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I WALKED SOUTH ON THE 61. Jarvis Lake was about thirty-five miles northwest of me, but I had already combed through the roadmap in my head. There was no straight shot back. I had to take 61 and then cut east on 278. This route would take me about twenty-five miles out of my way, but it was the quickest way back.
I walked the long stretch of road with my thumb out. I walked at a fast pace but didn’t run because I didn’t want to scare away any potential rides. I hadn’t had a lot of experience with hitchhiking, but I doubted anyone would stop for a male of monstrous stature running down the road. It would be difficult enough to wave down a ride in the middle of the night, and I figured walking at a brisk pace gave me better odds.
I walked for more than an hour before taking a break. I had seen cars, big trucks, one delivery truck for a soda company, a pair of twin pickups with the same logo on the side, and another Greyhound, but none stopped for me.
So I walked on. The highway was dark for a while, and then a set of red lights sparkled in the distance behind me. As they got closer, I heard the whine of a siren. It neared, and I saw it. It was an emergency vehicle, an ambulance. It sped past me. The woods to the east echoed its screeching until it finally faded off into the distance, a small white ghost sailing along the blacktop. I hoped it wasn’t headed to an accident up ahead because that would delay any vehicles driving south, the direction in which I wanted to go.
I walked on for another twenty minutes and saw no one. I rounded a bend past a grove of trees and walked under an overpass. Then I saw the line of taillights; all stopped on the interstate. There was an accident. It was fresh. A lone cop was setting up road flares. He sparked one up and tossed it on the road behind what looked like a two-car crash. A black pickup had jackknifed a sedan. I couldn’t tell the make or color of the sedan. It was crushed like crumpled paper. The paramedics were pulling the driver of the truck out of the passenger side. From the looks of the sedan, they would need the fire department to get the occupants out, but it looked like it was already too late for them.
Brake lights filled my side of the highway. Seconds after I neared the end of the line of taillights, a second cop arrived on the scene. And then another one. All state troopers. Sirens howled, and lights flashed in unison.
Maybe I could get a ride from one of the stopped cars. They might take pity on me. Sometimes seeing the pain and suffering of others ignites a certain helpfulness in people. So I walked on the white line of the east shoulder, glancing in each car as I passed.
The new cops started guiding the closest cars around the accident. The cars adjusted their course slightly and drove on the shoulder to get around the accident.
The cars in front of me started to pull forward. The car I had just passed was alongside me again. I peered into the window. The driver was a middle-aged woman. Brown hair cut short and spiked. She had a tough military look to her. But she couldn’t have been more than a hundred pounds. She sat in her seat, close to the steering wheel. The car she was in was a little thing. Maybe a Kia? I wasn’t sure about the symbol on the front. Her car was blue.
She looked back at me. No real interest in her face, but she rolled her window down. She leaned out and said, “Hey, you.”
I turned to her and smiled, not too wide, just a good normal smile.
She asked, “Where ya headed?”
I said, “Black Rock.”
“I have no idea where that is.”
“Jarvis Lake?”
She nodded and looked forward. The cars in front of her were moving again. Their brake lights had lit up the inside of her cabin, but now the interior of her car was turning black. The details of her face—lips, eyes, nose, and cheeks—vanished in the darkness.
She said, “Quick. Get in.”
The car in the neighboring lane took advantage of her stalling and jumped in line to follow the other cars around the accident.
I opened the passenger door and dumped myself into the seat. I had to cram my legs into the footwell, and my knees were pressed against the dash. Her car wasn’t made for someone my size. But I wanted to get the door closed and the car moving before I concerned myself with comfort, so I shut the door. The moment I did, the car behind us honked.
The woman next to me looked in her rearview mirror and shook a fist in the air. She said, “Hold on!” Then she paused for a second and said, “Seatbelt! We are safe in my car.”
I obeyed her instruction and pulled the belt around me. There wasn’t much slack after I had latched it into the buckle.
