GH O TI

f i sh

Issue No. 2

Catching a Ride to Knoxville

Lawrence could hardly see anything because of the glare on the windshield. The white streaks of bird shit, outlined in purple, and the green-yellow smears of insect blood made it even worse. As he eased his car onto the on-ramp, a crisp piece of dragonfly wing—the tip caught under the driver’s side windshield wiper—rattled against the glass like a playing card clicking bicycle spokes. The sun covered just above an undulating mountain ridge, the blinding beams angling directly into his eyes at forty-fives. Even though he wore sunglasses, he still pulled down the visor above his head; it helped cut the glare, but the sun lingered at the perfect height, sneaking just under the visor as if intentionally belittling him. If he hadn’t pulled it down, however, he probably wouldn’t have seen the hitchhiker standing on the side of the road.

At least he thought it was a hitchhiker. He hadn’t noticed a thumb sticking out, but he had seen a duffel bag on the road and what looked like a hiking stick in the hitcher’s hand. The Appalachian Trail was only a few miles away, following the spiky dragon’s back of the Blue Ridge Mountains, so it wasn’t too uncommon to see hiker’s looking for rides in the early spring. Usually they needed to get to a grocery store to restock supplies, or find a local outfitter to replace blown-out gear before heading back to the arduous task of walking all the way to Maine. They started passing through Lawrence’s part of Virginia about the same time every year, in early to mid May.

Lawrence pulled off to the side of the on-ramp. He glanced in the rearview mirror, watching as the hitchhiker bent down and grabbed the duffel bag. A long, blonde ponytail stuck out from the back of a baseball cap. For a moment Lawrence thought the hitchhiker was a woman. The person drifted out of sight of the rearview, so Lawrence quickly shifted his gaze to the side mirror. The hitchhiker hobbled toward him. He saw the bumps of small breasts pressing against a sky-blue t-shirt, high cheekbones hid under a pair of large-framed sunglasses. It was a woman. She leaned heavily to the left, using the stick for support. The duffel bag over her shoulder swung back and forth as she slowly made her way toward the car. He fumbled with the control panel on his door, found the switch, and slid the window down on the passenger side. The woman ducked down to look in the car, surveying Lawrence.

“Hey,” she said.

“You need a ride?” said Lawrence.

“I’d appreciate it. I’m only going as far as Knoxville.”

“Knoxville?” he said, chuckling slightly. Knoxville was four hours away. “I’m only heading about thirty miles down the interstate. I won’t even come close to getting you out of Virginia. But you’re welcome to hop in.”

“Can I stick my bag in the back there?” she said, nodding toward the backseat of the Subaru.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said, fumbling again with the control panel. All the doors clicked in unison as he hit the ‘unlock’ lever.

She set the duffel in the back. Judging by the way she easily handled the bag, it must not have been all that heavy. He scrambled to clear the front seat for her, grabbing a square case containing his CD’s, an empty plastic Nestea bottle, and the wrapper from a package of peanut-butter crackers. He dropped the things on the back floorboard, then brushed the passenger seat. With each swipe of his hand, bright orange crumbs hopped off the upholstery like fleas from a dog.

She opened the door and awkwardly—almost painfully it seemed—tried to settle herself in the seat. The hiking stick was actually a mahogany-stained wooden cane which she now squeezed between her knees, the rubber stopper resting flush on the floor mat. She wore sneakers and a pair of khaki shorts exposing tanned legs. A white chunk of scar, shaped like the state of Nevada, stood out just above her left knee. She appeared to be twenty-five years Lawrence’s senior, maybe fifty-five or sixty. He took all of this in with one quick glance, not wanting to frighten her if she caught him staring. Since the lenses of his sunglasses were dark and mirrored, he could appear to look straight ahead while actually sneaking a peek.

The next few minutes, Lawrence knew, were the most awkward in the hitchhiker-driver relationship. This was when each of them wondered if the other might be a psychotic killer on the loose. The feeling was a universal rule—a given—when it came to hitchhiking. He’d done a lot of it as a kid, well before he had a driver’s license, so he had a good understanding of how the ritual worked. He also had a soft spot for those who hitched now. To him, picking up a hitchhiker was almost like a duty.

The first time he’d ever hitched he’d wanted to go to a friend’s house over fifteen miles away. His father had been outside mowing the lawn, so Lawrence got in the path of the riding mower as his father made a pass.

“Can you give me a ride to Byron’s?” he’d yelled over the roar of the mower.

