No Man's Land (25 page)

Corso dropped the map in his lap and began to scan the area above
his head. Took him half a minute to find the little sliding rheostat
switch that controlled the overhead lights in the cockpit. He pushed
it to high and brought the map up close to his face.

“What was the last town we went through?” he asked.

“Winthrop . . . if you call that bump in the road a town.”

“Yeah . . . well hang onto your hat because Elk Creek is even
smaller. Last time I was here, it was a one-building town. Store, gas
station and post office all in the same building.”

“When were you here?”

“Right before the book came out. I was writing the foreword for
it and thought maybe his mother might have something she wanted to
add.”

“Did she?”

“All she wanted was for me to get the hell off her front porch.”
He pointed out into the darkness. “There,” he said. “See the
sign?”

Blue-and-white road sign. Arrow to the left. Elk Creek three
miles.

Melanie wheeled the RV around the corner. Two lanes now, one east,
one west. Trees folding over the roadway like a cathedral. Through
narrow gaps in the greenery, wild snow-covered peaks could be seen in
the distance.

Melanie was leaning forward trying to get a better view of the
road. She snapped on the high beams, which merely made the trees seem
thicker, then snapped them off.

They rode in silence until a dim halo of light appeared in the
distance. A minute later they could make out a pair of gas pumps and
a red-and-white sign that read CASCADE CAFÉ. Tree limbs brushed the
top of the vehicle, as Melanie eased the RV to a stop between the
store and the gas pumps. Neon COORS LITE sign in the store window.
The simple wood sign above the door read ELK CREEK STORE.

“Seems like they’ve added a building since I was here,”
Corso said.

“The march of progress,” Melanie offered.

The RV’s headlights illuminated a red Chevy Blazer backed into
the bushes next to a silver propane tank. Parked along the back edge
of the lot was a black Ford pickup truck with tires so big you’d
have to be airlifted into the driver’s seat. Before Melanie could
shut down, a short guy with a thick mane of white hair was out the
car door and hustling their way.

“There’s Marty,” Melanie said, turning to Corso. “We might
as well fill up while we’re here.”

Corso jumped out and set the pump to working. He stepped over the
hose and walked around the front of the RV to the driver’s side,
where Marty had just arrived. “Where’s the crew?”

Melanie asked.

“You’re looking at him,” Marty answered. “No way I could
call the regulars back. We were already way past their weekly limits.
Between the overtime and what it cost me to fly up here, we’re
big-time in the hole. I brought the handheld. We’ll give it that
Blair Witch Project
look.” He held up a restraining hand.
“That’s the bad news. You want the good news?”

“I’ll bite . . . what’s the good news?”

“It’s going to make the network news. The network’s
interrupting the national news for a special report.”

She noticed Frank leaning against the front of the vehicle.

“Marty,” she said. “I’m sure you remember Frank Corso.”

Marty turned and stuck out his hand. “Certainly,” he said.
Melanie watched as Marty and Corso traded pleasantries. She heard the
clank
of the gas nozzle shutting itself off. She sighed and
leaned against the door.

Two minutes later Marty was headed for the rental car and Corso
was headed inside to pay. Behind the counter, a seriously tall lanky
kid wearing a purple Lakers baseball cap sat on a metal stool. On a
small TV mounted up near the ceiling Oprah Winfrey was nestled up
close to Tom Cruise. Tom seemed mildly amused.

“That your truck outside?” Corso asked.

“Sure is,” the kid said.

“I thought only short guys owned those big tall trucks.”

The kid laughed. “I bought it from a guy named Tom Payton. He
claims to be five-eight but ain’t nowhere near.”

“See.” They laughed together.

“It’s got a lot of headroom and runs great in the snow.”

“How tall are you?”

“Six-eight. You?”

“Six-six,” Corso answered.

“World ain’t made for guys as tall as us,” the kid
complained.

“No it’s not,” Corso agreed. “You got a map of the local
area?”

The kid rummaged under the counter and came out with a map. “One
of our local arteests drew this up for the tourists. It mostly shows
the hiking trails and picnic spots.”

Corso took it from his hand. “With the gas, that’s fifty-seven
fifty-six,” the kid said. “The RV yours?” the kid asked.

