NIGHT CRUISING Page 3

  He hurried as fast as he could to finish preparations, then he started out. He wasn't going to call the police with a missing person's report. He just couldn't wait that long. He didn't care that the statistics said thousands of kids run away from home every year and just disappear, never to be beard from again, He didn't care, even, that he was probably the responsible party in this debacle. All he cared about was his little girl. He'd get her back safely or spend the rest of his life trying. She was all he had. If he botched her raising, he'd fix it.

  A nagging voice said, You should have fixed it before you lost her. He shut off the voice. First he must find her and bring her home. No matter what effort or how long it took.

  Then he'd repair whatever had caused her to run away.

  He thought she might have taken Interstate 95 north to the top of the state since it went right through Dania. That's the route he followed. At every station where he bought gas or stopped to grab food to go, he asked if anyone had seen her, and he showed the latest picture he had, her junior-year school photo. With that red hair and slate-gray eyes, she was memorable. At least he had one thing in his favor. Yet no one had seen her so he doggedly drove north, worrying, scrubbing down his crew-cut red hair, watching the roadside and on ramps for hitchhikers.

  "Molly, Molly, Molly..." He said her name aloud repetitively as he drove.

  How could his daughter desert him? He must have appeared an ogre to her, a strict disciplinarian who left her no way out but to run. There had been arguments, but he never suspected she was so unhappy she'd leave him.

  Maybe he should have remarried, found a woman to help love and raise her. Maybe he should have been more permissive, made fewer restraints on her freedom. Maybe he hadn't listened during the times he should. Maybe the counselor he paid exorbitant fees was right, though he had failed to admit it; he was as much at fault for the conflicts with his teenage daughter as she was. Maybe he should have put her into a private girls' school where she would have been carefully watched.

  To hell with it. He had to stop this train of thought. Recriminations wouldn't get Molly back. It produced zero profit. He'd never know what to do right for her until he could find and bring her home. Then he could go over the reasons she felt she must escape her home. Let's face it.

  Escape him. Until then, he had to keep his mind on the road and watch the entrance ramps.

  It was not until he hit l-l0 west out of Jacksonville that he found someone who had seen her. He had driven like a maniac, flat out, foot to the pedal, the radar detector signaling with high beeps when a patrol car lurked nearby. He drove all day and was so tired his back ached, his head throbbed. At a Conoco station where he filled up, he took her picture around to the employees, asking each one the same question. "Have you seen this girl?"'

  A boy not yet out of his teens recognized Molly. "Yeah, she was here," he said, grinning to show a god-awful overbite.

  "Well?"

  "Well, what? I saw her. What about it?"

  Mark drew on his bank account of patience. If need be, he'd also draw out his wallet and offer a bribe. When his money ran out, he had a bank card good for withdrawals all over the country. He'd get more. He had savings, credit cards, gas cards, his retirement income from the Marines going into direct deposit. Money wasn't the problem.

  Mark said, his voice only slightly impatient, "She's my daughter and she's run away from home. Who was she with? What color and kind of car did she leave in?"

  The boy pulled the bill of his Conoco cap back on his head and stared out at the pumps. They stood in the service bay where a mechanic was changing a flat tire. The noise from the hydraulic machines clanged in Mark's ears. He waited. Patience running out by the millisecond. He hated slow thinkers. Hated them when he trained them in boot camp. Haled them in the Congress. Hated them at checkout counters in grocery stores. Lost his patience and his temper a dozen tunes a day with them in one way or the other. His C.O. once told him he was a Class A personality type, ripe for a heart attack, quick to anger, volatile when frustrated by the most mundane everyday obstacles. He kicked things out of his way rather than bend over, pick them up, and move them. Then he'd be angry at the dumbfuck who left the mess in his way in the first place.

  "Uh . . ." The boy was still thinking if his wrinkled brow meant anything. "She . . . ok . . .she was riding with a young couple . . ."

  "All right."

  "Yuppies in a gray BMW. Nice car. New."

  "Good." Mark reached for his wallet, opened it slowly. The boy's eyes flicked over, saw the money, peered out again at the pumps pretending indifference.

