Root (16 page)

Maybe I should have fessed up to Jared and let
him know that I was experiencing some complications, but I couldn’t
quite bring myself to tell him just yet.

I walked around the station, trying every
door, just in case there might be a chance of me sneaking in and
helping myself to a hose, but everything was locked up tight. As I
came back out front, a blue Chevy pulled up and a guy leaned out
the window.

“
He’s closed Sundays.” The guy was
middle-aged, with a ruddy, pock-marked face and an inquisitive
gleam in his heavily hooded, slightly squinty eyes.

“
Yeah. I kind of
figured.”

“
What’s that you got there? Radiator
hose?”

“
Yeah. I blew it out on the
highway.”

“
Oh, that’s too bad.”

“
Yeah. Isn’t it?” I chortled
nervously. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know if there are any other
parts stores around here? Maybe one of the big chains like Pep Boys
or Autozone?”

He scowled and shook his head. “Nothing like
that around here. Rock Hill, maybe. But I’m friends with the fellow
who runs this garage. I could give him a call for you.”

“
Can you? Aw, that’d be
great!”

“
Hang on.” The guy pulled out his
phone and rang up his friend. They made a little too much small
talk for my comfort, but once he got down to the nitty-gritty, it
seemed to go well.

“
Okay … uh … the deal is … he’s at a
church function right now. But it’s getting out soon and he could
swing on by on his way home. You just stay put and he’ll come find
you.”

“
Oh, that’s just awesome. Thank you
so much!”

“
You take care now.” He pulled out
onto the road and into the sun hanging low over the
pines.

***

Hours passed. I watched the sun dip below the
horizon. Twilight spread over the fields like a plague. I was so
parched. A damned Coke machine mocked my thirst, locked away behind
the glass door.

While I was waiting I had made several forays
out into what passed for a town center and found nothing but a
realtor, a mini-post office and an insurance company. That’s it. No
restaurants. No motels. No convenience stores.

About nine o’ clock, a white Toyota Tacoma
finally pulled up and a burly, bearded guy in a rumpled suit and
tie clambered out of it. “You the fella with the blown
hose?”

“
That’s me,” I said, weary but
relieved.

He glanced around the lot. “So where’s your
car? Out on the freeway?”

“
Yup.”

“
Well, let’s see what we got here.”
He unlocked his service bay and hauled open the overhead door.
“What’s the make and model?”

“
Ford. F150. 2003.”

“
Alrighty. I’m sure we can hook you
up. Upper or lower?”

“
Upper.”

“
Yeah, it’s a common thing you know,
those upper hoses. They get singed or nicked and the next thing you
know …” He perused the collection of belts and hoses hanging from
his wall. “Hmm. I just saw one the other day. Here’s … uh … no,
that’s for a Dodge. Maybe this one? Um … no. Guess not, then. Might
be time to order some more. Seem to go through them quick
enough.”

“
You mean, you don’t have any?” I
said, my voice rising in panic.

“
Sure looks that way. Could be one
stashed on the floor somewhere. Let me give a quick
look-see.”

He made the rounds of his workshop, peeking
under door panels and in the drawers of a work bench.

He straightened up and wiped his hands on his
pants. “Nope. All out. I’ll have to order one for you.”

“
Today?”

“
Well, no. They’re not open Sundays.
First thing in the morning. My supplier’s got a guy who delivers.
Should have it by … midday … at the latest.”

A wave of panic expanded from the pit of my
stomach. “That won’t do. I gotta be in Cleveland by five
tomorrow.”

He bit his lip and shrugged. “Sorry son. Best
I can do. One exit further and you would have had a wider choice of
establishments. But such is life.” Something flashed in his eyes.
“What about … duct tape?”

“
Duct tape?”

“
Sure. Clean it up with soap. Wrap a
shitload of duct tape around the hole. Might hold for a little
while.”

“
All the way to Ohio?”

“
Probably not, but … let’s see …
give me that hose.”

I peeled off the rag and handed it to him. He
rolled it around in his hands, and peered into the
openings.

“
That’s one nasty looking rip. The
way it balloons out and goes right under the clamp. No, I don’t
think tape’s gonna hold this one, not once the engine got up to
temperature.”

“
What about that next exit. Could we
call another garage? Have them tow me?”

“
Thing is, they might have been open
earlier, but it’s Sunday night now. They still pumping gas but
ain’t no service folks there. Probably closed at five. I can tow
you into my lot, if you want. That’d at least get you off the
highway. You could sleep in your truck. I’ll give the police
department a heads up so they leave you alone. Not like there’s any
motels in Alford.”

***

I passed up his offer for a tow. It probably
wasn’t the smartest thing, but I wasn’t thinking straight. I was
desperate to get back on that road as soon as possible.

I thanked him for coming by and started
walking back to the freeway, racking my brain for a Plan B that
would get me fixed up quicker.

I wondered if I could risk driving a few miles
with no coolant whatsoever, just to the next exit. That would be
risky. It could fry the engine and seize the
block—permanently.

I sipped a can of warm Coke the guy at the gas
station had given me. It was time to tell Jared the truth about
what happened. I got out the phone.

“
James? What’s up?”

“
Um … small problem.”

“
I’m listening.”

“
Right after I talked to you. I
kinda blew a radiator hose.”

“
So? No big deal. Just get a new
one. I’ll cover it.”

“
The thing is … it’s Sunday … and
this happened on the freeway outside this tiny, little town. No one
can help me till tomorrow.”

There was a spell of absolute silence. Digital
ghosts chattered their teeth across the ether. A cicada call kicked
up from a stand of oaks.

