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DEPUTY LEWIS ESCORTED me out of town in his police cruiser. We drove in silence. The wind rushed around the cruiser as we picked up speed, sending a hot marshy odor from the lake through the vehicle’s interior.
I needed to stay, but at this point what choice did I have?
The sky had been calm most of the night, but now it was waking. Mammoth storm clouds crawled slowly toward Black Rock from the north. They looked like wispy, dark creatures swarming across the sky, lethargically but steadily creeping in over the town. Lightning cracked in the far distance.
Lewis drove across the land bridge. I gazed out over the lake for what I thought would be the last time. Dark shapes appeared across the surface as my eyes adjusted to the blackness. Night fishermen, most likely. Most of them began cranking their motors, planning to head back to their boat launches to escape the encroaching storm clouds.
We drove past the land bridge and onto the dusty, two-lane road that headed into town. I glimpsed the end of the jogging track where I had met Sheldon. A wave of disappointment rolled over me as I realized I would never see her again. I turned in my seat and stared out the back window until the track was lost to sight, then turned around and faced front again.
The police cruiser slowed as we came to the fork in the road. We stopped on the northwest side of the fork. I looked over to the left and saw the enormous Confederate flag through the tall pine trees. It flapped violently on the flagpole.
I said, “Your friends had better take down their flag, or it’ll get rained on. Probably ruined.”
Lewis looked at me in his rearview mirror and first grinned, then gave me a scowl. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but instead, a kind of low snarl came from his mouth before he turned his sights back to the road and headed south.
I looked to the east and thought about Hank and his dog. I wondered if they were still at the cabin. I hoped he had gotten his fill of fishing. The old guy had had to deal with two storms in three nights, but I remembered him saying he used to be a pilot in the Navy. He had probably flown missions in Vietnam. I was sure he could handle a little rain. It struck me that he might be crazy enough to go out there and fish during the storm.
I turned and looked out of my window to the west. The land moved past me. Sparse trees turned into groves of trees and then thinned out again. After fifteen minutes, we hit highway 35. Lewis skidded the car onto it and headed west. He picked up speed.
The highway was barren. We saw a passing car here and there, but not much else in the way of nighttime travelers. Lewis gunned the motor, and the car got up to ninety miles per hour. After about twenty minutes, we were nearing interstate 55. Lewis turned the light bars on, and the red and blue lights flashed. We came up on a couple of trucks that took up both lanes, moving side by side, but they saw Lewis’s police lights and pulled over to opposite shoulders. Lewis floored it past them, turned onto the loop for interstate 55, and headed south.
I could hear the wind howling even though my window was rolled all the way up. It whistled and hissed like it wasn’t sealed properly.
We drove for a couple of minutes. Then Lewis slowed the cruiser and pulled over to the shoulder. Another interstate cloverleaf lay in front of us. He left the light bar on and the engine running. He got out of the car, walked around the hood, and came over to my door. He opened it and stepped back, staying well out of my reach. I got out of the car and stretched my legs and my arms.
He rested his hand on the hilt of his holstered Glock, a move I had gotten used to by this point. Then he said, “From here, ya can head in any direction ya want. Ya can get on 278 and hitch a ride east er west. Ya can stay on 55 and head north er south. It’s up to you. But don’t come back to Black Rock.”
Lewis got back into his car and sped away onto the off-ramp on the cloverleaf and crossed under the overpass. I lost sight of him for a moment, and then he was back on the other side of 55, headed north. Back to Black Rock. I watched as his light bar switched off and his red taillights faded into the mist. Then I turned and looked at the cloverleaf and scanned in all directions. Five minutes later, I headed east on 278. I could head back to Killian Crossing, meet with LeBleu. I’m sure I had enough to get the FBI involved.
I had gotten the guy who killed my mom. I guess that I didn’t need to be personally involved anymore. And in a way, I’d had enough of Black Rock.
I walked on for a ways. I didn’t want to stay at the cloverleaf. A hitchhiker standing there might look confused about the direction he wanted to go.
