Canni Read online

  She muttered something for Rob to hear, but he was too engaged with the rig operator to notice.

  “Red,” she said. “More red than blood or fire.”

  Her head turned one more time toward the big, handcuffed cop. One more look at the eyes.

  “Red, like a devil.”

  Back in the old Chevy, Teresa had some words for the 911 operator.

  “This is insane. I’m gonna get out and look for a highway marker. Do you at least have someone headed in this direction?”

  She slid over toward the door, bathed in the light from behind.

  “Don’t you hang up on me now.”

  She opened the door and it hit something. A leg. He was standing right there.

  “Fuck me!” she yelled, almost involuntarily.

  “I’ll definitely file that request,” he replied. “But for now, I’m just checking to see if you’re okay.”

  He was tall, smiling, Asian, and clutching a motorcycle helmet. Teresa’s heart returned to its designated position.

  “Can you tell this operator exactly where we are?”

  Rob continued whispering with the trucker as the shackled cop whimpered and cried. Cash was feeling a bit stronger since leaning on the wrecked police car. She once again forced her focus on the oddly comforting darkness of cactus and brush.

  Something, in the distance, moved.

  Just a shadow from all these damned dancing lights, she thought.

  Then, out of the black it came, into the red and blue wash.

  “Rob . . . ”

  He was deep into his discussion with the big rigger.

  The figure zig-zagged just a bit as it approached.

  “Babe . . . ”

  Both men turned toward Cash. She just lazily raised her arm to point behind them.

  Apparently not an animal, it was indeed a human form that approached from the dry wild.

  “Who’s out there?” yelled the trucker. The fettered cop slowly raised his head to observe.

  “Uncuff me,” was all he mumbled.

  “Hello? Who is that?” hollered the rig driver, even more loudly.

  Rob stepped over to get between Cash and the approaching roamer. There was no response to the trucker’s calls as it trudged closer.

  “Fuck this,” declared Cash as she suddenly bolted into the front seat of the police car. She tried not to notice the soaking warm blood or bits of torn flesh that adorned the uniform of the dead officer behind the wheel. She held her breath to avoid the powdery chemical stench of the air bags. Cash just wanted a gun. She could hear Rob and the truck driver continue to call out to the desert walker. Her fingers managed to pop open the plasma-soaked button strap, but she couldn’t get the weapon out of the belt holster.

  She thought she could now hear the approaching footsteps in the brush. Her palms were covered with blood as she finally thought to tilt the gun forward before trying to pull it out.

  That worked. She had the pistol.

  Cash crawled backwards out of the car and spun to face the advancing visitant.

  It was clear now. This was the missing female cop. Cash initially had the gun raised but began to lower it. Then she saw the face of the diminutive woman. Pale, wide-eyed, and with that caked vomit/blood composite around her mouth. Same as the big cop. Blood all over the front of her uniform too.

  Cash brought the gun back up. She flashed back to when her Uncle Reg had taken her to the NYPD range to shoot, and then on to the Statue of Liberty. She couldn’t, however, dismiss the nagging fact that blood covered her hands. Felt like it was gluing the weapon to her palms. All Cash wanted was to scrub herself from the elbows down. But that would have to wait.

  The approaching officer said nothing. Her arms were to her side. A gun dangled from her right hand.

  “What’s this all about?” yelled Rob.

  The cop didn’t even look his way. Her white pupils seemed trained on the interior of the police car.

  “D-Don’t come any closer!” yelled Cash, not even sure if she could ever pull the trigger. She could feel the cold steel adhering to her skin. Felt like drying mucus. She needed to scour her hands.

  But the catatonic cop kept coming.

  “I told you to stop!” demanded Cash.

  “Please uncuff me,” repeated the big male officer, to no avail.

  Just then, the bloody female cop stopped. Cash’s hands trembled.

  “You want me to take that gun from you, baby?” whispered Rob.

  “No.”

