Nadine had unpacked a lot in the months she’d been on that side of the mountain with Lester, from occasional bouts of misery, to flashes of joy, to moments of genuine relief. But there was nothing like the wonder of watching that mountain range shrink behind her, watching her rearview as she dropped over the pass westward. As rugged as it was, Lester’s old Ford sailed reassuringly over the pavement, clearly thankful for the downward slope after the steep, alpine climb.
She had fit as much as she could into the cab, and it was fine that there wasn’t a great deal for her in the end. She had no need for the dozens of stereo receivers and CB radios, and boxes of silverware and miscellaneous cheap watches that littered that mysterious shed of his. After the weeks of secluded business having taken place in there, Nadine was surprisingly disappointed to see that, for the most part, it was all just a bunch of useless shit.
There had been the things he’d already placed in the Buick, though. More interesting pieces. The can of silver coins, a hat box heavy with jewelry that Nadine knew at a glance was the real thing. There was money in bundles, too, cash bills of twenties and fifties, as if Lester had been running his own bank—too much for her to take the time to count there on the hill. And the suitcase. The horse and cowboy stitched on the side. She’d thought it was a child’s thing at first, something for plastic toys or wooden blocks. But there was enough in there—rings, watches, cufflinks—to dress a fancy man from New York to San Francisco and pay for the trip five times over.
She told herself that Rodney was okay, that he’d found his way out. Flagged down some kindly trucker on his way into Boone, maybe, or even a passing cop out on patrol for drunk drivers. He had to have done so, otherwise how would the sheriff have known to come up there? That part stayed with her, and she was thankful for that. God knows, she needed something to smooth all the thorns still holding onto her.
But the thing with Lester wouldn’t let go of her. Lester there at the well, looping back to her in a never-ending slideshow. The glance of horror on his face, the recognition that she had betrayed him. That the ground beneath him had disappeared, those arms of his stretched in impossible ways, reaching for what was not there. The soles of his shoes, white from the sunlight that poured in from above. And the sound at the end. The hideous sound.
She took a hand from the wheel and worked the radio dial, turning it slowly in search of something. So much got filtered out by the mountain that most everything she landed on was angry talking or masked with heavy static. When at last she found something, she was half-relieved and somewhat surprised to hear it was a gospel station. A woman’s voice, bell-like, almost smothered by the rainstorm of guitar picking around her:
Someday I’ll cross the river, being inside the home gate
I may look back to earth here below
I may see a dear brother I’ve known along the way
Sitting down by the side of the road.
Nadine reached back to the dial then skipped over to the volume, turning it up higher.
Jesus, she thought. Was it Sunday already?