Patterns Falling Elsewhere

Baseball is one of the very few games that a grown man can play with a steel bat without getting in trouble.

But baseball and softball, the other one, are both played in spring and summer, not January when diamonds are brown and mounds are frozen.

And so Nolan Hardt couldn’t think of an appropriate reason for why the blue steel bat was laying on the back seat so easily within reach.

Nor could he explain why he had no driver’s license, or why the stickers on the license plates expired seven months ago.

The best answer he could come up with when asked where he was going was, "to the movies."

His grip tightened around the uneven padding of the steering wheel as he stared straight ahead, down the long ribbon of I-80 that led to Chicago, his home still hours away.

The cop had backed away from the door, hand hovering above his well-worn holster, though he hadn’t yet unsnapped the strap above the handle.

An echelon of unseen geese bleated far away. Maybe Nolan commented to the cop about how much he hated the migrating birds, and what he would do to them if ever he had the chance to get close enough.

At the cop’s request Nolan cut the engine and got out of the car.

They weren’t arresting him yet. The cop that was talking to him kept repeating it as he handcuffed him, padded him down for sharp objects, and sat him down crosslegged on the cold, dry shoulder.

The cop was smart, and had double-locked the cuffs so they wouldn’t tighten or open on the wrists, not leaving himself vulnerable to possible claims of nerve damage in the future.

Sitting on the pavement, Nolan watched as the two black-shirted men searched the’66 Dodge Dart, making the candy red paint bleed whenever they accidentally brushed against the rock salt dust that had been accumulating for the past two days. Nolan was glad the car was dirty. He wasn’t some joy-riding car buff who spent his weekends repainting the white ELDORADO lettering on the tires by hand, or vacuuming dust from the spotless white carpet, or buffing wax into the red paintjob until he could see his own stupid smile.

No, that man was dead.

Two days ago, Nolan had beaten in the car buff’s torso with a piece of rebar. Nolan would have downed the crouching man with a single blow to the base of the neck, but as luck would have it, the car buff had spotted a warped red image of Nolan in the paint and had tried to roll out of the way. Forgetting that the reflection was reversed when he rolled, he had caught the first blow on the shoulder, crippling his right arm.

It had been a mess from there. Nolan had thought he would stash the body in the trunk, spend the rest of the day driving into Chicago, then dump the car or sell it and the body of its owner to their respective chop shops. The car for parts or scrap metal, the body for organ harvesters.

But that had been before Nolan had discovered what was in the trunk, and what it could do for him. Two days after that, Nolan had only done about two hours of actual driving towards Chicago before being pulled over for speeding.

The other cop was wearing inside-out evidence bags over his hands, turning the bat over as he examined it for something he wouldn’t find.

When the first cop asked Nolan if he could take a peek in the car’s trunk, he wasn’t really asking for permission, and this was disseminated in the seconds that elapsed after Nolan voiced his approval, when the cop was obviously trying to read his face for a trace of fear.

Nolan couldn’t often keep a straight face, but he could keep a cold face, and he squinted while chattering his teeth, turning his face away from the wind.

The cop with the steel bat set it on the front seat, took out a small black flashlight and began feeling under the white leather seats, probing the old yellow foam with a ballpoint pen.

"Why so many keys on the key-ring?"

Nolan tried not to look like he was squirming on the cold, dry shoulder to put distance between himself and the trunk of the red Dodge Dart. "The long skinny one opens the trunk."

And it did, though the cop needed to jiggle it a little before it would turn.

Nolan shivered on the pavement, though it was not that cold. He watched from the periphery of his vision, trying not to watch what was about to happen to the cop. He thought he smelled death, rotting flesh, but a cold wind grabbed his collar and he smelled cow manure, even in winter.

Perhaps there was a swelling darkness, and the cop probably thought his eyes needed to adjust from the gloomy brightness of the cloud-cast sky. But perhaps the longer he stared into the trunk, the more he realized that it was filled with more than black shadows and bleak contrast. Nolan couldn’t imagine what the cop was seeing, but he tried.

