Pit Stop (Special Edition)

Pit-Stop

by

Ben Larken

All rights reserved

Copyright © March 4, 2013, Ben Larken

Cover Art Copyright © 2013, Charlotte Holley

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-496-7

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: October 9, 2013

Dedication

To Anne and Ted,

At fourteen I wrote my first pathetic stories

on your upstairs computer.

So, in a way, this book could be blamed on you.

Rendezvous with Death

It may be he shall take my hand

And lead me into his dark land

And close my eyes and quench my breath—

It may be I shall pass him still

I have a rendezvous with Death

—Alan Seeger

1

Can I refill your coffee?

The question plucked Officer Scott Alders from his haphazard state of meditation, but only slightly. He had been gazing at the spoon next to his thumb, enjoying the gleam of sunlight off its silver. The glare created a crescent of light on his knuckle. He looked up from the spoon and saw a waitress uniform—a pea green dress with a crisp white apron. He scanned her front, pausing at her gnarled white fingers with fire engine red nail polish. He halted again at the throat of her dress, at the way the top button was undone, giving view of a corded neck that he associated with an elderly person. The face was a mental climax. The bony chin. The white little hairs on her upper lip. The lips themselves, also doused in that fire engine red. Her dully arched eyebrows, plucked around the edges. Gray hair with staggering streaks of white. And then the forced smile, revealing teeth the color of old paper.

In another place and time, he would have glanced at the woman in polite acknowledgment and turned away. But at the moment her face fascinated him. It was a landscape of unexplored and somewhat rugged valleys, ridges, and wrinkles. He smiled, noting the way his mustache bristled. He liked that feeling, too. So he smiled harder.

Can I ask your name? Scott said, sounding airy and silly and nothing like the man he knew himself to be. It sounded like a pick-up line—one he had used before, no less. Fifteen years ago that had been, the party after graduating the academy. Where he met Stephanie. Geez.

The waitress glanced down at her chest, her pupils lowering in the most intriguingly annoyed way. He followed her gaze and saw a nametag on her apron strap. HOLLY, the plastic tag proclaimed.

Would you like a refill or not? she asked, after he stared at the nametag for too long.

He perked up again and nodded, not comprehending the question. No—to anything—simply wasn’t in his vocabulary. Scott beamed as she lifted a coffee pot and poured black liquid into his cup. The smell, he thought, what a luscious smell. The trickling invigorated him even more than the spoon or Holly’s face. When it was over—all too soon, he felt—he looked up again, like a dog at its master. She smiled curtly and turned away.

Holly?

She slumped as she heard his voice, as if expecting this. When she glanced back, her eyes almost screamed, What, you idiot? Scott wasn’t offended by it. Offended wasn’t in the vocabulary today either.

What, hun?

He tried to remember his question, finding it hard amid the realization she had called him hun. But he sensed her growing impatience, so he struggled to reach his thought.

How did I get here?

She turned a little more, looking at him with weary eyes. She smacked her lips loudly.

You wandered in, hun—just like the rest of them.

But I… I feel like I just woke from a dream.

She snorted. Yeah, that happens sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. Usually they stare at their coffee and never make a peep. She looked at him pointedly. I like those customers.

But—I…

Just keep staring at that spoon, she said, already turning away. Everything’ll feel better. With that she continued down the row of booths, stopping three tables away to refill somebody else’s coffee. Scott watched her, his mind swirling with follow-up questions. Wandered in from where? How long have I been here? Why did your parents name you Holly? The questions dissipated as his gaze opened to the rest of the diner. It was a vaguely retro joint with cream-colored chrome-rimmed tabletops, checkered tile floors, and hanging Sputnik lamps. The place emitted a warm Norman Rockwell vibe with its basic streamlined architecture. A line of maroon leather booths adjoined a wall full of panoramic windows, while the center of the diner showcased a grand stainless steel bar flanked by metallic stools. He immersed himself in every detail, remembering a dozen classic movies where good guys sat in diners like this and sipped their cups of joe. The whole scene filled his heart with the best of Americana. How had he spent his whole life in places like this and not taken more notice?

