{"id":2072,"date":"2011-12-09T14:20:42","date_gmt":"2011-12-09T19:20:42","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/wpblog\/?p=2072"},"modified":"2012-07-15T20:11:22","modified_gmt":"2012-07-16T00:11:22","slug":"free-throw-part-2-by-jeffrey-schrecongost","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/free-throw-part-2-by-jeffrey-schrecongost\/","title":{"rendered":"Free Throw (Part 2) by Jeffrey Schrecongost"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

13<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Don lit a cigarette and cracked the window, mingling tobacco smoke with the smell of damp earth.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think this rain is slowing down a bit. You tired?\u201d he said, gripping the wheel with his right hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Vessie said. \u201cYou?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m fine. I figure we can stop once we get outside Cincinnati. Somewhere off 75. Sound okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d like to make dinner,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t want to get a hamburger or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d like to make dinner.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don looked at Vessie, then back at the road. It was near dark now. Yellow beams from oncoming headlights magnified and distorted as they penetrated the rain drops winding down the windshield. He rotated the wiper switch to its highest speed. The blades slapped the water away, then screeched back and forth.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow are you going to make dinner in the hotel?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust stop at a grocery store before we get there. I\u2019ll take care of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course you will,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

Vessie\u2019s eyes slid to the left, but her head remained still. She crossed her hands on her lap, then stared at the white line rimming the road\u2019s edge.<\/p>\n

Don pulled the Tahoe into a puddled Kroger parking lot near Florence, Kentucky. He stopped next to a cart corral closest to the store\u2019s entrance.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe this one will have it,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf not, let\u2019s go get some hamburgers,\u201d Vessie said.<\/p>\n

Don got out, opened his umbrella, and shielded Vessie from the light rain. They hurried into the store and scanned the overhead signs for the peanut butter aisle.<\/p>\n

\u201cSeven,\u201d Don said, pointing. \u201cSeven.\u201d<\/p>\n

They stepped down the aisle in nervous anticipation.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s see,\u201d Vessie said. \u201cJif. Peter Pan. Skippy. Nutella. There. Donald, up there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don reached for the little jar with the white label on the top shelf.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs this it? Millard\u2019s Real Cashew Butter?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. It\u2019s the last one. Don\u2019t drop it,\u201d Vessie said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou hold it then. What else?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAll we need now is some fresh, white bread from the bakery, a jar of hot pepper jelly, and some smoked turkey from the deli. And I guess we\u2019ll need a box of those plastic butter knives. And some ice. And one of those Styrofoam coolers. Oh, and some milk.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, okay,\u201d Don said. \u201cYou take the cart and go get the bread, the jelly, and the turkey, and I\u2019ll get the knives, the ice, and the cooler.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd the milk.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd the milk. Meet you at the registers in ten minutes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

14<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Don paid cash for two rooms at a Holiday Inn just south of Corinth. The lobby smelled like 1976, like The Who just checked out. He walked to the Tahoe and grabbed the suitcases. It had stopped raining, and the parking lot was cloaked in an argentine fog.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere\u2019s your room key,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll take the bags up and come back down for the food.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you, Donald,\u201d Vessie said, grunting as she slid out of the passenger seat.<\/p>\n

They took the elevator up to the fifth floor and walked down the hall. Don leaned his suitcase against the door to his room and accompanied Vessie to hers, four rooms down.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere you go,\u201d he said, placing Vessie\u2019s luggage on the queen bed. \u201cI\u2019ll go get the cooler.\u201d<\/p>\n

Vessie nodded, eyeing the avocado green\/squash yellow hotel room. She sat on the edge of the bed, removed her shoes, and rubbed her toes. Don returned a few minutes later.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want to make dinner in your room or mine?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cIn here is fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don and Vessie pulled the items from the cooler and arranged them on the dresser next to the television. She waddled into the bathroom, washed her hands, then returned to the dresser.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow, shoo,\u201d Vessie said, flapping her hand at Don.<\/p>\n

He turned on the television \u2013 a replay of a 1983 Sixers\/Celtics game on ESPN — and sat down in an uncomfortable corner chair.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, you\u2019re making sandwiches?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Special ones.\u201d<\/p>\n

Vessie sliced the loaf of bread into thick pieces. She opened the little jar, brought it up to her nose, and took in its nutty-sweet aroma. She spread each piece of bread with thick strokes of cashew butter, followed by cumbrous dollops of hot pepper jelly. Then she added four slices of smoked turkey and pressed the sandwiches together, handing one to Don, along with a coffee cup full of cold milk. She turned back around and poured herself a cup.<\/p>\n

\u201cEnjoy,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Don was already chewing.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis might be the best sandwich I\u2019ve ever tasted,\u201d he said, reaching for the milk. \u201cHow\u2019d you learn to make it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Vessie picked up the jar of cashew butter, brought it up to her nose again, and screwed the cap back on.<\/p>\n

\u201cI came up with it myself years ago. It seemed like something you would have liked when you were a boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don stopped chewing.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe other mothers made plain old peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,\u201d she continued. \u201cI would have made you a special one like this. One only I could make.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMe?\u201d Don said.<\/p>\n

