Wednesday evening, May 29th
I don’t know what to think about what is going on in my life at the moment. Work. This journal. And Mom. She’s at the point where she doesn’t need to live with me any longer. Her ankle is doing well. But where would she go? With her house now sold and all the proceeds gone to the loan, there’s no other option. It’s fine having her here but would be nice to be back on my own again. She asks about the journal a lot, and I don’t mind that much. I tell her about it, but there’s a big part of me that wants to—no, needs to—go on this journey, whatever it is, on my own.
And the money. Always the money guillotine hanging over my head. Payment next month? Yes. But when my home loan is gone . . . then what?
Then there’s this Richard guy I met today. What’s his story? Why is he willing to talk to me about the journal? Is he just another father figure who will let me down in the end?
And of course my ongoing struggle with Derrek. He wants me to lie to clients, he continues to put off getting the partnership finished, is aloof for long periods, then turns around and tells me I’m talented and gifted and he appreciates me. I hate the mixed messages! Because it opens me up and gives me hope for what things can be like at Wright Architecture. I went there thinking it would be the last place I’d ever work. But now? I don’t know. Have to, have to, have to get the partnership finalized. And life can settle.
Which brings us to Linda. Why does she hate me? And why don’t I stand up to her? And why can Derrek praise me one moment, then throw me to Linda the Wolf the next?
And what are you going to tell me, Journal? How are you going to rearrange my words to change the meaning of what I’ve just written?
I need answers, God, and direction and guidance and all of the above. Change the words, Lord. Show me what to do.
But in the morning, when Allison checked the journal, nothing had changed. As strange as it had been before to find certain words of hers taken out, and words that were not hers put in, to find her entry exactly as she’d written it was somewhat shocking.
She could talk to her mom about it, but the person she really wanted to chat with was her brother. “Where are you, Parker?”
Parker had watched Allison trek away from his homestead, equal parts peace and sorrow. He’d missed her, and the time they’d had together over Memorial Day weekend wasn’t enough. She’d been his closest friend all through junior high and high school. Even during college when they were apart too often. She was the person he could tell anything to. And right now she was right. He needed to talk. But he didn’t want to. The hermit life agreed with him. Maybe too much. And then there was the matter of their mom. What if Al’s new partnership thing didn’t work out? What then? Could he leave Al hanging? Leave Mom hanging? No way. What he should do is find the loan sharks, stick a gun in their faces, and tell them to forgive the loan. Yeah, sure he should do that. Perfect solution.
Al said things would be fine. Yeah, maybe they would be. But there had to be a way for him to help. In the morning he’d head into Mazama and make some calls to some old friends. Find work.
Parker got to Mazama at eight o’clock Tuesday morning. By late afternoon he’d found a job. After that he put in a call to Allison.
“Hey, Al. It’s me. I know we’re supposed to talk on the phone tomorrow, but I have a better idea. Let’s do it in person. I’m coming over. I’ll be there on Thursday, late afternoon, early evening. Hang in there. We’ll figure out this thing with Mom together. I’ve figured out a way I can help.”
On Thursday midmorning he drove his quad to the mechanics garage where he stored his Ducati 1098 motorcycle. Paid the guy twenty dollars a month to keep it there. The bike was twelve years old but in great shape, and it could still shred a highway. And right now Parker wanted to shred the North Cascades highway.
He marveled at the scenery as he headed west. The skyrocketing mountains shooting up to the sky never failed to impress. Traffic was light, affording him the chance to punch the gas on the straightaways and take the corners only slightly slower.
Just over the pass, he saw a straight shot, and something inside told him to go for it. See how far the speedometer would climb before the curves appeared that would force him to slow down. He’d had this bike over 140 only once, and once was far from enough.
Parker kicked the bike into fifth gear and eased down on the throttle for a few seconds, then opened it up wide. The torque almost lifted the front wheel off the highway, and Parker focused on the pavement sliding by underneath him. Speed, baby. Pure speed. The engine screamed as he hit eighty. One hundred. One ten. When he hit 120 a wry smile formed. When he reached 130 it was a fun grin. At 150 laughter poured out of him. No one holding him back. No one holding him down.
Three seconds later a yellow sign came into view. Curve ahead. Parker braked, then dropped a gear and glanced at his speedometer. Eighty-three. The curve came into view, long and gentle. Should be able to take this pup at ninety. He gave the bike gas and leaned into the curve, the rush of danger filling him.
Fifty yards in, a white car with lights on top came into view and his heart skipped. A half second later Parker shot past him and caught a glimpse of the cop’s face. Not happy.
The cop pulled out, lights whirling. Parker looked in his rearview mirror as the cop’s car pulled a U-turn. Parker’s stomach lurched and he glanced at his speedometer. Thirty-five over. This was going to be expensive. Not just this ticket, but his insurance was sure to bump him to higher premiums. Getting four speeding tickets in less than two years will do that.
He slowed and pulled over on the shoulder, toed out his kickstand, but didn’t get off his bike. The officer pulled in behind him five seconds later, popped out of his car, and strode toward Parker. As he did, Parker took off his helmet and goggles.
