Rhubarb (11 page)

“Billings,” Martin said.

“Billings,” Doris scoffed. “That town killed Brixton. They
put in the Walmart and the Price Club. Don’t get me started on Billings. Awful
place. The traffic…”

“Was anyone after Linda’s secret recipe before she disappeared?”
Martin asked. The women looked at him as if he’d grown antlers.

“Now, what would make you go and ask a question like that?”
asked Doris.

Martin studied his motives in the faces of two of Brixton’s,
if not the state’s, most notorious gossips. Was he indulging a fantasy? Had he
misunderstood Stewart? Had he misread Cheryl? He had to be back at work in
Belgrade in five hours. The beer tasted about two months past its sell-by date.
But he couldn’t help himself. He set the beer aside. “Stewart Campion broke
into my apartment last night and said some very strange stuff.”

Doris pursed her lips. “You don’t even know this,” she said
to Eileen, “but a company did want to buy Linda’s recipe. When she was pregnant
with Cheryl.”

“In 1986?” Martin asked.

Doris nodded. “She told me the recipe was no big deal, but
that if some big corporation wanted to pay her for it, she wasn’t going to say
no. She wouldn’t have to work as many hours. Maybe stick to baking and stop
waitressing. Maybe put away some money for the baby. Herbert helped her make
the deal, but they kept it real quiet. He didn’t want the corporation revealing
where they’d gotten the recipe. Wanted to keep his little world-famous
gimmick.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Martin.

“Doris was sleeping with Herbert Stamper,” Eileen told him.

“Yes, and you’ve done no better,” said Doris. Eileen
frowned. “But it all went to hell. She gave them the recipe, but when they went
to make it for themselves, it wasn’t the same. The corporation demanded to know
what she’d left out. Herbert was furious. He stood to get a good chunk of the
money. I remember him and Linda shouting at each other up in his office. Then
Cheryl was born, Linda was gone, and Herbert was dead.”

“Stewart thinks Cheryl was kidnapped. And that it’s connected
to all this,” said Martin.

“Now that you say it, it doesn’t surprise me,” said Doris.

“But that’s ridiculous. No corporation would kidnap someone
for a stupid pie recipe,” said Martin.

“Depends on the corporation,” said Doris, then added, “or
the pie.”

“So there was a secret recipe?” asked Martin.

“All I know is that after Linda left, no one was ever able
to make the pie again,” said Doris. “Lord knows I tried.”

“Cheryl made a pie for me,” said Martin.

“Now, that is interesting,” said Doris.

“But I didn’t tell anyone. I kept my mouth shut about the
whole evening,” said Martin. “But it still doesn’t make any sense. Food
companies have chefs and food scientists to develop recipes. They don’t need to
rough up small-town bakers.”

“Unless they do,” said Doris.

“All right, enough with this enigmatic crap,” said Eileen.
“Out with it, already. Tell us what you want to tell us. I gotta get back to
the diner sometime this century.”

“I don’t want to tell you anything,” said Doris. “And you
don’t want to hear it. ’Cause you know it’s all true.”

“I certainly do not know that,” said Eileen.

“Then why’d you bring this boy out here tonight?” asked
Doris. “You knew exactly what I’d tell him. You want me to tell my crazy story
so you can go back and tell him to pay no mind to old lady Solberg.”

“Just tell him, Doris,” said Eileen.

Doris narrowed her eyes. Martin shivered. “Twern’t no human
corporation interested in Margie’s rhubarb pie,” said Doris. “You get my
meanin’, son?”

A new hour of
Beyond Insomnia
began down the hall.
“From Virginia Beach to Yreka, from the Rio Grande to…”

“The…truckers…Herbert’s…?” said Martin.

“That’s right,” said Doris. “They been comin’ since Herbert
opened the place in ’46. And they loved nothin’ better than that infernal pie.”

“Do they still….?”

“I suppose they do,” said Doris. Eileen gave Martin a
wide-eyed glance, committing to nothing. “But nowhere near as many as when
Margie and Linda were bakin’.”

“Cheryl,” said Martin. “Then where is she?”

Doris captured Martin’s eyes. “Eighty-six was a long time
ago. Five’ll get you ten that she’s run off with some slab to Boise. But if
that ain’t the case, there’s not a blessed thing you or I can do about it.”

