Creatures: Thirty Years of Monsters (38 page)

3.

Hart drove.

Cruz navigated. He tilted a road map, trying to follow the dots and dashes. Victoria had drawled a convoluted set of directions to the Mima Mounds, a one-star tourist attraction about thirty miles over. Cruise on through Poger Rock and head west. Real easy drive if you took the local shortcuts and suchlike.

Not an unreasonable detour; I-5 wasn’t far from the site—we could do the tourist bit and still make the Portland night scene. That was Cruz’s sales pitch. Kind of funny, really. I wondered at the man’s sudden fixation on geological phenomena. He was a NASCAR and
Soldier of Fortune Magazine
type personality. Hart fit the profile too, for that matter. Damned world was turning upside down.

It was getting hot. Cracks in the windshield dazzled and danced.

The boys debated cattle mutilations and the inarguable complicity of the Federal government regarding the Grey Question and how the moon landing was fake and remember that flick from the 1970s,
Capricorn One
, goddamned if O.J wasn’t one of the astronauts. Freakin’ hilarious.

I unpacked the camera, thumbed the playback button, and relived the Donkey Creek fracas. Penny said to me, “Reduviidea—any of a species of large insects that feed on the blood of prey insects and some mammals. They are considered extremely beneficial by agricultural professionals.” Her voice was made of tin and lagged behind her lip movements, like a badly dubbed foreign film. She stood on the periphery of the action, scrawny fingers pleating the wispy fabric of a blue sundress. She was smiling. “The indices of primate emotional thresholds indicate the [
click-click
] process is traumatic. However, point oh-two percent vertebrae harvest corresponds to non-[
click-click
] purposes. As an X haplotype you are a primary source of [
click-click
]. Lucky you!”

“Jesus!” I muttered and dropped the camera on the seat.
Are you talkin’ to me?
I stared at too many trees while Robert DeNiro did his mirror schtick as a low frequency monologue in the corner of my mind. Unlike DeNiro, I’d never carried a gun. The guys wouldn’t even loan me a taser.

“What?” Cruz said in a tone that suggested he’d almost jumped out of his skin. He glared through the partition, olive features drained to ash. Giant drops of sweat sparkled and dripped from his broad cheeks. The light wrapped his skull, halo of an angry saint. Withdrawals something fierce, I decided.

I shook my head, waited for the magnifying glass of his displeasure to swing back to the road map. When it was safe I hit the playback button. Same scene on the view panel. This time when Penny entered the frame she pointed at me and intoned in a robust, Slavic accent, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious is Latin for a death god of a primitive Mediterranean culture. Their civilization was buried in mudslides caused by unusual seismic activity. If you say it loud enough—” I hit the kill button. My stomach roiled with rancid coffee and incipient motion-sickness.

Third time’s a charm, right? I played it back again. The entire sequence was erased. Nothing but deep-space black with jags of silvery light at the edges. In the middle, skimming by so swiftly I had to freeze things to get a clear image, was Piers with his lips nuzzling Cruz’s ear, and Cruz’s face was corpse-slack. And for an instant, a microsecond, the face was Hart’s too; one of those three-dee poster illusions where the object changes depending on the angle. Then, more nothingness, and an odd feedback noise that faded in and out, like Gregorian monks chanting a litany in reverse.

Okay. ABC time.

I’d reviewed the footage shortly after the initial capture in Canada. There was nothing unusual about it. We spent a few hours at the police station answering a series of polite yet penetrating questions. I assumed our cameras would be confiscated, but the inspector simply examined our equipment in the presence of a couple suits from a legal office. Eventually the inspector handed everything back with a stern admonishment to leave dangerous criminals to the authorities. Amen to that.

Had a cop tampered with the camera, doctored it in some way? I wasn’t a film-maker, didn’t know much more than point and shoot and change the batteries when the little red light started blinking. So, yeah, Horatio, it was possible someone had screwed with the recording. Was that likely? The answer was no—not unless they’d also managed to monkey with the television at the diner. More probable one of my associates had spiked the coffee with a miracle agent and I was hallucinating. Seemed out of character for those greedy bastards, even for the sake of a practical joke on their third wheel—dope was expensive and it wasn’t like we were expecting a big payday.

The remaining options weren’t very appealing.

My cell whined, a dentist’s drill in my shirt pocket. It was Rob Fries from his patio office in Gardena. Rob was tall, bulky, pink on top and garbed according to his impression of what Miami vice cops might’ve worn in a bygone era, such as the ’80s. Rob also had the notion he was my agent despite the fact I’d fired him ten years ago after he handed me one too-many scripts for laxative testimonials. I almost broke into tears when I heard his voice on the buzzing line. “Man, am I glad you called!” I said loudly enough to elicit another scowl from Cruz.

