Eureka (26 page)

It presented Otis with the delightful temptation to pause briefly for a second hit of retribution. Despite his BB-gun revenge, he was still most annoyed at what the shithead jerk had done to him. It should have been long gone and far away from his mind—and throat—by now, but it wasn’t.

Onward, Buck.

Otis did slow down. He saw a flickering light from the television in the home half of Church Key Charlie Blue’s ratty place. Charlie couldn’t be watching a football game, because it wasn’t Sunday or Monday. What are you watching, Charlie?
Booknotes
on C-SPAN? An A&E documentary on the Cold War?

How about a two-hour PBS special on Archimedes?

Do you still have my four thou in your helmet, Charlie?

Otis slowed the Jeep so much that he had to hit the clutch and thrust the gear shift into second. There was some lurching and grinding, but he did it. He was already getting better at shifting. It was coming back. And he loved it. There was something about using a stick shift that gave the driver control of the vehicle. A human being had to do more than just get in, turn on
the ignition, put it in D, and drive off. Driving required skill and practice and even some active thinking on occasion.

The Ford pickup, the one his dad had driven in front of the Santa Fe freight, had been a stick shift. Was he trying to beat that train in third gear, or had he shifted it down to second for power?

Minutes after he’d screeched away from Tonganoxie’s house, Otis had a genuine feel for why Russ liked Jeeps, even this tony Wrangler model. They seemed close to the road, real, unaffected. Otis had kept the speed up there, at least fifty most of the time. He wanted to get away, to get west, as soon as possible.

He discounted the possibility that Russ Tonganoxie might sic the police on him. Russ wouldn’t do that. Russ Tonganoxie was neither an idiot nor a shithead. He was a good man, as good as Bob Gidney, in his own way. Weird in some ways, but let’s face it, who isn’t weird in some ways? Right, Russ?

The ride on old bumpity-bump Highway 56 seemed so different from inside the Jeep than on the Cushman—his late, drowned red 1952 Cushman Pacemaker.

There was Johnny Gillette’s place. There was no light over the sign, so Otis couldn’t read the words, but he knew they were there. He remembered what Johnny had said about being his own boss. Was he a happy man? Should Russ Tonganoxie come out here and talk to Johnny Gillette about being a mature adult male?

Otis came upon the location of Mary Beth’s cafe. But in the dark, at first glance, it appeared to be no longer there. That couldn’t be. In the shadows, he saw only the skeletal scraps of a building.

He slammed on the brakes turned the Jeep in to the small front parking area and looked around.

The place had burned down! Literally down to the ground.
There were only a few charred bricks and scarred remains of the counter and the kitchen and the chrome booth frames on what was left of the tile floor. Even the
MARY BETH’S EATS
sign was almost gone. He saw what seemed to be pieces of the metal backing on the ground, but the neon glass had clearly melted away, the wooden post on which it had all hung burned almost to a crisp.

Otis recalled what that man—a relative, they’d said—had threatened to Mary Beth. He had said that someday she and her cafe were going to burn up as if they were in hell itself. Otis, on reflex, looked down at some ashes on the tile floor. Could they be Mary Beth’s? That was a ridiculous thought.

But did that crazy man carry out his threat? Did he burn this place down? Did she burn down, too? Otis couldn’t get over the fact that it had been only six weeks since he was here. Six weeks plus a few days. Hard to imagine that. Six weeks plus a few days.

Soon he was back in the Jeep on his way west again.

It was unseasonably cool for an evening in early June. The night air was fresh, and the sky was clear and bright from a three-quarter moon and a sprinkling of stars, most of which he had always been able to identify. From a moving Jeep, it was impossible to do much more than see and appreciate the moon that was out there in front of him—probably right over Pagosa Springs, Colorado, at this moment.

There was very little man-made lighting. No streetlights, and no electric signs from service stations or the few businesses that now were closed. There were even fewer cars and other vehicles. Old U.S. 56 appeared even more deserted and ignored and forgotten at night than in the daylight. The sight of a disintegrated Mary Beth’s—another addition to Kansas’s ghost places—had made it seem even more deserted, ignored, forgotten: dead and sad.

