Shift (20 page)

The other passengers were paying their bills and drifting out to the bus. I saw the driver rise from his stool. Jacketman still hadn’t left the bathroom. I walked as calmly as I could across the lot and around the back of the building, where I found Danielle’s Jeep waiting as promised. I tugged open the back door, climbed in, and slouched down, breathing for what seemed like the first time since I left the diner.

Ten minutes later I watched from her car as the bus pulled out of the lot, followed thirty Mississippis later by Jacketman’s sedan. When they were both out of view, Danielle came out the back door.

“Nice work,” I said.

She shrugged. “Thanks. But if he’s FBI, we’re all in major trouble.”

“You underestimate yourself,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Earl’s out front. Give him gas money if you can. His crop sucked this year.”

I nodded. “Okay,” I said, reaching for my bag.

“What are you going to do when you find him?” she asked again.

I had no idea.

“Thanks for your help,” I said, dismissing her question.

She crossed her arms. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Jeez, she was hot. “I’ll try not to.”

“I can drop you at Browning, all right,” Earl was saying between fiddling with the radio and shuffling the toothpick back and forth across his lips.

“Actually, the farm’s somewhere along this highway. Guy named Morgan lives there. I’m not sure how close to Browning it really is,” I said.

He nodded. “I know Morgan’s place. My farm’s another twelve miles past his, so I can take you up to the front door if you like.”

“That’d be great,” I said, staring out the window. The landscape looked different. Maybe it was because I was traveling east, maybe it was the change in the color of the leaves and the way the wheat had grown gold in the autumn sun. Earl found Patsy Cline on the radio, “Crazy.” Maybe I was.

Earl didn’t try to talk. As we rode, I kept waiting for him to initiate some conversation, feeling tense and apprehensive about
what I’d tell him. But apparently he’d heard enough while eavesdropping on Danielle and me in the diner. As the miles slipped by, I began to relax and appreciate the silence.

As a George Jones song died away, Earl pulled to the side of the road. I could see the farmhouse, the barn a half a mile away. We’d covered the fifty miles in just under an hour.

“There’s Morgan’s spread,” Earl said, the engine idling hard.

“That’s it,” I agreed.

We both surveyed it for a moment. “Want me to take you up the driveway?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No … but thanks.”

I opened the door of the truck. I pulled my last ten out of my pocket and placed it on the dash. Earl didn’t object. “What’re you gonna say to him?” he asked.

The door fell shut, and I reached into the bed of the truck to grab my pack. “Thanks for the ride, Earl,” I said, no more sure of how to answer his question than I was about what I’d do when I found Win.

The place was like I remembered. Save for the fact that those pea fields that had lined the road were now empty, the soil freshly tilled, tanging the air with the scent of earth. I followed the gravel driveway up to the farmhouse, which looked as if it had been painted since I left. Somehow the half-mile walk felt longer than it should have. With every step, with every shift of gravel beneath my feet, the question my father, Vanti, Danielle, Earl—everybody—had been asking echoed.

What are you going to do, Chris
?

I still had no answer when I reached the end of the drive, where I found Morgan sitting on the front porch, hair slicked down,
wearing a clean pair of jeans and a pressed shirt. When I was a few yards from the steps leading up to the screen door and where he sat on a bench, he finally spoke.

“Thought that might be you,” he said. I was sure he’d been watching my approach since the truck stalled on the shoulder of the highway. Sure that he’d been awaiting my return along with Win.

“Good to see you, sir,” I said. And I meant it. Morgan had a calming way about him. Somehow the fact that he didn’t make a big deal about my arrival made it easier.

“You too, Chris.” Honestly, the man acted as if I’d seen him yesterday, instead of almost two months ago.

“Where’s Effie?”

“In the house—on the phone. We’re on our way into town. Gotta go see a man at the bank about something. She told me to sit here and not get dirty until we left.”

I laughed. “You get that tractor running yet?” It seemed like the only thing to ask. What if Win wasn’t here? What if my hunch had been wrong?

He nodded—only once. “Yep. Not long after you boys came through. Crop turned out well. Don’t know if I’d have gotten it in alone, though.” He looked at me, then away, picked at an imaginary speck of something on the starched denim of his trousers. Everybody was protecting Win.