  "Which way did the BMW head?"' Mark had the twenty out hovering in midair.

  "Back on the on ramp." His hand snaked out and slipped the twenty into his pocket. His gaze was still front forward.

  "West?"

  "Yeah."

  "Remember anything else? Did my daughter look all right? What was she wearing?"

  "She looked fine." He shrugged, reached up, pulled the bill of the cap back down over his eyes. He acted like a kid who didn't know what to say to a girl's father.

  The boy licked his lips before continuing. "Her hair was tied back with a white ribbon, I remember that. Her red hair, that's why I remember her. She had on stone-washed jeans and a white blouse. The couple filled up and left. That's it."

  "When did you see them?"

  "About four hours ago. I'd just come on shift."

  Mark thanked him and walked to his car. He would have paid two hundred to find out he was on the right track.

  Four hours ahead of him. His hope soared.

  His hope died during the long desperate night when stopping along the way, he found no one else who had seen Molly. He drove straight through, stopping at a rest area to sleep little more than two hours before driving again. He lost time getting off the freeway and showing Molly's picture at little cafes and service stations between Jacksonville and Tallahassee. No one had seen her. What did he expect, he wondered, a trail of bread crumbs? It was going to be nearly impossible to find her, though that impossibility wasn't something he could think about for too long. He had to feed his hope.

  At noon his stomach cramped and he had to stop again to buy a roll of Tums. His eyes burned from straining to see a gray BMW in every small compact car he drove past.

  His back continued to ache and he was growing hungry.

  "Molly, Molly, Molly. .."

  It was the second night on the road when he left Mobile. When he saw the cluster of signs, one of which was for Gene Ray's Truck Stop, he decided to stop again, show the picture, and get something to eat.

  Before entering the cafe, he pulled Molly's picture from his khaki shirt pocket to show it to a girl wearing shorts and a green halter top. She stood around like she was waiting to be picked up and Mark took her for a hooker. The signal code was the same in Hong Kong, the Philippines, or Mobile, Alabama. A look in the eyes. A nod of the head, a sway of the hip. A smile, tempting, and sometimes expensive.

  "I'm looking for my daughter," he began. As soon as the girl had the snapshot in her hand, he saw how her expression changed. She recognized Molly. "You've seen her." He was thrilled and completely surprised to have picked up the trail again. "Look, let me give you a twenty spot. I need help and I don't mind paying for it."

  The girl looked sly as she said, "I get more than twenty bucks, don't you worry about it."

  "I'm not trying to buy that," he said. "I just want to know about my daughter. She's only sixteen and. . ."

  "She's old enough."

  Now his patience played out. What right did she have telling him anything about his own child? Old enough for what? Rolling around in the sack with truckers at fifty a pop? Jesus Christ. He wished he could throttle someone.

  "I'll take forty since you're not interested in fun and games." The girl reached over to where he had his wallet spread to extract two twenties with deft fingers. She folded and put them into a black patent leather purse hanging from a gold
chain off her shoulder. She snapped the purse shut, then shifted her weight to the other foot.

  " Now tell me," he said. "When was she here?"

  "Let's see, it's about ten o'clock. She was here around six-thirty, seven."

  His heart stepped up in rhythm. "What did she leave in?"

  "Guy picked her up."

  "And . . ?"

  "He was driving a blue Chrysler, light blue. Old. "

  "How old?"

  "How the shit do I know, man? Just old. Square. Boxy. It looked like . . ."

  "What?"

  "An old cop car. You know. Without the lights on top and all. The kind they used in the seventies, you know?"

  "Undercover cop car, you mean?"

  Yeah. But old, like they used to have. Nowadays they got these fast Mustangs and shit."

  "Good. Now did you talk to her, did she say anything about where she was going?"

  "Yes and no."

  Mark wanted to paw the ground like a bull. Why were people so deliberately obtuse? Once he paid 'em, they should open like clams, but no, dopey women like this had to give him grief. "Yes, you did talk to her, and no, she didn't say where she was going. Do I have that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "What did she say then?"

  "She was going to try her luck out back."