Stephanie, no doubt, would say the same thing.

Scott scanned his table, with the standard formation of ketchup bottle, napkin dispenser, and salt and pepper shakers against the wall. He looked out the window next to him and saw a neon sign next to the highway. The Pit-Stop Grill blinked dully in the midday glare, its zigzag font designed to point directly at the diner. Beyond the sign was a brilliant reddish-white landscape. Arizona desert, the Painted Desert. Rugged hills gave way to sudden flatness, making everything look like a huge toasted tortilla. Only the gleaming gray of I-40 and the dark silhouettes of two old-fashioned gas pumps broke up the monotony. And cloud shadows. Scott couldn’t see the clouds, but their shadows slid across the desert floor like sharks beneath the surface of the water. Something about the view sent a chill into him, which he thought odd since it looked hot outside.

He turned and continued analyzing this fascinating-for-no-reason diner. There were other customers. Of course, there were. This was a great place to be. He scanned the faces, all as detailed and unique as his new best friend Holly. He counted eight, and they varied in just about every way. White, black, fat, thin, bald, hairy, male, female, young, and old—they all stared at their tables with the same pleasant dispositions.

According to Holly, they all wandered in. Scott smiled again. He was in the middle of something special. Here were all these strangers pulled into a group for this brief moment. Souls drawn together by the need to eat, the need to refuel, and whether they realized it or not, the need to feel other souls in their midst. How he wished Michael was here. Scott had never felt as wise and at one with himself as he did right now, and it seemed a shame not to pass it on to his son.

You can’t, a tiny voice in the back of his mind whispered. Michael’s not talking to you. And you’re not talking to him either.

Scott’s gaze reverted to the spoon with the magic sparkle. He didn’t like that voice’s tone. It was too critical, and it brought a moment of uncertainty to his serenity. At the same moment tires screeched outside, sounding very close. He turned to the window, but the highway was empty. There weren’t any cars or pickups or big rigs. He didn’t even see his police cruiser, which was unusual and caused him to frown. One thing a highway patrolman never forgot was where he parked his cruiser. You never knew when an emergency call would come in. But Scott had forgotten where he parked it. In fact, he wasn’t sure he remembered driving it here.

Maybe you didn’t, that same voice said, louder than last time. Maybe this isn’t the type of place you can drive to. That means you got here another way.

I wandered, he said aloud, though not loud enough for anyone else to hear. Like Holly said. I wandered in like everyone else.

Must’ve been a hot walk. As Scott’s gaze dropped from the window he noticed he was wearing his uniform and felt a surge of relief when he saw everything was there. His badge, his belt, his nightstick and his pistol were all where they were supposed to be. But not your radio, the voice pestered. You left it in the car apparently—the car you lost.

Scott grunted and shook his head, getting rid of that prissy little voice, getting rid of the uncertainty that came on the heels of everything it said. He probed the room for something to bring back that magic feeling again. It didn’t take long. Holly dumped another batch of ice into the soda dispenser and the crinkling sound washed over him like a symphony. He smiled, took a deep breath, and told himself he was fine. Everything was fine. Everything was beautiful, as Ray Stevens liked to sing.

Scott’s lazily drifting vision landed on something—eyes staring at him. His spine straightened. The eyes were cold and black and belonged to a young man sitting on a barstool. Or a young body, he thought. The eyes looked older. The man had dark hair, a pointy nose and striking eyes that refused to veer away. How come he doesn’t blink? Scott’s mind chuckled in response. Now that you mention it, Scott, how come you don’t blink? The young man’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him harder.

Then he rose from his barstool and started toward Scott.