Vessie took a bite of her sandwich, then a sip of milk.<\/p>\n

\u201cI want to tell you a story,\u201d Vessie said.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen I was a girl, eight or nine years old I guess, my mother and I lived on a farm near Louisville. My oldest brother was killed in World War Two. After the war, my other brother moved to California. My father died a year later. He got drunk one night and started walking down the railroad tracks behind our house. They said he fell asleep on the tracks, and a train ran over him. Why do people do that? They still do that. I see it on the news from time to time. Falling asleep on the tracks. Anyway, we kept our three farm hands, and the five of us ran that little farm for years. But when I was eight or nine, I remember whenever a train would come down those tracks, my mother would run out back and throw anything she could get her hands on at it \u2013 eggs, apples, corn cobs, rocks. She wouldn\u2019t shout or curse, she would just throw things. She hated trains after my father died. Then one summer morning a train rolled by real slow, and a man jumped off and walked up to our fence gate. I was playing in the back yard, and he called out to me. \u2018Hello, young lady,\u2019 he said. \u2018Is your mama home?\u2019 He was tall and skinny, with thick, black hair and eyebrows. And he was wearing tan pants and a black shirt. And he had these big, black boots. I was scared, and I ran inside as fast as I could to get my mother. I said, \u2018Mama! There\u2019s a man outside!\u2019 She pulled off her apron and walked out the back door, with me at her heels. She told me to go play, but I just acted like I was playing. I was trying to hear what he was saying to her. They were smiling, I could see that. Then the man walked away, toward the tracks, and grabbed onto a rail on one of the cars, hopped on, waved to me, and was gone. I asked Mama who he was, and she said, \u2018A nice man named Louis.\u2019 \u2018Is he coming back?\u2019 I said. \u2018He might,\u2019 she said, and walked back inside the house.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid he ever come back?\u201d Don said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. He did.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe first thing I noticed was that Mama stopped throwing things at the trains. I asked her why, and she said that ladies shouldn\u2019t behave that way.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen, a couple weeks later, Louis returned on the train. This time he brought me a bag of candy. Tiny candies in all different colors. And sparklers. You know the kind you hold in your hand on the Fourth of July? I loved those sparklers. I\u2019d never had any before. Mama walked out to greet him, and they laughed. She told me to stay out back because she and Louis had business to discuss upstairs. Of course, I know now what sort of business they were discussing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA merger,\u201d Don said.<\/p>\n

Vessie laughed and put her plate on the coffee table.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think that\u2019s right,\u201d she said. \u201cMergers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid he keep coming back?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Every two weeks or so. Always with candy for me. And sparklers. And he always had business to discuss with my mother. Sometimes he\u2019d stay for supper. Mama was so happy when Louis arrived. And so was I. Her face would change. She looked younger. And she smiled and laughed a lot. He\u2019d tell us stories about the places he\u2019d been and the people he\u2019d known. But when he\u2019d leave, her face would change back again, and she\u2019d look old again. Sometimes I would hear them shouting at each other, and it frightened me. Then, I guess it was about six or seven months later, wintertime, he hopped off the train with no bag of candy, no sparklers. He glanced at me, but didn\u2019t speak. Mama told me to go up to my room. They started shouting again. I heard the door shut and ran downstairs, past my mother, into the back yard. She yelled at me, but I didn\u2019t stop. His big, black boots stomped a path through the snow. I called his name, but he kept walking. I called out again. He turned, looked at me for a moment, and hopped over the fence and onto the train. I ran along the path his boots made, calling his name as the train picked up speed and rolled away.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe never came back?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. I remember my mother crying sometimes after that. I\u2019d ask her what was wrong, but she\u2019d just say she wasn\u2019t feeling well. I guess I knew the real reason. She never mentioned his name again. And she never bought me sparklers on the Fourth of July. Louis was running, too, I guess. Running from something.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll get there,\u201d Don said. \u201cWe\u2019ll be fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

15<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m a cork on the ocean. Floatin\u2019 over the ragin\u2019 sea. How deep is the ocean? How deep is the ocean? I\u2019ve lost my way. Hey, hey, hey.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

16<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In the indigo state between consciousness and sleep, Don grappled with strange visions and words:<\/p>\n

I have seen ringmasters and their concupiscence drown out the unified voices of hep cats and small town fools sipping dark, warm stout in dark, warm places. I have seen the hysterical behavior of fanatics, religious and otherwise. Suckers in Pintos with one foot on the brake and the other in the crypt. Bitter idiots calling these rants bitter drivel. I have seen these things nearly every day. I have embraced their madness, peeking around their columns, always listening for the plaintive, penetrating cry of the killdeer.<\/p>\n

Did the Greek gods die in the middle of my last good dream? Did they die when tigers ran free across painted plains of melancholy twigs, softened by cool, neon rain? Did they die when supple, clutching, concubine hands flinched, moist with sin\u2019s mists? Did the Greek gods die when our dreams did? Do we stand and stare stupidly at wheels ablaze, cans defiantly skipping behind, half-waving goodbye to a half-pursued, half-developed, half-considered near paradise? Only in the movies, Sundance.<\/p>\n