  The uniformed woman stared into the vehicle at the murdered policeman behind the wheel. From the opposite direction came Teresa, her new biker friend—who was recording the scene with his phone—and a couple of other travelers who had just stopped to help. Teresa saw her best friend aiming a gun at one ghoulish-looking cop, while another stood handcuffed beside an old trucker.

  The female officer’s eyes never moved from the sight of her slaughtered partner. She slowly raised her handgun. Cash almost pulled the trigger, especially when she got a good look at the eyes—red like a devil—but something stopped her. The impassive cop put the gun to her own right temple and blew off the top of her head.

  Screams and gasps.

  Cash dropped the weapon she’d been holding and fell to her knees. Rob engulfed her. Instinctively, she scraped her hands against the sandy ground below her, trying to get rid of the blood, but it only stuck the dirt to her, like breading.

  The burly officer, arms still shackled behind him, redness fading from his eyes, had some words for Cash that cut right through the night air.

  “Fuck it. Keep that gun. Take hers too. You’ll need them.”

  EVANS CITY, PENNSYLVANIA

  Father and daughter. They relished sunny days because they could make shadow hand puppets. Their silhouettes were strong and deep against the concrete. His shadow was much larger, of course. It was crouched, and he was just forward of his daughter. Her shadow showed her pigtails quite clearly, as well as the spokes of her wheelchair. There was a big blue chalk-drawn heart containing the words “Daddy loves Bug” on their cement screen.

  “A bird is an easy one, Daddy!” she laughed.

  Her hands formed the wings as she easily outdid her father’s attempt.

  They looked, not at each other, but directly down as each of their creations appeared.

  “You’re too good for me, sweetheart.”

  “I get a lot of practice.”

  “I really need to work on my shadow puppets,” he laughed.

  “Here’s my goat,” she said. “Yes, his name is Billy.”

  “I love that one,” he replied, as she used both hands to form a great looking creature including horns and dangling chin hair.

  “You can make Billy, too. Just keep at it,” she told him.

  The shadow of her head titled just a bit as her arms formed something of a long neck.

  “Make your hands into a big tree,” she told her father.

  He opened his five fingers widely. The best he could come up with. Her hands formed a head.

  “A brontosaurus!”

  They both chuckled as her handiwork moved over to her father’s “tree” and began to munch.

  “Does it tickle, Daddy? I’m eating you!”

  The wheelchair shadow moved slightly, and the wind kicked up a bit.

  “Go on, make the goat now,” she said with a slight cough.

  The silhouette of her pigtailed head remained still as her father tried his hands in different combinations, almost getting the goat puppet, but not quite.

  “Nearly had it, Bug,” he said.

  She didn’t reply as he tried varying combinations of fingers to make the horns. The sun was hot on his neck, but the shadows were brilliantly strong against the concrete. The blue heart was bright in the backdrop of the emerging goat.

  He didn’t notice as the black shadow of Bug’s head twitched just a bit.

  “It’s a bit of a sad animal,” he said. “Looks more like Christian
Bale at an AC/DC concert.”

  As he tweaked the goatee a bit by shifting his pinky to different angles, Bug’s pigtailed shadow slowly stood from that of her wheelchair. He didn’t see it as it turned to face him. Her silhouette was in dark profile and a black depiction of liquid streamed from her mouth to the ground. He heard the gurgle and turned to face his baby.

  His hands were still in goat mode when she was on him.

  They became a single umbra between the earth and the sun.

  Blood splattered onto the chalk heart.

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  “Having fun in Vegas?” asked the scaly-skinned waitress.

  The four of them sat at the table, their minds somewhere between lethargy and slumber. Rob managed to reply, as he hoped this was just some continuation of the lucid dream that was surely nearing conclusion.

  “Just got in,” he said, as he collected the menus and handed them over.

  Rob, Cash, and Teresa were about to have their version of breakfast with the Asian motorcyclist. He had told them his name was Sum Yung Cum, but couldn’t keep a straight face and soon admitted to being Paul Bhong, though he’d often use the surname, Smith. He had claimed Chinese, Japanese, and OnMeKnees ancestry before fessing up as a Korean-American. They hadn’t even believed his drug-bubbling surname until he produced his license for the cops at the precinct.

