The wide canvas of the American Midwest lay along the sides of the highway as the Buick and the countryside rolled past each other; images and impressions that told the story of America’s development through the ages. There were pristine valleys that still looked as they would have a century ago, small towns that had long since seen their glory days, new communities that seemed to be prosperous and thriving. A journey like this was as much about driving through times as it was places, Traz realized.
He turned north onto an arrow-straight county road cutting through the heart of the Kansas farm fields. The flat land stretched to the horizon in all directions; green fields of winter wheat, sorghum, and soybean. Western Meadowlarks trilled at them from the fenceposts, and from a lonely telephone pole, a Prairie Falcon tracked their progress carefully. Verity was sitting beside him quietly, contemplating the passing scenery. Her bare feet were resting on the dashboard. Traz might not have been so tolerant if it was his own lovingly restored car, but his remit was to get the Buick to Saskatchewan unblemished, not to ensure there were no traces of human DNA on it. Besides, Verity’s presence wasn’t making much else of an impact on the car. She’d even chosen to leave her boxes of delicate lab equipment behind in the porta-cabins at Aransas.
Traz’s early-morning coordinate search had been successful, and he had stopped the car on a rise overlooking a wide slough. It was within sight of a large complex of buildings, but far enough away that a group of migrating Whooping Cranes might consider it a safe resting place on their journey north. From his vantage point, he’d scanned the area carefully with his bins, but he could detect no movement, no unusual features, other than the vast spread of structures, grey and indistinct, in the haze beyond the slough. From somewhere high above, he heard the distant drone of an airplane engine. It was the only sound that had intruded on his survey of the still, shimmering landscape.
He slowed up now as a truck trundled out from a field onto the road ahead of them. It was laden with cotton, a relatively new crop here, a strain developed to withstand the harsh winters of the plains. It was a sign that change was inevitable even in the timeless tradition of farming.
With the car’s momentum already checked anyway, the snap decision was an easy one. “Lunch,” he announced suddenly, turning into a roadside opening and slowing the Buick to a stop in front of a silver Airstream trailer.
From the outside, Denzley’s Roadside Dinah had the appearance of a genuine mid-century roadside diner, but as soon as they entered, Traz realized this was a faithful reproduction rather than a true original. The black-and-white-checked floor bore no scuff marks, the Formica-topped counter was unblemished by cigarette burns or elbow wear. Instead, the entire interior had been refurbished in a pristine tribute to a vanished past. From the gleaming porthole windows to the shiny silver jukeboxes along the walls, Denzley’s pride and passion glittered back at them from every surface.
They sat at the counter on chrome-stemmed swivel stools with red plastic upholstery. Traz rubbed his hands together. “Okay, I promise I’ll be full of remorse later, but I have to tell you, I’m going full on in here. The whole way. Heart attack on a plate coming right up.”
A waitress in a period uniform bearing a badge with the name Dinah approached. She placed a menu on the counter between them and Verity picked it up to peruse it. Unbidden, the waitress poured them both a cup of coffee.
“This place is great,” said Traz, looking around with genuine appreciation.
“Why, thank you, honey. Denzley and me always dreamed about opening our own restaurant, so when this old trailer went up for sale a few months ago, it just seemed like the perfect vehicle for us. That there’s a pun,” Dinah informed him.
“I take it you’re the Dinah in the name,” said Traz, indicating her name badge.
She leaned forward confidentially. “My name is actually Lacey, but it doesn’t really go with the ambience we were aiming for in here.” She gave him a wink. “Denzley’s really Denzley, though. He’s out back, cookin’ up a storm as we speak.”
Verity laid down the menu. “I’m just going to freshen up,” she said. “I won’t be long, though. I’m looking forward to seeing what you order off there.”
Traz looked at her as she left, but once he’d read the menu’s preamble, he understood her strange parting glance. Welcome to Denzley’s Roadside Dinah. Our vision is to provide our patrons with a healthy dining experience in a setting from a bygone age. We proudly serve a wide range of organic, non-GMO, gluten-free fare for your dining pleasure.