Strain your eyes to see the flashes of old, American city streets. Hot dog vendors. Smoky, lavender glances on the davenport in a Back Room. She shows just enough leg. Black, thigh-high stockings evident as she slides into a cab at three in the morning. The bloody, smashed nose of the pug who Made The Wrong Move with his blade. Hookah hipsters and never-sleepers with pockets full of little whites. Sin with whipped cream and a cheap wine chaser or a Martini if you still have some cash. How glorious it is to wake up alive in America.<\/p>\n

On the edge of sleep now:<\/p>\n

The winter light waned. Their feet crunched through the ice and dropped into the heavy snow beneath. Don tried to take Karen\u2019s right hand, but she pulled it away.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo reason to do that now,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Cacophonous howling sliced through the cold night.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d Karen said.<\/p>\n

\u201cStay here.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don walked to the edge of the pond and in the pallid light saw a small doe, belly-deep in the gelid water. Three gaunt, wild dogs snarled and leapt at her, forward to the edge of the water, then back, manic eyes wide, jaws snapping. He yelled at the sanguinary beasts, and they stopped for a moment, quiet. The doe splashed to the left, but the dogs cut off her escape and began raging again.<\/p>\n

\u201cDamnit,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

He hurried past Karen and into the house. He unlocked the gun case in the study, pulled out a rifle, rushed to the edge of the pond, and fired a shot into the air. The dogs stopped and looked at him, their ears raised. He fired again. The dogs scattered. The doe glanced back at Don. Then, like an acrobat, she kicked out of the frigid water and vaulted into the woods.<\/p>\n

Don heard ice crunching behind him and spun around.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou saved her,\u201d Karen said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou scared the hell outta me,\u201d he said, breathing hard.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n

They walked to the red barn. Karen stuck out her right hand. Don pulled the keys from his jacket pocket and gave them to her. She unlocked the door and swung it open. The piney smell rushed past them into the cold dusk. Don clicked the rifle\u2019s safety lock and leaned it against the wall. He pulled a yellow flashlight from a shelf above him and turned it on.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe woman is perfected,\u201d Karen said. \u201cHer dead body wears the smile of accomplishment.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPlath,\u201d Don said, waking himself up.<\/p>\n

17<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m a rock in a landslide. Rollin\u2019 over the mountainside. How deep is the valley? How deep is the valley?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

18<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/strong>Terry Stebbins entered the lobby and winked at Clara, a petite redhead in a modish, black business suit. She half-smiled back at him.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s in his office,\u201d she said, looking back down at her computer keypad.<\/p>\n

Stebbins grinned, \u201cThanks, honey.\u201d<\/p>\n

Clara didn\u2019t acknowledge the stubby, balding, thirty-nine-year-old man, and he plodded down the hallway. His clothes did not fit well: the sleeves of his brown leather coat nearly swallowed his hands, and the cuffs of his black rayon slacks dragged along the plush, green office carpet. Clara sneezed and blew her nose — he was clumsy with his favorite cologne, Drakkar Noir. Stebbins arrived at the last office on the right and knuckle-tapped the door twice. He hoped his boss would be pleased to hear the news.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome in,\u201d Pioneer Gordy said.<\/p>\n

Stebbins opened the door and paused. The dim office was lit by a small, gold upright lamp in the far corner. Gordy, seated behind a mammoth oak desk, swiveled to face him. Stebbins stepped inside the office and closed the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe think we know where he is,\u201d Stebbins said. \u201cI just got off the phone with Victor.\u201d<\/p>\n

Gordy stared at Stebbins. He leaned forward and scratched his neck.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHouston. Not sure where he\u2019s staying yet, but Vic\u2019s working on it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Gordy stood, removed his gray, silk suit jacket, and draped it over the back of his spacious leather chair. He loosened the knot of his Leonard tie and stepped toward the rectangular liquor table to the left of his desk.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood,\u201d he said. \u201cDrink?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure. Bourbon\u2019s fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

Gordy poured two drinks and handed one to Stebbins. The men said nothing. Gordy turned, walked behind his desk, stopped, and looked out the window at the street.<\/p>\n

\u201cTerry, you understand why this has to be done?\u201d Gordy asked, examining his own scarred, middle-aged countenance reflected in the window.<\/p>\n

\u201cAbsolutely. He burned you bad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>Gordy turned and glowered at Stebbins.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/em>\u201cSorry, boss. You know what I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>Gordy raised the glass of bourbon to his lips, not averting his gaze.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>\u201cBoss, I\u2019m sorry. I didn\u2019t mean anything by it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>Gordy turned again and looked at the streetlights\u2019 bronze glow hovering above car headlights zipping back and forth, up and down Centennial Street. It was that bronze glow — that ugly shade of brown, the color of grain, the color of dirt, of dirt roads — that pulled him back to the place he never wanted to return. It was an unpleasant sensation, a hateful, powerless feeling. His eyes fixed on the light and, as if in an elevator going down, his memory descended toward that color of grain, of dirt roads, poverty, impuissance, rage.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

