Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Night
River let out a war cry that shook the night, so pissed at January for leaving him stranded that every fiber of his body ached. She’d regret it, oh how she’d regret it. She’d learn a lesson about screwing with him. She’d learn a lesson she’d never forget, not in a million years.
The keys to all the boxcars were on same ring as the car key.
She had full access to everything.
Right now she was probably rifling through his stuff, grabbing everything that had even a snippet of value.
He walked north at a brisk pace, trying to remember how far it was to that Sunoco station they passed way back.
Ten miles?
Even then, it would be closed.
All he could hope for is that it had an outside phone booth.
Ten miles.
That would take him two and a half hours.
A mile down the road he wandered into the terrain for fifty steps and threw the shovel away, far enough that it wouldn’t be associated with the buried bikers.
The night was black but the road was detectible.
Every so often he turned the flashlight on and shined it around.
The topography was always the same-dirt, rabbit brush, prairie grass and rocks.
Half an hour farther down the road when he flicked the light on, something unexpected happened. A red reflection came from something off the road.
As he got closer, the reflection took the shape of a taillight, two taillights actually.
He headed that way, shining the light on the ground and keeping a lookout for snakes.
A car came into view.
His car?
It looked like it.
He picked up the pace.
Damn it, it was his car.
What the hell was it doing out here?
He trotted to it and got in.
January wasn’t there.
The keys weren’t in the ignition.
They weren’t on the floor or up in the visor or in the glove box or anywhere else.
He slammed his fist on the dash.
Goddamn it!
Then he heard a muffled sound from somewhere outside. It turned out to be a weak voice coming from inside the trunk.
“Help me …”
“January is that you?”
It was.
“River, help me …”
The lid was latched solid.
He shined the flashlight on the ground and found no keys, not there or all the way around. The passenger side door and front fender were smashed in.
He grabbed a rock the size of a gorilla’s fist and beat on the latch.
Wham.
Wham.
Wham.
It dented in but didn’t unlatch.
He beat on it more but still couldn’t bust it.
Then suddenly on the last smash something broke and the lid popped.
Inside was January. Her dress was filthy and ripped to shreds. Her panties were gone. Dried blood was on her face and her eyes were raw and wet. As soon as River bent down, the woman wrapped her arms around him and held on with the strength of someone being pulled from the grave.