The nighttime road yells danger. Shadows crawl over everything. What jumps into your headlights may be real, and may be not. Metal crosses hold little clusters of dark flowers on their arms, and the land rolls out beneath the moon. Buttes stand like great ships anchored in the plains, and riverbeds run like dry ink. Come spring, they’ll flow; but in September, all flow is in the road.
The dancing ghost picked me up on Highway 3 outside Comanche, but this time he wasn’t dancing. He stood on the berm, and no mist tied him in place. He gave the old road sign for “roll ’em.” Beyond Columbia, he showed up again. His mouth moved like he was yelling me along, and his face twisted with as much fear as my own.
That gave me reason to hope. I’d never known Jesse to be afraid like that, so maybe there was a mistake. Maybe the dancing ghost wasn’t the ghost of Jesse. I hung over the wheel and forced myself to think of Linda. When I thought of her, I couldn’t bring myself to get crazy. Highway 3 is not much of a road, but that’s no bother. I can drive anything with wheels over any road ever made. The dancing ghost kept showing up and beckoning, telling me to scorch. I told myself the damn ghost had no judgment, or he wouldn’t be a ghost in the first place.
That didn’t keep me from pushing faster, but it wasn’t fast enough to satisfy the roadside. They came out of the mist, or out of the ditches; crowds and clusters of ghosts standing pale beneath a weak moon. Some of them gossiped with each other. Some stood yelling me along. Maybe there was sense to it, but I had my hands full. If they were trying to help, they sure weren’t doing it. They just made me get my back up, and think of dropping revs.
Maybe the ghosts held a meeting and studied out the problem. They could see a clear road, but I couldn’t. The dancing ghost showed up on Highway 12 and gave me “thumbs up” for a clear road. I didn’t believe a word of it, and then I really didn’t believe what showed in my mirrors. Headlights closed like I was standing. My feelings said that all of this had happened before; except, last time, there was only one set of headlights.
It was Miss Molly and Betty Lou that brought me home. Miss Molly overtook, sweeping past with a lane change smooth and sober as an Adventist. The high, slaunch-forward form of Miss Molly thrummed with business. She wasn’t blowing sparks or showing off. She wasn’t playing Gingerbread Man or tag.
Betty Lou came alongside so I could see who she was, then Betty Lou laid back a half mile. If we ran into a claim-jumping deputy, he’d have to chase her first; and more luck to him. Her headlights hovered back there like angels.
Miss Molly settled down a mile ahead of the Chrysler and stayed at that distance, no matter how hard I pressed. Twice before Great Falls, she spotted trouble, and her squinchy little brake lights hauled me down. Once it was an animal, and once it was busted road surface. Miss Molly and Betty Lou dropped me off before Great Falls, and picked me back up the minute I cleared town.
We ran the night like rockets. The roadside lay deserted. The dancing ghost stayed out of it, and so did the others. That let me concentrate, which proved a blessing. At those speeds, a man don’t have time to do deep thinking. The road rolls past, the hours roll, but you’ve got a racer’s mind. No matter how tired you should be, you don’t get tired until it’s over.
I chased a ghost car northward while a fingernail moon moved across the sky. In deepest night the land turned silver. At speed, you don’t think, but you do have time to feel. The farther north we pushed, the more my feelings went to despair. Maybe Miss Molly thought the same, but everybody did all they could.
The Chrysler was a howler, and Lord knows where the top end lay. I buried the needle. Even accounting for speedometer error, we burned along in the low half of the second century. We made Highway 2 and Shelby around three in the morning, then hung a left. In just about no time, I rolled home. Betty Lou dropped back and faded. Miss Molly blew sparks and purely flew out of sight. The sparks meant something. Maybe Miss Molly was still hopeful. Or maybe she knew we were too late.
Beneath that thin moon, mounded graves looked like dark surf across the acreage. No lights burned in the trailer, and the Linc showed nowhere. Even under the scant light, you could see snowy tops of mountains, and the perfectly straight markers standing at the head of each grave. A tent, big enough to hold a small revival, stood not far from the trailer. In my headlights a sign on the tent read “Chapel.” I fetched a flashlight from the glove box.
A dozen folding chairs stood in the chapel, and a podium served as an altar. Jesse had rigged up two sets of candles, so I lit some. Matt Simons had written that the graveyard had to be seen to be believed. Hanging on one side of the tent was a sign reading “Shrine,” and all along that side hung road maps, and pictures of cars, and pictures of men standing beside their cars. There was a special display of odometers, with little cards beneath them: “330,938 miles”; “407,000 miles”; “half a million miles, more or less.” These were the championship cars, the all-time best at piling up road, and those odometers would make even a married man feel lonesome. You couldn’t look at them without thinking of empty roads and empty nights.
Even with darkness spreading across the cemetery, nothing felt worse than the inside of the tent. I could believe that Jesse took it serious, and had tried to make it nice, but couldn’t believe anyone else would buy it.
The night was not too late for owls, and nearly silent wings swept past as I left the tent. I walked to Miss Molly’s grave, half-expecting ghostly headlights. Two small markers stood beside a real fine marble headstone.
From a distance, I could see piled dirt where the dozer had dug new graves. I stepped cautious toward the dozer, not knowing why, but knowing it had to happen.
Two graves stood open like little garages, and the front ends of the Linc and the Hawk poked out. The Linc’s front bumper shone spotless, but the rest of the Linc looked tough and experienced. Dents and dings crowded the sides, and cracked glass starred the windows.
The Hawk stood sparkly, ready to come roaring from the grave. Its glass shone washed and clean before my flashlight. I thought of what I heard in Sheridan, and thought of the first time I’d seen the Hawk. It hadn’t changed. The Hawk looked like it had just been driven off a showroom floor.
Nobody in his right mind would want to look in those two cars, but it wasn’t a matter of “want.” Jesse, or Johnny—if that’s who it was—had to be here someplace. It was certain sure he needed help. When I looked, the Hawk sat empty. My flashlight poked against the glass of the Linc. Jesse lay there, taking his last nap across a car seat. His long black hair had turned gray. He had always been thin, but now he was skin and bones. Too many miles, and no time to eat. Creases around his eyes came from looking at road, but now the creases were deep like an old man’s. His eyes showed that he was dead. They were open only a little bit, but open enough.
I couldn’t stand to be alone with such a sight. In less than fifteen minutes, I stood banging on Matt Simons’s door. Matt finally answered, and Nancy showed up behind him. She was in her robe. She stood taller than Matt, and sleepier. She looked blond and Swedish. Matt didn’t know whether to be mad or glad. Then I got my story pieced together, and he really woke up.