Lucky I Found You First
8:44 PM
Ruth and Joanne reach for the dashboard.
“You, driver,” demands the voice. “With your left, roll down your window.”
You hesitate, worried you’ll somehow choose the wrong hand, then, heart hammering in your chest, you relinquish your grip on the steering wheel and grab hold of the window knob.
“Slowly,” he says. “All the way down.”
The crank moves stubbornly at first, the glass rattling in its frame until it finally disappears into the door.
“Good,” he says. “Now put it back.”
“The win—?”
“Your hand,” he snaps. “On the steering wheel.”
“We’re not doing anything wrong.” The light moves abruptly to Joanne’s face. “Just talking.”
You still can’t see the speaker clearly, even without his flashlight in your eyes, but before the beam shifts from Joanne’s face back to yours, you catch the chest-high glint of something metallic. His badge, you hope.
“Driver’s license and vehicle registration.” he says, just like in the movies.
You take a deep breath, let the evening air cool your lungs, steady you. “I don’t have one, officer.”
“One what?”
“A license, and this isn’t my vehicle.”
When he makes no immediate reply, you take another breath and keep going. “We stole it from a guy named Timo. We ditched school and went out to his trailer in the desert. Our friends got off to see if he was home, and he killed them. He shot them. Just like that, one, two. I don’t know why, but he did. He didn’t know we were in the car.” You say all of this staring into the glow of the dashboard, eyes fixed on the speedometer arrow resting at zero. “We hid as long as we could, and then we found the keys in this truck, so we took it. We got lost for a while, but finally made it here.”
“Here?”
“The police station.”
“Then what were you waiting for?”
You turn toward him. “The truck stalled.”
Again, he doesn’t respond when it seems he should. The asphalt crunches sharply beneath the sole of his shoe. You feel your jaw tighten as he leans closer, but continue to squint into the brightness.
Then the beam of light leaves your face and begins to move about the cab of the truck, hesitating on Ruth a moment, then Joanne, and finally coming to rest somewhere beneath your chin.
“You’re saying you saw this, person … what’s his name again?”
You try to make out his face, but the flashlight’s afterglow is a pale ghost hovering in the center of your gaze. “Timo,” you say.
“You’re telling me this Timo character killed your friends?”
“Yes.”
“For no reason.” His skepticism is more than obvious. “Just shot them.”
“He was upset. I think they saw something.”
“Saw what?”
“We don’t know.”
“And, this Timo, where is he now?”
“We don’t know.”
“Okay, then can you tell me where this, shooting, happened?”
“Up that way,” you say, motioning with your chin past the girls, through the windshield, and out into the darkness. “In the desert next to some grape fields on the other side of the tracks. There was a house, a trailer I guess, white, with a large, metal shed next to it, and a tree, one big tree behind the house.”
Another scrape of shoe on asphalt, and again the beam of his flashlight begins to creep about the inside of the cab. It moves across the ripped sleeve of Joanne’s striped top where she snagged it on a grapevine and slides down the side of Ruth’s neck and over the front of her blouse, splashed with the same darkness staining the palms of your hands.
Finally, he lowers the flashlight and switches off the beam. The darkness sweeps in completely and then slowly edges away until the first thing you notice about him is the thick, Tom Selleck mustache covering his upper lip, then his hair, trimmed short and neatly parted on the side, and finally his eyes, small, dark pinpoints of night.
“I’m going to be straight with you,” he says. “I know who Timo is. I recognized this truck right away. If what you’re telling me is true, well…” He glances over his right shoulder and then his left. “He’s a very bad man, this Timo, very bad, and he works for some very bad people. You’re lucky I found you first.”
Joanne lowers her hands into her lap and grips her purse. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m not the only one who knows this truck. You’re lucky, that’s all. Very lucky.” He makes another left-right scan of the street. “Let’s move you someplace safer.”
“The police station?” asks Ruth.