“Belongs to a friend.”

“Pass anything on the road but a gas station,” the kid said.
Corso passed him a credit card. The kid swiped it, waited a second
and handed it back. “Thanks for the map,” Corso said. The kid
told him not to mention it.

The sky above was somewhere between blue and black, its uniform
density threatened here and there by the suggestion of stars.

The woods were, like the guy said, “dark and deep.”

She dreamed of elevators. The kind with an operator. Those
oldfashioned, brass-festooned carriages of a bygone century. She
watched as the bronze dial over the door aimed its arrow upward, then
felt the weight of stopping in the seconds before she heard that
lovely
bong
, announcing their arrival at some new world of
wonder.
Bong. Bong. Bong.

She sat up in bed and, for the briefest time, had an inkling as to
why she’d chosen that particular sound as the ring for her cell
phone. The epiphany, however, was short-lived. She checked the
bedside clock. Six-forty-three. She’d lain down after lunch, hoping
for a short nap before being called to action. The dim light
filtering in through the curtains told her she’d slept all
afternoon. She sat up and grabbed the phone.

“Westerman,” she said.

“We lost ’em,” the voice said.

Her body stiffened. She ran a hand through her tangled hair.

“How could you lose them? You’ve got a transponder on the—”

“The mountains are huge. They’re getting in the way.”

“Where are you now?”

“Place called Sierra Summit.”

“Retrace your route.”

“Huh?”

“What’s the next town back?”

She could hear the crackle of the map as he looked at it.

“Winthrop,” he said.

“How far?”

“Twenty miles.”

“Go back that far. If you don’t pick them up, stay there. If
you do pick them up, call me on this number.”

She didn’t wait for his reply. She broke the cellular connection
and reached for the landline. The hotel operator came on the line.

“Please connect me to Ronald Rosen,” Westerman said.

“There,” Corso said, folding the map. “That’s the driveway
right there.” He pointed to an unmarked track running at a westerly
diagonal from the road.

Melanie nosed the RV into the first fifty feet of gravel and
stopped. She killed the lights and swiveled her seat in a half
circle.

“We ready?” she asked.

“Not quite,” Marty said. He sat at the table putting together
the plastic harness that attached the camera to the operator.

“These kinda ambush interviews . . . we gotta be a hundred
percent ready when we hit the bricks. Got no room for do-overs here.
It’s strictly wham-bam-thank-you ma’am.” He pointed up at
Melanie. “You want to powder your nose or anything . . . now’s
the time.”

Melanie took her cue, pulling a red-and-white-striped makeup kit
from the glove compartment and opening it in her lap.

“Here’s how we do this,” Marty said. “We’ve got to get
her to come outside of the house. We do this on her front porch and
she’s just gonna slam the door in our faces and disappear.”

Melanie said she understood.

“The secret is to be patient,” Marty went on. “Just stay put
No Man’s Land until she gets curious. Somebody pulls into your
driveway, you look out the window first. Maybe poke your head out the
door after that. Takes a while before you slip out on a jacket and go
outside to see what’s going on.”

“What if she refuses to talk to us?” Melanie asked.

“Then we’ve got her on tape refusing to talk to us.”

“And if she goes ballistic?”

“Same deal. Except it’s
us
does the leaving.”

Marty set the camera on the table and got to his feet, moving
quickly forward to a control panel built into the wall just behind
the driver’s seat. As he opened the cover and began to push
buttons, a collection of red and green lights appeared. He kept at it
until everything turned green. “Satellite system loves it up here
at the top of the world,” he announced. “We could broadcast all
the way to New York from here.” He threw a quick look Melanie’s
way. “Nice to see we’re finally getting some use out of this
thing,” he said, in a tone implying he was only half-kidding.

Melanie laughed as she returned the makeup kit to the glove
compartment. She looked over at Corso. “How do I look?” she
asked.

“Beautiful,” he said. “You’ll be the belle of the
airwaves.”

“Do tell, Mr. Corso. Do tell,” she drawled.

