Almost Heaven (30 page)

After I went by a tree that looked like a backward L, like Oakley had said I would find, I hit my watch light and saw I'd been gone more than two hours. I had promised myself that I would turn around as soon as I hit that mark because the station would go off the air if I didn't. But I went a little farther, knowing from that tree I was on the right path. Then the road forked and I had no idea where to go. Oakley hadn't told me about this.

Just as I was looking for a place to turn around, my windshield wipers on intermittent, my headlights shone on something green and metallic. I shouldn't have even seen it—it was just a reflection of the lights, but I pointed the truck a little to the right and there it was, the top of an old Subaru. My heart about jumped out of my body.

Quickly I switched off my lights, rolled down my window, and turned off the truck. The sounds of the night and the whip-poor-wills and crickets and frogs should have made me feel at home, but there was something wrong here. Maybe it was the intense darkness along the road, but it felt like God had turned off the lights to this place and gone away a long time ago.

I tried to open my door quietly, but it creaked and moaned like an old ghost. I turned off the dome light inside and just left the rusted door partly open as I stepped onto some wet leaves and the soggy grass. My feet sank into the mud and I had to step away from the road to get firmer footing.

I pulled out my Maglite, which any engineer worth his salt carries, and climbed over the piled mud near Callie's car. I knew it was hers. The mud splatters on the quarter panels. Balding tires. A crack in the windshield that ran from the passenger side all the way past the driver's. I shone the light in the back and didn't see anybody. What I did see were several empty mail containers and her cutoff gloves on the passenger seat.

I shone the light around and came back onto the road. That's when I spotted the cabin down the hill. There was no light coming from it. I listened for any dog that might come out, but I figured if it didn't hear the truck when I pulled up or the rusted door, the dog was either nonexistent or stone-deaf.

As it turned out, the cabin sat in a clearing across from a marshy area with cattails and tall grass. A crow cawed in a treetop, and that gave me a bad feeling. A black bird is just as bad as a black cat if you're superstitious, which I am not, but you can't help thinking of those types of things. I looked around for Clay's truck but didn't see it. Either he had it hidden well or he wasn't there.

There comes a point in every man's life when he has to fish or cut bait. I'm not a fisherman. To me, it's more whether you're going to plug in the power cord or just sit there and go over your solder points. There have been plenty of times through the years when I wished I had checked my wiring again, but that's another story. I had to either go in whole hog or just stand on the mushy ground and wait.

I stepped up on the rickety wooden porch that felt like it would give way. I clicked on the light for a second to see the doorknob, then grabbed it and turned, but it didn't budge. I moved to a little window at the right—there weren't many on the cabin—and flashed the light once. It was a kitchen area, and I could see an empty pizza box, plus beer cans and some dirty paper plates overflowing a trash can.

I couldn't see anything else, so I moved to the back and found a bathroom window. It was halfway open and I forced it up all the way. If I had to, I could crawl through, but I wanted to make sure I wasn't climbing into trouble. An overpowering smell hit me, and that's when I stumbled onto the bathtub in the backyard. It was just sitting out of place in the woods and was full of water and something that smelled like lye soap. It looked like there was animal hair on the edges, and my hope was that Clay was getting rid of some doe he had shot by mistake, leaving it there to decompose.

Around the other side of the cabin, my heart pounding, legs tingling, I found the biggest window that looked in on the living area. I peeked my head over the sill. If Clay was in there awake, he had seen me because it was lighter outside than in. When I didn't see any movement, I turned the light on and let the beam pierce the room.

Right next to the window was a bed, and on top of the covers was the nude body of a woman. Her skin was pale and lifeless. On a round table next to the bed were a couple of syringes. I swept the light around the room but didn't see anyone else. I found a piece of wood and put it down to stand on and that raised me up far enough to see the woman's face.

“Callie?” I whispered, even though I knew she couldn't hear me. I pecked on the window and kept the light trained on her face. She didn't move.

