“That had to be the biggest bird on the planet,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt, getting out to take a look.
I stayed buckled. I didn’t want to see any more than I was seeing. I was glad I didn’t have a memorial ser vice doughnut to spew.
Diesel kicked at something on the ground and examined the front of the Escalade. He swiped a finger through the red stuff on the windshield and looked at it up close.
“Fake blood,” he said. “I think we hit the Pine Barrens version of a booby-?trap piñata.”
“The feathers?”
“Real. But the bird who gave his all for them is long gone.”
“Why would someone booby-?trap this road with a feather bomb?”
“I’m guessing Gail did it. Stops people from going forward. Makes a statement of sorts. Doesn’t really hurt anyone. This is probably what war would look like if women were in charge.”
Diesel got behind the wheel and flipped the windshield washers on. The fake blood mixed with the washer fluid and feathers and gummed up the wiper blades.
“What have you got in your bag?” Diesel asked.
“Tissues?”
He took the tissues, got out of the car, and tried cleaning the blades. No good. The tissues were now mixed with the blood and feathers and washer fluid. The whole windshield was a disgusting red smear.
“I’m not happy,” Diesel said.
I was still pawing through the junk in my bag, and I found a travel-?size nail polish remover pad. “This should do something,” I said. “I only have one, so don’t waste it.” I tore the foil envelope open and gave the saturated pad to Diesel.
Diesel looked at the two-?inch square. “You’re kidding.”
“Do you have anything better?”
“No. I’d stand on the hood and piss on the windshield, but I’m empty.”
“Some superhero.”
Diesel flipped me the bird and went to work with the polish remover. Moments later, he had a small piece of window exposed in front of the steering wheel. He cranked the car over, wheeled it around, and carefully picked his way down the dirt road, turning right when he reached the paved road. He followed signs to the Atlantic City Expressway, and found a gas station just before the Expressway entrance.
I was pumping gas and Diesel was scrubbing the windshield and grille when the Ferrari sped by the gas station and took the Expressway, heading west to the Turnpike.
“Too bad you can’t fly,” I said to Diesel.
“Yeah, rub it in. All through high school I took it for that.”
“Do you want to go back to the dirt road?”
“No. I want to get on a computer and do some research first. We could ride around for days on that road and never find anything. And we’re not even sure Gail means anything to us.”
I WASHED DOWN a sandwich with a soda and fed the last bite of bread to Rex. Better a late lunch than no lunch at all. Diesel was on my computer, looking at aerial views of the Barrens.
“This was taken several months ago,” Diesel said, “but I see a clearing and a house and a fairly l
arge outbuilding at the end of the road we were on. There are a lot of narrow roads intersecting and going off in all directions from that dirt road, but there’s really only one house that can be reached by Jeep.”
“Are you going back now?”
“No. I want to look at more aerial views, and I have a call in to Scanlon’s supervisor.”
“That’s okay by me. I’d like to take another stab at Gordo Bollo.”