Maybe the cop stuck his hand inside, feeling oily silk and triggering the trap.

An image was burned in Nolan’s mind then, of a transparent yellow body with a single candy red mark on its hideous, liquid-filled end, smooth fangs on a large blind head that look dull until you see two black points underneath them like a day’s stubble but hooked, and long lemonade legs wrapping around him, pulling him into its nest even before it stung him with the first paralyzing bite.

No screaming. No gun-drawing. No chance to grab onto the car to keep from getting pulled in. Not even one last breath of cool country air. It happened much too fast for that.

A spider, and so big that it was impossible all of it could fit in the Dart’s trunk, under an inky blanket of its own dark weaving.

But it was possible; anything was now.

Nolan shuddered. The trunk lid showed candy red where the cop’s hand had lifted it, but against the stark white winter sky it looked like a blood-stained axe bobbing in a cold wind.

There was still one more, one who had given up his search under the seats in order to check around the footwell. He stood up and yelled, "Just the bat, Harry, and a dirt clod under the seat."

He clicked off his flashlight as he climbed out of the car, didn’t immediately look for his partner but turned the steel bat over in his evidence-bagged hands, getting a feel for its heft. "So what did you say you were doing with-"

He raised his glance to look at Nolan, who wouldn’t even look at him, and maybe then he realized that something was wrong, but maybe he didn’t immediately grasp the seriousness of it, possibly taking a few steps back to appraise the situation before he overreacted, leaning against the right taillight, his back to an abyss.

This time, Nolan felt relief when he saw the hideous yellow predator’s translucent legs wrap around him, darkening with the color of the uniform they snatched, though the brief look of desperate terror on the cop’s face would be enough to keep Nolan awake for many nights to come. It was the third time the spider had solved his problems, but the first time he had actually seen it happen.

The first problem had been Mr. Wax Reflection, but the spider had taken the body from Nolan’s arms in such a rush Nolan hadn’t seen a thing. Then the Dairy Princess at the Stop-N-Run whose boyfriend decided at the last minute that he wasn’t a pimp after all and whose conscience had sent him pounding on the back window in the middle of the night even though Nolan had already banged the girl, and Nolan had fed it the body likewise, but it had been dark. Only when it had disposed of the cops had Nolan sensed that it could see him, and Nolan had gotten a good look at it too.

A car passed, and when it was gone he was alone, and not alone. The trunk lid bobbed low in the wind.

Geese bleated, honking.

He needed to leave the scene before the dispatcher became curious, or another patrol should happen along that same road and notice an abandoned cruiser with its lights on.

But there was a problem: the handcuffs.

He rolled over onto his side, trying not to cut himself on any of the stray pieces of glass that littered the shoulder, his shirt and jacket lifting up over his face.

He was surprised to discover that he wasn’t as agile as he once had been, and for a moment he almost didn’t think he would be able to get his wrists under both of his legs, but he stretched and did it, and the handcuffs were in front of him.

He picked up the steel bat from the pavement and walked to the driver’s door in as far of an arc as he could to avoid the gaping trunk, watching it the entire time. Then he stayed as close to the side of the car as he could while he held the bat out at arms length, using it to push down the trunk lid until the lock clicked. Only after he was absolutely sure that the trunk was closed did he take the keys from the lock.

He tossed the bat onto the driver’s seat, sat down, maneuvered his cuffed wrists under the steering wheel and turned the ignition, then twisted his body even more so he could shift the car into first gear.

Thirty minutes after the flashers disappeared from his rearview mirror, he decided to take a break.

He pulled off at a small rest stop, parked under the clattering branches of a hibernating maple tree at the far end of the lot where he turned off the Dodge.

The vending machine did not complain or roll any sort of eye at his tedious payment for the M&M’s in nickels, which was the only change he had left, though the return slot nearly ate his handcuffed wrists. He immediately tore the paper bag open and swallowed a handful as he walked back to the car.

Before getting back into the car, he scanned the mostly empty lot for anyone watching him, even casual observers. Satisfied that he was alone, he got in and opened the glove box.