19<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Victor Paine contemplated his next move, the engine of his orange-flame 1975 Corvette Stingray Coupe roaring as its back tires tore through the gravel epidermis of the half-paved country road. It was a challenging assignment. Gordy had more enemies than friends, and in a town like Dewberg, too many waves being made by someone like Paine meant darting shadows, dead phone lines, and uneasy exits.<\/p>\n

The drive to Consuelo\u2019s, the cows little black dots on sloping rectangles, was eerily nostalgic. A mild fluttering in his belly, almost giddiness, preceded a collection of memory-flashes — joyful, free, bold moments– that had, incredulously, led up to that very instant in his life. The difference between his past, present, and future seemed infinitesimal.<\/p>\n

The red sun released its hold and bled into sheer, pink clouds. Consuelo\u2019s was nearly empty. A few hoots and hollers erupted from two tables in the back corner of this, the best restaurant in Dewberg. It was a dark, little place with no windows, plenty of cold beer, two friendly barmaids, and the best Cuban Steak and Relish Paine had ever tasted. The tall, bearded man was hungry, but first walked across the sawdust-covered floor to the bar and ordered a Lone Star beer.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere you go, Vic,\u201d the bartender said, sliding Paine his beer in a frosted glass.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow\u2019s things, Nate?\u201d Paine said as he sat down on the barstool and lifted his battered but loyal snakeskin boots onto the footholds.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, you know, Vic. Hangin\u2019 on,\u201d he said, wiping the bar with a thick, white towel.<\/p>\n

\u201cLennon or McCartney?\u201d Paine asked as he lit a cigarette with his aged Zippo lighter.<\/p>\n

\u201cC\u2019mon, Vic. Every time you come in here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLennon or McCartney.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMcCartney.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood. Hemingway or Fitzgerald?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHemingway, for sure.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwo for two, Nate. Not bad. Miles Davis or Charlie Parker?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDavis?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhoa! Three for three.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJoni Mitchell or Stevie Nicks?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMitchell.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, smart guy\u2026Roger Moore or Sean Connery?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cConnery. Absolutely Connery.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWrong. The correct answer is neither. George Lazenby. On Her Majesty\u2019s Secret Service<\/em>. 1969. That\u2019s<\/em> the best James Bond, you cur. Now, time to talk business. What can you tell me about Freeway?\u201d<\/p>\n

Nate turned, placed two mugs on the shelf behind him, and turned back to face Paine.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust that he had some radio gig up in Indiana. New name. \u2018Don McQueen.\u2019 Then he disappeared.\u201d<\/p>\n

Paine stared at the bulky, sweating bartender, inches from his face.<\/p>\n

\u201cFreeway wants to turn pro, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLooks like it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s he driving?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not much help, Nate. I\u2019m gonna run a tab. Cuban Steak and Relish, medium rare, and another Lone Star.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo problem, Vic.\u201d<\/p>\n

Paine scanned the restaurant with easy-does-it eyes and dragged on his cigarette. Red, plastic lace-covered candle jars like low-angle film lights illuminated faces of men and women full of drunken joy or drunken sorrow. They either yelled or talked quietly, pulling hands up from battered wooden tables to take a puff or a swig. The glow of neon beer signs reflected in the bar mirror.<\/p>\n

He pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his faded jeans and opened it, sliding a picture from its plastic sleeve. Himself, age six. Orange Winnie The Pooh t-shirt. Deeply tanned from what must have been one hell of a great summer. No worries.<\/p>\n

Now, forty years later, he had death to worry about. Killing. Being killed. Death waiting patiently, licking its chops in the abyss of consequences. No other options, really. No alternative plan. His instructions were clear. He had a slight head start on Freeway, though. At least he had that.<\/p>\n

Paine finished his meal and walked out of Consuelo\u2019s to the \u2019Vette. He opened the door and sat down but didn\u2019t start the engine, instead turning the key counter-clockwise so he could listen to the radio. The Classic Rock KTEX deejay was spinning the Eagles\u2019 \u201cGood Day in Hell.\u201d He stared up through the t-tops at the stars in the hot, black, south Texas sky and thought about Freeway. Killing Freeway. That was the job. No alternatives. He looked at the book on the passenger seat as he started the Corvette\u2019s engine. Heart of Darkness<\/em>. It was his favorite.<\/p>\n

20<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cOh well. It\u2019s been a good day in hell. Tomorrow I\u2019ll be glory bound.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

21<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Pursuers and the pursued. Murderers and those to be murdered. For them the night did not surrender easily. It held on. The night forced them to rethink, retool, remember. It was stronger than they were. The night mocked their absolutes, made them question their motives and acknowledge their fragility. The night reduced them to their essence and reminded them of their powerlessness. The night frightened them not because of what it veiled, but because of what it clarified.<\/p>\n