Eileen let Martin blink, then said, “Come on. Let’s let
Doris get back to her show.”

As her headlights found the way back to Brixton, Eileen took
a deep drag on a fresh cigarette and blew a cloud out her window. “Aren’t you
going to ask me if I buy it?” she asked.

“I don’t know what to ask,” said Martin.

The blinking yellow at the center of Brixton warned of
something, but Martin couldn’t imagine what. Back at Herbert’s Corner, his
FastNCo. truck waited like a long-lost memory.

“Why did you take me out there?” Martin asked after she shut
off her engine.

“Because you care,” said Eileen. “Am I wrong?”

~ * * * ~

From the FastNCo. procedural manual for area
representatives who’ve been up all night (among other distracting issues):

1.
Make contact with the account
holder. He/she may be an alien. If account has invoices outstanding, do not
grab anyone by the collar and try to peel his/her false face off.

2.
At FastNCo. installation, take a
general survey. What the hell are you doing? Does your already-piddling job
retain any shred of its significance when aliens have probably abducted your
girlfriend? Can you even call her your girlfriend?

3.
For each drawer:

a.
Scan product code into
FASsys. Scan it again. You’re not doing it right.

b.
Stare at PIC card until you
remember what you’re supposed to be doing. Remove inappropriate items and put
them anywhere. Shoppers’ kids will mess it all up again anyway.

c.
Weigh contents. (For
products 1264-2350, hand count must be taken.) You’ll get right on that.

d.
Record weight (or count). A
kindergartner could do your job.

e.
Restore inventory. Why are
you on your knees in a hardware store while real live beings from another world
are prowling around?

f.
Confirm restoration of
inventory with FASsys. You’re still using a PDA running on Windows C? This
whole species is doomed.

4.
For bulk products…

~ * * * ~

Martin struggled to steer the truck toward Billings and not
a ditch, the wrong way down the interstate, or back to Brixton—all equal and
viable options.

Brixton. It was no destination. Not even now. At best it was
a place to eat and use the restroom on the way to somewhere else. At worst, it
was a place to start. Like Cheryl had, Martin thought, not for the first time
that day. He couldn’t ever get to the next thought.

Whether Cheryl was being probed by an alien or an Idahoan,
there was no getting around that somehow this was all his fault. If he’d left
well enough alone, she’d probably be helping Lester close up the co-op and
heading home with some broasted chicken for Stewart right about now.

Martin hated the seed of uncertainty that had been planted,
fertilized, watered, fertilized, and watered again. It had grown into a noxious
weed worthy of its own desk at the state agriculture office. How long would it
take me to get to Boise? he wondered. He wouldn’t even have to talk to her.
It’d be enough to see her working or shopping, or hanging on the arm of
some—very nice, I’m sure—online predator. That, somehow, was worse than aliens.

Martin’s phone rang. He thought about ignoring it but
decided he couldn’t cope with one of Rick’s Homeric epic voicemails. Or worse,
Rick would ping the locator in the truck. Martin had found out about that the
hard way. He had ignored a call one day, only to have Rick call the manager at
the next store.

“Were you asleep?” Rick asked when Martin answered.

“I’m driving,” said Martin.

“According to FASsys, you visited four accounts today. I
thought we were trying to make it at least five,” said Rick.

“I got to everyone I could,” said Martin.

Rick harrumphed, and clicked on a keyboard. “I’m coming out
to see you, Marty,” he said.

“When?” Not now. Please not now.

“Soon. I’m about to send you an email. There’s a memo from
corporate attached. Going out to all the account reps. A new program they’re
rolling out.”

“Why doesn’t this sound good?” Martin asked.

“No, this will streamline your workflow,” said Rick. Martin
rolled his eyes. “The goal is to transition much of the product ordering and
inventory maintenance to the stores themselves. Accounts will be able to log
into FASsys through a web app. It’ll even link up with their existing
point-of-sale system. Real slick.”

“A lot of my accounts don’t even have a computer, let alone
Internet access,” said Martin.

“Then we’ll provide them with a FASsys PDA setup,” said
Rick. “They’ll only need a phone line. I assume they have telephones.”

“This sounds like corporate’s trying to phase out the
account reps,” said Martin.