“Yes, of course, but first, the back of my patrol car.” He pulls open your door. “Shut off the engine and leave the keys in.”
“Okay.”
“C’mon, all of you,” he says with a brisk wave of his hand. “This way.”
You slide out and the girls follow. He walks you to his black-and-white, parked several car lengths behind the truck, with its headlights off but engine running, and ushers you, then Ruth, and finally Joanne into the back seat.
The moment he shuts the door, you turn to them. “Sorry, I didn’t know what else to say. I—” but he’s already opening his door and climbing in. Ruth holds your gaze a moment and then gives a curt shake of her head before turning away. The car leaves the curb, makes a right at the next corner, and drives past the front of the police station without slowing down.
Ruth leans forward in her seat. “Aren’t we—?” she begins, but a sudden burst of radio static cuts her off, followed by a voice reciting names and numbers.
The officer reaches for his radio handset. “Dispatch, four-two,” he says into the mic.
“Go ahead four-two,” the voice responds.
He thumbs the mic again. “Ten-service. Dinnertime.”
“Copy that four-two.” Another burst of static. “Have a good one.”
A heartbeat later, it starts again, more names, more numbers, but instead of responding, the officer lowers the volume until the voice is no more than a hoarse whisper.
“You’re not going to call it in?” asks Ruth.
“Call what in?”
“Us. Everything we told you.”
“Like I said before.” He reaches up to adjust his rearview mirror. “You kids are lucky I found you first. This isn’t something you announce over the radio. The wrong people might hear.”
He glides through the next empty intersection, a four-way stop, without slowing down. In the dark of the back seat, the three of you can only exchange worried glances as he takes you through one dimly lit neighborhood after the next.
Minutes later you reach the highway on the other side of town. From there he pulls into the Foster Freeze parking lot and stops the car along the side of the restaurant near the entrance but out of the main view of anyone at the tables inside. “Sit tight,” he says, opening his door. “I need to make a phone call.”
“What the fuck,” says Joanne, as soon as his door shuts behind him.
Ruth is shaking her head. “Something’s not right. This doesn’t feel right.”
You watch him walk to the payphone just outside of the Foster Freeze entrance. He picks up the receiver, then pulls some coins from his pocket and feeds them into the phone. As soon as he dials, he turns away from the phone, positioning himself at an angle that allows him to see both the parking lot and the entrance of the restaurant without exposing his back to anyone. His movements are quick, confident, and somehow frightening at the same time. It’s not just the snug, black uniform and black boots, or the gun holstered high on his right hip, or the way his eyes never stop moving—it’s even the way he holds the receiver to his face, like a threat.
“I don’t know,” you say. “Maybe it’s true. Like you said, Joanne, we don’t know what we walked into, what they…” It’s difficult to say their names, as if you don’t have the right. “What Tony and Bobby saw.”
Ruth looks at you. “Do you trust him?”
“He’s a cop. Who else can we trust?”
“That’s not an answer,” she says.
“Well I don’t,” says Joanne. “Not one fucking bit.”
When you look again, he’s no longer at the payphone. You scan the parking lot. “Shit, where did he go?”
Joanne slumps down into her seat, arms crossed. “To take a piss, probably.”
Ruth leans forward to peer through the wire cage separating the front and back seats.
“Listen,” Joanne says. “Whatever happens, stick to Matt’s story.”
“That’s easy enough,” says Ruth. “It’s all true.”
“Yes, but not the warehouse. He left that out.”
Ruth sits back. “You did, didn’t you.”
You shrug. “Thought I should.”
“Yeah, that was good thinking, Lil’ Boot.”
You take the compliment in silence and for a while, no one speaks. You want to close your eyes, just for a minute, but are afraid of what you might see if you do. Then the officer appears alongside the car with a large brown bag rolled over at the top. He opens the door on Joanne’s side, sets the bag on her lap, and shuts the door again. The smell of fried food engulfs the back seat. You haven’t had anything since breakfast but a few handfuls of Doritos. You’re suddenly dizzy with hunger.