How skilled they were at killing or avoiding death was a matter of opinion, only their own, and those opinions meant nothing to anyone else in that darkness where they breathed. When it came to doing their jobs, they were not void of feelings. They just didn\u2019t dwell on those feelings. These were things civilians could never understand. It was why life could become so cold, like a planet too far from the sun.<\/p>\n

Yes, the night held on. It kept them waiting, kept the killing and the running fresh in their minds.<\/p>\n

22<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Paine sat alone on a maroon, leather couch in the living room of Pioneer Gordy\u2019s downtown condominium. A block-candle on the glass coffee table and a dim glow over the wet bar were the only sources of light. He could hear Gordy and Stebbins talking in the study, Gordy\u2019s voice at times rising in anger.<\/p>\n

Paine botched the job, and he knew it. He hoped for another opportunity.<\/p>\n

The door to the study swung open and Gordy, with Stebbins at his heels, walked into the room and stared at Paine.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want a drink, Vic?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, thanks,\u201d Paine said. \u201cMaker\u2019s on the rocks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTerry,\u201d Gordy ordered, \u201cthree Maker\u2019s on the rocks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou got it, boss.\u201d<\/p>\n

Gordy, wearing a green, silk robe and matching pajamas and slippers, walked across the room to the picture window, lit a cigarette, and pulled the blinds open a bit. He turned back around, again stared at Paine, blew a cloud of smoke in his direction, scratched his neck, and flashed a condescending grin.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere you go, gentlemen,\u201d Stebbins said as he shuffled over from the wet bar and handed the men their drinks.<\/p>\n

Gordy began pacing deliberately between Stebbins and Paine.<\/p>\n

\u201cSit down, Terry,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cSure, chief,\u201d Stebbins said, plopping down on a bamboo mamasan chair.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow could you fuck this up?\u201d Gordy asked, peering into Paine\u2019s face, then into Stebbins\u2019s. \u201cHow could<\/em> you fuck this up? I\u2019d like to know. Houston?\u201d<\/p>\n

Paine looked at Stebbins, then up at Gordy, and said, \u201cIt was air-tight, PG.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAir-tight?\u201d Gordy said. \u201cAir-tight?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought the information was sound, PG.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou need some hearing aids, then, Vic.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, Vic.\u201d Stebbins said. \u201cMaybe you\u2019d like to stay closer to the office, you know? You\u2019ve been out in the field for a lotta years. Might be losing the old edge, huh?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a goddamn fool, Terry,\u201d Paine said. \u201cOne of these days I\u2019m gonna help you understand that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that supposed to mean, scumbag?\u201d Stebbins said, standing.<\/p>\n

\u201cSit the fuck down!\u201d Gordy shouted, throwing his glass across the room and shattering it against a large painting of two nude women playing croquet.<\/p>\n

Stebbins flinched. Paine sat still, unimpressed.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m trying to run a business here,\u201d Gordy said. \u201cIf you two don\u2019t start acting like normal fucking people, I\u2019m gonna personally bury you\u2026alive<\/em>\u2026in one of those cornfields up north. Both of you. Understand?\u201d<\/p>\n

The two men nodded, glaring at each another.<\/p>\n

Gordy paused, looked back and forth at Paine and Stebbins, and began explaining their next move.<\/p>\n

Paine brought the glass of whiskey to his lips, pulled in a long draft, and swallowed. The warm liquid raced down his throat and into his guts and untied his burly neck-knots. He felt as if he\u2019d been holding his breath for the last two days.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

23<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The highway roped through the mountains, and the afternoon heat like a steel pressure-cooker lid clamped down on the valleys and imprisoned the steamy air.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd so I told Richard from North Dakota the whole story,\u201d Don said. \u201cCoach Mozz was in serious trouble with Gordy. Owed him twenty-five thousand. Gordy said he\u2019d wipe the debt off his books if Coach could guarantee him I would not only break the NABL single-game scoring record, but in doing so drop in exactly seventy-one points. Not seventy. Not seventy-two.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy only seventy-one?\u201d Vessie said.<\/p>\n

\u201cSee, Gordy could make a hell of a lot more than twenty-five thousand dollars if he bet on me both breaking the record and <\/em>scoring a specific number of points.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow could your coach do something like that to you? Expect that from you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was a walking dead man, Aunt Vessie. He couldn\u2019t pay the debt. It was a last gasp.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did you say to him?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI told him I\u2019d talk to Gordy. That I\u2019d take on Coach\u2019s debt. Let Coach off the hook. Put it on me. Gordy agreed to shift it over.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh no,\u201d Vessie said. \u201cYou scored seventy points that night, Donald.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Four seconds left in the game. Broke the record with the first free throw. Missed that second free throw, though. I\u2019d sprinted to the locker room as soon as the third quarter ended. Told Coach I had to go to the john. Instead, I snorted up what was left in the vial of cocaine I\u2019d stashed in my locker.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDonald. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know why.\u201d<\/p>\n