“He’s in the barn, Chris,” he said. “I think you remember where it is.”

I nodded. “Thanks.” He was as torn about my finding Win as I was. And maybe he knew that since I’d come that far on my own
to find him, finishing the rest of the journey alone made sense. He’d known that this summer about the bikes, and this wasn’t much different.

I started walking toward the barn, left him sitting there on the porch. I heard him call over my shoulder. “I didn’t ask him to stay,” he said. After a beat he added, “But we’ve been glad to have him around.”

I hesitated.

“What are you going to do, son?” he asked.

I didn’t turn as I called out to him. “Catch up with an old friend, sir,” I said, striding toward the barn.

“Truck on a triangle, baby!” I shouted, pointing to the diamond-shaped road sign at the crest of the pass.

“Fourteen percenter!” Win said as we began picking up speed.

“We earned it after that climb,” I said.

We careered downhill on the empty road in silence for a full minute, enjoying the speed and roar of the wind in our ears.

Then Win returned to a favorite subject. “That Danielle was hot.”

“You sort of said that already,” I pointed out. “In fact, you’ve said it about thirty times a day for the past week.”

It was true. Since we’d left that truck stop and made our way through a flat patch of eastern Washington before heading up the mountain road, Win had been talking about Danielle. At
Ross Lake, Win talked about Danielle. At the salmon hatchery, more Danielle.

“I’m getting a little bored with this conversation,” I said.

Win laughed. “Only ’cause she liked me better.”

“I’m the one who got us the fries,” I said.

“But I’m the one who got her address,” he said. That part was true. But what was he going to do? Write her letters and keep talking about her all the way into freshman year?

“So, what’s the plan when we hit Seattle?” I asked. “We’re only going to have a day there before we have to catch the bus back.”

Again Win acted as if he was going to say something but caught himself. “Not sure. I guess there’s that Space Needle thing,” he said. “Sort of a landmark, right?”

“Yeah. But I’m kind of tired of the touristy crap. Winthrop did me in.”

“What are you talking about? That fake shoot-out was cool,” Win said.

The whole town had been fake. Old storefronts built over new … wooden sidewalks … blacksmiths … saloons. We’d rolled in just before lunch, as crowds gathered near an ice-cream shop/espresso bar. Seconds later two fake cowboys rushed out and started shooting at each other.

“Whatever. Bet the Space Needle costs money,” I pointed out. My reserves had dwindled, and I needed to save enough to get my bus ticket home and eat on the three-day drive. And I was still waiting for Win to pay me back. For that matter, I was still waiting for him to explain the wad of cash in his saddlebag.

“My treat,” he said. “There’s also that market.”

“The one where they throw the fish around?” I asked.

He nodded. “That’s the one.”

We rode quietly for a space, enjoying the long, effortless slide down the mountain. This section of our ride had been full of rocky crags, snowcaps, evergreens, and pale blue skies. The air was so clean it almost burned to breathe it. According to the map, the next decent-size town we’d drop into was poetically called Concrete. Though the name was ugly, I couldn’t imagine the place would be.

I didn’t have time to share this thought with Win before I saw the furry brown shape on the left shoulder of the road, nuzzling the pavement.

Win saw it too. “Bear?” he whispered, applying his brakes.

“Can’t be,” I said, doing the same.

It wasn’t. From where we stood now, fifty yards uphill, it was plainly a coyote. We could clearly see now that it was about the size of a collie. It was picking through the remains of an opossum. Though we’d been hearing coyotes for weeks when we stopped to camp, this was the first time I’d seen one.

“This is way cooler than the auto goat,” Win said. “A real, live wild animal.”

“Totally. Although I’m not sure how wild a state highway can be considered,” I said. Win smiled. We watched it tear apart what appeared to be small intestine.

“Kind of weird it’s out in the daytime, isn’t it?” Win asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe. They’re supposed to be pretty skittish of people.”

“Think it’s going to do anything else besides play with its food?”

I shrugged.

“Shall we, then?” he asked.

