Алан Дин Фостер - To the Vanishing Point

"I heard a funny noise. Kind of hissing, or sniffing like."

"That was me, all right." He still hadn’t blinked, Frank noted. "Thought you might’ve had a gas leak." A gloved hand patted the motor home’s flank. "These self-propelled trailers got so many pipes and lines crisscrossing underneath 'em, you never know when one’s going to rub against another and make a hole. First you get a leak, then you get friction, and then" — the old man’s eyes went startlingly wide — "bwoom! Charcoal time."

"Yeah." Charming sense of humor, Frank thought.

"Where you folks staying in Vegas?"

"How’d you know that’s where we’re going?"

A soft chuckle. "Where else would anybody be going east on this road?"

"We’re not sure yet." He jerked a thumb at the motor home. "We were gonna stay in this, but the kids and wife don’t think that’s much of a vacation. I got outvoted."

"Nothing personal, but I’d side with them." Stepping past Frank, he used the soiled handkerchief to wipe gas from the still-open filler cap before flipping the cap cover shut. "Folks these days in such a hurry they don’t take the time to appreciate the world around 'em. One of these days the end’ll come and then they’ll be damn sorry for what they missed."

Uh-oh, Frank thought, detecting the first faint whiff of an oncoming sermon in the air. Time to be moving on. He reached for his wallet.

"I don’t see the stickers. You take credit cards?"

"Ain’t really big on plastic around here. Usually like for folks to pay in kind for what they owe. But I’ll make an exception for you, you being such a relaxed customer and all. Most folks get to this point, they’re pretty nervous and upset. Not you, though. Coolest one I’ve seen in some time."

"Thanks." Frank felt flattered without knowing why. "American Express okay?"

The ancient shrugged. "Good as any of 'em, I expect." He took the card, then seemed to freeze. As Frank stared, the man sniffed ostentatiously, tilting back his head and flaring his nostrils. He walked toward the back of the motor home and sniffed a second time. "You smell something funny?"

Frank joined him, took a few sniffs himself, feeling foolish as he did so. "Just the fresh gas."

The attendant straightened. "Reckon you’re right. Just me and my suspicious nature, I expect."

"If you think there’s a leak why not take a whiff underneath?" Frank asked curiously.

"Fumes would rise. The underchassis’d stink without any leaks. Get a truer appraisal standing up." He waggled the card at Frank. "Be right back with your bill. Got to get an authorization number, you know." He hesitated. "You didn’t by any chance pick up anybody down the road apiece? Somebody stranded, somebody’s car broke down? Like, maybe, somebody hitchhiking?"

Most people would have responded instinctively to the casual inquiry. Frank Sonderberg had spent too many years in business, too much time listening for the real meaning behind obfuscatory soliloquies to offer a straight reply without giving the matter careful consideration. Instead of answering, he evaded.

"That’s a funny thing to ask." He turned and gestured at the highway. "I mean, who’d be dumb enough to stand out on that stretch of road and hitch this direction, when it’d make more sense to go back to Barstow?"

"Depends how anxious they are to get somewheres besides Barstow." The old man was staring at him with perverse intensity, unexpectedly alert. And he had yet to blink. Of course, Frank had looked away from him several times. He could have blinked then.

Instead of replying, Frank checked his watch. "Getting late." He’d planned to accompany the old man inside the station, hoping for a glimpse of such treasures as antique bottles and fifties-era advertising posters. Now all he wanted was to regain the comforting interior of the motor home and gun the big Detroit powerplant. It occurred to him they hadn’t passed or been passed by a highway patrol car all day.

The oldster slumped slightly. "Guess so. Be dark soon. Don’t want to hold you up. Just that sometimes folks come through this way, they ask to use the facilities and then they just kinda walk off with something. You know, forget to pay for their soda or candy. Not that many people pull off here. Somebody swipes something from a small dealer like myself, it hurts."

"Are you saying somebody stole from you recently?"

"Maybe, maybe not." The brown-toothed smile made a curtain call. "That ain’t your problem, though, is it? I’ll get that authorization number and be right back with your card."

Frank discovered he’d been holding his breath. Now he exhaled as the attendant sort of loped toward the stone building to be swallowed by the single door. With the old man gone he could hear Wendy and Alicia chatting inside the motor home.

What’s with the nerves? he asked himself. So the old fossil’s peculiar, so what? Living out here alone would set anybody slightly off kilter. He found himself remembering the stained handkerchief that hung from the coverall pocket like a linen leech. Red or maroon paint — except it didn’t really look like paint. But what else could it have been? And the John Deere cap with the familiar image of the leaping stag. With the legs separated from the body. Those legs had been sewn in awfully strange positions. Skewed, as if they’d been torn away only to be replaced haphazardly beneath the jumping torso.

Not much of an imagination, he told himself, but what little you’ve got is making a break for it. He rubbed at his cuticles, a nervous habit he’d failed to break in twenty-five years of trying. At least he didn’t bite his nails anymore.

Old fart’s taking his time. Of course, phone service to an outpost like this might not be in the best of repair. Even in downtown Los Angeles it could take awhile to get through if the volume of calls to the authorization center was heavy. Probably had to use a rotary phone without an automatic redial, for chrissake.

"Hey, Dad!"

"What?" Frank looked down, saw Steven flinch. The boy had come up quietly behind his father. "Sorry, kiddo. Find something interesting to look at?"

"Sure did. Birds and lizards. Something else, too. I went around the back and there was a place where it looked like something had tried to dig under the fence. I saw some stuff sticking out — it was on my side of the fence, honest, Dad — and so I sorta picked it up. See? Neat, huh?"

He held up a handful of old bones. They were deeply scored and mostly detached from one another. Too big to be chicken bones. Most likely from a holiday turkey. Not hog or cattle.

Frank accepted the offering, nudged them with his finger. "Interesting. But maybe the gentleman who owns this place doesn’t want strange kids digging around in his yard. That hole under the fence could’ve been an exit for a rattler. You could’ve been bit. Did you think about that?"

Steven looked downcast, his initial enthusiasm muted. "Naw. But it’s all right, Dad. I was careful. Besides, you said snakes and stuff don’t come out this time of day 'cause it’s too hot. I didn’t see anything moving."

You had to hand it to the kid, Frank thought. He remembered. Then a cold chill ran down his back and the waistband of his shorts was suddenly tight against his skin.

Not all the bones were disconnected. A few were still attached to others. Three of them in sequence, which he carefully held up to the light. At the tip of the last small bone was a suggestion of something besides bone. It was broken and brief, but unmistakable.

A nail.

Frank was no anatomist, but he was pretty sure he was holding most of a human finger. A small finger, bigger than an infant’s, smaller than a man’s. A woman’s, perhaps, or a teenager’s. There were spots on the bit of nail, but too old and dirty to tell if they were polish.