Fear tickled his gut as the young man approached. Maybe it was an after-effect of that critical inner voice, but something about this twenty-something seemed wrong. It wasn’t his clothes. They entranced Scott as much as everything else. The well-worn Adidas tennis shoes, blue jeans, a black T-shirt with the words Just do it laid out in white, and a red flannel button-up shirt with the arms ripped off. The young man frowned in a way that didn’t match the rest of the Pit-Stoppers’ satisfied smirks. Scott wondered if the young man was holding back a scream. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his blue jeans, and the pockets vibrated as if he had a couple cell phones in each one. Or his hands are shaking. That’s why he’s hiding them in his pockets, Scott reasoned. He can’t keep the tremble out of his hands.

The young man stopped when he reached the table’s edge. They studied each other, Scott looking at the young man in befuddled curiosity and the young man staring into his eyes, searching for something that didn’t seem to be there, which made the young man frown harder.

You don’t remember, do you? the young man asked, his voice scratchy and low, like someone coming out of a hangover.

Another tickle of fear ran through him, like fingers over piano keys. Scott swallowed, making his throat click, and knew without a doubt that he was about to have the most important conversation of his life.

No, Scott said, and the young man nodded, because that was the answer he had expected.

2

The name’s Dustin, the young man said, sliding into the booth across from Scott. Dustin Calloway.

Hi, Scott said, trying to sound as conversational as he had with Holly, but not quite succeeding. I’m Scott Alders.

What’s your middle name?

Scott chuckled in surprise. Why do you want to know that?

I don’t, Dustin said. But I’m betting you do.

Scott’s brow creased. He opened his mouth to say his middle name—then stopped. What was his middle name? That tickling fear worked its way to the center of his chest. Heat spread through his cheeks. He looked at the young man and frowned. Maybe I don’t want to tell you my middle name.

Dustin watched him indifferently. And maybe you can’t. How about the time on your wristwatch?

What about it?

What time is it?

Scott glanced at it, hoping he actually saw normal hands on its face. Part of him expected to see something weirder, like eyes staring or a cuckoo bird popping out at him. Thankfully, he saw neither.

It’s three-fifteen.

Dustin held up his digital watch. Mine says three-eighteen.

Hey, I—

Dustin waved it off. Don’t worry about it. Middle names and time differences don’t matter right now. We have bigger problems.

Scott sputtered. Bigger problems? What are you talking about? It’s a wonderful day outside. And this diner is simply magnificent.

Dustin smiled but didn’t look happy. Yeah, he mumbled. This place is really something, isn’t it? I don’t know about you, but I could spend eternity in a place like this.

Scott smiled, knowing at least his was genuine. You’re right. I could spend all day sitting here, enjoying the scenery.

The smile dropped from Dustin’s face. What if you already have?

Scott didn’t respond. He didn’t want to. He could see where this guy was headed and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. Why are you talking to me? I don’t mean to be rude, but there are other people here who would be happy to tell you their middle names.

Dustin nodded again. I know. And out of all of them, you are the first person—after myself, of course—who actually looked up from his table. He cocked his head. Look around. They’re all wide-eyed with wonder over their fucking tabletops.

Scott scanned the diner area, doing it for show. But he knew Dustin Calloway was right. He had noticed it earlier, but hadn’t noticed it enough to be alarmed. Actually, he still couldn’t find it in him to be alarmed.

So? Scott said dryly. They look happy. Nobody’s hurting them. Nobody’s tied to their chair, being forced to look at the table. Why should we worry?

Dustin pointed at him. You’re highway patrol, aren’t you? I can tell by the uniform. I’m sure in your job you’ve pulled over hundreds of people for drunk driving. And out of all those people, I’d bet most of them immediately pretend to be sober.

Scott smiled. Well, you’d be right.

I’m sure you see through the act in a hurry. I’m sure you know which ones are drunk before the field sobriety tests even get started.

Right again.

Dustin leaned closer. So look around this diner, look at the way everyone is behaving at this exact moment, and tell me it’s not an act.

