The Ram (20 page)

They cover the few blocks to the Dodge Ram in a minute or two, Riley’s foot pleading for him to ease up on the speed with sharp jabs to his shin bone. But he ignores the pain, as anxious as Double Al to make sure the truck is okay.

A small group of people stand a half block away from where the men parked the vehicle, cell phones out, recording the monstrous flame. And then Riley can see the explosion isn’t near the truck. It
is
the truck. The ’93 Dodge Ram is a mess of smoking metal and burning tires. The acrid zip of combusting rubber settles in the still air. The junipers near the truck are fat candles of fire, their branches intertwined with one another, trading the blaze from bush to bush as if they pass a dish of Bananas Foster.

Sirens fill the night and Double Al rubs at his eyes, disbelief and confusion overwhelming him.

“How?” is all he says.“How?”

Riley can see the inside of the truck, the upholstery fuel for the flames. The iron pyrite still dangles from the mirror, its metal sides reflecting the burn. Then the small line of string holding it aloft combusts and the fool’s gold falls into the fire busy melting the gearshift.

Riley’s emotions and thoughts are as explosive and consuming as the fire in front of him. He’d been so sure about going back to work and falling in line with what was expected of him. Now, as he watches something so solid turning to ash, he wavers in his resolution. He sees the fire and knows he can’t defeat it with passivity and submission. It will keep burning.

His mind shifts, his perspective flip-flops and he’s back to a previous notion on living life.

“I’m not going back to work,” he says under his breath. “Fuck it.”

58 Peach

When she gets home, Linx is inside the dog kennel fencing Peach strung about the center of the living room. She moved the animal there from her bedroom, to contain the lamb after he gummed a hole in her comforter. He’s scratching the ram behind its ears and singing gently to it in a mishmash of Thai and English the song “You Are My Sunshine.” She left her torn and mangled sweater in the car along with the empty duffel bag. A shiver crawls up her arms as she listens to the song and watches the way the lamb gently butts its forehead against Linx’s legs.

“I thought I was your sunshine,” she says and Linx stops his performance. He looks Peach over and points at her hands.

“You had me watch Harry so you could play in soot? What’s with the black fingers?”

Peach tucks her hands in the pockets of her dark cargo pants. She watches the lamb, sturdy on his legs, his nostrils snuffing out her arrival into the room. “His name isn’t Harry. I’m naming him. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“I’ll call him Harry until you think of something better.”

Peach smirks. “How about Little Tuksin, since he likes you so much.”

Linx steps out of the fenced area and moves in close to Peach. She can smell the animal on him, even though the heady scent of musky livestock has already permeated her apartment. He reaches into her pockets and pulls out her wrists. He turns her hands over in his hands, his darker skin supple from the lanolin produced by the lamb.

“Don’t call Harry by my first name. Please. And really, what were you up to tonight?”

Peach looks down at their hands intertwined. His fingers are nearly as delicate as hers. But hers are marred by ash and the smell of gunpowder and she’s suddenly thankful her apartment smells like a barnyard. It overpowers the scent of her guilt.

“I was having a night to myself. I was out having fun,” she says and pulls her hands away. She heads to the bathroom and gives them a quick wash, drying them with sheets of Kleenex instead of using her light yellow towels. Linx follows her in and backs up against the doorframe.

“You seem to be having a lot of
fun
lately,” Linx says, putting air quotes around the word, “but it seems to be changing you, Peach. You’re getting wilder.”

Peach knows what Linx means is that she’s less willing to stay home and stay quiet, less willing to capitulate to his demands for a relationship. Less tame. She hopes once she makes her complete transformation, he’ll still be able to pluck up her hands and hold them in his. But she’s not counting on it. Not once he sees what she’s become.

“I’m just pushing myself. Like we talked about a couple weeks back at the restaurant. I’m ready to be more than what I am. And I really do appreciate you supporting my desires.”

Then Peach presses Linx for a bit more support and help. She’s been ready to ask this of him for days, but didn’t know how to broach the subject. Now is the time.