The truth was that I was trying to convince myself to go back to Killian Crossing, but my gut wanted to return to Black Rock.
I told myself, you’re on a mission. What difference does it make what happened in a small backwater town? Forget about it. Matlind is dead. You found the guy who pulled the trigger.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. I had a signal. I went into the Internet browser and searched for bus stations. The search took a while. My face was lit up in the darkness by the phone’s screen as I stood on the border of the blacktop and the shoulder. A car sped past me. I missed it because at that moment I wanted only to find a bus station and forget about Matlind and his wife—real or not.
My phone indicated that the nearest bus station was in Clarksdale, about thirty-five miles east.
The good news was that my phone light had garnered the attention of a van driver. The guy pulled over on the shoulder about thirty yards in front of me, the brake lights shimmering in the darkness. I put my phone back into my pocket, didn’t check the battery. I walked to the van. As I neared the rear of it, I saw the vanity plate. It read: ISWHTIS. Which I guessed meant it is what it is. I hated that saying because everything in life is what it is. A monkey is what it is. And so on. But I wasn’t going to pretend that it didn’t fit my current predicament perfectly. And then it dawned on me—it wasn’t my predicament. It had been Chris Matlind’s. It had been—and maybe still was—Faye Matlind’s. It was Sheriff Grady’s. And it was Sheldon Eckhart’s predicament. It had nothing at all to do with me. The town of Black Rock and all of its problems were just that. Their problems.
I got to the passenger door of the van and opened it. The driver was a young, scruffy guy with a soul patch and no other facial hair to speak of. He held one finger to the front of his lips, the universal symbol for shush.
He said in a low voice, “Quiet.” He motioned to a sleeping girl in the rear of the van. He whispered, “My wife. Where are you headed?”
I said, “East Mississippi.”
He nodded and smiled. Then he said, “That’s close to where we’re headed. Hop in.”
I smiled. I was even more terrifying in the darkness than in the sunlight—like a crazed killer or the kind of guy who only came out after dark—and I was glad that someone had stopped for me in the middle of the night. I’d been afraid that no one would pick me up and figured I’d probably be out walking the entire night.
Besides my looks, I was also concerned about my smell. I realized that I hadn’t showered in days. I had cleaned my clothes two nights ago. They didn’t smell clean anymore, but at least they weren’t filthy. But I had spent several hours yesterday sleeping in a jail cell, and jail cells aren’t known for cleanliness. My fears of stinking up this guy’s van disappeared when I realized that this couple was either a pair of hippies or rockabillies. They smelled of marijuana. That smell killed every other odor inside the van.
I closed the door, and the guy sped off. He wasn’t the most cautious driver, but I didn’t complain. The guy’s wife must’ve been used to it because she slept deeply on a bundle of bedspreads and laundry. His swerving from the slow lane to the fast one hadn’t even shaken her awake. And she was definitely not wearing a seatbelt. He wasn’t, either. I reached for mine and found it and slipped it on. Better safe than sorry.
The guy started to talk and told me about himself and his wife. I listened, thinking it might distract me from thoughts of Black Rock. Occasionally, I acknowledged him with a polite nod.
We drove for more than an hour. The guy pushed the van hard—it wasn’t a vehicle known for speed. It topped out at around seventy miles per hour.
He had his window rolled down. Hot air blew in.
A couple of minutes past 1 a.m., we neared Clarksdale.
I said, “You can drop me off at the next exit.”
The guy said, “Nonsense. We can take you into town. Where are you going?”
I said, “The Greyhound station.”
He nodded. We drove past the next mile marker and then turned off at the Clarksdale exit. His wife snored loudly for a minute and then rolled over and was silent again.
We stopped at a traffic light and turned east. Then the driver pointed at a blue street sign with the Greyhound symbol on it. The arrow pointed south along a service road that was lit by numerous bright streetlights. He turned onto it and drove another two hundred yards, past a gas station, an all-night McDonald’s, and a small two-story motel with three burned-out letters on its neon sign. The Greyhound station was across the street from a doughnut shop.