Tingles of fear started down every limb, like rows of dominos falling over. He didn’t look around the Pit-Stop. He looked at Dustin. What’s your point?

What time is it?

Scott looked at his watch. 3:15.

Mine still says three-eighteen.

What’s your point? Scott repeated, his voice rising.

How did you get here, Officer Alders?

I wandered in.

That’s what Holly the waitress said. I heard her. But what do you say?

I say I wandered in.

How? Did you walk?

No. I drove.

Then where’s your car?

Parked in back, Scott lied.

Awesome, Dustin exclaimed. Then let’s jet. You can give me a ride home.

Maybe I’m not ready to leave yet.

Well, maybe I am! The shout was loud enough to draw the attention of every customer in the diner, but oddly it didn’t. No one looked up from their tables. Even Holly remained in the kitchen, doing whatever it was she did back there. Not cooking, Scott’s mental voice whispered. You know she’s not cooking, because there’s no smell of food in the air. These places always burst with the smell of burgers, chili, and onion rings. But you only smell the coffee.

Scott’s eyes widened as if struck by lightning. Dustin frowned angrily.

I’m not crazy, Dustin said. I don’t remember coming here. What really scares the shit out of me is that I don’t remember what I was doing before I came here. Everything before this moment is a blur.

Dustin—

No, let me finish. This has been building inside for hours, and I gotta let it out. You’re trying to cover for your memory loss. I’m sorry if that ticks you off, but it’s true. I don’t blame you, not really. I’ve been doing the same thing to myself. I mull the details in my head, getting close to panic, and then I look around the diner, and instead of getting up or asking any questions I notice the diner again, and then it’s all I can think about. You get what I’m saying? After a few moments of looking around the diner, I start blowing off the whole thing, like it doesn’t really matter. Here I am, stuck in this place, kidnapped for all I know, and I’m acting like I’m blasted on bathtub crank.

Scott’s eyes were on his cup and the steaming black liquid inside it. Dustin, listen—

Dustin slapped the tabletop with both hands. No, you listen, man. Don’t talk me out of this. I feel this entire place trying to talk me out of it. The spoon by your hand is trying to talk me out of it. But I can’t give up, because if I do, I may never have the guts to get worked up again. You don’t know the cajones it took for me to rise out of my chair and come to your table. It felt like taking my first baby steps. And if I stop talking I’ll forget what the hell I was talking about in the first place. You dig?

I dig, Scott said, deadly serious. And I believe you.

Dustin’s eyes bugged. You do?

Scott pulled his hands from his pockets and picked up his coffee. When Holly refilled this, I remember how strong the coffee smelled, how wonderful it smelled. He held it out to Dustin. Smell it now.

Dustin leaned forward and took a quick whiff. Then he took another slower one. I can’t smell a thing.

Scott nodded and placed it back on the table. And yet steam is rising off of it. I can’t say for you, but the coffee I know doesn’t lose its smell that fast.

If Dustin’s hands had been trembling before, his chin was now joining the party. What is this place?

Somewhere outside, another screeching tire sounded. Scott barely glanced toward the window, but there wasn’t any movement that he could see. If any movement was going on outside, it was in a realm that he couldn’t see.

Do you still wish Michael was here? his mind mocked.

Scott turned with the reflexes of a seasoned patrolman and threw his coffee cup like a fastball. It flew over the counter and into the wall. The mug didn’t break. The coffee didn’t spill. It simply hit the wall—and stuck to it like a fly on flypaper. For a second it held there, suspended against the wall. Then the wall began to absorb it. The mug sank into the quicksand wall until it disappeared completely.

Holy… Tears traced the corners of Dustin’s eyes. His face turned a waxy shade of gray.

