Rebirth, or at least the illusion of it, long as you looked only at the numbers — not at holes in floorboards, or rusted-out fenders, or cracking, chalky paint, or rotted upholstery and shredded headliner.
Tyler had been a kindergartner the last time the Chevy’s odometer had racked up so many nines, but he remembered the event with Kodachrome vividness.
* * *
It was a summer Sunday afternoon, after church and after dinner, everyone stuffed and sleepy and still in their hot polyester church cl
othes. The truck was what his dad drove to work, or to the lumberyard or the dump or to Sears to get new appliances; everything else happened in the Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser, the big station wagon with the skylight windows. But that Sunday, the four of them piled into the sweltering, musty cab — no air conditioner, of course; the seat belts long since lost in the gap between the seat cushion and seat back. His parents perched on either side of the broad bench seat, with Tyler sandwiched between them, his baby sister, Anne Marie, age two, on his mom’s lap. They’d driven the thirty miles from Knoxville to Lenoir City, to the white farmhouse on River Road where Gran and Pop-Pop lived. The whole way down, his father’s gaze was glued to the odometer, and he nearly ran off the road — not once but twice, the second time provoking a gasp and a sharp “Wesley” from his mother. As they turned off River Road and crunched to a stop in the gravel driveway, his father tapped the instrument panel. “Look at that,” he’d said, “ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight point two. Perfect. Plenty of margin.” He’d then commenced to honking, laying on the horn for what seemed like forever, until Gran and Pop-Pop emerged at last, looking nappish and puzzled and maybe not all that thrilled at the surprise visit.
“What are y’all doing here?” Gran had said, then her cheeks turned red. “I mean, in that old thing? That bucket of bolts should have gone to the junkyard years ago.” Her flustered expression brightened when Tyler’s mom handed Anne Marie to her.
“Bucket of bolts? Are you referring to this marvelous machine, Mama? This paragon of mechanical perfection?” Tyler’s father had acted indignant, but even at five, Tyler could tell he was teasing, and he giggled. “Mama dear, we have come all the way from Knoxville to take you two for an old-fashioned Sunday drive. Get in. You’ll like it.” Tyler’s mom reclaimed Anne Marie momentarily, and Gran clambered into the cab, still looking baffled. Pop-Pop resisted, insisting he should ride in the back so Tyler’s mom wouldn’t have to.
“Are you kidding?” she’d said, handing Anne Marie into the cab, back to Gran. “I love riding in the back of a pickup. Makes me feel like a kid again.” She fiddled with the latch, and the tailgate fell open with a screech and a bang. “Tyler and I will be happy as hound dogs back here,” she said, boosting him up onto the tailgate. Tyler could scarcely believe his good fortune. Never — never — had he been allowed to ride in the back of the truck. “It’s a death trap,” his mom would invariably say, any time his dad suggested that maybe, just this once, it might be okay.
With another screech and a bang and a sly wink at Tyler, his dad slammed the tailgate and got behind the wheel once more. Tyler’s mom settled them in the front corners of the bed, frowning at the dirt and the rust. “Now you sit still and hold on tight,” she said, and Tyler nodded eagerly.
Driving far more slowly than usual, Tyler’s dad pulled out of the driveway and headed farther out River Road, along a stretch that ran straight and flat between fields of dark, glossy corn. After a couple of miles, he eased the truck to a stop, right there in the road, and cut the engine. Then he shifted into neutral, pulled the emergency brake, opened the driver’s door, and got out. “Come on around her and take the wheel, Daddy,” he’d said to Pop-Pop. “Ease off that brake and let her coast when I give you the word.” Then, walking to the back of the truck, he’d opened the tailgate and helped his son and his wife hop down. Motioning her toward the truck’s right rear corner, he’d placed Tyler behind the center of the tailgate, then stationed himself at the left rear corner. “Ready, Daddy?”
“What on God’s green earth are y’all doing?” squawked Gran.
“The odometer’s fixin’ to turn over, Mama,” he’d hollered. “One hundred thousand miles! Daddy, let that brake off so we can push this fine machine into its second lifetime.”
“Lord help, you people are nuts,” Gran laughed.
The road must have had a slight downgrade — either that, or the universe joined in the celebration — because the truck rolled easily, and soon the three of them were running just to keep from losing touch with it. As they ran, Tyler’s dad began to sing. “Swing low… sweet chariot… comin’ for to carry me home.” His strong, clear voice rolled out across the fields.
“Swi-ing low,” his mom chimed in, “sweet cha-ri-o-ot… comin’ for to carry me home.”
“Here it comes, here it comes!” shouted Pop-Pop. “Point eight… Point nine… Zero!” His shout was joined by the truck’s wildly honking horn — a trumpeting horn, a jubilant horn; a horn the Angel Gabriel himself would have been proud to blow, if only the Almighty had allowed him to turn in his angel wings and trade up to a 195 °Chevy half-ton: a bug-eyed, bona fide miracle of American engineering and mass production.