They rounded a switchback, and Don tapped the brakes as the Tahoe approached a wobbly semi.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that why you missed the free throw?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cProbably.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI never understood why players miss free throws. It\u2019s not a long shot.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNope. Fifteen feet.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd nobody\u2019s allowed to bother you while you shoot.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s right. They\u2019ve gotta leave you alone.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you can take your time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPretty much. Yes.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don sped up and passed the semi.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo now I was in the deep end of the pool,\u201d he said. \u201cGordy had bet fifty thousand on me. I owed him seventy-five grand. Didn\u2019t have it, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don lit a cigarette.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat day,\u201d Vessie said. \u201cThe storm.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. The day after the game. Gordy and his guys were out looking for me. I didn\u2019t know what to do, where to go. I was just driving, trying to think. My gun on the passenger seat. Barely knew how to fire the thing. Dark sky. And then there they were. In that goddamned Cadillac of his. He saw me. Intersection of Highway 4 and State Road 29. They U-turned and followed. I turned left on to 29 and floored it. They sped up beside me. Driver\u2019s side. They rolled down their windows. Gordy was in the passenger seat. He was yelling, \u2018Pull over! Pull over!\u2019 I panicked. Rolled down my window, picked up the gun, and fired twice, just to back them off. They swerved. There was blood, like thin, red racing stripes, along the back end of the Cadillac. One guy was slumped over, his head hanging out the backseat window. His hair, it was long, it was flailing in the wind. Looked like a nest of black snakes, spinning and curling and whipping back and forth, spraying red mist.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don dragged on his cigarette and checked the side view mirrors.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd the storm had moved in fast. They were still following me. Right on my bumper. My rear view mirror framed the Cadillac, Gordy hanging out of the passenger window, screaming, spit on his cheeks. We got off the highway and on to the county roads. The oldies station was playing Simon and Garfunkel\u2019s \u201cAmerica\u201d, then the disc jockey breaks in and says something about a tornado warning, \u2018a tornado has been spotted<\/em>, has touched down<\/em>.\u2019 Then I saw it. Death Twister. And I drove toward it. Gordy wouldn\u2019t back off. Just kept coming. He was still screaming, his hair leaping like black flames, his eyes wide. The Death Twister was maybe a quarter mile ahead of us. The sound was like they all say \u2013 a freight train. I heard a blast and looked back. Gordy had a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. My rear window shattered. The Death Twister inhaled a barn, spit out a cow, and roared up the center of the road. I drove straight into it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Vessie shook her head.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd Richard from North Dakota wasn\u2019t Richard from North Dakota,\u201d Don said.<\/p>\n

24<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Don drove while Vessie slept, her snoring keeping his drowsiness at bay. Still, the miles of mountain road accumulating behind him were abandoned by his memory, memory that wavered in tumult\u2019s presence.<\/p>\n

His road-thoughts, mercurial and fragmentary:<\/p>\n

Motionless motorcade of need. Dismembered stillness. Its silence works to extinguish the fire. The staring miracle seems much younger in a knee-high grain field. Bitter, bark-bitten traveler. Destinations disguised. Maybe write a film script about a rock and roll star. Last chance to make things right. Plenty of room for guitar players selling lies. Ripping notes off other guys that tell the truth.<\/p>\n

Candelabrum on the mountain top. Wed the spirit of a queen. Lovely sounds from the zenana. A scimitar carves up juvenocracy. Follow the euphony.<\/p>\n

Magnified summer slush. Sprinkling lawn dancers, they float on stones. Three in the sun with the far-out one. Dry minutes dissolve.<\/p>\n

Expelled from a too-distant rock. Gathering a peculiar dust. Content with my space-age rust. Armored men surround the table. I am one. Phantasm on horseback. Mind-gangster. The psychedelicate will survive, will be catalogued, categorized, cat-got-my-tongue. Sitting at the \u2018grown-up table.\u2019 Talking movie deals with no cash in pocket. Funky jazz club in Redkey, Indiana. Stalling in a dying Buick. Behold Chuck Mangione.<\/p>\n

The Mad Hatter in the doorway of Lenny\u2019s On the Corner said you were back in town. Funny. You once covered your exit-prints with sharp, little slivers of my devotion. Coffee-wired and stoned I was when the latch clicked.<\/p>\n

Make believe. Rake and heave. Wake and leave.<\/p>\n

Weave a lake. Deceive a fake. Relieve the goddamned ache. Receive and take. And take. And take.<\/p>\n

You growling dog. Scowling frog. Murky bog. Gelatin fog.<\/p>\n

Seated and still. Completed. Filled with needed heat. The movement inside a drummer\u2019s beat. I\u2019ve been numb for two days. Been strung on the line. Railriding ain\u2019t no place for the timid. There ain\u2019t no law out on the rails. Steel suffocation in waves.<\/p>\n

Sell your soul! Keep the club open! They\u2019re broke and the joke won\u2019t let hope in. A glass spider creeps across the leaden sky again. A sun that never rises, just disguises, pretends. And puts together my new beginnings. And pulls apart my old split ends.<\/p>\n