“Thought you kids might be hungry,” he says as he slides into the driver’s seat and shuts his door. When no one moves or speaks, he looks up into the rearview mirror and says, “You’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” says Ruth.
“There are cheeseburgers, fries, and shakes in there,” he says, lowering his window a couple of inches. “Strawberry though. They were out of chocolate.”
Joanne unrolls the top of the bag and reaches inside.
A few minutes later, your cheeseburger is gone, along with most of your fries. The milkshake, untasted, is on the floor nestled between your feet. You’re saving that for last. Suddenly embarrassed for eating so quickly, you take a guilty peek at Ruth and Joanne, only to find them quietly doing the same.
The payphone rings, and the officer immediately leaves the car to answer it. He seems to be only listening at first, with the receiver pressed tightly to his ear. When he does speak, it’s through clenched teeth. You can’t make out what he is saying, but he is obviously not happy. He hangs up, makes a quick, left-right scan of the parking lot, and returns to the car.
“I called some people I can trust,” he says, shutting his door and rolling up his window. “That was them on the phone just now. They’re out at Timo’s place. It doesn’t look good.”
“Did they find … him?” asks Ruth. “Timo?”
“No,” he says, reaching over to raise the volume on his radio. The background static becomes a discernable mixture of codes, questions, and commands again, though not as loud as before.
“Can we go home now?” asks Joanne.
“I’m sorry, not yet. I know you’ve been through a lot, but it’s almost over. I just need you to be brave a little longer.”
“What happens now?” you ask.
“My supervisor is waiting for us at Timo’s place.”
“Why us?”
“Because you’re witnesses.”
“What about our parents?” asks Joanne. “They should know we’re okay.”
“Young lady,” he says, reaching up to adjust his mirror. “If you’re old enough to ditch school and drive out to the middle of nowhere to buy drugs off a convicted felon, you’re old enough to sit there a little longer without your parents holding your hand.” He continues to stare at her through the rearview. “You get me?”
Joanne makes no response.
This seems to satisfy him and he reaches up to re-center his mirror.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” she says. “Bad.”
He reaches for the gearshift above his steering wheel. “Try to hold it.”
“I can’t. I’m going to pee myself.”
“Well…” He shifts the car into drive and begins to roll away from the curb. “You wouldn’t be the first person to do that in here.”
“Officer,” says Ruth. “Please.”
He stops the car, exhales audibly through his nose. “Fine,” he says, shifting into park. “Then clean up your trash. Might as well get that out of here while we’re at it.”
In the time it takes him to open Joanne’s door, all of your greasy wrappers and empty cartons, including your unopened shake, are in the bag again. Joanne hugs it to her along with her purse as she climbs out of the car. Just before he shuts the door, she turns back to you and Ruth, her face void of expression. You don’t know why, but you’re struck with the idea that you may never see her again. The officer stays one step behind her as they pass the payphone and disappear around the corner, leaving you and Ruth alone in the car.
You want to tell her that you’re sorry, that somehow all that has happened is because of you. That if you had only gotten out of Tony’s car in the school parking lot when he gave you the chance, he and Bobby would still be alive. And you are about to say all of this and more when the radio comes alive, shattering the uncomfortable silence between you.
“Did you understand any of that?” asks Ruth.
“You mean the part where he said, ‘Breaker, breaker, this is Boss Hogg, do you read me, over?’”
She gives you a sideways look.
“Or when he said, ‘Cletus, this is Sheriff Rosco, you got your ears on?’”
She coughs, a sudden burst of laughter, then immediately turns her head and covers her mouth. “Oh my God,” she says, wiping at her face. “Did I spit on you?”
“No,” you say, holding back your own smile. “Well, maybe a little.”
“What’s that from, Smokey and the Bandit?”
“Dukes of Hazzard, actually.”
“Oh, of course,” she says, nudging you in the side with her elbow. “Daisy Duke and her short shorts, right?”
