Ahern, Jerry - The Quest

“Are they well? No one had been injured?” Rourke asked as though filling out a report.

“Fine—healthy—nothin’ wrong with ‘em I reckon,” the woman stammered.

“Toward Georgia, you said,” Rourke asked. “Any idea of the route?”

“I think she was gonna take the old highway that runs along the Interstate, you know it,” the boy with the red hair said.

“Yes—thank you—and thank you, ma’am. We’ll never forget your kindness. Should she come back before I find her—her and the children—keep her here. And you, son,” Rourke said to the red-haired boy, his words hard now, “if she ever does, or you hear of where she is or where she’s been, get the Resistance to contact Army Intelligence in Texas. Somehow.” “Yes, sir,” the boy stammered, straightening his shoulders.

“Good night, ma’am,” Rourke said to the woman named Mary.

Wringing her hands on the floral-print apron she wore, she whispered. “God bless you and let you find them.” “Yes, ma’am,” Rourke said, forcing a smile, turning, walking down from the porch. He stopped by the Harley, the rain falling in sheets.

He was glad the woman hadn’t asked him to stay. She’d known, he felt, that he wouldn’t.

This morning—gone. Rourke sank to his knees in the mud beside the Harley, his lips drawn back, staring up at the lightless sky. “Why!” he shouted.

Rourke climbed up from his knees, realizing some of the wetness on his face wasn’t the rain, mounted the motorcycle, kicked up the stand, balanced the machine with his feet out of the mud ruts and throttled up as fast as he dared in the rutted field leading back toward the road.

He passed through the trees, turned back onto the country road, watched the rain in his single headlight, and gunned the Harley into the darkness, screaming, “Why!” -end-