  They were at the station for over eight hours—maybe two hours of individual interviews and six of waiting around in separate offices. Still, they got off easy for seeing two dead cops and a third—babbling and possibly freshly insane.

  There were several suits at the precinct house. Took them hours to arrive, and they sure weren’t local cops or detectives. They did most of the interviewing, without ever saying exactly who they were. Government was the catch phrase. Cash was sure that most of the questions would revolve around a certain missing police gun, which had found its way, on the advice of the handcuffed officer, to a spot below the front seat of Rob’s Chevy. When the questioners almost completely avoided that subject, Cash knew that some hardcore shit was brewing in the desert. When cops don’t care about a missing service weapon, there must be some humongous fish to fry.

  It was late afternoon now, but Paul Bhong had led them to this little place on Fremont Street in downtown Las Vegas that had won a Best Pancakes in America title, and damned if they weren’t going to try them. Despite the cooking accolades, the joint was nearly empty. Other than brief police station chair and bench catnaps, the three cross-country travelers hadn’t been to sleep for two days.

  “Hope y’all have lots o’ luck here,” said the waitress as she left their table.

  “Can’t get any worse,” mumbled Teresa. The others offered tired laughs. She caught Paul smiling at her, and it felt nice. He gave her a gentle tap on the hand. That felt nicer.

  “You look as exhausted as I feel, Carrie,” said Teresa.

  “I’m shot,” she replied, rubbing hand sanitizer all the way up to her elbows.

  “Carrie?” asked Paul. “I thought you were Cash?”

  “Only to him,” she smiled, tossing a thumb at Rob.

  “And her favorite uncle,” answered Rob, as Cash shook her head.

  “Never happened,” she said.

  “So I should call you Carrie?” asked the biker.

  “Carrie, Ca, Caroline . . . all good.”

  “Hmmm,” pondered Paul, “How ‘bout . . . Khaki?”

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” replied Paul. “That lovely skin tone you have. Almost like khaki.”

  Her skin did have compelling color but was obviously dry from over-cleansing. She was flattered by Paul’s compliment, but unsure of how to respond.

  Rob wasn’t. “Caroline would be a good name to call her.”

  He shot his best Keep Your Distance look at Paul. Teresa slid her hand away from their new pal.

  “Caroline it is,” he said. “Sorry, I like to have fun with names n’ shit. Didn’t mean to sound creepy.”

  Trying to dump the awkward, Cash pointed that thumb at Rob again.

  “Paul, I bet you’d never guess what name that ‘Rob’ here signed on all that police paperwork today.”

  “I’m not ashamed of it,” said Rob, not missing a beat. “My name is Winthrop. Winthrop Robert Van Morrison-CrosbyStillsNash, and I am damned proud of it.”

  Silence.

  “Okay Paul, I lied about the last name. But my name is Winthrop.”

  “That’s one sweet name, bro. Why don’t you use it? Sounds important.”

  “I like Rob,” he replied.

  “If you go by Winthrop, you’re allowed to wear a monocle and junk.”

  The waitress returned with four water glasses.

  “Thank you” said Rob. “So, did we catch you between lunch and dinner?” he asked her, just trying to make small talk.

  “What’s that?”

  “I mean, it’s kind of empty. My friend here told me this was a popular restaurant.”

  Rob and the server both looked over at Paul.

  “It is popular,” she answered. “But lots less people have been coming since the flyover.”

  The waitress turned a bit to the side and her right hand made a quick and sloppy sign of the cross.

  “Ah” replied Rob, while peering at Cash.

  “Guess folks are just scared,” added the woman, as just a hint of apprehension came over her worn face. Paul could sense the change in her. He spoke up.

  “Me change mind!” he bellowed, with machine gun speed, and a completely new accent. “No want pancake no more. You got Korean noodle, mung bean, and ddukbokkie?”