Someday, if he ever came back this way, he would try to find out what had happened to Mary Beth and her cafe.

But now it was onward, Buck.

He needed money so he could pick up some clothes and other basics. What about a toothbrush and a razor and some shaving cream? Those kind of runaway decisions could wait. He was determined not to stop for anything until he was beyond the Chanute River Bridge. That was important to him for reasons that probably made no sense, reasons that had to do with a feeling of really being gone, of escape. Past the bridge, he would be free.

But he definitely needed money. He had his MasterCard, which had been left—thank God!—with his now-dried-out driver’s license on a shelf in his closet with his clothes. But where was he going to find an ATM around here?

He had an inspired Buck-like thought. There was one location in the vicinity where there was a very good chance money was available.

There was no traffic coming toward him, so he carefully U-turned the Jeep back toward the east, toward Church Key Charlie Blue’s.

It seemed like only a flash of time before he was there once more. He again slowed the Jeep and, as he arrived at the lip of the driveway, switched off the motor and the headlights.

The TV was still flickering inside.

Otis sat absolutely still in the darkness. He wanted to make sure he had not been heard, that Charlie had not been roused to come out the door and see what might be going on in his driveway.

After what seemed to be at least two or three minutes, Otis decided that Charlie had not been disturbed.

He stepped out of the Jeep and walked as quietly as he
could—the slippers helped—to the window. The panes on top had not been replaced; they were covered over from the inside with what appeared to be plastic bags. Some new glass was on the other panes.

Did you use some of my money to have the panes replaced, Charlie, you shithead?

Otis peeked inside. Just as he had hoped and expected, Charlie was in his chair in front of the television, fast asleep.

Otis may have imagined it, but he thought he could hear snoring over the sound of the television. He did not recognize the sounds enough to know what program Charlie had been watching when he fell asleep. Whatever it was, it seemed to involve several vehicles in a frantic chase of some kind, because there were a lot of tires squealing, horns honking, and shots being fired.

There was enough moonlight to help Otis find his way around to the rear. Charlie had said the back door was never locked.

Otis grabbed the knob on the first door he came to and opened it slowly, carefully, quietly. Through the opening, he saw Charlie and the television. The sweet smell of fudge came right at Otis. So did the sounds of snoring and the car chase, which seemed to still be in full throttle.

There, by the side of the chair, was the Cowboys helmet. Charlie had clearly come directly from the factory to the chair in front of the television: A pair of soiled latex gloves was lying there with the helmet.

Here I am, Charlie. Remember me? I was here the first time as Oat-tus. I’m back as Buh-uhk.

Otis stepped over some empty Great America beer bottles and empty paper plates and bags and other things. He extended every step into a giant step and paused between each to make
sure he had not disturbed the sleeping, thieving giant shithead in the chair before him.

Charlie’s right arm was hanging over the side of the chair, almost down to the floor where the helmet was. His fingers, nearly the size of some people’s wrists, were within inches of the helmet, which was lying inside up—
money
side up.

Assuming the money was still there. What if Charlie had spent it or used it to pay off his debts?

There’s no turning back now, Buck.

Two more steps and he was there. Otis leaned down and picked up the helmet, being careful to bring it away and up so as not to touch Charlie’s dangling hand or arm.

Otis was only two or so feet from Charlie. The force of the man’s breathing was enormous. The television, still spewing out the sounds of cars and shots, seemed minor and small and insignificant compared to the presence of this huge human being.

The money was in the webbing. Both stacks of Otis’s bills as well as more. That must be some of the money Charlie made from his fudge. There was several hundred dollars in addition to the four thou. Charlie had yet to make enough to buy his freedom.

Sorry, Charlie. Wasn’t that a line from an old television commercial? Yeah, yeah. For a brand of tuna fish.

Otis removed the money—his and Charlie’s—from the helmet and stuck it all in his pants pockets.

Consider your money interest on
mine,
Charlie
.

Nope. No way could Buck do that. That made him a thief, too, and no better than this thieving, sleeping, snoring shithead.