Inside were the usual brochures and paperwork, but also a bundle of white diaphanous material.

He knew what it was.

For the two previous people who had gone into the trunk, the car had returned valuables to him wrapped in spider-silk in the glove box, proof that the car and spider at least operated in tandem, if they weren’t parts of the same creature.

He carefully unwrapped the spider-silk package, finding within its soft folds two golden badges, a ball-point pen, two plastic buttons, three spent bullet-casings, a grimy half-green penny, a pair of wedding rings and a single handcuff key.

He unlocked the handcuffs and put them with the badges under his seat, out of sight. The wedding rings he pocketed.

***

Three hours out of Des Moines, with one hour to go until the anonymity of Chicago’s streets and trackless pawnshops, the effortlessly reliable Dart faltered.

The car’s performance and handling had not changed, but the car had started making a low humming noise whenever Nolan pressed down on the accelerator. In less than thirty minutes the sound had worsened to an oppressive grate that vibrated the hard springs in the worn driver’s seat, and only seemed to swell with each passing minute.

He found that he could apply the accelerator in short bursts and then let the car coast in near silence for a few seconds at a time, so that the irritating noise was not continuous, but every time he needed to hit the gas again, the contrast between silence and sound became all the more disrupting.

He doubted that he could take it to a legitimate mechanic, but he also knew there was no way he could endure another hour and a half of driving like that. If he couldn’t fix it out here, at least he could take breaks to give time for his ear drums to rest, drive the car in bursts, get to the city, where he could disappear.

He needed to stop, let his ears rest.

At an exit for a diner/gas station oasis, Nolan let the light car cruise on its momentum in silence up to a red-light, which turned green just as soon as he stopped for it. Clenching his jaw, he tramped down on the gas pedal just long enough to get him into the parking lot, where he wheeled it around the diner between a semi-truck and a FREE AIR hook-up.

He parked, leaned back in the worn leather seat, basked in edgy silence for a few moments.

Looking at the instrument panel, he tried to figure out what was wrong. He shifted the car from drive to park, warily pressed the gas and listened in relief as the car softly whispered speed. The orange needle on the fuel gauge hovered beyond the F marker as if perpetually topped off, though he had never put a nozzle in the gas tank.

He pressed down all of the lockposts twice, got out of the car, and made sure he was holding the car keys as he closed the door.

As he walked around the diner towards the front door, he thought he heard a faint buzzing and he startled himself by turning around so fast.

But there was nothing.

Just the car, and it hadn’t moved. The trunk lid was pressed down tight.

Still, Nolan was stricken with the premonitory feeling of the car starting silently on its own, backing up to him as he walked, the lid springing open like a rat trap in reverse.

***

The diner served an excellent breaded steak sandwich with some kind of dipping sauce, but the sandwich paled in comparison to the man eating it, an old massive trucker who was as tall sitting on a stool as Nolan was standing.

The trucker was also not afraid to talk with his mouth full, and introduced himself as Ron, pulling pieces of sauerkraut from his white mustache while doing so.

It was only after he ordered his food that Nolan noticed the embroidered logo on Ron’s polo shirt and jacket. Ron was driving a rig for a plasma television manufacturer.

The realization came to Nolan halfway through a golden basket of fries.

The spider-thing could easily handle Ron. The wedding rings were chump change compared to a trailer full of plasma televisions.

Casually, Nolan brought up the topic of cars.

"Yeah, I used to collect Dodges before the wife got on my case." Ron rubbed his index and middle fingers with his thumb. "Too much money, buddy."

"I know what you mean," Nolan lied. "I’ve got this ’66 Dart. 30,000 miles."

Ron made like he was going to blow coffee all over his plate.

"No shitting, huh? You got pictures on you?"

"Nope," Nolan said for effect, "I’m driving it."

"Oh man," Ron said, staring at the waitress over the brim of his coffee mug. "I would like to see that. I had a Dart once-"

"I’m actually in something of a hurry." Nolan interrupted, and then asked for his bill.

Ron looked dejected for a moment, before figuring something out. "Why don’t you just swing it around my rig on your way out?"

