tunnel. Who gave a fuck.

When she pushed through the entrance, a warbling chime announced her arrival—like fanfare trumpets at a sideshow carnival. She weaved her way to the counter, past shelves of neon-colored junk food and cheap booze. Above, buzzing lights hummed with the tenor of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. She rounded a corner and nearly toppled a display of key chains.

The clerk, a slender fellow with cow eyes and rosebud lips, blinked at her, wary. His pale, clean-shaven face somehow looked thirteen and thirty at the same time. Eve, doing her best to appear sane, ambled up to the counter and smiled. She held out her smattering of dirty coins and mangled bills. “Pump, uh, pump number two.”

The clerk’s eyes flitted to the change, narrowed, like she’d offered up a handful of bottle caps. He looked at her. “You want religion?”

“W-what?” Eve stammered.

“You want regular?” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you want regular gas?

“Oh, right, yes. Regular.” Get your shit together, Eve. Behind, the door chimed open and heavy boots clacked against tile. Eve didn’t look back.

“How much?” The clerk scratched his nose with a dirty fingernail.

Eve glanced at the mess of change in her trembling grasp. “Whatever this gets me. I— I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

The clerk wiped his mouth with the side of his hand and sniffed. “You can just put it on the counter.” He gestured. “I’ll count it.”

When Eve set down the change, a lone quarter dinged off the glass and clanged to the floor, rolling away like it had some greater purpose. As the clerk started counting, Eve went after the derelict coin. It veered around the display of key chains and plunked to a stop at the leather boots of—Eve peered up—a Highway Patrol officer. A barrel-chested man with a Burt Reynolds mustache and forearms thicker than Eve’s neck. She straightened her posture, forced another smile, and held up the coin. “Just— Just dropped this…” she said, the shaky vibrato of her own voice like sandpaper in her ears.

The cop’s deep-set eyes zeroed in on her sock-covered feet. His brow furrowed.

“You got no shoes,” he observed.

“Pump two’s good to go,” the clerk interjected. “Nine bucks, fifty-seven cents.”

Grateful for the distraction, Eve hurried to the exit, tucked away the quarter, and chimed out the door. All the while, she could feel the cop’s steely gaze lasered to her back. Please don’t follow.

At the truck, she unhooked the nozzle, twisted off the fuel cap, and started filling the tank. The metal lever was cold against her hand, the slight tremor of gasoline flowing through. The gallon counter ticked up, painfully slow. She glanced at the storefront. Through the barred glass, the cop was buying a pack of chewing gum, making small talk with the clerk, but… It’s fine. He can’t arrest you for not wearing shoes.

The clerk frowned at the cop and shook his head. Are they talking about me? What if “Charlie” called me in as a runaway?

CLICK.

The gas pump halted at 3.78 gallons. Hopefully it was enough to get her home. She hung up the nozzle, climbed back in, and turned the key. Just as she rolled to a start, the cop strolled out of the store. Eve maintained a calm and measured pace. Don’t draw attention…

As she pulled back onto the main road, a childhood memory played in her mind: A televised car chase. High speeds. Helicopter cameras. Route 104 was alive with the blare of sirens as twenty cruisers pursued a sky-blue minivan. The van dodged oncoming traffic, careened through red lights, busy crosswalks. A news anchor excitedly narrated every twist and turn, as if he were calling a play-by-play on Super Bowl Sunday. The frenzied chase came to an abrupt end when police herded the van into a backyard swimming pool. “It’s a miracle no one was killed,” said the anchor, suddenly somber.

Weeks later, it was revealed the driver had been in the midst of a psychotic episode. Apparently, he believed the government was trying to kidnap him for some kind of thought-control experiment. Turned out getting chased by twenty cops didn’t exactly quell the delusion.

A nagging question lingered: Would that be her fate? A feature in the local news, fleeing from imagined threats? The lead subject of some stupid cop show? A spectacle for the public to pity, to gawk at and say things like, Poor thing, if only she’d been right with the Lord. No. This was real. Madness didn’t feel like this. There were too many external markers. Too many connected threads. She buried the rising doubt and pressed down on the gas. This was real.

Headlights beamed through her back window, glared off the rearview. The cop? She let off the gas a bit. Two quick siren whoops. Red and blue flashing lights. Fuck. Hesitant, she hit the turn signal, pulled onto the shoulder, and slowed to a stop. Part of her considered flooring it but… Play this cool. You can’t save Charlie if you’re in handcuffs. She rolled down her window, took a deep breath, let it out.

Behind, the cop’s door swung open, boots scraped onto pavement, footfalls approached at a plodding rhythm. Eve fixed her tousled hair, again doing her best to appear “normal.”

The cop reached her window. “Kill the engine.”

Eve did as he said.

“License and registration.”

Shaky, Eve reached into the glove box, offered up the requested documents. The cop studied them, flashlight propped on his shoulder. He was chomping away on a wad of gum.

Eve, patience waning, said, “Can I ask why I’m being pulled over?”

“You can…”

His dry response hung in the air. Eve repeated herself. “Why did you pull me over…?”

With a sigh, the cop handed back the papers. “When’s the last time you slept, Evelyn?”

The use of her legal name caught her off guard. She forgot it was on her license. “Last time I slept?”

“That is the question you were asked.”

“Last night, er, tonight. I guess, technically last night?”

“Uh-huh. For how long?”