“I’m not sleeping well,” she says. “I feel like I’m up all night thinking about things, worrying about life getting away from me, out of my control.”

“You shouldn’t be out so late,” he says and by the way he nods as he speaks, Peach knows he thinks he’s found her solution.

“Yes,” she continues, “but your Ambien seems to work well for you, right? Maybe I need some sleeping pills. Just for awhile. So I can get some rest.”

And then she seals the play with a promise of getting back to normal. “Maybe if I could sleep I wouldn’t be so obsessed with this change thing. Maybe I could get back to my old self.”

“Go see your doctor and get a prescription,” he says, slightly intrigued by her words.

“Or you could just refill your prescription for me?” she hints. “You know I don’t have good health insurance and this way I could have the pills in what, a day? I’m tired, Linx. I could really use your help with this.”

Peach locks eyes with her best friend. She knows that he knows this is significant for her, the extended gaze, the purposeful connection of sight. His shoulders soften a bit and he pushes off the wall and puts his arms around her. She tries to not stiffen at his touch but relax into it. When he can feel her chest yield a bit, he squeezes harder and speaks into her hair.

“I just don’t want you changing too much. I’ll get you some pills.”

Peach brings up her arms then and squeezes him back. Hard.

Monday, the 13
^th
of April, 2015

59 Riley

The officer assigned to the arson case is slim with cropped red hair and is about ten years out from retirement. He has a lazy eye which seems to track slowly over the papers in front of him, a momentary click behind his good eye. Double Al shifts uncomfortably in his chair and Riley does his best to sit still and remain level-headed about the truck bombing. He’s not sure this Hamal person could have had something to do with the fire. There is no indication of a connection. Until he has ample cause to be sure, he has no desire to tell the officer about the strange cards. For now, he’s just at the station to support Double Al, since his boss has been so considerate of him since the accident and before, with all the opportunities he’s given Riley. Besides, Riley figures he might be of some help, having seen the Dodge Ram on fire the other night.

Still, being in the station makes him nervous. It’s not the first time he’s been in a detective’s office. Earlier in his life, he’d known where the vending machines were in the Boise Police Department stronghold in the west of the city. His visits were memorable enough to make him crave little bags of cheese-flavored popcorn and cans of Mountain Dew during times of stress.

The cop scans the report in front of him and takes a sip of herbal tea. Riley can smell chamomile wafting up from the mug.

“You sure you don’t need something to drink?” the man asks, eyes still on the paper.

Both Double Al and Riley decline the offer. The cop clears his throat and dips his teabag in the cup a few times before pitching it in a trashcan near his knees.

“So I wish I had good news for you, Mr. Loewe,” the cop looks up at Double Al, “but none of the cameras in the area caught anything specific to the fire. We have zero witnesses and the fire burned so hot on account of those dry, sappy hedges nearby, that we’re stuck guessing on what started the fire in the first place.”

“It could have been accidental?” Riley asks, hoping it was.

The policeman nearly snorts hot liquid out his nose and dabs the liquid that does escape his mouth with his forearm. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. Jesus, you think a truck can just randomly explode on its own? Without a combustible to get things cooking?”

Riley drops his chin and sighs. “Right, but I was thinking maybe like a really expertly thrown cigarette landed in a pile of spilled gasoline near the truck. Or something. Okay, when I say it out loud, it sounds stupid. No accident. Gotcha.”

Double Al looks over to Riley and then the cop. His curly hair is graying at the temples and Riley swears more of the silvery color has settled over his scalp in the last few weeks. He feels sorry for his boss, his old family friend. With the accident and now a fire-bombed truck, the man has a lot to keep him busy. And Riley thinks only of shirking work and having fun. Life is short and a miserable bitch, he adds to the cliché thought. You never know when you’ll get trampled by scared sheep or incinerated in a vehicle.

“It’s not just ‘no accident,’” the officer says, smirk still planted on his face. “It’s a matter of complexity and seriousness. It’s not as easy as most people think to start a vehicle on fire. You can’t just chuck a Molotov at a Lexus and get a mushroom cloud.”