Nolan tried not to appear too eager. "You can’t walk out with me to it?"

"Bad knees, buddy," Ron said. "Why don’t you just bring it around my rig so I don’t have to walk back and forth."

Nolan hesitated, mumbled something about how it was getting late, but then finally relented with a shrug of his shoulders.

***

It wasn’t hard to find Ron’s rig.

It was a Peterbilt, and the big guy was waiting by the trailer doors, leaning on the foothold.

Nolan backed up to him, rolling down his window and revving the engine a little, shouting something like, "hear her roar."

The big idiot clapped his massive hands and made a lot of impressed sounds after Nolan cut the engine and approached him.

Remembering what he had started saying earlier, Ron’s eyebrows flashed and he said, "1966, buddy. I was in Ottawa, coming back from a run for a chemical company I worked for. You know, buddy? Ottawa?"

"I know Ottawa," Nolan lied as he glanced around to make sure they weren’t being watched.

"I know it was 1966 because that’s the year I got the Dart. I drove it for a year, loved it. Beautiful red machine, just like yours. You know where I’m getting, buddy?"

"Sure I do, chief," Nolan said, pulling the ring of keys from his pocket.

"Who are you talking to?" Ron asked, his reflection darkening in the rear-window of the Dart. "Am I wearing a headdress or something, huh buddy?"

Nolan didn’t answer. He realized that he might have said or done something to provoke the weak-kneed giant, or maybe the old man was just crazy, not senile crazy, but dangerous crazy.

"So anyways, I was coming back from Ottawa, and guess who I saw in my rearviews."

Nolan shrugged.

"Guess."

"Your wife?"

"No way buddy." Ron waved his hands back and forth like railroad signals.

"I’m not gonna get it."

"It was that son of a bitch John Wayne Gacey waving a Mary Schwanse at me," Ron said, laughing and slapping the side of the truck for effect. "It was mating season, and he was throwing the damn things out the window on the highway. They were the size of cats for God’s sake," and Ron started laughing again, his face turning red under his white mustache.

"You really need to see what I have in my trunk," Nolan blurted out all at once, before turning around to face the trunk. He glanced up once behind him and saw Ron grabbing onto the truck’s gate release.

"You know buddy, a Schwanson?" Ron asked.

Nolan fumbled with the keys, found one, tried for the lid, but it was the wrong key, a blank without any ridges on it. It was a safety precaution, he figured, put on by Mr. Wax Reflection so no one would accidentally open the trunk up. Nolan silently chided himself for not removing the extras, promising himself he would throw all the blanks and dummies in the trash just as soon as he got out of this mess. He found the right key just as Ron swung open the Peterbilt’s trailer doors.

Nolan turned around, and within the impenetrable darkness of the trailer, he thought he saw something small and white and far away, but then he realized that it was actually very close to him, and then he discerned the seven hollowed-out sockets around the one remaining white eye.

Ron said, "So one of those things gets in my car, and I had to take it back to the guy who sold it to me and I said to him 'you listen here you son of a bitch, I don’t want no goddamn spider in my car.' You know buddy?"

But Nolan couldn't respond, because he was paralyzed.

"And you know what else, buddy?" Ron asked as he swung the heavy trailer doors shut.

The trailer was silent for the feast within, but in the Dart’s trunk the male vibrated lightly next to its corpse-offerings for the female, who ate oblivious to his presence.

The sound wasn’t as clear as it had been in Ottawa, 1966 during mating season when that son of a bitch John Wayne Gacey had thrown a juvenile spider onto his car, but Ron still heard it fair enough, goading him on to continue his story.

"He said he would take it back, but he called me chief, and I asked that son of a bitch if I was wearing a headdress, if I looked like an Indian or something. So I told him right to his face: 'I got your chief right here.'" And Ron grabbed his crotch just then, giving it a few tough shakes, laughing at his own joke.

But the male fell silent, perhaps because its thoughts were again consumed with the female's own thoughtlessness, and weak-kneed Ron was the only one laughing.