Prodigal Blues (26 page)

I continued working the tire as Christopher pulled on it, not once looking up at me.

A half-emptied bag of fertilizer lay crumpled near the ice buckets, along with dozens of empty fireworks boxes.
 

"Ammonium-nitrate," I said aloud before realizing I'd done so.

Christopher stopped pulling at the tire and stood up straight.
 
"What was that?"

Lying to him would have been futile.
 
I nodded in the direction of the window.
 
"The fertilizer.
 
Ammonium-nitrate?"

"What if it is?"

"I'm assuming the barrel is filled with fuel oil?"

"I'll ask again, what if it is?"

"Gelatin and gasoline makes a handy napalm recipe."

He stared.
 
Even in this darkness, I could see the anger surfacing behind his gaze.
 
"I might've read that somewhere, maybe."

"The stuff around the lid—C4?"

"Chalk up another one for the college man."

"How did you get your hands on some C4?"

"I didn't.
 
Grendel did.
 
He was planning to blast out a section of hillside on his property and build a Frank Lloyd Wright-style guest house for some of the… 'visitors'—for their private sessions.
 
That's also how I got the dynamite and blasting caps.
 
He had plans for all three floors, where the cameras and sound equipment would be installed.
 
It was going to be really spiffy."

"Uh-huh.
 
What the fuck are you doing with
a bomb
?"

"Don't sweat it, Pretty Boy; I haven't made the last few connections or activated the timer."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Ask Arnold—or wake up Rebecca and ask her.
 
They helped me build it.
 
Have you seen either of them getting skittish about things?
 
It's not going to blow by accident.
 
I was hoping you wouldn't find out about it, but since you have—yeah, we got a big old bomb that's going to make a big old boom and bring the walls a-tumbling down.
 
So.
 
What?"

"So what the hell are you, planning to do with it, anyway?"
 
Images of Oklahoma City and the first World Trade Center explosions kept presenting themselves to me with loud and bloody fanfare.
 
"Christopher, I will do everything I can to help you guys get back home, but I
will not
go one more mile if you're planning to kill innocent—"

"Oh, put the paranoia in park, pal.
 
No one's going to blow up a church or preschool or soulless financial institution.
 
We just want to make sure that when this is over, there's
nothing
left of this bus and trailer or the garbage inside of them.
 
I already know the spot where I'm going to blow it up; nobody's lived there for twenty years—hell, probably nobody but me has even
been near it
for that long.
 
Do we
seem
like terrorists to you?"

"That may not be a good question to ask me, all things considered."

"Fine.
 
If you don't believe me, go ask Arnold and Rebecca.
 
I promised them that when this was all over and done with, I'd take a shit in both these things and then blow 'em to hell ten different ways.
 
Can you give me one good reason why things like these should be allowed to continue to exist?
 
Knowing what's been done inside them, what they've been used for, the pain that's been inflicted on their floors and in their seats—knowing
whose
bodies are inside and what those sick bastards did while they were alive… can you give me one good goddamn reason why I
shouldn't
bomb the living fuck out of all of it?"

I stared at him, then blinked, swallowed, found my voice.
 
"No.
 
No, I can't."

"So?"

"So… nothing.
 
I'm sorry I doubted you.
 
C'mon, let's get this tire off."

"About time.
 
Welcome to the same road trip, Mark."

"Thank you."

It took us another minute or so, but we at last got the tire free and set about changing the flat.
 
Christopher was obviously tired, so after his third attempt to loosen the lugs, I handed him the flashlight.
 
"You hold the light, I'll be quicker."

"Fighting words if I ever heard them."

"Don't start."

"Just yanking your chain a little—I'm no hero, here, gimme the damned thing.
 
I'll time you."

"Three minutes," I said.

"You're kidding?"

"We'll see."

I did it in two minutes, forty-eight seconds, a new personal record.
 

"I am impressed," Christopher said.
 
"He acts, he does windows, has a college degree, and can change a flat in under three minutes.
 
If you weren't already spoken for I might propose to you myself right here and now."

"I'm guessing a bigger man would find that flattering, but to tell you the truth, it's kinda creeping me out."

"Then I haven't lost my touch."

"Very funny."

I was just finishing up with the jack when a Highway Patrol car came up alongside us and slowed to a stop.
 
The rest happened so fast there wasn't time to panic:
 
the officer on the passenger side rolled down his window, leaned out, and said, "Getting her fixed up all right?"

"Ready to roll," I said.

He looked at Christopher, then back at me, and said, "Those're a couple of classics you've got there."

"Don't I know it.
 
But try finding parts for 'em nowadays."

"I can imagine.
 
You fellahs need any kind of assistance?"

Christopher and I looked at each other and simultaneously shook our heads.
 
"No," I said.
 
"I think we're good to go."

"All right.
 
Drive carefully—and don't forget to extinguish those flares, all right?"

"Will do."

And away they drove.
 

Just like that.

"Half an hour," said Christopher.
 
"Half an hour from now they won't even remember seeing us."
 