“Just a sec,” I said, unzipping my camera from the handlebar bag. Win fished his out as well, and we both snapped quick photos.

“I’m going to see if I can get a closer shot as we ride past,” I said as I put my foot back into my pedal and started rolling down the mountain behind Win, who’d already stowed his camera away. Already the slope was evening out. The river in the valley was no longer a shining, wet ribbon. Now it had detail and seemed to have grown wider since I first glimpsed it from below Diablo Dam. We’d be pedaling instead of coasting soon.

As we pulled past where the coyote was eating, it looked up.

“Hey,” Win said. “It’s saying good-bye.”

But it wasn’t saying good-bye. With surprising speed it shot across the road toward us, ears laid back and teeth bared.

“Go!” I shouted. The coyote was ten feet away and closing fast as I fumbled for my gears, dropping the disposable camera in my hurry. It bounced behind me and into the rut between the shoulder and the hillside.

Win looked over his shoulder. “Do coyotes get rabies?”

“Don’t really want to find out!” I shouted, rapidly clicking through my shifter to find my highest gear.

The animal was close enough that I could hear it snarling.

“Good dog!” Win shouted to it, testing our usual first line of defense with dogs that chased us.

“It’s not a Labrador!” I said.

“Same genus! Got a better idea?” he asked, tugging his water bottle from its cage and uncapping it with his teeth. I did the same. If the fact that it was a canine meant it bore any similarity to the other dogs that had chased us, this would probably do the trick. We both turned the bottles toward the coyote and started squirting.

Most of our shots fell short. A few hit it on the flanks. Either way, it was slowing down. Win launched a stream that hit it smack in the left eye, and it pulled up sharply.

“Hah! Take that, you rabid little intestine-eating bastard!” I screamed as the coyote dropped about twenty feet behind us.

My bottles were both empty. “I’m out,” I said, looking back to see the coyote falling farther behind. He stopped altogether for a few seconds, mounted a halfhearted attempt to run us down, but gave up as gravity pulled us safely away.

“I think we’ve lost him,” Win said.

“Yeah, but keep pace for a while, just to be sure. …”

Adrenaline still coursed through me.

“How fast are we going?” I asked Win after another half a mile had slipped past.

Win glanced at the cycling computer mounted to his handlebar. “Forty-nine,” he said.

“That’s faster than we’ve ever …,” I started to say, but then felt the telltale sensation of my rear tire dancing sideways. I was losing speed.

“Flat!” I yelled over the rushing wind.

“Flat!” I shouted again when he didn’t respond, the space between us stretching as I glanced behind us. No coyote chasing
at our heels. “The coyote’s gone, Win,” I said as I applied my brakes, afraid that if I let the tire sink any lower at this speed, I’d damage the rim.

He turned and looked at me, ducking his head between his arm and the handlebar. But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t even slow down.

“Win!” I shouted again, anger edging out any of the fear that had been there before.

He sat up on his seat, shouted over his shoulder in a voice that carried back to me like an echo. Like he was already gone. “You’ll catch up,” he said, adding, “Someday.”

I was stunned. Catch up? Someday?

“Win!” I shouted again. “You bastard!” But he was already disappearing behind a bend in the highway. For the first time in nearly two months I was completely alone.

And I had no idea why. Win was a flake, but for most of my life I’d known I could count on him completely. For the last eight weeks I’d known that more than ever. And now he’d left me, with a flat tire, no water, and a rabid coyote looking for an easy snack.

I hopped off my bike and started the routine I’d practiced dozens of times across country. I actually waited half a second once I had all the tools out. But Win wasn’t there to time me. I dug into my patch kit.

“What the …?”

No patches. I’d just bought a new set last week. I hadn’t used that many. One flat yesterday. Maybe another I’d forgotten. But not five.

Win.

“Bastard!” I swore again as I dug deeper into my bag, unpacking the whole left pannier to find one of the spare tubes we kept in the bottom. Replacing a tube took longer than simply edging out a section of it to patch. I’d replaced only three tubes the entire trip across, and those were on ones that couldn’t be repaired because the stem had gotten tweaked or torn. Tubes, compared with patches, were expensive. And when you used up your tubes, you could be stranded. It was my last one.