Ed Gorman - Voodoo Moon

Behind us, Laura said, "Just remember, Robert. I expect you to be nice to Noah from now on."

In the car, as we drove to the first of the trestle bridges, I said, "I can't believe Chandler's all that touchy-feely. He just looks like this big, slow, dumb guy who happened to look like everybody's misconception of a private eye."

"Oh, yeah. Very sensitive. He's been through it all. EST. Primal scream therapy. Back-to-the-womb therapy. He's 'in touch' with himself."

"He and Laura seem an unlikely pair."

She looked out at the afternoon shadows. Another furiously beautiful autumn afternoon, tractors working in the fiery autumn cornfields, a scarecrow with flung-wide arms embracing the very essence of this time of year, sleek mahogany-colored colts running in the hills, and over everything that melancholy smoky scent of fall, the one that conjures up nights by the fire and winter pajamas and hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows bobbing on the surface.

"He's nice to her."

"When he's not screaming at her," I said.

"Believe me. She's no picnic. She's cheated on him a few times and he knows it."

"Ah, love."

"I'm scared, Robert."

"I know."

"And that's why you're talking so much. Because if we stop talking about other stuff then we'll have to talk about this, won't we?"

"Yeah."

"What if we don't find anything?"

"Then we don't find anything."

"Then the image I had was wrong. Or just a dream of some kind. That didn't mean anything."

"You'll find something."

"But if I don't, then my powers won't have come back, will they?"

I took her hand. "We're going to find something."

"Oh, God, I hope you're right." Then, "Am I wearing too much perfume?"

Tandy, the walking bundle of insecurities.

"No. Not at all."

"I just wondered because you opened the window a ways."

"I just wanted to smell the autumn afternoon."

"Honest?"

"Honest. Now, please, Tandy. Just relax, all right?"

"You don't think I'm crazy, do you?"

I looked over at her and laughed. "No, but you're driving me crazy."

If you grew up in small-town Iowa, a trestle bridge likely played some part in your life. The adventurous, who sometimes included me, liked to stand on the top span while the train hurtled through below. Or you could take a stopwatch and see if you could best your previous time scrambling up the brace. Kids can come up with some pretty neat games. Or, when the bridge wasn't shaking with a train, you could sit on the top chord, dangle your legs, and fish in the river or creek below. I used to do this on sunny Saturday mornings back in the sixties when I was struggling toward teenhood. I had my pole, my night crawlers, my sack lunch of Ritz crackers and Kraft cheese slices, three cans of Pepsi, and my Ray Bradbury paperback. I went through a period when I wouldn't read anybody but Bradbury.

Anyway, the trestle bridge.

I became a half-assed expert on trestles simply because I parked my ass on so many of their top chords. You have your timber deck truss and your straining-beam pony truss and what they call your simple truss. And many others types as well.

The bridges we saw today were all of the lattice-truss design, the first one being in a field behind a manufacturing plant.

When I pulled up and killed the engine, Tandy said, "God, I want to puke. I really do. My stomach's a mess."

"C'mon. You'll be fine."

"I won't pick up any vibes, Robert. I know it."

"Then you want to go back?"

She frowned. "I'm being a pain in the ass, aren't I?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

I sighed. "How about we make a deal?"

"A deal?"

"Uh-huh. Every time you apologize for yourself from now on, you pay me five dollars."

"Five dollars is a lot of money."

"That's the point of it." Then, "I know why you're apprehensive. That makes sense. But I also know that on at least two occasions in the past, you were able to locate bodies the police couldn't-and that you found them through sleep images. Last night, you had another image like that. At least relax enough to give it a good try. Maybe you'll turn up something."

"Can I hold your hand and just sit here for a minute, Robert?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to charge you."

"How much?"

"At least a dollar thirty-seven."

"How about a dollar three?"

"How about a dollar twenty-two?"

"You know, Robert, you're almost as much of a dipshit as I am."

"'Almost' being the operative word there."

We sat in the car holding hands for five minutes. I got two frustrating little erections but spoke to them in nice gentle paternal terms and they went away. I was here on business.

Then we got out of the car, still holding hands, and drifted down through a dusty field toward the bridge. The creek beneath the bridge was shallow and dirty. The trees on either side ran to willows and birches. The narrow shoreline was a city dump of pop cans, beer cans, fast-food wrappers, and the occasional spent condom. I walked over on the railroad tracks and looked a long quarter mile down to where the tracks curved out of sight. The tracks sparkled silver in the waning sunlight. As a boy, I'd always wanted to be one of those old men who sat in the swaying red caboose with one arm cocked out the open window. They always wore OshKosh work caps and smoked pipes. I'd add one thing to that when I got to be one of them: I'd be reading a Ray Bradbury paperback.

I decided the best way to handle this was to leave her alone unless she asked me to be with her. She'd be less self-conscious that way. I was starting to get this crush on her; it was starting to feel funny without her small, fine-boned hand in mine. But I spent a few minutes just walking the tracks. A squirrel looked me over pretty good and didn't seem impressed. A garter snake slithered beneath an oily railroad tie. A number of flies were picnicking on some dog turds. I thought of Henry and felt like hell. Maybe I really should have killed his master instead of him.

Finally, I drifted back toward her. I stayed out of sight, off at an angle and hidden by some white birches.

She walked the shoreline. Facing me. Her eyes were closed and she lightly touched her fingers to her temples. She was mouthing something. Prayers, I imagined.

She walked up and down the shoreline several more times. Birds sang and cried; in the distance a dog barked and yipped. At one point, she sat down on a log and raised her face to the sky.

I wanted to help her. But of course there was nothing I could do.

This went on for a half hour, her sitting there on the log. Then she got up abruptly and looked around and saw me and climbed the angled shoreline to the field.

"Nothing," she said.

"We've got three more to go."

"Nothing," she said again. Then, "Maybe I need to start smoking again."

"What's smoking got to do with it?"

"I was a cigarette fiend during the time I was helping you and the other cops."

"You were also wearing your hair long."

"I guess I didn't think of that."

"And you weighed a hundred and twenty pounds more."

She gave me a sarcastic look. "I take back what I said, Robert. You're more of a dipshit than I am."

"And that takes some doing."

Without warning, she slid her arms around me and started crying softly. "I just can't do it anymore, Robert. I just can't do it."

We didn't spend much time at the next two bridges.

The first one was over a leg of river that twisted westward. It was a long span bridge whose construction marked it as built in the thirties. We tried both ends of the bridge. No vibes whatsoever.

The second was what they call a king-post trestle bridge. It was wood and at least eighty years old and spanned an old section of a highway that had fallen into disrepair since the coming of Interstate 80.