  “Oh . . . I . . . uh . . . ”

  “What ‘bout dog? You roast Boston Terrier for customer?”

  “Sir, I . . . I . . . ”

  He smiled at the confused woman. “Just kidding, ma’am. Having a bit of fun with you,” he said in his normal voice.

  “Oh,” she grinned. “You had me there. Very funny!”

  She was smiling broadly as she headed back to the front counter. Mission accomplished.

  Paul looked at his new friends. “I do like fucking with people and Asian stereotypes, but, also, she looked like she needed a laugh.”

  They all appeared a bit cheerier after his ridiculous impression. Teresa slid her hand back closer to his, almost touching. He made her happy. She also loved the fact that he was of ample height. Teresa was endowed with the slim, sturdy frame of a fashion model, but finding a boyfriend over whom she didn’t tower was always a consideration.

  “You keep that Chevy looking and running so sweet,” said Paul to Rob.

  “Thanks, man. I try.”

  “Can’t believe you took it cross country, though. Five thousand mile round trip. Lots of sand n’ shit. Ballsy way to treat that ride.”

  “Well, it’s supposed to be a sweet vacation, and I’m hoping . . . ” began Rob, before Cash cut him off.

  “I can’t fly,” she said. “I’ve tried, but I had to leave the plane before it ever took off.”

  “Ahh,” replied Paul, as he watched Cash run her unused cutlery through her table napkin. “Well, we all have our things, I suppose. I hate the sound of Styrofoam. You know, like when the top of a cooler rubs against the base. Makes me wanna beer dick my own goddamn ears. But, for this guy to put that awesome car through this kind of trip . . . damn, he must love you, sista.”

  Changing the subject, Cash asked, “Why didn’t you give the cops the video you shot back there?”

  “Hell, no,” replied Paul. “They’d keep my phone. I keep trying to shoot something that will go viral. Bring subscribers to my YouTube channel. No luck yet.”

  “You won’t post that horror, will you?”

  “No. Not fair to the victims. Paul Smith-Bhong loses out again.”

  In the United States of America, a flyover was usually thought of as a coordinated, respectful event where an aircraft, or group of aircrafts, would pay homage to an occasion or anniversary w
ith a majestic pass under the sun, ideally against a clear blue sky. Some countries would refer to these ceremonies as flypasts.

  The flyover to which the waitress referred was coordinated indeed. Took a decade of planning. Involved hundreds of small aircraft. Covered each and every one of the forty-eight contiguous states. Occurred on the fifteenth of March—a day infamous for another historical conspiracy—and was less than a fortnight gone.

  However, it was anything but respectful.

  Most of the planes, and all of the pilots, were no more. A handful were shot down, but most completed their integrated mission by intentionally crashing into the most inviting and catastrophic targets in their vicinity.

  It was unanimous. The pancakes were indeed the best they’d ever had. But now they sat like lead weights in the stomachs of three exhausted travelers. The group had parted ways with Paul, promising to hook up again during the trip. The hog-riding jokester had proven to them, via his driver’s license, that he was indeed a Vegas local, but he had told them he was both a software developer and a dishwasher for Hot Phat Dung Noodle Bar. They tended to believe the former.

  The Malibu headed south down Las Vegas Boulevard. Wedding chapels, great and small, lined both sides of the street.

  “That’s the one!” shouted Rob. “Everyone from Frank Sinatra to Bruce Willis got married there. Michael Jordan. Britney Spears, too.”

  “What about Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob?” asked Teresa, as Cash gazed in the other direction.

  “Don’t know. That might be another chapel. There are loads of ‘em!”

  “Rob,” said Cash, without looking, “are any of these people still married?”

  “Technically, yes.”

  “But to other people.”

  “Correct.”

  They drove on. Radio stations were plentiful in the city, so they listened to Adele as they motored along. Rob lifted his 8-track copy of Some Girls by the Rolling Stones and waved it around slowly.

  “No.” replied the girls in unison.

  “This tape,” said Rob, “has versions of some songs that never appeared on either vinyl or CD!”