“Yeah, well, Bo and Luke Duke wear some pretty tight pants themselves.”
“Humm, I hadn’t really noticed.”
“Maybe you ought to check it out,” you say, gently nudging her back.
She smiles and shakes her head. “No thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
The radio chatter starts up again and suddenly the joke is no longer funny.
“I’m sorry, Matthew,” Ruth says. “This is all my fault. I should never have made you come with us.”
You turn to her. “You didn’t make me.”
“No,” she says, not meeting your eyes. “I did. I made you.”
“You were just being nice. I should have taken the hint.” You remember what Tony said to you after removing the broken glass from your arm. She’s nice to everyone, too nice sometimes. The next thing he said was, Don’t go falling in love with her. Too late for that.
“No, I… I didn’t want… I mean, I thought…”
It is because you want so badly to wrap your arms around her that you don’t. Instead, you reach for her hand. She immediately clutches you back, interlocking her fingers with yours.
Someone runs past the car from behind.
Ruth sees him too. “What the hell?”
It’s your policeman. He stops at the edge of the parking lot, looking up and down the sidewalk that runs along the highway. Then he turns and starts walking back to the car.
“Oh, fuck,” you say. “Joanne.”
He heads straight to Ruth’s side of the car, yanks open the door, and leans his head in. “Where is she?” he demands.
Ruth releases your hand. “Who?”
“Don’t play stupid with me. Your friend. She’s gone.”
“I don’t know, we—”
“Give me her name.”
“Her name?”
“Yes, her name, dammit, what’s your friend’s name?”
“J—Jennifer.”
“Jennifer what?”
“Garcia.”
“Her address.”
“Address?”
“Where she lives. Her house.”
“I—I don’t know.”
“You don’t—?” He looks like he wants to drag Ruth from the car. “Goddammit!” he says, pounding his hand against the roof. “That little shit! I never should have fallen for that.” Then he straightens up and for several long seconds just stands there next to the car, unmoving. Finally, he slams the door shut, opens his, and drops into the front seat. “Fuck it,” he says, shifting the car into drive. “I can only put out one fire at a time.” He pulls away from the curb and exits the parking lot onto the highway. “That one is just going to have to wait.”
He makes a right turn at the next light, cuts across town, and soon enough has you back on the highway you came in on. When he stops at a red light, you recognize the Circle-K where you spotted Sal and Rigo getting gas earlier, only this time you are on the other side of the street, heading the opposite way.
Across the intersection, waiting at the crosswalk in exactly the same spot you were when Timo’s truck stalled on you, is Tony’s car. You try to blink it away. But there it is, the same dark brown sports car with the golden Firebird painted on the hood and the words Trans Am on the side. When the light turns green and you pass each other in the intersection, it is with great relief that you see a woman with dark, straight hair in the driver’s seat, and not Ruth’s dead boyfriend with a hole in his head.
Ruth gasps. “That’s—” she starts to say and then stops herself with her hand over her mouth. She twists completely around in her seat to get another look through the back window. When she turns back, her eyes are wide, but her jaw is set and she says nothing.
In the dark of the backroads, with one stretch of empty road after another, you soon lose track of where you are. Maybe ten minutes pass, maybe more, before the car eventually slows and turns off the paved street onto a dirt road edged with drift sand, dry weeds, and small bushes. Then you see it, up ahead in the bouncing beam of the headlights, the mobile home. And next to it the large, corrugated metal shed. There are no other vehicles, no police cars or ambulances, just Timo’s old white truck parked in front of the house, exactly where you first saw it this afternoon.
A lone figure steps out from behind the shed into the beam of the headlights, raising a hand to shield his eyes. He is tall, with a slight paunch and a bald head. His white dress shirt is untucked and his tie hangs crookedly from his neck. You recognize him immediately. Mr. Granger, your high school principal.
THE MISADVENTURES OF MATTHEW VAN DER BOOT is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental … no matter how many times you ask.