The genuine playfulness of her tone caught Marty’s attention.
“Cut it out, you two,” he admonished. “This is no time to be
fooling around. Network’s got a whole studio crew waiting for us at
the other end. We’re spending money like drunken sailors here.”

He slipped his shoulders into the camera harness. The lens rested
at the level of his solar plexus. He switched on the camera and
looked down onto a small screen just beneath his chin. Next he pulled
several metal pieces from one of the camera cases and efficiently
assembled the hodgepodge into a tripod, which he collapsed before
attaching it to the bottom of the camera. Satisfied, he walked to the
control panel again. He pointed to an insistent orange light now
blinking in the center of the control panel.

“They’re ready for us,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Melanie took a deep breath and snapped on the RV’s lights. Tree
branches scraped the roof as they moved forward up the driveway. One
gentle right-hand curve and the house came into view. One of those
woodsy cedar homes they sell beside the highways out West, set in a
two-acre clearing atop a south-facing rise. Nice spot.

Melanie turned the engine off and set the parking brake. Up at the
house, the porch light went on. Marty handed Melanie a microphone.
She clicked the switch and said, “American Manhunt
here
.”
Marty checked the dials on the top of the camera and bent his fingers
into the okay sign.

A minute passed, then the front door swung open. A woman stepped
out onto the porch, hugging herself against the night air. Wasn’t
until she was all the way down the stairs and caught by the
headlights that Corso could make her out.

It was Doris Green all right. A little leaner perhaps, and he’d
never seen her with her hair down before, but there was no doubt. It
was her.

“That’s her,” Corso said.

“Wait,” Marty whispered.

Unable to see through the RV’s tinted windows, Doris Green
passed through the cone of lights and made her way toward the
driver’s door.

“Now,” Marty whispered.

Melanie hopped out one side; Marty hopped out the other. Melanie
kept the microphone close to her chest, so as not to frighten her
quarry. “Mrs. Green,” she began. “I’m Melanie Harris. We’ve
been following your son’s story. We were hoping . . .”

Doris Green’s attention was diverted by Marty and the bright
lights of the camera. She brought an arm up to protect her eyes from
the glare.

“You think he’s here? You think my son would be stupid enough
to come here?”

“No, ma’am,” Melanie assured her. “We just wanted . . .”

Doris pointed a long thin finger at Melanie. “I’ve seen you,”

she said. “I’ve seen you on the television.”

“Yes ma’am,” Melanie said.

She looked from Melanie to Marty and back again, as if her eyes
were calibrating with her mind, making sure she wasn’t making this
whole thing up.

“You get out of here,” she said. “You take that filthy
camera and that trailer of yours and you go right back the way you
came.” She cut the air with her hand. “There’s nothing here for
you. You get out of here now.”

Undaunted, Melanie took another step forward, proffering the
microphone as she spoke. “Mrs. Green, we were hoping you could . .
.”

Doris Green pushed the microphone back in Melanie’s face. Then
she began to shout. “A story. All any of you want is a story.”
She waved both arms. “I’ll give you a story. I’ll give you a
story about a man with too much honor for this world. A man who did
his duty. A man who served his country only to have some whore . . .
some filthy whore . . .” Her face was red. Her lips flecked with
foam. She rocked unsteadily on her feet and brought an arm up to wipe
her mouth with her sleeve.

She got most of it. A single piece of spittle still clung to her
upper lip when the first sign of distress appeared on her face. A
quizzical look. Not so much of pain as of confusion, as if she’d
forgotten what she intended to say next. She brought one hand to her
breast, then the other, almost like she wanted to guard against
something escaping her chest. And then, as if a giant had grabbed her
by the shoulders and thrown her on her back, she went down in a heap,
looking astonished in the seconds before she hiccuped once and froze
in place with her eyes closed and her mouth wide open.

“Mrs. Green, Mrs. Green . . .” Melanie’s voice was the only
sound in the night air. She stepped forward and looked down at Doris
Green for a second, as if trying to decide if this was really
happening, then dropped to her knees. She looked up at Marty.

“She’s had a heart attack or something,” Melanie shouted.
“Oh God,” she wailed. “I think she’s dead.” Tears began to
run down her face. “Oh God. What do I do? What do I do?”