Her morning bath ends with tea. And a daydream flutters like the opening of a present. They said to be home before dark or nine. The taste was like metal, with a dash of theater. Dim light and Joni Mitchell. Camera pans across rock star walls. I tasted her sex scene. She, moon-colored grace, matched my bed-cinema. And the fatigue was broken by the breath after each verse she read. We slept through the eclipse.<\/p>\n

Deviled heights. I stood agape. Formerly foolish and a fool again. Fourteen dollars for a new double album. Fourteen dollars for a new double album. The Brass Section Daffodils, for fourteen bills, play Gram Parsons songs: \u201cOut with the truckers and the kickers and the cowboy angels. And a good saloon in every single town. Oh, and I remember something you once told me. And I\u2019ll be damned if it did not come true. Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down. And they all led me straight back home to you.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

25<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWhere are we going to stop, Donald?\u201d Vessie said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe coast. Gotta get to the coast. We\u2019ll have more options there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPromise me we\u2019ll make it, Donald.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll make it. I promise you we\u2019ll make it. We\u2019ve got thirty grand in cash and a full tank of gas. We\u2019re fine.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s all the money I have, Donald, so it better be a nice beach.\u201d<\/p>\n

She patted his arm.<\/p>\n

They reached the Carolina side of the mountains as the sun dipped out of sight. Don saw the white, four-story cross ahead on his left and steered onto the exit ramp. A hundred yards to the left of the cross was Adult Planet, its exterior bright, its design contemporary.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust sit tight, Aunt Vessie. I\u2019ve gotta run in here for a minute. I\u2019ll be right back.\u201d<\/p>\n

A-D-U-L-T P-L-A-N-E-T flashed in big, bright, red letters.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll be in there for more than a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGive me a little credit, please. Be right back.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don stopped as the entrance doors closed behind him. Dark as a basement. Then the neon lights \u2013 green, red, blue \u2013 fuzzed in from left and right and lit the way to a man sitting at a counter. His acne-ravaged face peeked out from a black Slayer t-shirt like a turtle\u2019s head from its shell. His eyes were half-closed.<\/p>\n

\u201cPeepers, movies, or bookstore,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cDingo here?\u201d Don said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTell him it\u2019s Don.\u201d<\/p>\n

The man sat still for a moment, spun around, and disappeared behind a black curtain.<\/p>\n

Phil Collins\u2019s \u201cIn the Air Tonight\u201d pounded the walls. Potent, synthetic cherry smell. Women\u2019s voices. Moans. Fabricated, ecstatic screams.<\/p>\n

Dingo stepped out from behind the curtain rolling up the sleeves of his pink button-down shirt. Khakis, no socks, and Top-Siders completed the look.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on back,\u201d he said, flipping sandy-brown bangs from his forehead.<\/p>\n

The men shook hands, and Don followed Dingo to his office, a nautical-themed room with wooden ducks decorating nearly every flat surface.<\/p>\n

\u201cHave a seat, Ronny. You want a drink?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t, man. Gotta make it quick. I appreciate this, Dingo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnything for my old college buddy. Two right? And the Glock?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dingo turned and opened a gray container on the floor. He tossed two bullet-proof vests to Don, along with a large, green, Orvis duffel bag, then placed the handgun on his desk.<\/p>\n

\u201cNice weapon,\u201d Dingo said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI owe you one, man.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don stuffed the vests and the handgun in the bag.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo worries, old sport. Where you headed?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWest.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStop by next time you\u2019re in the neighborhood. You\u2019ve gotta see the boat.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI will. Take care.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou okay, old sport?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n

They shook hands again, and Don walked out through the cherry air-bath and back to the Tahoe.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s in the bag?\u201d Vessie said.<\/p>\n

\u201cBody armor and a handgun.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a relief. I thought you were going to say X-rated movies.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSmart-ass.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I\u2019m tired, Donald.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTell you what. We\u2019ll drive for a couple more hours and then stop for the night. Okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay. I\u2019m going to go back to sleep. Unless you need me to drive.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. Get some sleep.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe sea, huh? We\u2019re headed for the sea. I\u2019ve never been there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGet some sleep.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

26<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The hospital chapel door opened. It was Karen\u2019s mother. Don stood but did not approach her.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Teresa,\u201d Don said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re scared, aren\u2019t you,\u201d she said. \u201cScared of all this.\u201d<\/p>\n

She scanned the dim chapel.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t know? You\u2019re scared of death. Karen scared you, didn\u2019t she?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

An imperceptible draft disturbed the candle flames.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you think Karen was scared?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n

He stepped toward her.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t. Don\u2019t do it. Stay there. Please.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don looked down at his shoes.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook at me,\u201d Teresa said. \u201cI never trusted you. Did you know that? Did you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. I never knew that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you know why I never trusted you, Ronny?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause you were always a perfect gentleman. You\u2019ll always be a perfect gentleman, Ronny.\u201d<\/p>\n

Teresa turned, stopped for a moment at the door, then exited the chapel.<\/p>\n

27<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Vessie shot up from the seat gasping.<\/p>\n

\u201cJesus!\u201d Don said. \u201cAre you okay? What\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n