“Hola, compadre. What a splash y’all made on page 16. ‘
American Yahoos Run Amok!
’ goes the headline, which is a quote of the Calgary rag. Too bad the stupid bastards let our birds fly the coop. Woulda been better press if they fried ’em. Well, they don’t have the death penalty, but you get the point. Even so, I see a major motion picture deal in the works. Mucho dinero, Ray, buddy!”

“Fly the coop? What are you talking about?”

“Uh, you haven’t heard? Piers and the broad walked. Hell, they probably beat you outta town.”

“You better fill me in.” Indigestion was eating the lining of my esophagus.

“Real weird story. Some schmuck from Central Casting accidentally turned ’em loose. The paperwork got misfiled or some such bullshit. The muckety-mucks are po’d. Blows your mind, don’t it?”

“Right,” I said in my actor’s tone. I fell back on this when my mind was in neutral but etiquette dictated a polite response. Up front, Cruz and Hart were bickering, hadn’t caught my exclamation. No way was I going to illuminate them regarding this development—Christ, they’d almost certainly consider pulling a u-turn and speeding back to Canada. The home office would be calling any second now to relay the news; probably had been trying to get through for hours—Hart hated phones, usually kept his stashed in the glovebox.

There was a burst of chittery static. “—returning your call. Keep getting the answering service. You won’t believe it—I was having lunch with this chick used to be one of Johnny Carson’s secretaries, yeah? And she said her best friend is shacking with an exec who just frickin’ adored you in
Clancy & Spot
. Frickin’ adored you! I told my gal pal to pass the word you were riding along on this bounty hunter gig, see what shakes loose.”

“Oh, thanks, Rob. Which exec?”

“Lemmesee—uh, Harry Buford. Remember him? He floated deals for the
Alpha Team
, some other stuff. Nice as hell. Frickin’ adores you, buddy.”

“Harry Buford? Looks like the Elephant Man’s older, fatter brother, loves pastels and lives in Mexico half the year because he’s fond of underage Chicano girls? Did an expose piece on the evils of Hollywood, got himself blackballed? That the guy?”

“Well, yeah. But he’s still got an ear to the ground. And he frickin’—”

“Adores me. Got it. Tell your girlfriend we’ll all do lunch, or whatever.”

“Anywhoo, how you faring with the gorillas?”

“Um, great. We’re on our way to see the Mima Mounds.”

“What? You on a nature study?”

“Cruz’s idea.”

“The Mima Mounds. Wow. Never heard of them. Burial grounds, huh?”

“Earth heaves, I guess. They’ve got them all over the world—Norway, South America, Eastern Washington—I don’t know where all. I lost the brochure.”

“Cool.” The silence hung for a long moment. “Your buddies wanna see some, whatchyacallem—?”

“Glacial deposits.”

“They wanna look at some rocks instead of hitting a strip club? No bullshit?”

“Um, yeah.”

It was easy to imagine Rob frowning at his flip-flops propped on the patio table while he stirred the ice in his rum and coke and tried to do the math. “Have a swell time, then.”

“You do me a favor?”

“Yo, bro’. Hit me.”

“Go on the Net and look up X haplotype. Do it right now, if you’ve got a minute.”

“X-whatsis?”

I spelled it and said, “Call me back, okay? If I’m out of area, leave a message with the details.”

“Be happy to.” There was a pause as he scratched pen to pad. “Some kinda new meds, or what?”

“Or what, I think.”

“Uh, huh. Well, I’m just happy the Canucks didn’t make you an honorary citizen, eh. I’m dying to hear the scoop.”

“I’m dying to dish it. I’m losing my signal, gotta sign off.”

He said not to worry, bro’, and we disconnected. I worried anyway.

4.

Sure enough, Hart’s phone rang a bit later and he exploded in a stream of repetitious profanity and dented the dash with his ham hock of a fist. He was still bubbling when we pulled into Poger Rock for gas and fresh directions. Cruz, on the other hand, accepted the news of Russell Piers’ “early parole” with a Zen detachment demonstrably contrary to his nature.

“Screw it. Let’s drink,” was his official comment.

Poger Rock was sunk in a hollow about fifteen miles south of the state capitol in Olympia. It wasn’t impressive—a dozen or so antiquated buildings moldering along the banks of a shallow creek posted with NO SHOOTING signs. Everything was peeling, rusting or collapsing toward the center of the earth. Only the elementary school loomed incongruously—a utopian brick and tile structure set back and slightly elevated, fresh paint glowing through the alders and dogwoods. Aliens might have landed and dedicated a monument.

