D Carpenter - Infertile Grounds

Credit-card girl said something to him that he didn’t catch as he sprinted back to his car. Albert took a right at the next lights as Chris pulled out and raced after him. After taking the same turn he spotted the SUV about a quarter mile in front of him. Not so bad. He eased off the accelerator.

Soon they were off the main road and driving down a rural street. Albert pulled over again, this time into a little country store. Chris was forced to drive by. As he passed, he could see Albert talking to the clerk inside the small, wood-framed building. He continued down the street, watching the rearview mirror to see if Albert got back on the road.

A truck’s horn blared into his consciousness. He snapped back to the road. An enormous, fully loaded lumber truck barreled toward him. He had drifted into the oncoming lane of traffic.

He cursed as he cut the wheel sharply to the right. The truck careened by him with its horn blasting. It missed slamming head-on into his car by inches. He skidded toward the ditch and cut the wheel in the opposite direction. Again he went over the centerline and into the other lane. After several more barely controlled weaves, he managed to pull over. Heart pounding furiously, he turned around and looked back down the road. Black skid marks sliced across the tar leading to swaths of disturbed dirt along the narrow, ditch-lined shoulder. Jesus Christ!

If he didn’t start paying attention he was going to end up dead. Albert would drive by any second now. He whipped a U-turn and headed back toward the store. As he passed it he saw the store was now empty. No-one was around.

“What the…?” He muttered as he stepped down on the accelerator. Albert must have reversed direction. As he raced along, he noticed several dirt roads off to the sides. He could have gone down any one of those. Around the next turn was a lengthy stretch of empty blacktop. Albert must have pulled off the road back there someplace.

He turned around and counted the number of dirt roads until he got back to the store. Three. He decided to take the one that looked most traveled. It would be dark soon. The bloated sun hung low on the horizon just above the tree line looking eager to go down – as if it had some better place to be. The easterly sky was starting to glow. After driving for twenty minutes, he realized exactly what he was up against – dozens of splits and side roads. It was a maze. Just finding his way back to the main street was going to be difficult.

Maine was full of lumber roads just like this one. From the air, they would look like the veins on a drunkard’s face – no particular reasoning behind their placement; they just were.

“Damn,” he muttered as he pulled onto a smaller road that bore off at a ninety-degree angle. Dusk had solidly settled in and he clicked on his headlights.

After another half an hour, he concluded that it was useless. He came to a stop and stared into the darkness. What now? His options were limited. Driving around out here in this wilderness was pointless. None of the roads were marked, and even if they were, he had no idea where he was going. Maybe the time had come to call Carl Moscovitz back in Boston and dump this whole thing in his lap.

“That’s it,” he said as he spun the car around. “I’m done with this.”

The dust from the spinning tires on the dirt road clouded his vision briefly, and then it cleared again as he accelerated down the road. Maybe after giving this back to the FBI, where it belonged, he’d take a week or so and drive up to Seattle. A little time alone, not playing 007, would do him some good. He kept envisioning the look on Karen’s face as he burst into their bedroom – the instantaneous change from passion, to fear, and then to realization. It was so vivid. Let it go. Let it out. Move on. He tried to refocus on the present and future but it was pointless. Karen’s face, her laugh, their dreams, shared memories, good times – it all swirled together in his mind threatening to break him down, to shatter his mind into a million pieces.

He recalled one Christmas when he was seven, he had played with an antique ceramic Santa Claus statue, one of his mother’s few prize possessions. “Leave it alone,” she had said repeatedly but he couldn’t. Something about the shiny little figurine with its white beard, rosy cheeks and little bag of presents caught his fancy until one day it slipped from his hands. When the yelling was over, he had fished the shattered remains out of the trash and attempted to glue it back together. It had been futile – sometimes things can’t be fixed.

The trees on the side of the road zipped by the headlights as the speedometer crept past seventy miles an hour. Subconsciously he depressed the accelerator. Tears welled up as he relived the moment he walked in on Karen, recalling every little detail – how could she have done this to me? The thought bounced around his mind, reverberating, growing in intensity. He didn’t want to admit that he had lived a lie for the past eight years. She had been stepping out all along and covering it up with his insecurities – and he had known, he had just refused to believe it. The road suddenly took a sharp turn to the right.

He cut the wheel hard, and the car started to slide. For the first time in too long he glanced down at the speedometer. Oh my God! The tires skidded on the loose dirt. The car shot off the edge of the road, up a slight embankment and went airborne. He clutched the wheel with both hands and prepared for the impact.

Pell woke up slowly. He lay in the dimly lit room listening to the machines and let his gaze wander before looking down at the wires and tubes that sprung from his chest. He was in bad shape.

A nurse opened the door to check on him. This was a different one. Less friendly looking. She took her time filling in the information on his chart before saying, “An FBI agent has been given permission to speak to you again. He’s been outside your room the whole time.”

Pell moaned.

“If you don’t think you’re up for it just say so.”

He wanted to put it off but they would just hound him until he spoke with them.

“Shall I let him in?” She asked.

“I suppose so,” Pell replied.

The nurse went to the door and motioned Agent Strange over. “I’ve been given strict orders, Agent Strange. If anything like what happened here earlier today happens again, I’m to call security and have you removed from the room. Forcibly if necessary. Do you understand?”

“Sure thing, Honey,” Steve said. “I’m just going to ask him a few questions, that’s all.”

She looked back over to Pell. “I’ll be at the nurses’ station. Push your call button if you need me.”

Steve walked in and pulled up a chair next to the head of the bed. “Well, Pell, you’re in a mess.”

Pell stared back blankly.

Steve touched Pell’s arm as he said, “Carl wants me to call him as soon as you come around.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I wanted to talk to you alone first.”

“About what?”

“About Carl. This whole thing. He’s on some kind of vendetta against you.”

“You figure that out yourself or did someone help you?”

“I also know what really happened with that cop up in New Hampshire. He’s not dead, by the way.”

“Really?”

“He’ll be fine after a little rehab.”

“Thank God,” Pell muttered.

Steve continued, “At your request, Carl’s going to get Arthur Kent involved.”

He could remember infuriating Carl but the details of the conversation escaped him. The heavy medication then and now clouded his memory.

“He wants to know what Maurice Andleman told you. It doesn’t look like the old guy’s going to make it. Personal opinion, Sarah Burns exists, and she’s probably done exactly what you said. We need to find her, and you’re probably the only one who can give us any information.”