He laughed, then shrugged.
 
"Never fails."

Until this moment, I hadn't believed him.
 
But he was right; all they saw was the bus and trailer; there was no asking for names, no requesting to see a license and registration, no inquiries about what was in the trailer, other passengers in the bus, nothing:
 
Hey, how are you, couple of classics, drive safely, bye-bye.

Despite my initial rush of relief, somehow it didn't make me feel much safer.

Christopher stomped out the flares, then just stood there staring up.
 
"I'd forgotten how pretty the night sky can be," he whispered.
 
"Look at all those stars."
 
He shook his head.
 
"I feel like I'm seeing all of this for the first time."

"In a way, you are."

He looked at me.
 
"I think maybe you're right."

I stood next to him, the both of us just enjoying the night air and the starry sky and the peace of it all.
 
We could've just been two lifelong buddies on a road trip, getting away from the wives and kids for a week, seeing America the way it was meant to be seen, if you believe the AAA literature.

Our reverie was broken by the sound of someone pounding on a window of the bus; we turned to see Arnold climbing over to the driver's seat and opening the door.
 
"You guys need to get in here," he said.
 
"I think something's really wrong with Rebecca."

"What?
 
She got stomach pains again?
 
What's she saying?"

"She ain't saying
nothing
, man—I can't get her to wake up.
 
And she feels cold."

We threw down everything and jumped inside.
 

I got to her first.
 

Her skin was clammy and her breathing was slow and shallow.
 
I tried some mouth-to-mouth but that didn't help.
 

Christopher checked her pulse at the wrist and the neck.
 
"Jesus Christ, it's slow."

"How slow?" I asked.

"What the hell difference does it make?—it's
slow
!"

I pulled her up into a sitting position and began lightly slapping her face.
 
"Rebecca, Rebecca, c'mon, honey, wake up.
 
Wake up, c'mon, c'mon…"

"What's wrong with her?" said Arnold.
 
"I never seen her like this before."

"Maybe all the pizza and pop made her sick," Christopher said.
 
"Maybe—fuck, I don't know!
 
Mark?"
 
He sounded nearly hysterical.
 
"Come on, college man, what is it?
 
What's wrong with our Rebecca?"

"She's really out of it, guys.
 
God—her hands felt cold earlier, but
now
—"

"She's been shaky all night," said Arnold.

Christopher nodded.
 
"I thought she was just wrecked, y'know?
 
Coming down off all the adrenalin of the last few days or something."

"No, this is a helluva lot more than just exhaustion, it has to be"—then I remembered what she'd said back at the truck stop:
 
Probably need a shot—I should check my blood sugar just to be—

"Her insulin," I said.
 
"When's the last time she had a shot?"

Arnold and Christopher looked at each other, and I knew before either of them even shook their heads that they had no idea.

…sometimes I get so busy with them I forget to take my own medicine, and that's not good…

"Get her insulin kit," I shouted.
 
"Christ only knows how long she's needed it."

Arnold looked around frantically.
 
"Where's it at?"

"
Find it!
"

"If I knew where she kept it—"

I took a deep breath and swallowed my own panic before it had a chance to get out of the gate.
 
"In her cooler, the little one that she carries with"—and then a terrible thing occurred to me.
 
"Oh,
no
…"

Christopher and Arnold both froze.

For one second I was so stunned by the thought I almost couldn't form words.

"What?" shouted Christopher, definitely closer to hysteria now.
 
"
What is it
?"

I closed my eyes and thought about saying a prayer.
 
"The refrigerator."

"
What
?"

"The refrigerator back in the motel room.
 
Did anyone see Rebecca take her cooler out of the refrigerator back in the motel room?"

I didn't have to open my eyes to see their faces; I knew.
 
As Christopher had been pushing me out the door, I'd
known
we were forgetting something, I just couldn't say what.

I opened my eyes.
 
Rebecca's pulse and breathing were even slower.
 
I decided a quick prayer was in order, after all.
 
"
Please God
,
tell me that you guys have an extra insulin kit stashed in one of the drug cases."

After a moment of silence where I swear I could hear all the cells in our bodies jumping up and down and pulling out their hair while yelling "shit, Shit,
SHIT
!" at the top of their lungs, Arnold shook his head.
 
"She never… she never trusted us with any of her medicine.
 
Said we'd forget our heads if they weren't screwed on."
 
His lower lip trembled.
 
"She carried all of it in that cooler of hers."

"All of it?
 
Everything?'

"
Everything
!" snapped Christopher, his voice breaking on the last syllable.
 
He reached out an unsteady hand to brush away some hair from her face.
 
"Oh, God…."
 
It was at this moment that I realized how deeply he loved all of them; a father standing over his child's deathbed could not have been more wracked with sorrow and grief and helplessness.
 
It was the first moment of genuine vulnerability I'd seen in him.
 
He had not planned on this—after all, Rebecca was the responsible one; nurse, seamstress, booster-of-morale, maker-of-peace.