Fifteen years later, when Tyler graduated from college, his dad had surprised him by giving him the truck — but the truck as Tyler had never known it: a glorious, ground-up restoration of the truck, with gleaming new paint, leather interior, seat belts, and a stem-to-stern mechanical rebuild that rendered the rings, valves, and gearbox as tight as they’d been the day Pop-Pop had driven it out of the showroom. It was not so much a restoration as a reincarnation: as if everything else — everything but the odometer — had rolled over to zeros this time around.
* * *
“Sorry; What’d you say, Dr. B?” Tyler blinked, somewhat surprised to find himself in 1992, standing at the base of the stadium, his boss staring at him, bringing him back to the present — back from the sweet childhood memory to the grim realities of death and decay and unrelenting demands.
“I said, what would you think of selling it?”
“Selling what? The truck?” Tyler looked at Dr. B, who cocked his head, waiting. “You mean to you?” Dr. B nodded. “What, for your son?” Another nod. Tyler was startled by the question; no, more than startled, he was stunned and unmoored. Unhappy, too. He stared at the truck, as if it had suddenly coalesced out of thin air; as if it were some… alien… thing, rather than a steadfast fixture of his entire existence. Was Brockton trying to take over his whole damned life?
Finally he spoke, choosing his words carefully. “This? For a teenage driver? You gotta be kidding. No air bags, no shoulder harnesses, no impact protection. Hell, if he hit something head-on, the steering column would go right through his chest, like a spear. This thing is a death trap.”
Dr. B smiled slightly, looking… what? Wistful? “I don’t blame you,” he said. “I’d hang on to it, too, if I were you. Twenty years from now, you’ll be giving it to your son.”
Tyler hoped the subject of selling the truck was closed, but — knowing Dr. B — knew it would come up again. “Maybe not,” he said. Brockton looked hopeful for a moment, until Tyler added, “Maybe I’ll be giving it to my daughter.”
CHAPTER 8
Satterfield
The wand and hose of the pressure washer twitched and swayed in the air like a living creature—like a cobra, Satterfield thought — as the water hissed against the long hood of the Peterbilt. Bright red water sheeted down the side of the truck’s cab, a visual echo of the blood spilled inside the sleeper so recently. Fanning the seething spray back and forth in the morning sunlight, creating airy rainbows and red puddles, Satterfield envisioned the pressure washer’s long, thin nozzle as a magic wand. “Abracadabra,” he murmured, liking the feel of the word in his mouth, liking the sense of power he felt as a sorcerer. “Presto change-o, red to blue-o.” As if in response to the spell he was casting, the Peterbilt was transformed, wand wave by wand wave, the red truck dissolving and melting — molting — to reveal its inner self, its true colors: gunmetal blue, with a fringe of orange flames edging the back of the sleeper.
He’d been watching the news — on television and in the newspapers — but he’d seen nothing about the woman’s body being found. Apparently nobody even missed her yet, as there’d been no reports of a search, either.
He’d be in Birmingham by sundown tonight, and back in Knoxville by morning, his tracks fully covered. The fuel tanks stil
l had a hundred gallons of diesel in them — at six miles a gallon, more than enough to make the trip — and he was ready to roll, as soon as he washed off the last of the paint.
Satterfield felt confident that no one had seen the woman get into the truck; I-75 ran right alongside Adult World, true, but the truck’s cab would have hidden her from the view of the motorists whizzing past. Remarkable, really, how oblivious most people were as they went about their daily business and their little lives. Still, it never hurt to be careful, and if—if—someone eventually came forward to say they’d seen a woman — a trashy, slutty-looking excuse for a woman — climbing into a tractor-trailer cab, the police would start looking for a truck that was red. Water-soluble paint, he thought. Brilliant. Long as there’s no rain in the forecast.
After he’d made two meticulous circuits with the pressure washer, perching on a stepladder to reach the roof of the cab, the water sheeting off was crystal clear, and only traces of red remained in the puddles and cracks around the concrete pad and drain. “Abracadabra,” Satterfield said again, giving the pressure-washer wand a final flourish before releasing the trigger.
Some things wash away easier than others, he thought.
* * *
“Boy, you drop them britches and bend over that bed, and I don’t mean in a minute.” His stepfather’s voice was low but menacing, and Satterfield knew better than to protest. “How long you been spying through that peephole? How many times before?”
“None.” The boy’s voice quavered. He wasn’t good at lying, and he already knew what was coming. A hand gripped his neck and hinged him forward onto the bed. “I wasn’t spying,” he pleaded. “I heard noises. I thought somebody was hurt. I was just looking to see if somebody needed help.”