Some other man would have put a boot right through the front door and knocked it off its hinges. I thought about it, but I decided to go through the bathroom window—which made me think of the Beatles song, of course. I knocked down some stuff from the windowsill over the tub, but at that point I wasn't concerned about noise.

I went straight for the bed and put a hand against her face. It was chilly in there and so was her cheek; I took off my shirt and put it on her.

I smacked her a couple of times like you see in the movies, trying to get her going, but no response. I felt her wrist for a pulse but couldn't find one. Then I tried her neck and there it was, faint like a little bird's. A shallow pulse is much better than none at all. I noticed her necklace, the cross her Sunday school class had given her years ago that she always wore. I was praying now, asking God to keep her alive, to help me get her out of there, to help me know what to do.

I stood up and looked for a phone and then remembered what I'd been told. I had always shunned cell phones, saying they were just another sapling on the slippery slope to convenience and I would never own one. Of course, that far from civilization, it probably wouldn't have connected anyway, but something inside me said I should get one.

I looked for a light switch but gave up. Because of the night chill, I grabbed the sheet on the bed and the spread that had fallen to the floor and wrapped her as best I could, tilting her body one way and sealing her up like a mummy. Something fell out as I was doing that and hit the floor. I felt around for it, then shone my light down. It was a frog key chain. I slipped it in my back pocket.

There was no mistake—Callie was not going to win the thinnest-mail-carrier-in-the-world competition, but I was surprised at how easily her deadweight fit in my arms. I have never been a strong man, though I can lift my end of the casket if needed. While the other kids were playing ball and lifting weights or whatever they did to get pumped up, I was in my room restoring the Atwater Kent radio I found at the junkyard. But holding Callie this way and struggling to the front door, I felt a little of what a firefighter must feel when he carries a child out of a burning building. I was so happy to have found her but also concerned about getting help.

I struggled with the doorknob and finally got it open. When I stepped onto the porch, one of the slats gave way and cracked like a man's rib in a prizefight. It was then that I saw light swaying through the trees and heard a diesel engine of some monstrous truck in the distance.

“We gotta get out of here, Callie,” I whispered.

I took off to my right and went around the back of the house, momentum carrying me. I stumbled over some old tires and nearly fell, but I kept my balance, passing the stench of the bathtub and on to the edge of the cabin. Whoever was coming was trying to get around my truck. The headlights were pointed up and shone through the tops of the trees.

I knew this was my chance, so I held her tightly and headed through the underbrush to the tree line. One foot in front of the other, just leaning forward and moving until we came to a little ditch where I could rest. Behind us came a scraping sound. I looked back to see my truck whopperjawed in the road and a huge truck coming over the hill and sliding through the muddy marsh. The headlights shone on the cabin's open door. I stayed down as the truck stopped and a wiry man jumped out and ran inside.

I had to make a decision right then and there whether I was going to chance getting to my truck or just head through the underbrush. If it had been me alone, I probably would have gone through the woods, but I had no idea how bad Callie was or if she would survive whatever drug she'd been given. As the man disappeared through that door, I headed to my truck. The extra weight made me sink in the mud and I slipped and slid up the hill. Just when I thought I was going to make it, my feet flew and we went down in the muck and mire, and the jolt brought a groan from Callie.

“It's all right. We're going to get you some help.”

I glanced back and saw the guy running like a madman, shouting, “I'm going to get you!”

It was all I could do to stand on my own two feet, but picking up Callie was next to impossible, and I knew I had only seconds. I grabbed her arms and dragged her through the mud toward the truck. It was smacked up pretty good in the back and the bumper hung loose.

I got Callie to my door and opened it wide, the hinges creaking. I couldn't get to the passenger side because of the way the truck sat on the hill. Her hair and the bedspread were caked with mud. I managed to pull her up to the seat, then turned her around and the cover fell off. I let the cover and sheet fall and pushed her across the seat; I needed to get her out of there any way I could, and being delicate and modest was not important.