The cop was tall. Lean, strong jaw. Eyes hidden behind mirror shades. Parker kept his hands on his handlebars, stared straight ahead, and waited for the crunch of the cop’s boots on the gravel shoulder.
A temptation circled his mind. Tell the cop about Dad. The guy probably wouldn’t know him, but there was a chance. And then what? The cop would let him off? Yeah, right. Parker kept his mouth shut and pressed his lips together.
The cop scraped up next to the bike, hands loose at his sides. He didn’t speak for a few seconds, and Parker didn’t turn his head.
Finally, “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
Of course he knew. What a stupid question. How often was anyone pulled over when they didn’t know what they’d done wrong?
“Yep.”
“You know?”
“Yeah. I do.” Parker glanced at the cop, then turned back to staring straight ahead. “You think you’re looking at an idiot?”
The cop drew in a hard breath and stepped closer. Parker could almost feel the tension rising.
“You want to tell me?”
“Nope, sure don’t.” Parker gripped his handlebars harder. “I mean, I did want to tell you at first, but then I thought about it for a few seconds and changed my mind.” Parker cocked his head and looked at the cop.
The cop placed his hand on his gun. “You should be on late-night. I’m busting a gut.”
“Thanks.” Parker shifted his weight. “I work on my material a lot. Especially for cops.”
“Guess what all the comedians I meet out here get.”
“What?”
“Maximum penalty allowed.”
Parker nodded. “Not surprising.”
“I’d like you to tell me why you think I pulled you over. Right now.”
Parker leaned his head back and stared at a hawk circling above them. Freedom. Fly, baby, fly.
“I was speeding. Way over. Doing probably ninety in a fifty-five when you spotted me. Stupid move. Really idiotic. But there hasn’t been a rash of great decisions in my life lately.”
The cop sniffed out a laugh. “I’m going to have to document this. First time I’ve gotten an honest answer in eight months.”
Parker didn’t respond.
“I clocked you at eighty-eight miles per hour.”
Parker nodded. “Sounds about right.”
“You want to tell me why you were in such a hurry?”
“Because the speed felt good. And I haven’t had much good lately. I’ve been doing the hermit thing, and it’s not always the best choice for my mind.”
“Oh?” The cop shifted his weight. “Any other reason?”
“That’s it.”
“Okay,” the cop said. “License and registration, please.”
Parker handed him both and the cop started to stroll back to his patrol car, but after five paces he stopped, spun on his boot, and meandered back.
“Your license says your address is in the Seattle area. What are you doing on the east side of the mountains?”
“Uh, no. I don’t live over there anymore. Life got weird. I decided to make a change. Move to Mazama. Build a place on a remote piece of land. Get away from everything and everyone. Start over. And I feel really stupid telling you all this like you’re a bartender or something, but like I said, I haven’t talked to too many people lately.”
“Your last name is Moore.”
Parker resisted the urge to comment. This cop was brilliant. Apparently he knew how to read. “Yes, it is.”
“Might be a painful question to answer, but I’m curious. Are you any relation to Joel Moore?”
“Yeah. You’re right.” Parker pinched the bridge of his nose. “Painful.”
“So you knew him.”
“My brother.”
The cop tapped Parker’s license on his hand for a few seconds.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” The cop took off his sunglasses. “Joel was one of a kind.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that.” The words were rote. Automatic. He’d said them so many times over the past two and a half years they didn’t mean anything. Yes, he did appreciate it. At least he tried to. But it was tough being reminded he’d never measured up to the family’s golden boy.
The cop cleared his throat. “I met Joel back in 2010. He and I went through the academy together. We stayed in touch. Phone calls a couple of times a year. Christmas cards. But what I’ll always remember is the time I mentioned I needed a car. Boom. Three days later he shows up on my doorstep with an old beater he’d found and just gave to me. That’s the kind of guy he was. They don’t come better than him.”
Parker swallowed. He glanced at the cop. Were those tears in the man’s eyes? No. Come on. Please. Parker swallowed a second time. Coughed. Say the words. Get this over with.
“No, they sure don’t make ’em any better than Joel.”
The cop returned Parker’s registration, license, and proof of insurance.
“I’m letting you off with only a warning.”
“What?”
The cop put his sunglasses back on. “Because of Joel.”
The saint saves the sinner from a speeding ticket. Even in death, Joel was the hero.
“Thank you.”
“Again, I’m sorry for your pain.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” The cop tapped Parker’s rear tire with the toe of his boot. “I know it’s tempting with a bike like this, but keep it down from now on.”
“Will do.”
After the cop pulled back on the road, did a U-turn, and headed back to his lookout, Parker sat on his bike till the chill of the day seeped through every inch of his jacket and clothes. Allison had the wisdom to be born a woman. Didn’t have to deal with any of the pressure. All she had to do was be Daddy’s girl. Besides, she was an architect and would soon be pulling down the big bucks in her new partnership gig. Yeah, they had to get their mom’s debt paid off, but after that she’d have a career, a direction, esteem from others that overshadowed the fact she’d never measure up to her dead brother.