“We’ll never do without account reps. Don’t even worry about
that. But the service cycle can be stretched out. We may even be able to
consolidate some territories. You might have a bigger region but actually spend
less time out on the road. How’s that sound?”

There’s no way the math added up on that. “This kind of
thing won’t be easy for a lot of my accounts,” said Martin. “These are little
places, understaffed and fighting for their lives. They appreciate someone
coming in every month to maintain things.”

“We’re confident that the price incentives will be
persuasive,” said Rick. “Okay, I’ve sent out the email. I’ll let you know when
I’m coming. We’ll spend a few days pitching to a dozen or so accounts, and then
you’ll be off and running.”

Thanks for the shovel, Rick. I’ll just dig my grave right
over here, shall I? Specifications for graves could be found on Page 392 of the
FastNCo. employee handbook. And…call waiting.

“Are you there?” asked Rick.

“I’m here,” said Martin.

“I’ll need you to reply back and acknowledge that you
received the memo,” said Rick. Call waiting.

“Got it,” said Martin.

“Everything else going okay?”

“Going fine,” said Martin. Except for…well…you know…

Finally rid of Rick, Martin answered the other call.

“Thought I was going to have to leave a message,” said
Jeffrey.

“Talking to my boss. What’s up?”

“You still in the job market?” asked Jeffrey.

“Does a bear crap in the woods?”

“Good. Now, it’s not a sure thing yet, but I might be
getting a transfer. The Denver region might be opening up, and I’m on the short
list. That, of course, would leave a handy little void up here.”

“Wow,” said Martin.

“I mentioned you to my regional manager. They’d love to have
someone who knows the territory,” said Jeffrey. “You interested?”

“Yeah. I mean, I can’t make any commitments, but I’d be
happy to talk to someone,” said Martin.

“Cool. I’ll let him know,” said Jeffrey. “How you getting on
with that girl from Brixton? You her shining knight yet?”

Martin opened his mouth to tell Jeffrey about Cheryl but
stopped. He would find out soon enough. Eileen and Lorie’s gossip-senses would
start tingling next time Jeffrey got within ten miles of Herbert’s Corner. “You
aren’t telling people about her and me, are you?”

“Who would I tell, Screw Man? Nah,” said Jeffrey.

“Thanks. It’s just kind of personal, you know,” said Martin.

“Candy Man’s got your back,” said Jeffrey. “Where you going
to be this week? Anywhere where we could grab a bite?”

~ * * * ~

“You’re in for a real treat tonight, Wakers. We’ve been
working on this for a long time, ironing out the legal issues, and it’s finally
time. A BI exclusive. Tonight, in the always-on-the-move BI Bunker, we have
Chris Tethers, the man who cracked Area 51. Chris is a self-professed nobody,
but he’s a hero to many, and a great friend to this program. Welcome to
Beyond
Insomnia
, Chris.”

“Thanks a lot, Lee. I’m happy to be on.”

“I’m sure you are. You just completed your prison sentence.”

“I’m very glad to be out.”

“Before we get into your story, I need to inform everyone in
the Waker Nation that Chris’s actions were dangerous and, as much as we may not
like it, illegal. You should not attempt to emulate anything you hear tonight.
Sorry, Chris, my lawyers tell me I’ve got to say that.”

“Kiddies, don’t try this at home. I’m with you. I did this
so you don’t have to.”

“But you paid a price.”

“I did. A $25,000 fine, twelve months in federal prison. And
I lost my job, my apartment, and worst of all, my girlfriend. Hi, Sandra, if you’re
listening. I’m sorry. No hard feelings, though.”

“Let’s get into it. What drove you to do this?”

“Well, Lee, I’m the type of person who can’t let things go.
I was always the kid with my hand in the cookie jar. I spent the night in my
hometown library more than once because I just knew they kept secret books in
the back. So you put a place like Area 51 out there, and I’ve just got to know.
I studied everything about the place, paying close attention to the security,
and to the mistakes others have made trying to get in.”

“And that’s how you decided to hike?”

“I didn’t have much choice. It’s restricted airspace, and
they have all the approach roads lined with vibration sensors and under
audiovisual surveillance. The trick was figuring out how to accomplish it.”