As soon as I shoved the key into the ignition, my windshield shattered in front of me. It looked like a hailstorm. I figured Clay had used a shotgun from below and the pellets glanced up. The glass didn't break—but I couldn't see.

I glanced out the window and saw the guy reloading as he walked toward us. I turned the key and the engine turned, but I forgot to pump the gas pedal a couple of times, so I did that and then ducked as he shot again, hitting the headlights and knocking out both.

He was at the marsh now and coming up beside us and I knew I had one chance.

I hit the key and she roared—a great sound to my beating heart. I threw the truck into reverse and spun the wheels, and mud flew in through the open window. The back end fishtailed and slammed against a tree.

Clay cursed at me as he moved through the marsh and ended with “Get out of the truck!”

It felt like the moment when the water and sludge reached its zenith back at Buffalo Creek. But there was no miracle now. Just me and this fellow and Callie's lifeless body.

He advanced up the hill, his shotgun pointed at me. I shifted into drive and gunned the engine, flying past him down the hill as he jumped back. A shot rang out behind me and the back window shattered. This time glass rained. All over Callie's body and onto the truck's dashboard. It took me a second to discover whether I'd been hit or not as I fishtailed next to the cabin and slid around with my front pointed toward the hill.

I stuck my head out the window and saw him running toward me; then he slowed as I gunned the engine, heading straight for him. That caught him somewhat off guard and he retreated. My tires spun but I picked up speed and then ducked as I got near him. A shot rang out and then another. He'd shot my tires out, and when I looked through the back window, the diesel was pulling out. He caught up with us quickly but I kept going, using the momentum to propel us down the hill. There was no way he could pass us on such a narrow path, so I tried to keep the truck on track, though with no headlights and unable to see through the windshield, it wasn't easy. Steam poured over the hood and that sweet smell of antifreeze leaked through the window. We were in a heap of trouble and I had my doubts as to whether the truck would even keep going, let alone take us home.

It was the slowest chase scene because we bounced along at a maximum of 30 mph, and I had to put a hand on Callie's legs to keep her from falling onto the floorboard. She was cold to the touch, and with the wind whipping through the window, I flipped on the heater. I prayed the bumpy ride and the chill didn't make her worse.

Clay shot at me once from behind, but it was a wild shot that didn't hit anything but the trees overhead. Then he slammed into us and my head shot back, but I stayed in the path. The blown-out tires seemed to give more traction than I would've had otherwise. Either that or there was something else going on to keep the truck going the straight and narrow.

We came to the fork in the road and then the L tree, and the road widened. Clay streaked forward like I was sitting still. He had his passenger window down, and when he came next to me, he raised the shotgun with his right arm and leveled it at my face.

It's funny what you think of in the moment of your death. Seeing those two gun barrels—and I swear this is true, though it may be unbelievable—for some reason I just thought about the frailty of the mandolin and how such a small instrument can make or break the sound of music. Just the pluck of those little strings can add something to the mix that can't be calculated. I don't care how much you add or subtract to the music of your life, if you don't have the mandolin playing somewhere in there, the music is just not the same. When Jesus said he came to give life abundantly, I almost translate that as him saying, “I came to provide the mandolin in the sound track of your life. And to give you a really good part.” That may seem sacrilegious to some people, but it speaks in the language I understand.

I must have hit the brake at just the right moment or maybe he was a bad shot because the gun fired and the pellets whizzed past me and blew out the window on the other side of the truck. This boy was playing for keeps, that was for sure.

I slid to a stop and watched him skid sideways on the hillside. Since I could see better in reverse, I backed up to the L tree as fast as I could and swung around in the mud and headed back down the road toward the cabin. He must have gotten stuck because his lights didn't follow.

Callie stirred and tried to push herself up. When she couldn't, she put her legs down and looked over at me, as if I were something from a bad dream.