Stars spread high and bright over a blackened sky in down-town Potter Springs. The courthouse, a ghoulish presence with stone made green by the streetlamps, oversaw the proceedings of the square. Activities that were, at this late hour, nonexistent.
Mark paused at the northern corner, waiting absurdly for the walk sign. Next to him, a banged up Pinto crawled to a stop. The window rolled down, releasing the dead, sweet odor of marijuana and heavy metal riffs played at full volume.
Mark recognized the tune. “Welcome to the Jungle.”
“Sweet, fancy Moses!” High-pitched snickers came from inside. “That you, Pastor Mark?”
“Hi, Benny.” Standing alone, wearing Fall Festival attire in the starkness of the intersection, Mark saw no point in denying the charge.
“Whatcha doin’ downtown in the middle of the night?” Lake-view’s junior janitor asked. “Wearing … that?”
“Just taking a little walk.” Mark’s Moses wig and beard dangled from his grasp like a boneless rat, twisting in the wind.
“Wanna ride?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Come on, dude, it’s getting cold,” the shotgun passenger said to Benny. “Roll the window up.” The youth, in a black T-shirt adorned with gigantic lips, looked at Mark through red-rimmed eyes.
“Chill,” Benny said. “I can’t leave him here, he’s my boss.” He turned to Mark. “This is Hoover.”
“Nice to meet you,” Mark offered.
“Whatever,” said Hoover.
“Get in the back,” Benny told his friend.
“Unh-unh.”
“Get in the back! Dude, he’s got a skirt on, okay?”
Clearly resisting the demotion, Hoover emerged and arranged himself in the backseat.
Seeing that Benny wasn’t going anywhere unless Mark availed himself of this unwelcome hospitality, he slid into the car and let the smoke waft around him.
“What’s on you?” Benny asked, staring at Mark’s wet robes.
“Dr Pepper. I spilled it.”
“Try not to get the seats wet, okay?” Benny threw the car in gear and they roared toward Mesquite Street, drowning in the angry melody of Guns N’ Roses.
The roses, Mark thought. He’d knocked them over.
While the car drove to the rhythm of eighties metal bands, Mark pushed away questions as to how Benny knew his exact address. He didn’t want to know. Instead, he relived the latest debacle of his life.
Reaching for Courtney in his lonely fog, reflexes dulled by whiskey and misuse, he had tipped his empty drink. The ice cubes scattered slippery as bugs and he chased them with slow fingers. Fingers that accidentally unsettled the fake arrangement. Dumped it to the shag carpet, where it bounced and the stems came out like emaciated legs, the heavy rose heads upside down and dusty.
In the process, he managed to upend Courtney’s full soda, which splashed an ugly brown swoosh on her tank top. And then she shrieked about her couch, and don’t step on the flowers, and that’s Gran’s vase.
The sight, the sounds, cleared the haze away. The wrongness of the moment penetrated his being. This time, he embraced it. “I better go,” he told her, and slipped out the door. He remembered in the parking lot that he had no car, but he didn’t glance backward.
Night air sobered him quicker than the icy liquid on his lap, and the wind whipped the folds of his costume. He walked the streets, shuffling in sandals that rubbed his ankles like tangled ropes. The sin that so easily entangles, as Paul would say. He waited for a message, a thunderbolt to zap him from the recesses of the sky for even thinking about what he’d almost done.
Instead, he got a couple of stoned teenagers in a Pinto and an uncomfortable yet speedy ride home.
On Mesquite Street, Mark was deposited without ceremony on his driveway. “See you t’morrow,” Benny said. The strains of “Paradise City” shadowed along with the Pinto’s blue smoke as it screamed down the lane.
The house condemned Mark with emptiness, dark and quiet. He went directly to the machine. No messages. On caller ID he saw a call that came through at 10:45 from Ben Thompson. Amanda.
She actually called. I wasn’t here. She called, and I wasn’t here.
He checked the clock. 12:38. Too late to wake her. Maybe just plain too late.
He stumbled to the bedroom where he lay facedown on his pillow with his arms flung wide, still in the dampened costume, too tired to change.
THE NEXT DAY, the cold sun touched the plains with the barest warmth and brushed Lakeview’s sloped roof. Near the entrance, Dale Ochs ground his cigarette in the sand tower ashtray. Mark swept past him.
“Morning.” Dale fell into step alongside him. “You look beat. Long night?”
“Nope.” Mark strode on.
“I’m doing the receipts for the carnival today.” Dale struggled to keep up, burgundy tassels dancing on the tips of his pointed loafers. “Have you got them?”
“In my office.”
“Good. I’ll follow you there.”
They passed Benny in the hall, who ignored Dale completely and gave Mark a faint chin nod. “Hey, dude.”