Otis slipped Charlie’s part of the money back out of the pants pockets and returned it to its place inside the helmet webbing. He was leaning over to put the helmet back on the floor when a close-up of the dirty latex gloves gave him an idea—a deliriously
evil idea. Didn’t the Lone Ranger and the others—Red Ryder, too, no doubt—leave calling cards behind?

Otis picked up one of the gloves and folded down the two pairs of outside fingers, leaving only the middle finger straight and pointed upward. He carefully placed the glove that way up in the webbing where the two stacks of his money had just been.

Goodbye and up yours, Charlie.

Otis thought of Church Key’s fabulous fudge. He could smell it, and then he could taste it. Could there possibly be an un-bought bag, even a piece or two, lying around next door? Why not slip over there and see … Forget it. It was time to get the hell out of here.

When Otis glanced at the television, he was amazed that the car chase was still going on. Maybe it was a program devoted exclusively to car chases? Could there be such a thing? Could there be a television program called
Great Car Chases of Police History?

Within a few minutes, Otis was back outside in the Jeep, on his way west once again.

Now he really was Buh-uhk.

HE ADHERED TO
the fifty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit. The late Deputy Canton must have a successor, and there was a chance he or she was out there somewhere, looking for lawbreakers along old U.S 56. Being stopped for speeding might end it all again.

But it seemed like a flash that he was back down the road, past Johnny Gillette’s and Mary Beth’s, where he had been when he turned around to take care of his money needs at Charlie’s.

Soon came Marionville, the town of brick streets and Galva Air Force Base and T and Iola Caldwell.

Was Iola still alive? It had been six weeks. If she had died,
what kind of funeral had T organized for his mother? Did that son of a bitch of a father come from California to the service? Did Iola have insurance? What kind of policy and for how much? What was T going to do about the house? About his life?

Otis decided he had to have the answers to those and many other questions about the Caldwells. Also, he wanted to tell T how much he’d appreciated the young man’s coming by the hospital and how sorry he was that he couldn’t respond and they wouldn’t let T in the hospital room. T might also get a kick out of hearing what Otis had just done to a thieving old football player named Church Key Charlie Blue.

Otis swung the Jeep off the highway, and within a few minutes, there was the Caldwells’ house. There was a for-sale sign in the front yard, which needed mowing.

“Iola died three weeks ago,” said Grace, the old woman in the blue housecoat who lived next door. She acted as if she might remember Otis from when he was there with the Cushman, but he wasn’t sure. “The funeral was beautiful and sweet,” she said.

Otis asked about T Had he gone back to school?

“No, I don’t think so. He packed up most everything he had and took off in his pickup. He said he had to go but wouldn’t say where. It didn’t sound to me like it was back to Central State he had in mind.”

No, it wasn’t back to school in Kansas he had in mind. He was one of those who was meant to go.

Someday, somewhere, Otis would resume some kind of relationship with T Caldwell. When? Why? Who knew? But Otis had a good feeling about it.

Then he was back on Highway 56, with Dearing coming into sight. Here now was the Best Western on the right, where he’d had that lovely wet imagined sexual encounter with Sharon.

Sharon, Who in the hell is she, really?
Is
she a nurse? Is she even a real person? Is it possible that I completely hallucinated her? She was not really there on the creek bank reading the Beschloss book? She didn’t really take a ride up there behind me on the Cushman?

And she didn’t really yank off my Chiefs helmet and look horrified at what she saw?

It was right about here that Deputy Canton stopped me. That poor man. Tries to do a good turn and dies for his effort. Someday I will look up his family and personally thank them for what he did. He saved my life. What would he have done with me if he had caught up before I fell into the river? Arrest me? On what charge? Running away from home on my own motor scooter with my own money is not a crime.

There was that first sign for the detour.

BRIDGE CLOSED AHEAD 1 MILE—FOLLOW DETOUR SIGNS.
The words were painted with reflecting paint.

There were the other signs, bigger and more hysterical.

DANGER AHEAD. ALL VEHICLES MUST TURN LEFT.