She fought to regain her breath, then leaned back.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m okay. Went down the wrong pipe.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know. I was dreaming about something, drinking a Coke or something. I\u2019m parched, Donald. Can we stop and get something to drink?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou sure you\u2019re okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Just thirsty.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNext place we come to, we\u2019ll stop.\u201d<\/p>\n

He reached for her hand and held it.<\/p>\n

\u201cI said I was okay,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

She tried to pull away, but Don held tight.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know you are,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

She leaned her head back again and slept.<\/p>\n

Don drove for another half-hour. Ahead on their right was a convenience store-diner-dump just off the exit. He pulled into the parking lot.<\/p>\n

\u201cAunt Vessie,\u201d he said patting her on the shoulder. \u201cWe\u2019re at a restaurant. Do you want to go inside?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. Can you just get me a Coke to go?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure. Be right back.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don walked into Beard\u2019s Highway Kitchen and Appurtenances and approached the counter. The place was empty save for a woman at the cash register.<\/p>\n

\u201cEvening,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Her dark hair was pulled up. Her eyes. Her lips. Those hands. Hands like a model\u2019s hands.<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2026and they all led me straight back home to you.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>But, of course, it wasn\u2019t Karen. Her name was Sarah. Her name tag read, \u2018Sarah.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201cWe close here at nine. Can I get you something, hon? Are you okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Yeah. You, I need two large Cokes to go, please.\u201d<\/p>\n

The woman paused, then began filling up the cups with fountain Coke. A train whistle wailed.<\/p>\n

\u201cTracks right behind the restaurant,\u201d Sarah said. \u201cYou ever just want to hop on one of those trains and let it take you somewhere, somewhere else? And then never come back?\u201d<\/p>\n

Don cleared his throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. I do.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m Sarah.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon.\u201d<\/p>\n

The train whistle again. Rolling past the restaurant now. Evaporating. A hulking, steel ghost that tempts with an offer of forbidden manumission. On and away it moves, leaving behind and melancholy those who can only in reverie sip that endemic nectar.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere you go,\u201d Sarah said, placing the Cokes on the counter. \u201cTwo-fifty.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don grabbed one cup.<\/p>\n

\u201cWill you wait here for just a minute?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cSure. Okay.\u201d<\/p>\n

He walked to the Tahoe. Vessie was not there. He jogged back to the restaurant.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are your restrooms?\u201d he asked Sarah.<\/p>\n

\u201cBack here. And we have a restroom in the store.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don walked out and around to the side of the building. Almost completely dark now. He saw a figure, a mound next to the railroad tracks. The parking lot\u2019s lone light illuminated the empty Tahoe.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

Don walked toward the figure. His feet seemed to make contact with nothing. Just the warm breeze on his face. Like he was being carried.<\/p>\n

It was her. Curled up on her right side.<\/p>\n

\u201cAunt Vessie. What are you doing out here? I want you to meet someone. C\u2019mon. Here\u2019s your Coke. You said you were thirsty, now c\u2019mon. We\u2019ve got a long way to go.\u201d<\/p>\n

He knelt down beside her. Didn\u2019t look at her.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re gonna make it,\u201d he said. \u201cI promise.\u201d<\/p>\n

He touched her hand. Squeezed it. It was cold. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open a bit, a frozen word on her tongue.<\/p>\n

\u201cWake up,\u201d he said, pulling her hand back and forth. \u201cI don\u2019t know what I\u2019m doing. I\u2019m so sorry. I don\u2019t know what. I don\u2019t. I can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don stood, clenched his fists, raised them, and screamed at fiends in the night sky.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

28<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDo you have any sparklers in the store? Fourth of July sparklers?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think so. I think we have a few boxes left over. What\u2019s going on?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI need one box of sparklers. Please.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sarah returned with the black, rectangular box, and together they walked out of the restaurant.<\/p>\n

Don opened the box, pulled out the sparklers, and pushed them, one by one, into the moist ground, encircling Vessie\u2019s body. Then he lit them. Diminutive flame-fountains shot fire-drops into the air, each one burning white hot, reaching its incandescent potential. Then a final, angry whirl. Then extinguished.<\/p>\n

\u201cI need to call an ambulance,\u201d Don said.<\/p>\n

\u201cPhone\u2019s in the restaurant. You gonna be okay, hon?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWould you like to go somewhere else and never come back?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

Sarah looked at the restaurant, then at the dying lights surrounding the old woman\u2019s body.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWith me?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

Don reached for Sarah\u2019s hand, and they walked to the restaurant, Vessie\u2019s body once again a dark figure next to the tracks.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

13 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Don lit a cigarette and cracked the window, mingling tobacco smoke with the smell of damp earth. \u201cI think this rain is slowing down a bit. You tired?\u201d he said, gripping the wheel with his right hand. \u201cNo,\u201d Vessie said. \u201cYou?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m fine. I figure we can stop once we get outside Cincinnati. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,200,219],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2072"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2072"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2072\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3227,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2072\/revisions\/3227"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2072"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2072"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2072"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}