  Mark knew exactly what that meant. His baby. Prostituting. It squeezed his heart so hard he thought he would die right there. He would crumple to his knees and sink through the ground and lie in the earth until the worms came to do their just work. .

  "But I don't think she had any luck," the girl said when she saw him pale.

  Mark felt himself rise again, from earth to sky. "Why— why do you say that?"

  "She left real quick after she went back there."

  Mark expelled his breath. "What did the guy look like?"

  "Big guy, real tall."

  "Taller than me?" Mark stood an inch over six feet.

  The girl glanced at him, then nodded. "Yeah. Bigger too. Heavier, you know? But not fat. Shoulders like a wrestler."

  "Did you see his face? What did he look like?"

  "He had long hair, straight, past his shoulders. Brown with some gray in it. And a beard. He was pretty fine, looked kinda like that guy played on TV, in that wilderness

  show where he had a bear for a friend and he lived in a cabin in the woods...?"

  "I never watch television. Was he a biker?" He was thinking of the long hair and beard. After all this wasn't the sixties anymore. Who wore long hair except a few dingbats in rock videos? The girl hesitated, biting her lower lip. She shook her head finally. "I don't think so. He was too clean. Wore slacks and a nice shirt. Great smile. He smiled at me when he came outta the cafe." She arched her back a little and gave him one of her knowing looks.

  Mark thought the stranger who picked up his daughter must be some charmer. He'd bowled over this girl. That might not be a good sign.

  "'Which way did they drive when they left?"

  The girl pointed west.

  "You're sure? You watched them leave?"

  "I said so, didn't I?"' She sounded offended, and her lower lip went into a pout. It wasn't a pretty sight. Not sexy or sulky as he was sure she meant it to be.

  "All right. Was there anything else you can tell me?"

  The girl shook her head. She opened her pocketbook and took out a pack of Wrigley's spearmint gum, offered it to him, and, when he refused, shook out a piece to unwrap. She contentedly chewed the slice as he walked to his car.

  He was hungry. He had wanted to get a burger and fries to go, but Molly and an old hippie had a three-hour jump on him. At least. He'd grab something to eat later. Later when he could afford to waste the time.

  #

  Cruise stopped at a Jack in the Box. He ordered bacon cheeseburgers, onion rings, and large Coke. He noticed Molly ate as if she had gone without food all day. Probably had. She ate just like a kid, sloppily, mayonnaise and tomato dripping onto napkins spread in her lap. He smiled at her, offered to buy her something else when she finished, but she burped quietly behind her hand, and said she was full, thanks.

  Once he was on the freeway and driving steadily, she fell asleep again, head against the window. Cruise tooled on down the road, thinking about the pure animal bliss of certain functions. Eating, sleeping, fucking, waking. The perfect cycle of it. He had not indulged in the fucking part in a long time. He wouldn't, not until the girl really wanted him to. He'd make sure she wanted him. If she did it because she felt she owed him, that would ruin the whole performance. He had never in his life forced a woman. It was a matter of pride. There was no bliss in it. It was like forcing yourself to eat on a full stomach or sleeping when you weren't tired or waking up before you were ready.

  Besides, his major joy in life had nothing to do with the perfect cycle of life. He could go without food, drink, sleep, and sex when he had to. The thing that really made him tick loud as a time bomb had to do with death dealing.

  The working up to it. The building of the pressure. The quiet approach, the jovial front he presented, the harmless exterior that wooed his victim. And then the moment of total abandonment when the cold rage swarmed from the top of his head where he imagined it slept like a hibernating beast, crept forward first into his eyes where he couldn't deflect it, and then it was upon him, swooping down over him like the shadow of a hawk. He always concentrated on the look in his victims' eyes when they recognized, in their final moments, how they'd been sorely tricked, how they had mislaid them tnust, how they had but seconds before the razored steel began to tear and rip them from stem to stern.

  It was always so bloody. The air itself spun with blood when he whipped out his knife and began to dispatch a victim, His height prevented the blood from getting on his face in most instances, but from his chest down the red rain soaked him, He didn't know how many clothes he'd had to bury or burn because of that. He didn't like the scent of blood when it dried, when it was old. It never smelled right unless it was fresh. Warm. Once it thickened into clots and strings on his clothes or where it splashed his arms, he went into a frenzy to get it off him.

