THE RED PICKUP
On the afternoon of the second Thursday in July, driving away from the Family Planning Clinic, R.J. saw in the Explorer’s rear mirror that a battered red pickup truck also had pulled away from the curb. It stayed behind her in traffic as she crossed the city of Springfield, heading for Route 91.
She pulled over onto the grass at the edge of the highway and stopped her car. When the red pickup sailed past, she drew a deep breath and sat there for a minute or two until her pulse slowed, and then she drove the Explorer back onto the road.
Half a mile down the highway the red pickup waited by the roadside. When she passed, it moved onto Route 91 behind her.
Now she was trembling. When she came to the turnoff to Route 292 that would bring her onto the winding back road up Woodfield Mountain, she didn’t take it, instead staying on 1-91.
They already knew where she lived, but she didn’t want to lead them onto lonely, untrafficked roads. Instead she stayed on Route 91 all the way to Greenfield and then took Route 2 west, following the Mohawk Trail up into the mountains. She drove slowly, watching the truck, trying to commit things to memory.
She stopped the Explorer in front of the Shelburne Falls barracks of the Massachusetts State Police, and the red pickup truck stopped across the road. The three men in the truck sat and looked at her. She wanted to walk up to them, tell them to go to hell. But people were shooting doctors, and she got out of the Explorer and ran into the building, where it was dark and cool in contrast to the bright early summer sun outside.
The man behind the desk was young and tanned, with short black hair. His uniform was starched, the shirt ironed with three vertical creases, sharper than a Marine’s.
“Yes, ma’am? I’m Trooper Buckman.”
“Three men in a pickup truck have been following me all the way from Springfield. They’re parked outside.”
He got up, walked out the front door while she followed. The place where the truck had been parked was empty. Another pickup truck came down the highway at a good clip and slowed when the driver saw the trooper. It was yellow. A Ford.
R.J. shook her head. “No, it was a red Chevy. It’s gone.”
The trooper nodded. “Come on back inside.”
He sat down behind his desk and filled out a form, her name and address, the nature of the complaint. “You’re certain they were following you? You know, sometimes a vehicle just happens to be going the same place you are, and you think it’s a tail. It’s happened to me.”
“No. There were three men. Following me.”
“Well now, most likely a couple good ol’ boys had a schnapps or two under their belt, Doctor, you know? They see a pretty woman, follow her for a while. Not a nice thing to do, but no real damage.”
“It’s not like that.”
She told him about her work at the clinic, about the protests. When she finished she saw he was looking at her through a great coldness. “Yes, I imagine there are people don’t like you all that much. So what do you want me to do?”
“Can’t you notify your patrol cars to watch for their truck?”
“We have a limited number of cars and they’re on the main roads. There are country roads in every direction, into Vermont, down to Greenfield, south all the way to Connecticut, west all the way into New York State. A majority of the people in the country drive pickup trucks, and most of them are red Fords or Chevrolets.”
“It was a red Chevrolet with running boards. Not new. There were three men in the cab. The driver wore rimless eyeglasses. He and the man near the passenger door were thin, or at least average. The man in the middle looked fat and had a good-sized beard.”
“Their ages? Color of hair, color of eyes?”
“I couldn’t tell.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the prescription pad she had scribbled on. “The truck had Vermont license plates. The number is TZK-4922.”
“Oh.” He wrote it down. “Okay, we’ll check it out, get back to you.”
“Can’t you do it now? While I stay here?”
“It’s liable to take some time.”
Now she returned his dislike. “I’ll wait.”
“Up to you.”
She sat on a bench near the desk. He made certain he didn’t do anything about her for at least five minutes, then he picked up the telephone and called a number. She heard him repeating the Vermont license plate number and then thanking somebody and hanging up.
“What did they say?”
“Have to give them time. I’ll call back.”
He busied himself with paperwork and ignored her. Twice the telephone rang, and he had brief conversations that had nothing to do with her. Twice she got up restlessly and went outside to look at the highway, seeing only the traffic, heightened by people driving home from work.
When she returned the second time, he was talking on the telephone about the pickup’s license plate.
“Stolen plate,” he told her. “It was removed from a Honda sedan this morning at the Hadley Mall.”
“So … that’s it?”
“That’s it. We’ll put out a bulletin, but by now they have some other number plate on the truck, you can be sure.”
She nodded. “Thank you.” She started to leave and was struck by a thought. “They know where I live. Will you kindly telephone the Woodfield police department and ask Chief McCourtney to meet me at my house?”
He sighed. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
Mack McCourtney went through her house with her, room by room. Cellar and attic. Then the two of them walked the wood path together.
She told him about the harassing calls. “Isn’t there equipment the phone company offers now that gives you the telephone number for every call?”
“Yeah, Caller ID. The service costs a few dollars a month, and you have to buy a piece of equipment that costs about the same as an answering machine. But you’re left with a bunch of phone numbers, and New England Telephone won’t reveal who they belong to.
“If I tell them it’s a police matter, they’ll set up an annoyance call trap. That service is free, but they’ll charge you three dollars and twenty-five cents for every number they trace and identify.” Mack sighed. “The trouble is, R.J., these creeps who are calling are organized. They know all about this equipment, and all you’re going to get is a lot of numbers that belong to pay phones, a different pay phone for every call.”
“So you don’t think it’s worth trying to trace them?”
He shook his head.
They saw nothing on the wood trail. “I’d bet a year’s pay they’re long gone,” he said. “But here’s the thing, these woods are deep. Lots of places to hide a pickup truck off the road. So I’d like you to lock your doors and windows tonight. I’m off at nine o’clock, and Bill Peters is the night man. We’ll keep driving by your house, and we’ll keep our eyes peeled. Okay?”
“Okay.”
It was a long, hot night, and it passed slowly. Several times headlights coming down the road sent light dancing into her bedroom. The car always slowed when it passed her house; she assumed it was Bill Peters in the squad car.
Toward dawn the heat was stifling. Keeping the windows closed on the second floor was silly, she decided, since she would certainly hear it if anyone set a ladder against the house. She lay in bed and enjoyed the coolness from the window, and a little after five o’clock the coyotes started to howl behind the house. That was a good sign, she thought; if humans were in the woods, probably the coyotes wouldn’t howl.
She had read somewhere that much of the time the howling was sexual invitation, used to arrange mating, and she smiled as she listened: Aa-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-yip-yip-yip. Here I am, I’m ready, come and take me.
It had been a long time of abstinence for her. Humans, after all, were animals too, as ready for sex as the coyotes, and she lay back and opened her mouth and let the sound come out. “Aa-ooo-ooo-ooo-yip-yip-yip.” She and the pack howled back and forth as the night turned pearly gray, and she smiled to realize she could be so scared and so horny, all at the same time.