The guy made a U-turn and pulled up to the front of the station. He looked at me and smiled. He extended his hand and said, “I never told you my name. It’s Hank.”
I smiled and thought about Hank from Black Rock again. Small world.
I extended my hand and took his in mine. Mine swallowed his like a whale swallowing a dolphin whole. I said, “Widow.” And then I turned, opened the door, and stepped out into the hot night. I shut the passenger door and waved Hank goodbye. He drove off.
I went into the bus station and walked up to the counter. The woman behind it had a paper cup full of steaming hot coffee in front of her. Her head was propped up on her hand like she was falling asleep. I cleared my throat loud enough to wake her.
She looked up at me and asked, “Can I help you?”
There was a tone in her voice like she didn’t want to be bothered.
I looked up at a huge monitor above her. It displayed available destinations and times that the buses ran. The next departure was for Little Rock. It was in thirty-four minutes.
I said, “One ticket. Little Rock.” I didn’t say please.
She gave me the ticket and stayed quiet. No thank you. No sit over there, sir. Nothing.
I walked over to a row of chairs that were connected on the bottom by a black metal bar. Several other people already waited there. Most of them were asleep. One girl was probably a teenager. She slept with her head down, and a hoodie pulled over most of her face. I could only see her profile. She had no luggage, only a pink knapsack with a teddy bear sewn onto it.
I took a seat and waited for the bus. As I waited, I thought about my mom and about the stranger who was my dad — anything to keep my mind off Matlind and Black Rock. I held my bus ticket and breathed in and breathed out. Then I looked back at the sleeping girl again. Hood down. Face now buried in her arms. She looked uncomfortable. Tired. Frustrated.
Maybe she was running from something. Maybe I was running from something.
I looked around the room. A big clock on the wall said it was now 1:15 a.m. The bus for Little Rock would be arriving soon. No time to nap now. I’d nap on the bus. I wasn’t tired anyway. Not in the slightest. I was too wound up. Too tense.
I looked at the other people waiting. Young. Old. All had some kind of luggage. Brown bags with handles. Black bags with handles and wheels. Some old. Some new. Then there was that girl. I looked at her again. She had no bags. Nothing but the pink knapsack.
And I had no luggage. No luggage.
Normally, women carried things. Female travelers always carried more items than men—new clothes, toiletries. And they needed empty space for additional items purchased and souvenirs.
Faye Matlind had been on her honeymoon. She had packed. I had switched rooms with Matlind and had seen plenty of luggage in his room. There had been female items — lots of things.
I sat up straight in my chair. I dug into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I unlocked the screen and examined it. Low battery. I clicked the phone icon and dialed Grady’s number from memory. It rang, and he answered. I could hear the confusion in his voice, the kind when someone answers a call from an unfamiliar caller.
I said, “I swapped rooms with Matlind. Night before last. I stayed in his room, and he stayed in mine.”
“Widow?”
“In his room, there was extra luggage. Girlie luggage. There were perfumes, an extra toothbrush, razors, some female medications, makeup, and a box of tampons.”
Grady said, “Widow, it’s over. Matlind killed himself. He was crazy.”
I said, “You still think Matlind invented his wife? That he imagined a woman and he brought luggage along for her? No one does that! Faye Matlind is real.”
There was dead air for a long moment, and then Grady said, “Widow, this isn’t your fight. It isn’t your business. I’m the sheriff in this town. Wherever you’re headed, keep on going! It’s not your concern!”
Grady hung up.
I stared at the phone. The screen flashed a warning: battery critical. I pocketed it, leaned back in my seat, and stared at the huge clock on the wall. It was now 1:20 a.m.
Why should I get involved? It’s Grady’s problem.
You will do the right thing; my mom had told me. Her voice and her frail, dying body haunted me in my memories for a long moment.
Then a man’s voice in the distance said, “Now boarding for Little Rock.”