“
Oh no, James. You can’t do this to
me.” His timbre suddenly altered, a warble of fear creeping into
his vowels. “You gotta get to Cleveland on time. I went out on a
limb for you. My ass is grass if you don’t show up.”

“
But I’ll get there, I’m just gonna
be a little late. I need a couple more hours.”

“
You don’t understand. That’s a lot
of inventory you’re sitting on. They’re gonna freak out when that
stuff doesn’t show.”

“
So what are they gonna do, fine
me?”

“
That stuff you’re hauling. It’s
pure. Uncut. Top quality. Top dollar. It’s a high priority
shipment. These guys, they will punish you. They crack skulls, and
that’s if you’re lucky and they got laid that day.”

“
Jeezus, Jared. This is my first
time. Why’d you have me haul something like that? Why couldn’t I
start out small?”

“
You were safe, James. They like
their couriers, virgins.”

“
Well, I’m doing the best I can.
They’re just gonna have to cut me a little slack.”

Jared muttered something away from the
receiver. “You got no clue, James. They’ll assume the worst.
They’ll think you made off with their shipment. They’ll hunt you
down. You get that truck going; I don’t care how you do
it.”

He clicked off. I stood there with the phone
in my hand, staring at a meadow dancing with tall grass and vetch.
Ohio seemed even farther away now than before I had left Ft.
Pierce.

Maybe I could walk or hitch the five miles to
the outskirts of that larger town—Rock Hill—where I could see for
myself whether there was any truck stop or 24 hour garage able to
help me.

I took two steps, veered off the road, and
laid down in the meadow.

***

It was just plain futile. No two ways about
it. There was no way I could get to Cleveland on time.

Cripes! One stupid hose blows and all my plans
go to crap. Not only would I not collect that second tranche, I
would have a drug cartel out for my head.

Maybe there was no way I could go anywhere
near Cleveland, even after I got that truck fixed. I couldn’t bring
this down on Uncle Ed and his family. I would have to find that
transponder, rip it out and run.

It was getting dark out, but I had no
inclination to move. My muscles set firm like rigor mortis. A
numbness seeped through every inch and pore. It made me not care
what happened to the truck or my life’s possessions sitting
unattended in the back. It made me not care what happened to those
assholes’ drugs.

Problem was, I didn’t care about eating or
drinking either. My breaths still came, but it was okay if they
stopped. Mosquitoes could take all the blood they wanted from me.
All the spiders and ants in South Carolina could tread on me. I
didn’t care. Even a bullet to the brain would have been a welcome
relief, about then.

And just as I slipped past the threshold of
not caring about my fate, a musky smell came on, as strong as if
someone had stuffed a truffle up my nose. Roots wrapped around my
limbs and pulled me through the tall grass and into the
earth.

Not that I ever lost consciousness. I just
shifted to a reality just as potent as the one I had left behind. I
was there, again in Root, dangling from a tunnel wall in a crude
woven sack.

Chapter 18:
Luther

The pod of roots encasing me seemed looser and
sparser this time, more a covered hammock than a cage. I grabbed
two handfuls and tried pulling them apart, but the strands
stiffened and resisted.

I had no patience for this crap. I squeezed
them hard and pulled with all my strength. As the frustration built
in my chest, the entire section shriveled and disintegrated under
my grip.

“
Whoa,” I said to myself, as I
wriggled through the gap and dropped to the tunnel
floor.

Rumbles echoed. At first I took them for
Carolina thunderstorms leaking through my senses, but storms don’t
moan like that. Reapers were lumbering about the tunnels again.
Busy creatures, those Reapers.

This was the same dim passage I had entered
last time. But the tunnel seemed calmer, its spasms and waves
nearly indiscernible. The individual roots lining its circumference
remained restless, squirming and rustling in constant motion, yet
never straying into the lumen.

I climbed the ledge where the lesser tunnels
forked. My bare skin rubbed against those scratchy, crawly roots.
My nakedness annoyed me, though I had to admit, bare toes were
great for climbing here. They really dug into the ropy
walls.

Something sparkled in a groove atop the ledge.
I plucked it out with my fingernails. It was an earring made of
silver and pearl—a humble piece of costume jewelry, the kind of
thing that might be sold at a flea market. I wondered if Karla had
dropped it. I had nowhere to put it, so I kept it clenched it in my
hand.

Remembering her advice, I went left at the
branching. The walls were uniformly dim at first, but I soon
reached a stretch that danced with enough light to do a disco
proud. Blips of light raced along the strands, varying in shape and
color and size. I wondered if they carried some kind of Morse code.
I wondered what news they transmitted.

I searched for the dull patch in the wall that
marked the seam leading to Karla’s chamber. I thought it would be
obvious, but it wasn’t this time. When I stepped back and squinted,
I spotted a patch where the roots were less neatly aligned than
elsewhere, as if they had tidied themselves after being rumpled but
hadn’t fallen exactly back into place.

I flattened my hand into a blade and plunged
it into the wall. The roots stiffened. It took a severe marshaling
of my will to make them part. And when they did, they didn’t just
separate, it was like the pod all over again. They withered and
crumbled beneath my fingertips. As I shoved my shoulders into the
slot and pushed through, I could already see the fibers
reconstituting themselves in my wake.

Ten paces through the viny jungle of roots and
there it was—Karla’s hooch, with all its gleaming knobs and thorns.
I remembered Karla drawing a circle with her finger to make the
seams of her hatch appear and disappear. I climbed up the side and
traced a person-sized circle. Nothing happened, besides pricking my
thumb on a thorn.

I wrapped on the dome with the back of my
hand: shave and a haircut, two bits. I leaned back and waited, and
waited some more. Nothing.

I knocked again, harder, coming away with
scraped knuckles.