With a gentle tap against the curb, Cruise halts his pickup and stops the engine. Ricki fidgets with her purse while he focuses on the dash. Finally the jingle of her keys pulling from the purse innards breaks the silence in the cab, and he feels her turn to him.
He points a small smile at her end of the dash.
“You starting back at work tomorrow?” she asks.
He shakes his head, “I’m not sure.”
Outside the door, one of Ricki’s neighbors lets out a long puff of smoke from his balcony.
“It’d help you take your mind of things. Going back to work.”
The trees are gently bending back and forth in the night breeze.
“I doubt that.”
She lets out a small snort, “yeah, nothing takes your minds off things anymore.”
He crosses his arms over the steering wheel and lays his head on them, “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“And getting fired will help?”
A warm orange ember spots the night outside and more smoke rises.
He drops his arms from the steering wheel and rests his forehead against the rim. His fingers dangle off the bottom of the wheel loosely.
She pulls the door handle letting a small strip of night push into the cab of the truck, “You should probably take some more time. Get yourself together. Maybe we can talk after that. When you’re ready.”
Three years flash before his eyes, “I’ve tried talking to you.”
The door drops open to the sidewalk.
She slides out quietly with her back to him, and closes the door with a sharp metal clunk. She waits for a moment on the sidewalk, lets out a pitiful wave and then crosses the little belt of grass between Cruise and her apartment.
He watches her unlock her door, go inside and pull it closed behind her.
The stars draw his attention more than usual lately, and he sits watching them from his steering wheel as the minutes pass.
“Did I make it all up?” He asks them.
“Did I imagine it all?” He asks his hand lumped in his lap.
Heavily, he pulls his hands to the ignition and starts the engine. With as little focus as it takes, he points his truck through town, mindlessly passing in up and down the streets, as if he’s completely lost in the town he grew up.
His attention snaps to his mirror as flashing light fill the darkness around him. He stops his truck, his heart pounding and throat tight.
Deputy Abrahams peers into the drivers side window and he rolls it down as calmly as his clammy fingers allow.
“Evening Cruise. Kinda late to be out joyriding. Everything alright?”
The clock on his dash reads 2:33am.
“Yeah, just…” he doesn’t find words to finish his explaination.
“Have you been drinking tonight Cruise?”
“No mam.”
She waits for a beat, examining him carefully.
“Ronna—Sorry, Deputy Abrahams. You found me that day, right? You were the one that found me by the road?”
She adjusts her belt, repositioning her radio, “Yeah. I did.”
“Am I,” he pauses, “did I make it all up? Am I nuts?”
She rests her elbows on his window ledge.
“It’s just, they can’t be real. They just can’t,” He looks up agains at the dark sky.
“It doesn’t seem very likely, does it?” she smiles kindly.
His radio turns on and starts to skip through stations.
“Sorry deputy,” he pounds the dial off quickly, “it hasn’t been working right.”
She eyes the radio for a second, “I don’t think you’re nuts Mr. Whalin. Just maybe a little shaken up. By whatever you did—whatever happened that night.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
She peeks at the clock on his dashboard, “can I call anyone for you?”
He chuckles, “there’s no one to call. Thanks deputy.”
She pulls her elbows out of her lean on the open window, “get home safe Mr. Whalin. Call us if you need anything.”
He slowly moves his truck off down the street. She watches his taillights as he heads off. He turns down a road and out of sight and she moves back to her vehicle, the red and blue lights still playing across the dark asphalt. She opens the door and is surprised to hear her radio sliding through frequencies. Pulling into the cab, she taps it off, and pulls the door closed behind her.
She drives through the flashing red and yellow stoplights in the empty nighttime street, and finds her familiar way back to the police station. Sheriff Wayne is working the night shift with her, and Jedidiah is working the front desk, ready to answer phone while focused on his crossword. She nods to him and passes into the empty room of neon lit desks and rolling chairs, Marcus Wayne sitting in the far corner working on a stack of yellow, white, and pink forms.
Unzipping her coat she drops it over the back of her chair and walks to the filing cabinets, four of the back to back sandwiched between desks in the middle of the room. Wayne peeks up at her.
She pulls the file out and opens it across the open drawer of envelopes. She begins re-reading it and pulling her photos from the contents.
“Everything alright?” Wayne asks peeking over the rim of his reading glasses.
She shuffles more papers, “I pulled over Cruise Whalin driving around aimless just a few minutes ago, “she walks the file over the Wayne and sits in the chair across from him.
He pulls off his reading glasses, leans back in his chair and rubs his temples.
“It was raining. The night before I found him next to the road. His tires left pretty good marks in the mud next to the highway.”
She starts to spread photos of the scene across the desk.
“There’s a set of two boot prints beside the driver door of his truck, but Sheriff, I found him laying the the grass ten feet from the cab. There were no other boot prints in the mud. Leading from his cab. Leading to where he was laying. Nothing. He was just…in one spot, and then another.”
***
The radio started again. But this time his hazard lights are flashing too. The light in the cab blinks uncontrollably. His speedometer shoots up and down, the needles on the dash jumping back and forth. Instead of feeling scared this time, Cruise feels an intense wave of relief. Tears trickle down his chin. He slows his truck and opens the door, he steps out and it continues to slowly blink along away from him down the shoulder. He opens his arms to the sky, and laughs.
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