She pressed the gas, and the little four-cylinder car jumped to life. We passed the cop directing traffic, and then she got in the fast lane and hit the gas. Just twenty-seven minutes later, I was back near Clarksdale. My driver was headed south but was nice enough to drop me off at a gas station on the eastbound side. I hadn’t argued.
The only problem was that the gas station was closed. Only the pumps were dimly lit. Automatic credit card machines were the source of the light.
Luckily, highway 278 wasn’t far. I set out toward it. I cut through a short field that had been freshly mowed. The smell of cut grass lingered in the air. I made it to the interstate and began walking along the shoulder. I stuck my thumb out every time a car passed, but all they did was pass. No one stopped.
The storm clouds were some distance from me, which was good because I didn’t want to walk in the rain. But it was bad because that meant that I was far from Black Rock. I ran the math in my head. I was somewhere around seventy miles away from where I needed to be. I walked on for another thirty minutes. I saw only eleven cars in that time.
I checked the time in my head. It was about 2:45 in the morning. I needed to get a ride—and fast.
I decided to move to the left-hand shoulder. It wasn’t something taught in driver’s education, but I figured maybe people driving in the fast lane were slightly turned off because they’d have to slow down, cross two lanes, and then stop on the right shoulder just to pick me up. Then I questioned my own logic here because there was just as much chance of finding someone driving in the slow lane who would pick me up. So then I moved to the center. The time of night and driving long-distance would make anyone lethargic, so I might have a better chance in the middle of the road.
Before long, I heard the sound of tires speeding along the pavement behind me, the hollow sound of a car going over the speed limit. I turned and glanced over my right shoulder. The car switched on its high beams. Maybe the driver was sizing me up, or maybe he was trying to avoid hitting me. I wasn’t sure. Within twenty-five seconds, the car had flown by me without slowing. It had Alabama plates.
I walked another fourteen minutes, and the sound of distant tires came up again behind me. This car had the high-pitched shriek of a squealing drive belt and the labored sound of a struggling engine. I stopped and turned. This time, I stood completely still and stuck my thumb way out.
Stop! I need you to stop! I thought.
The driver must’ve seen me from far away because he slowed, and the whining of the bad drive belt slowed with the vehicle. The car was an ancient Corvette, driven by an old guy. The Corvette slowed and came to a stop right behind me. The guy had decided to pick me up even before he’d sized me up. That was a first.
I walked up to the hood. It had more than a few dings in the grille. The paint had rusted and chipped sections. I imagined that at one time it had been a beautiful cherry red.
The guy stuck his head out and glared at me. “Ya gonna stand thar s-s-s-s-starin’ or ya g-g-g-g-g-gonna get in?” he stuttered in a thick, redneck accent.
I jumped to it and scrambled to the passenger door and climbed into the seat. Immediately, I noticed the guy’s old, flip-style cell phone resting in the cup holder nearest me. I stared at it like it was the object of a long quest. I thought about asking him to borrow it, but I dismissed the thought and just looked away. I looked around the car like I was admiring it.
The guy hit the gas, and we took off. He asked, “Where ya headed?”
I said, “I need to get to Black Rock. It’s urgent.”
The guy said, “G-g-g-g-good. I’m headed t-t-t-t-to Memphis. I c-c-c-c-can d-d-drop ya off after...I g-g-g-g-get on 55 n-n-n-n-north.”
He hadn’t asked why it was urgent or for any other details. He pushed the accelerator harder, and the Corvette sped up. The belt whined so loud and steady that it almost became an ambient noise like the sound of a well-oiled jet engine.
Before I knew it, we were nearing a hundred miles per hour, and I wondered if the drive belt would last under the pressure. The driver didn’t seem to care, though, and it was his car, so I figured he’d know better than me.
The guy checked a bulky, black device suction-cupped to the windshield. It was a radar detector.
I looked out the windshield and gazed into the storm ahead. I knew that Oskar Tega would be there. He didn’t know I was coming. I hoped that Faye was alive, and I hoped that I would make it in time.