“Hey.” A silent agreement between men. Men who had bonded in the darkest hour through one of life’s most unbreakable pacts. A midnight ride, no questions asked, no stories told. It would not be discussed again.
Maybe Mark had a friend after all.
“Good morning, Ms. Hodges,” he said to Letty.
“Is it?” Seated at her desk, she licked an envelope, her pale tongue long and skinny against the fold.
Mark shuddered inwardly. “I hope so.”
In his office, Mark handed Dale the packet with leftover tickets and exchange logs, along with a zippered pouch full of the evening’s take.
“Why didn’t you make a night deposit?” Dale ran a hand over Mark’s shelves, as if testing them for strength.
“Had other things to do. It was safe here.”
“Other things. Oh, that’s right.” Dale checked his fingers for dust, then rubbed them against each other. “Helping our lovely Ms. Williams. Does the Camaro ride as fast as it looks?”
Mark’s blood slowed as it pounded in his ears, full of bass and fear. “She had some boxes.”
“Of course. Nice of you, all those boxes. What a friend.”
I could use a friend like you.
“Did you need anything else?”
“This should do.” Dale lifted the small pile. “When I update our prayer lists, I’ll make sure to give you a copy.”
“Thanks.” Mark clicked on his computer, a not-so-subtle dismissal. It warmed up with various growls and clicks, the ancient beast coming to life.
“Oh, and congratulations on your father-in-law.” Dale paused in the doorway.
“Sorry?”
“His improving health. I spoke to Amanda last night.” Dale’s smile was the stuff of nightmares. “She says he’s doing much, much better.” His tiny shoes tapped down the hall again, and Mark detected a pattern of joy in the rhythm.
Dale talked to Amanda. Last night. And Amanda tried to call. Didn’t leave a message.
What had Dale told her? What had he seen?
Mark imagined the deacon pressed against Courtney’s balcony window, beak nose squashed against the glass. Long enough to know nothing happened? Or had he been there at all?
He checked his watch, Mandy should be up by now. He’d have to face her sometime. Explain what happened. No telling what venom Dale had spewed.
No need to panic. He’d clear everything up with a simple phone call.
He posted the In Conference sign and shut the paneled door. Saying a quick prayer, he set his gut and dialed.
“Thompson residence.” Katy’s cool alto answered the phone.
“Hello. This is Mark.” He never knew how to address her. Mother wasn’t right, Mrs. Thompson too formal. Katy, maybe. Dragonlady, his favorite, clearly unacceptable.
“Hello, Mark.” She sounded disappointed. “Mandy make it back all right? I was waiting to phone, hoping she would sleep in.”
Mandy… make it back? The words skipped around his head like errant pinballs. He couldn’t get them in the right order. Back. Mandy. Mandy isn’t back. “She’s not in Houston?”
“Of course not. She left last night.”
Stale coffee from his I 
MY WIFE mug wafted up at him. A gift from Amanda when they got engaged, he drank from the souvenir every morning. Hand washed it
before leaving so he could use it the next day.
“Say that again.” As he stared at the bright red letters on the cup, his voice hoarsened.
“I said she left,” Katy repeated. “I didn’t get her amusing little note until this morning. Naturally, she didn’t ask my opinion-driving off in the middle of the night…”
The bottom of his office chair fell into an abyss.
What had Dale said?
“She gets it from her father. Never mind worrying her mother to death.”
“When?” His own mind whirled in circles, touching down at odd points. Note. Driving off. Morning.
“Last night. I already explained-what’s the matter with you?” Katy’s imperialism had no problem traveling long distance.
He fought for calm, for the clarity to speak. “She’s not back. She hasn’t come home.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“She isn’t here.”
“That’s not funny, Mark.”
“Are you sure she left?” Hope, like a fragile shield, held the whirlwind at bay.
“Quite. Her room’s cleared out. The van is gone.” She paused. “Stunning color, by the way.”
He let that slide. Unable to comprehend Dragonlady’s jabs while her daughter might lie dead, crashed on the side of the road in a volcano of metal.
The clicking of a lighter sounded over the line.
He took measured breaths to quell the spinning hysteria. “So, what do we do? How do we find her?”
Inhaling deeply, Katy didn’t answer right away. Then, “Call her cell phone.”
“Her what?”
“Cellular phone. Portable. Wireless. The kind you can take with you, in a car for instance. Or a minivan, if you’re so blessed.”
“She doesn’t have one,” he said. “She doesn’t have a cell phone.”
“Yes, she does. I bought it for her when she got here. I’ll call her.” With a click, Katy Thompson ended the conversation.
A cell phone. Still holding the extension with his shoulder, Mark pried his hands off his desk, one digit at a time. He prayed for a miracle while the empty line beeped in his ear.
He hung up, defeat washing over him like a stain.
Then the truth hit.
My wife has a cell phone. And I don’t even have her number.