Scott was dead still, all the motion on the inside. The Pit-Stop’s synthetic serenity rolled back like the tide, uncovering the grainy soul beneath. He felt a surge of anger, and damn if it didn’t feel good. It wasn’t just anger, it was the old anger—it was his anger. The fuel that got him out of bed in the mornings. A sense of injustice sparked inside, and he recognized that, too. It was the old friend that constantly reminded him how disappointing life was, how every good thing was a misleading mirage like this diner. It whispered in his heart like a crackling fire, and he recognized that the situation was really no different than his marriage. He could wish for freedom all he wanted, but if he really wanted out it was only up to one person.

Dustin, Scott said evenly, and the young man pulled his gaze from the blank space in the wall where a coffee stain should have been. I’m getting out of here. Do you want to come with me?

Hell yeah, I do.

Scott slid out of the booth. Then let’s get going.

* * * *

Scott turned to the main door, about five yards away. Then he stopped. Now he understood what Dustin Calloway had gone through a few moments before. Scott was standing instead of sitting, and it felt wrong, like he was breaking some unsaid rule. He looked back at Dustin desperately, who looked frazzled to the nth degree.

Dustin eyeballed him, rising slowly. Yeah, man, I know. Trust me, I know. But please don’t stop. I can’t do this without you.

Scott gritted his teeth. He stepped slowly, carefully, as if the floor might fall out from under him. He heard Dustin’s footsteps behind him like the shaky steps of a drunkard. I bet you know a thing or two about field sobriety tests yourself, Mr. Calloway. But he knew alcohol had nothing to do with the shaking. If they didn’t stay focused, they would lose perspective on everything. And the focus was on getting out. Everything else could wait until they were safely driving down I-40.

They trudged forward, taking small steps the whole way. As the door drew near Scott’s heart tightened. This was wrong. They weren’t supposed to leave. A voice played in his head, silky and alluring. Come on, buddy. That was some good coffee to go chucking at the wall. Order yourself another. Actually try drinking some this time. Have a seat and relax. You have to admit, you’ve never felt this relaxed before—maybe not in your entire life.

I know, he thought back, that’s what scares me.

He held out a hand, realizing he would soon touch the metal bar running across the glass door at waist level. He simultaneously wanted to grab it like a lifesaver and jump away from it screaming. Terror seized him as fingers came at him from the other side of the door, but then he realized it was his reflection.

His fingers touched the door bar.

From behind the counter, Holly screamed.

3

Dustin screamed with her out of reflex. He had been focused on the back of Scott Alders’ brown shirt. The farthest his gaze veered was the patrolman’s golden-brown flat-top. Dustin hoped he could keep his focus if he watched the cop instead of the diner. The diner would distract him and run interference on his thoughts. They were almost to the door, and he didn’t want to fumble at the last yard line.

But then the scream came, and Dustin couldn’t not look back. He spun around, screaming hard, and saw Holly the waitress gazing at them in wide-eyed shock. Her face seemed starker than before. Her complexion was naturally pale, but at this moment it looked positively waxy. And even if that was her natural complexion, this is Arizona. You don’t live in Arizona for long without getting crispy ears or a sun-burnt neck. Her scream withered away, as if dropping down a well, and Dustin went quiet too. For an eternity they stared at each other, too frightened to speak. But the other diner patrons continued staring at their empty tables like kindergarteners in quiet time. Scott somehow managed to stay turned toward the door, though he was rooted to the spot. Dustin had a feeling Scott was terrified to turn around, as if he too might see the monster in the closet.

Dustin knew how he felt.

What are you doing? Holly asked, her voice a hollow gasp. Why are you out of your seats?

Dustin’s head shook. I don’t, he sputtered. I don’t want to be here anymore. Neither does Officer Alders.

You can’t leave, she said. You can’t. This is where you’re supposed to be.

No, Dustin said, his voice small and child-like. He felt like a kindergartener arguing with the teacher. No, I don’t want to be here. It feels wrong. This all feels wrong.

Holly’s hands rose and cradled her gaunt face. Oh no, she said, her voice panicky. You can’t leave. We can’t have another incident. That won’t do at all.

The panic in her voice made Dustin’s