“A few hours, about six hours.” Two hours, but…

Silent, the cop hunched forward, swept his light around the cab, peered into the back. He breathed more through his mouth than his nose, as if his sinuses were blocked. Every exhale carried the scent of cinnamon gum and lukewarm coffee. “Where you headed?” he asked.

“Home…”

“Where’s home?”

“At the summit.”

“Address?”

“Look”—Eve smiled through clenched teeth—“I’m in a bit— I need to get— Can we just—”

“Address.”

Eve huffed. “Heritage Lane, 3709.”

“Any drinks tonight, Evelyn?” The question sounded like an accusation.

Eve cleared her throat. “No.”

“Drugs, medication.”

“No, sir.”

“Marijuana.” He emphasized the “hua” part of the word, a vague attempt at some kind of accent.

“No pot,” Eve said.

“Glass.”

“Glass?”

“Methamphetamine.”

“No, sir.”

He clucked his tongue, stood upright, and patted the roof of the truck. He looked around and hooked a thumb into his belt loop, thinking. “All right, Evelyn Palmer.” He gave the truck another pat. “Make sure you get some sleep.”

“Yessir…” Thank fucking God.

With that, the cop started back toward his cruiser. Eve began rolling up her window, but—

His radio went off. He stopped in his tracks, adjusted the volume. The signal was choppy, a female cop speaking lingo Eve didn’t understand, half the words drowning in radio static: “All—BOLO—on—run—approx——last—”

The cop looked back to Eve, grumbled something unintelligible—stay right there?—then started back to his car, likely trying to get a better signal.

“Charlie” called you in, that voice in Eve’s head insisted once more. You need to run. RUN. RUN. RUN…

Eve’s foot drifted toward the gas pedal, her hand to the ignition. Her heart thumped, all sounds merged into a single high-pitched tone, and then…

She didn’t remember starting the truck. Hell, she didn’t even remember setting her foot on the gas. But next thing she knew, she was flooring it, barreling up the mountain faster than she’d ever driven before. She braced for those flashing lights, those blaring sirens, frantically checking the rearview, but… nothing.

Maybe that dispatch hadn’t been about her after all? She wasn’t slowing down to find out. The next twenty minutes of driving blurred in a dissociative mess until she came upon that sharp corner. She barely let off the gas, bending around it, and—

A woman—no, a child—was wandering across the road. Blue jeans. White T-shirt. Navy green boots. On reflex, Eve’s foot crushed the brakes, her hands jerking the steering wheel hard to the right. Tires shrieked, rubber burned, light streaked, until all at once, everything came to a fishtailing stop. The truck wobbled on its suspension, creaking back and forth at a slowing tempo. Eve, wide-eyed, sat frozen, still gripping the steering wheel, still processing the fact she’d nearly run over a child.

The truck was facing back the way she’d come, headlights pouring a wide sweep over the trees, the asphalt, the double solid lines, and…

… the child. She was about a hundred feet away, standing on the right embankment. Suddenly, her arms shot straight out to her sides, wrists hanging limp like she was tied to an unseen crucifix. She held this bizarre pose for three, four, five seconds, and then her arms dropped. The girl took three sudden steps backward and froze again. She spun to face the woods, a mechanical movement, like a soldier pivoting during a march. She swiveled again, now facing Eve.

The features of her pale face were drowned out by the brightness of the headlights. Without warning, she broke into a sprint, bolting toward Eve with startling speed. Eve’s breath hitched in her throat—she shifted into reverse, was about to floor the gas, get the fuck out of there, but—

The girl swerved sharply to the right, scrambled up the embankment, and slipped into the woods…

Not your problem.Eve set on the gas, reversed into a turn, and continued her way back up the mountain. Not your fucking problem.

For the rest of the drive up, she paid a bit more attention to the road. Twenty or so minutes later, when she finally reached Heritage Lane, she slowed to another stop. On either side, the trees leaned inward, as if whispering horrible secrets to one another. Eve peered over her shoulder. The red brake lights illuminated the wet asphalt. No cops in sight. Eve considered, one last time, if this was the best idea. Charlie’s warning on the phone played in her thoughts: You need to leave, never come back to the house… Get as far away as you possibly can…

Resolved, she drew in a deep breath. Exhaled. She set on the gas and crept ahead. Heritage Lane seemed longer than usual, narrower. At its end, she rounded onto the driveway, crawled upward. The headlights cast shadows into silent trees—shaping branches into crooked hands, shrubs into undulating abominations. And then, bit by bit, the old house loomed into view—outlined by the black-blue sky. Her lights cast a dull glow over its face, like a submarine approaching some deep-sea wreck—untouched for centuries.

Vigilant, Eve pulled to a stop at the edge of the yard, turned off the ignition, the lights. All was dark. Absentmindedly she reached into the cup-holder and wrapped her hand around Charlie’s necklace, feeling the cold brass surface against her palm. She tucked it into her pocket. After taking another deep breath, she stepped out. The mountain air was crisp, still. The far-off sounds of howling wind surged through the valley. For a moment, distant sirens echoed—or was it a pack of coyotes?

She trooped forward, sock-laden feet crunching against the frosted yard, icy, biting. The soil under her feet gave way like a wet sponge. She ascended the porch, unlocked the door, pushed it open, and—despite every bone in her body telling her to run—she stepped into the foyer.