Traz felt his appetite waning even as he read, and closed the menu solemnly. He pointed at a chalkboard on the wall. “What’s the soup du jour?”
“Hold on, honey,” said Dinah. “I’ll go find out.”
Verity returned from the bathroom with a crooked grin on her face. “Your choice,” she reminded him. “Can I get the keys to the car? I have some ground flaxseed in my case that might go with a couple of the things on that menu if I sprinkle it on.”
He handed over the keys and watched her leave, still smiling to herself. Dinah had returned by the time he swivelled back around on the stool.
“Soup du jour is ‘soup of the day’,” she said. “Denzley thinks it might be French.”
She paused just long enough to let the look of astonishment spread across Traz’s face before offering him another lavish wink. “It’s a terrine de grenade puree.”
In defeat, Traz ordered pasture-raised, grass-fed chicken on Ezekiel low-sodium sprouted-whole-grain bread. As Dinah/Lacey left, a stirring of interest among the other diners had him turning around on his swivel stool. Through one of the diner’s curtain-framed portholes he could see a military Jeep that had just pulled up, and from which two Military Police Officers had emerged. They were standing splay-legged at two points of a triangle. Verity was the third. He rose to go out and join her but she had manoeuvred herself into a position where she could stare casually through the window of the diner as she spoke to the men. Her eyes were fixed on the spot she knew Traz was sitting. The head shake would have been imperceptible unless you were looking for it. He sat back down on his stool, and like the other diners, watched the unfolding events outside with rapt attention.
Verity had come around to this side of the car, and leaned in to retrieve something, but whether it was for the MPs or just her ground flaxseed, he couldn’t tell. From his angle, he could lip-read some of the officer’s questions, but Verity had her back to the window now, so he could only supply her answers for himself.
“Are you the driver of this car, ma’am?”
“No, that would be that drop-dead gorgeous guy in the diner.”
But neither of the green-helmeted heads turned in his direction, so she hadn’t told them that.
“What company is that?”
She took out her phone and began scrolling, before turning the phone towards the officer. He reached to take it, but she held firm, and he leaned forward to read the information. He asked another question but Traz could only make out one word: Canada. He saw Verity nod her head. With a slowly growing astonishment, he realized she was telling these men she was the person contracted to drive the car. The number she had shown them was the one he had given her in the Stock Pond the night they had first met, the one for the vehicle delivery agency.
Discreetly, so as not to alert the other patrons, he checked his pockets. He had his phone and wallet with him. His sunglasses lay on the counter, and beside them the binoculars he always took with him whenever he left the car. He’d not worn a jacket that day, so the only thing of his that remained on display in the car was a black computer bag on the back seat, an item Verity could pass off as her own if she was intending to convince these men she was travelling alone. Unless they decided to search the trunk.
Here was a question about ID now, and Verity fished in her purse for a wallet. As she handed it over, Traz knew she would be accompanying it with that beguiling smile of hers, the one you’d need a heart of stone to resist. But stone hearts must have been standard issue with this military unit because neither of the soldiers responded. Instead, they seemed to be getting just a little more insistent, leaning in slightly as they questioned her, reinforcing their authority a touch more intimidatingly.
Traz was about to go out and end all this, to protect her from whatever it was she thought she was doing, when the officer handed the ID back and both soldiers took up a more at-ease stance. With a few more curt words Traz didn’t catch, the men climbed back into the Jeep and drove off.
Verity re-entered the diner to a bank of furtive stares and a few more direct ones. She smiled easily at Traz, but in her eyes was a message. Not here.
“Mistaken identity,” she said, just loud enough for any other interested ears, as well. “They thought I was their commanding officer.”
When it became clear they weren’t going to get any more details from this chirpy, auburn-haired girl with a lip ring, the diners returned gradually to the business of dispatching their meals. But not Traz. His appetite for his pasture-raised, grass-fed chicken had long since disappeared. On Ezekiel low sodium sprouted whole grain bread or anything else.