I looked at her, swallowed once, and finally found my voice. “What happens now?”
She tilted her head to the left, indicating the darkened road ahead. “You go home. Just drive straight for a little while, and you’ll be fine.” “Just…drive. That’s it?” “That’s it.” A small orange-red stain began to spread across the horizon. The crowd began to disperse. “Time’s up, Driver,” said Daddy Bliss. “A new day with new responsibilities awaits us all. Off with you, dear boy; off with you.” Ciera closed the door, kissed her finger tips, and pressed them against my lips. I started the meat wagon and drove away, never once looking in the rear-view mirror.
It took only a few minutes before the sunlight was right in my eyes. I blinked, slowed down, and dug around until I found a pair of sunglasses on the passenger-side floor. I knew they hadn’t been there when I left Cedar Hill. Ciera or someone else had known that I’d be driving into the rising sun, and so left them for me.
Ten minutes. I drove for only another ten minutes before I saw the exit sign for Cedar Hill. I took the exit, turned right—
—and found myself on 21st Street.
I braked, looking around, confused. There was no traffic at the moment, no early-morning joggers on the sidewalks, no bicycle riders cruising along the curb…nor was there any sign of the exit I’d just taken. My guess is, had anyone been there to see, it would have looked like the meat wagon had just appeared out of thin air, and me with it.
Tired—Christ, I was suddenly so tired. And hungry. It felt like I hadn’t eaten in days, despite the meal Nova had prepared for me earlier.
Do something normal, I thought. Something banal.
So a breakfast at Bob Evans it would be.
I’d completely forgotten about the cash I still had and so drove to my bank to get some money from the ATM. I withdrew thirty dollars and was walking back to the meat wagon when I glanced down at the receipt to check my balance and damn near tripped over my own feet.
According to the receipt in my hand, my checking account had a balance of seventy-five thousand dollars. I went back to the ATM, inserted my card, and asked for a checking account balance once more. Still seventy-five grand. I checked my savings account: seventy-five thousand. I suddenly didn’t have much of an appetite.
14
A brown, business-sized envelope was taped to the door to my apartment. It had no address, no return address, no stamp; only a single, handwritten word: Driver.
I opened it and removed the single-page letter inside.
Driver:
You needn’t worry about the government or the IRS becoming too interested in your sudden financial windfall. No one asks questions when we tell them not to.
You will serve us for one year, until such time as Road Mama has completed her Repair process and can assume her duties once again. Understand that for the entirety of this year, no one close to you will be in any danger from the Road.
Upon completion of your duties, you will receive an additional deposit in each of your accounts equal to what you found waiting there this morning. You will be what was once referred to as “comfortable”.
You will find instructions waiting for you inside. Your first assignment is scheduled for 9:45 p.m. this evening. This time and this time only, the track has already been assembled for you. Expect a delivery of more material Monday morning, and again on Thursday. You’re a bright fellow; you’ll catch on soon enough. Ciera sends hugs and kisses. Isn’t that sweet? I tucked the letter inside my pants pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
A massive HO track was set up in the middle of my living room. Five large boxes, containing what I assumed was more track, were stacked against the far wall. Miss Driscoll’s—Road Mama’s—incredible computer system was already in place on a new desk, plugged in, and running. Several large maps hung from the walls. And a box of multi-colored, thumbnail-sized foil stars waited on the coffee table.
I closed the door behind me. It clicked into place with the finality of a coffin lid being lowered.
* * *
That was nearly four months ago. Since then, I have set up over a dozen track configurations and orchestrated three times as many accidents, all according to the system, which I am still learning.
On the first day of each week I receive a list of numbers, which I then enter into the system so that the mapping and track configurations will be precise. I then construct the tracks accordingly, and wait for the delivery of the HO vehicles.
I keep exact records. So far I have choreographed the deaths of nearly one hundred people. It took me a while to figure out the star system, but I did it: silver stars are used to mark those who were injured in a wreck; blue stars are to mark those whose injuries will eventually result in their deaths, be it weeks, months, or years from the initial accident; and the gold stars—you guessed it—are for those fatalities that occur at the scene.
I have begun going to hobby stores in my spare time—what little there is of it—and buying decorations for the tracks; houses, stores, trees, human figures, dogs, cats, rabbits, whatever strikes my fancy. I understand now why Miss Driscoll went to such lengths to make her tracks more attractive, more life-like: you don’t get to see the actual outside world very often, so you do your best to recreate it. It helps. Not much. But some.
* * *
I read an on-line article a few days ago that said by the end of this decade, something like two-thirds of the cars manufactured in the United States will come equipped with some form of GPS technology, and by 2021 every car in the country will have it. So the Road will always be able to find you when your number comes up.
The more I come to understand how precise this system is, the more I find myself admiring it. And hating myself for it.
* * *
Dianne never called me. I’m guessing she erased the message when she heard my voice. I can’t blame her. I still miss her. I always will.
* * *
I quite working for Brennert. He was pissed but, being the type of guy he is, he didn’t let it show. He told me he understood if I was feeling burned out, and if I ever changed my mind and wanted to come back to the job, it’d be there waiting for me. Before I hung up, I finally asked him: “Do you ever think about the Leonard house?” “Every day,” he said. “I was always sorry about the way Mark and I treated you that night.” “I know.” “Doesn’t help much, does it?” “Not a goddamned bit.”
Click.
* * *
I did some digging on-line one night—a free night for me, which doesn’t happen very often—and found something interesting.
I’d been thinking about what Ciera had said about Daddy Bliss and Road Mama, how they were the only two who remembered their real names, and I began wondering if maybe there was something out there in the ether of cyberspace that might tell me something.
It turned out to be a lot easier than I’d thought. I just entered the words Driscoll and Cars, then Bliss and Cars. I figured that might be a good way to begin.
Both searches pretty much started and ended right there.
On August 17, 1896, in London, Bridget Driscoll, age 44, became the world's first person to be killed in an automobile accident.
As she and her teenage daughter crossed the grounds of the Crystal Palace, an automobile belonging to the Anglo-French Motor Car Company and being used to give demonstration rides struck her at “tremendous speed”, according to witnesses—some 4 MPH (6.4 km/h). The driver had apparently modified the engine to allow the car to go faster.