  For emergencies, when he could not find a place to wash, he carried a case of bottled water in the trunk. Nothing felt better than to strip off the killing clothes, step out of his shoes, and stand with the water pouring down from his head, sluicing over his chest, flat belly, draining down his groin and buttocks.

  Thinking about his ablutions, he could feel again the cold shock of the water, and he shivered where he sat driving.

  "Are you cold?" Molly asked. She straightened from where she'd been leaning against the window. She blinked sleepily. Cool late summer night air wove a stream from the open windows through the car. It ruffled her curly red hair from behind, lifting ends of it to trail toward the roof of the car like the tatters of a shroud on a floating ghost.

  Cruise looked at her. He must have been unable to make his mouth work right because he knew he'd tried to smile, but she frowned in return. That meant his facial muscles were frozen; he'd lost control of them momentarily while indulging in the memory of blood. He faced the road again, tried to repress his wandering thoughts of death.

  "No," he said. "I'm not cold. The air's just fine."

  "Oh."

  "Are you cold? We can roll the windows up."

  "I'm okay." She leaned her head against the partially rolled window again. "Tired. Do you drive all night?"

  "I make better time. I don't like driving during the day. I sleep then."

  "In the car or what?"

  "Sometimes. Sometimes I get a room, pull all the curtains."

  "Oh."

  This time she sounded a little worried. He wanted to reassure her that she wouldn't have to have sex with him until she wanted to, or never if it came to that, but he couldn't think of a way to say it without making her suspicious, without sounding like a liar. He opted to say nothing instead.

  "Where are we?" she asked.

  "
Still in Louisiana."

  "Where do you think you'll stop?"

  "It should be getting daylight when we get somewhere in Texas."

  Hours later while Molly dozed on and off, waking only long enough to ask where they were now, Cruise noticed the lightening of the sky. It looked as if the heavens were a bowl of pewter turned down over the land. Stars winked out. The moon disappeared. Strips of fleecy clouds formed on the low horizon.

  He had crossed Henderson Swamp, the Sabine River, and the Neches. He took the Walden Road exit in Beaumont, Texas, passed a monster-size Metro Truck Stop that he gave a wistful glance. He continued past it, crossed a railroad track, and drove down a road called Terrell Park Drive where there was a golf course and older suburban homes. He turned into a paved area by a park where swings and jungle gyms hunkered in wisps of early morning eddies of fog. He killed the engine.

  Molly woke abruptly. Looked around. She stretched like a cat limbering up for the day ahead. He envied those who could stand the light. They were normal in that respect where he was not, he understood that implicitly.

  "Texas?" she asked.

  "Yeah. I'm going to sleep now. Do what you want to do. There's a little store back there if you want anything. Here's five bucks." He handed her the bill.

  "Do you want me to wake you in a little while?"

  "No. I'll wake on my own."

  He reached beside the seat and depressed the lever. The back folded down until it hit the back bench seat. He felt on the rear floorboard for the folded kitchen towel he kept there, draped it over his eyes.

  He heard Molly unbuckle her seat belt and leave the car.

  He fell to sleep almost immediately, bird song and the squeak of swing chains in his ears.

  In his dreams he relived the high and low points of his life. His past trailed him into sleep and always had. When he had been a boy, he dreamed of babyhood. When a teen, he dreamed of boyhood. Now he dreamed of the entire fabric of life he'd lived to the present.

  Always in trouble with authority, mainly his father, he had taken on a decidedly secretive nature. He came from a big brawling family of children who were mercilessly beaten by their heavy-handed father. So bad were those days that when he dreamed of them, he wept in his sleep and woke to find his face wet with tears. His father did not drink. He did not curse. He did not whore or fail to bring home a paycheck. Nevertheless, he was cruelly warped in some essential way, part of his humanity driven so deep underground that it would never come to the fore. He suffered no breach of his ironclad rule, but his rule was too strict for even a hardened soldier, much less a child, so they all failed him; they all, his five brothers, his four sisters, courted and promptly received daily punishment.