Cruz filled up at a mom and pop gas station with the prehistoric pumps that took an eon to dribble forth their fuel. I bought some jerky and a carton of milk with a past-due expiration date to soothe my churning guts. The lady behind the counter had yellowish hair and wore a button with a fuzzy picture of a toddler in a bib. She smiled nervously as she punched keys and furiously smoked a Pall Mall. Didn’t recognize me, thank God.

Cruz pushed through the door, setting off the ding-dong alarm. His gaze jumped all over the place and his chambray shirt was molded to his chest as if he’d been doused with a water hose. He crowded past me, trailing the odor of armpit funk and cheap cologne, grunted at the cashier and shoved his credit card across the counter.

I raised my hand to block the sun when I stepped outside. Hart was leaning on the hood. “We’re gonna mosey over to the bar for a couple brewskis.” He coughed his smoker’s cough, spat in the gravel near a broken jar of marmalade. Bees darted among the wreckage.

“What about the Mima Mounds?”

“They ain’t goin’ anywhere. ’Sides, it ain’t time, yet.”

“Time?”

Hart’s ferret-pink eyes narrowed and he smiled slightly. He finished his cigarette and lighted another from the smoldering butt. “Cruz says it ain’t.”

“Well, what does that mean? It ‘ain’t time’?”

“I dunno, Ray-bo. I dunno fuckall. Why’nchya ask Cruz?”

“Okay.” I took a long pull of tepid milk while I considered the latest developments in what was becoming the most bizarre road trip of my life. “How are you feeling?”

“Groovy.”

“You look like hell.” I could still talk to him, after a fashion, when he was separated from Cruz. And I lied, “Sylvia’s worried.”

“What’s she worried about?”

I shrugged, let it hang. Impossible to read his face, his swollen eyes. In truth, I wasn’t sure I completely recognized him, this wasted hulk swaying against the car, features glazed into gargoyle contortions.

Hart nodded wisely, suddenly illuminated regarding a great and abiding mystery of the universe. His smile returned.

I glanced back, saw Cruz’s murky shadow drifting in the station window.

“Man, what are we doing out here? We could be in Portland by three.” What I wanted to say was, let’s jump in the car and shag ass for California. Leave Cruz in the middle of the parking lot holding his pecker and swearing eternal vengeance for all I cared.

“Anxious to get going on your book, huh?”

“If there’s a book. I’m not much of a writer. I don’t even know if we’ll get a movie out of this mess.”

“Ain’t much of an actor, either.” He laughed and slapped my shoulder with an iron paw to show he was just kidding.“Hey, lemme tell’ya. Did’ya know Cruz studied geology at UCLA? He did. Real knowledgeable about glaciers an’ rocks. All that good shit. Thought he was gonna work for the oil companies up in Alaska. Make some fat stacks. Ah, but you know how it goes, doncha, Ray-bo?”

“He graduated UCLA?” I tried not to sound astonished. It had been the University of Washington for me. The home of medicine, which wasn’t my specialty, according to the proctors. Political science and drama were the last exits.

“Football scholarship. Hard hittin’ safety with a nasty attitude. They fuckin’ grow on trees in the ghetto.”

That explained some things. I was inexplicably relieved.

Cruz emerged, cutting a plug of tobacco with his pocket knife. “C’mon, H. I’m parched.” And precisely as a cowboy would unhitch his horse to ride across the street, he fired the engine and rumbled the one quarter block to Moony’s Tavern and parked in a diagonal slot between a hay truck and a station wagon plastered with anti-Democrat, pro-gun bumper stickers.

Hart asked if I planned on joining them and I replied maybe in a while, I wanted to stretch my legs. The idea of entering that sweltering cavern and bellying up to the bar with the lowlife regulars and mine own dear chums made my stomach even more unhappy.

I grabbed my valise from the car and started walking. I walked along the street, past a row of dented mailboxes, rust-red flags erect; an outboard motor repair shop with a dusty police cruiser in front; the Poger Rock Grange, which appeared abandoned because its windows were boarded and where they weren’t, kids had broken them with rocks and bottles, and maybe the same kids had drawn 666 and other satanic symbols on the whitewashed planks, or maybe real live Satanists did the deed; Bob’s Liquor Mart, which was a corrugated shed with bars on the tiny windows; the Laundromat, full of tired women in oversized tee-shirts, and screeching, dirty-faced kids racing among the machinery while an A.M. radio broadcast a Rush Limbaugh rerun; and a trailer loaded with half-rotted firewood for 75 BUCKS! I finally sat on a rickety bench under some trees near the lone stoplight, close enough to hear it clunk through its cycle.