The rain was thick, almost like winter rain, and only the trees directly adjoining the highway were visible; the others faded impressionistic ally into gray haze. He could see himself as he sat there, staring out the window. To an outsider, he thought, he would appear lost in contemplation, as though seriously mulling over some deep thought or profound idea. But he knew that nothing was going through his head. He was thinking of himself thinking. That was all.
There was a time, five years ago, even three years ago, when he would have been thinking of something--story ideas, plot outlines, clever word associations. Then he had been fresh out of college, recently married, with dreams like millions of other innocents of becoming a writer. Now he was used to--no, content with--his life. His job had ceased being a simple form of manual labor that freed his mind for complex thoughts, it had become enough in and of itself. He was fairly happy with his life the way it was. And why not? Hell, he had an intelligent, pretty wife, he had good friends, he lived in a beautiful area. What more could he ask for? So he wasn't contributing to the legacy of humanity, so he didn't have either the talent or the inclination to write the great American novel. So what?
He sighed. Maybe he should start writing again. At least give it a shot. Before he dried up completely. He did have several unfinished short stories and the first forty pages of a novel sitting in the bottom right hand drawer of his desk at home.
"Hey!" Brad poked his shoulder and Gordon looked up. "What's the matter?"
Gordon shook his head. "Fuckin' rain," he said.
Brad grinned hugely and grabbed a can of Pepsi from the ice chest between them, loudly popping it open. "I always liked rain myself.
Goddamn heat's what I can't stand. Makes me sweat, makes my balls itch, makes my skin break out, drives me crazy."
Gordon pulled himself away from the window and grabbed his own can of Pepsi. He smiled sarcastically. "That's why you moved to Arizona."
"Northern Arizona," Brad corrected.
"Well why didn't you move to Oregon or Washington if you like rain so much? It rains all the time there."
With the back of his hand, Brad wiped away a thin stream of cola that was dribbling down his beard. "I like the seasons here," he said. "I
like the scenery." He laughed loudly. "And this is where Connie's old man wanted to set me up in business."
Gordon laughed too. He knew Brad and Connie did not exactly get along.
As Brad often pointed out, theirs had been a marriage of convenience, and he had been only a few steps in front of the shotgun. Still, it hadn't worked out that badly. Connie's father had been granted the Pepsi distribution franchise for the entire Rim area, fully a third of Northern Arizona. He was already rich, having made a killing in the feed and grain market somewhere in Idaho, and he had offered Brad both the franchise and a loan to start the business if he would only marry his daughter. Now Brad was almost as well off as his father-in-law, and he could afford to treat Connie the way he did.
"Slut's probably spreading her legs for every man in town," he was fond of saying. Gordon knew Connie and knew what Connie looked like, and he didn't think so, but he himself said nothing.
The truck wandered over the double yellow line as they came barreling down the last hill before town, and a Volkswagen traveling in the opposite direction beeped its horn at them. "Fuck you!" Brad yelled, raising his middle finger.
"I don't think he heard you," Gordon pointed out. "Your window's closed."
"I don't care."
Gordon smiled. "And you were going over the line."
Brad snorted. "I don't give a shit. It's the principle of the thing."
They passed a Speed Limit 35 sign almost hidden by bushes and Brad slammed on the brakes. More often than not, Jim Weldon or one of his stooges would be hiding in the dirt pull off just beyond the sign, waiting for speeders. It was a speed trap, the limit dropping suddenly from 55 to 35 that way, but it was a well-known speed trap and all the locals were aware of it. Only flatlanders and out-of-staters ever got caught. Brad glanced at the pull off as they passed by. "What do you know," he said. "No cops today." He automatically sped up to 45 and looked over at Gordon. "Listen, do you have to get home right away, or do you have time to stop for gas? Tank's empty and I'd like to get 'er filled up tonight."
"No problem," Gordon said. "I get paid by the hour."
"I'll make it quick."
They drove through Gray's Meadow and pulled into Char Clifton's station on the edge of town. Clifton himself came out as the truck ran over the rubber-coated cable that rang the bell inside the garage. The old man walked slowly, shuffling toward them as they both hopped out of the cab. He looked from Brad to Gordon. "How's it goin '?" he asked, wiping his greasy hands on an equally greasy rag.
"Not bad," Gordon replied.
The station owner spat a wad of chaw that landed just to the left of the truck's right front tire. He squinted up at Gordon as if thinking.
He spat again. "Heard the news?" he asked finally.
Gordon looked at Brad, who was inserting the unleaded gas nozzle into the tank, and shook his head. "What news?"
Clifton grinned, exposing tobacco-yellowed teeth. "You know Father Selway?" he asked. "Out at the Episcopal church?"
"Yeah." Gordon did not go to church, but he knew Father Selway .
Everyone did.
"Skipped town," Clifton said simply. "Him and his whole family. Left behind about five thousand dollars in debts."
"Bullshit!" Brad yelled.
"I don't believe it," Gordon said.
"It's a fact."
"What did they do? Just pack up their stuff and go?"
Clifton's eyes shone, and Gordon could tell that he was enjoying this.
"That's the weird part. They didn't take nothing at all. All their furniture, clothes, everything is still in the house. The front door of the place is still open, even. Only thing gone is their car."
Gordon shook his head. "Then how do you know they just didn't go off somewhere for a while? Maybe there was a family emergency or something and they had to take off immediately."
"There wasn't."
"How do you know something didn't happen to them?"
"Drive by the church," Clifton said.
"What?"
"Drive by the church."
Brad pulled the nozzle from the gas tank, hung it back on the pump and screwed on the gas cap. He walked over to where Gordon and the station owner were standing. "Why?" he said.
Clifton chuckled. "You'll see."
Brad paid the old man and they got back into the truck. They pulled onto the highway. "You in a hurry to get back or do you want to check out the church?" Brad asked.
"Let's check it out."
They drove into the main part of town, past the Circle K, past the Valley National Bank. They turned right just past the Randall Market. The bumpy and barely paved road curved through a small stand of trees before straightening out near the hospital. A mile or so farther and they reached the Episcopal church. Brad stopped the truck.
GOD DAMN YOU ALL
The words jumped out--a harsh and jagged red against the placid tan of the brick building. The letters were fully three feet high, covering the north wall of the church, the paint dripping in horror-show icicles. The church's two tall stained-glass windows had been smashed, and multicolored bits of glass littered the gravel parking lot.
GOD DAMN YOUR SOULS
TO HELL PIG FUCKERS
Gordon felt his pulse accelerate as he looked through the windshield at the desecration. The small peach-fuzz hairs on the back of his neck bristled. His eyes focused on the small shards of colored glass glinting in the sunlight. He had never been an avid churchgoer, but this.. ..