“We’re going to be looking into who perpetrated the crime. It could have been some teenagers with M-80s. It could have been a homegrown terrorist group. Perhaps some un-medicated transient was commanded to light it up by the voice of Donald Duck booming in his head. We just don’t have enough evidence to really put our teeth into a solid theory yet.”

Riley crinkles his nose at the mishmash of imagery but keeps quiet.

“Detective,” Double Al raises his hand like he’s in a primary school classroom, “you think someone could have blown up my truck in an act of terror?”

“I’m not saying that,” the officer continues, takes another sip of tea. “I’m saying that at this point, anything is possible. We have some scrapings from the sidewalk in to the lab. Something might show up there. We may get an idea on what caused the initial burn.”

Riley looks again at the name placard on the man’s desk. Detective Dauchaun. He doesn’t care to try and pronounce the name.

“Sir,” he interjects, “I know cars don’t just start on fire on their own. Or shouldn’t, at least. But could there have been an electrical issue or something?”

Without trying to hide his mirth, the detective begins to laugh again, this time slopping his tea on his tie. It takes him a moment to regain his composure. Riley looks over to Double Al and shrugs.

“Men, let’s just say there could have been some faulty wiring under the dash. That’s completely possible. But the gas tank was wide open. That’s the more likely location of the first spark.”

Hamal pops into Riley’s mind. In turn, the name brings to mind the cards. He hasn’t assigned an imagined face and figure to the name yet. But as events surrounding Riley’s life become more peculiar, he’s more inclined to envision Hamal as a shadowy humanoid. One made of black smoke.

The detective leans his elbows on the desk and stares at Double Al with his good eye. His lazy eye protrudes slightly and seems to be keyed in on Riley.

“Question is, Mr. Loewe, if this wasn’t done by some high school pyros or a homeless nutjob, who would want to blow up your old truck? Who hates you?”

Double Al stutters out a reply. “No one, I think. I don’t know of anyone who hates me. I do my best to be right and square with everyone I meet. I take pride in my relationships and in my business dealings, detective.”

Riley nods his head in agreement with his boss. He’s never met a person who dislikes Double Al. His boss is a genuine guy, his actions always heartfelt and decent. But the question gets Riley thinking about the destroyed Dodge Ram.

Who hates me, Riley wonders? A whirl of names pops into his head and they come to mind so fast, they’re too swift and populous to count.

Tuesday, the 14
^th
of April, 2015

60 Peach

The Pad Thai is a little too chewy and the peanuts have gone soft in the sauce.

“So I’m not the best cook, at least not with Thai cuisine,” Peach takes the last bite of her creation she can muster and uses her fork to poke at a bit of tofu on Linx’s plate. “But it’s meat free. Well, other than tiny shrimp. People don’t love tiny shrimp as much as mammals. Vegetarian people. So you can see how much I care.”

Linx sits tall, glass of iced tea in his hand. He chews his noodles carefully before swallowing and then pats his stomach in appreciation. “It’s not bad for a white girl. My mom would be shocked at what you’ve done here, and not in a good way, but I won’t call her and tell her you put way too much fish sauce in the dish.”

“Is that what that is?” she says and skews up her nose. “I just thought I was smelling the lamb.”

“You didn’t have to cook for me. Just for getting you some sleeping pills.”

“I know,” Peach says and clears away the dishes. “But you’re sort of a neat guy to me.”

Linx snatches her as she moves around the table and pulls her into his lap. Peach tries to keep her weight from putting too much pressure on his legs. She thinks she might have a good five or ten pounds on him.

He kisses her hard on the mouth and she doesn’t return the kiss so much as lets it continue. He strips a tomato-red blazer from off her shoulders and tosses it to the kitchen floor. Her lacy bra snags on one of Linx’s hangnails and he pulls away his hand with a hiss. She kisses the offended finger and then puts his hand up her skirt. He works at her gently until her body shudders and she gasps quick, tight exhalations. The noise prompts the lamb to bleat loudly, until Peach can gather herself, walk topless to the living room and shush the animal back to calm.