“Hell, no, I’m mowing,” said his father. “I’m busy. Walk, or hitch if you gotta get there so bad.” His father swung the mower around Lawrence and continued on.

Lawrence had done just that though. He walked down the street like his dad had said and thumbed the first of many rides that summer. He couldn’t imagine ever telling his own son to hitchhike. Times were different now, he told himself, though he’d always hated that saying. How much different were they, really?

“I’m Kathy,” said the woman, not turning to Lawrence, but staring straight at the road through the dirty windshield.

Lawrence had just pulled out, his head cocked over his shoulder, shifting through the gears quickly to merge with the heavy traffic on the interstate. It was just after five p.m. and he was on his way home from work. His window was down so the draft sucked at his tie—a skinny cape flapping in the wind. He felt slightly uncomfortable wearing a suit with Kathy in the car. He imagined she thought of him as some uppity, condescending, conservative businessman. Suits, he’d found, tended to emit that perception. He didn’t like people making judgments without getting to know him first. He felt you could never really tell what someone was like just by looking at them.

“Lawrence,” he said in return, wondering if ‘Kathy’ was really her name. He didn’t feel any of the anxiety he usually felt when he picked up a hitchhiker, though he contributed his lack of concern mainly to her being a woman. The only uneasiness he felt was a worry that he might be making her nervous. “Like I said, I can’t get you far, but I’ll help you out a little.”

“I appreciate it,” said Kathy, turning. She gave a half-smile that showed bad teeth, tobacco stained and yellowing like feed corn. He noticed her eyes look him over through the amber tint of her sunglasses.

Silence followed. He knew from experience that some people felt more comfortable not saying anything, while others dealt with their nervous energy by gabbing. God only knows his wife did. Anytime they were in a social situation, at a party, out to dinner, whatever, she was always the one that never seemed to shut up. As a general rule he preferred not to talk, but at the moment he was curious about Kathy. A woman hitchhiker wasn’t something you came across everyday. It was immediately obvious to him—with her bum leg and cane, and duffel bag instead of a backpack—that she wasn’t a trail hiker.

“So you live in Knoxville?” said Lawrence.

“No, Tampa. Just staying with a cousin tonight in Knoxville.”

“Tampa,” said Lawrence. “You’re a long way from home.”

“Had to come up to the V.A. and take care of my knee,” said Kathy. She grabbed at the scar, her fingers lightly caressing it as though reading Braille.

Her answer seemed a little unbelievable to him. Surely there had to be a V.A. somewhere in Florida. Or at least one closer than Virginia. And he found himself curious about her knee. What had happened, he wondered. He thought about asking, but opted against it.

“So you’re a vet? Army? Navy?”

“Yeah, Navy,” said Kathy. “Fourteen years.”

Lawrence said nothing, and silence again filled the car. He wanted to press the button for the washer fluid. He wanted the damn bug guts to go away, but he’d forgotten to refill the reservoir. He’d been meaning to do it for over a week now. He mulled over her answers, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

She seemed to have her story down, he thought, and guessed if she had indeed been in the military she might be a little more inclined to hitch, being tougher than an ordinary woman. Not that women weren’t tough, he said to himself, as though covering his tracks just in case Kathy could read his mind. His wife was tougher than he was, though he’d never admit it. He hated that fact, despised it even, but knew it was true. He’d seen the way she birthed their two children, hardly complaining at all. But still, as tough as she was, he didn’t really foresee her hitching down the highway anytime soon. Kathy was probably his mother’s age and he knew he’d never see Mom hitchhiking either. He suddenly felt sorry for Kathy. How bad could things be that she couldn’t get a bus ticket? Or a ride from a friend? Or something?

“Did you hitch up here from Tampa?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “Got a ride with a trucker right away. Took me all the way to Knoxville. One ride.”

“That’s the way to do it,” said Lawrence. “Those truckers are your ticket. They can cover some territory.” A sickening jolt hit him square in the chest, staying there. He wondered if he should tell her what he’d just remembered—what he’d recently read on the Internet. He didn’t want to scare her, but she should know. Be made aware at least, especially if she was taking rides from truckers. “I’m sure most of them are okay, but you gotta be careful,” he said, deciding to hold off, at least for the moment.

“Oh, I got rules. Had a couple of guys, a driving team I guess, offer me a ride from Knoxville up to the V.A., but I wouldn’t do it. No truck stops neither. Ain’t no way you’ll find me near a truck stop. They’s bad news.”

Lawrence felt a slight sense of relief. No truck stops. Maybe she knew already. But he still thought he ought to mention it. What if something happened to her and he hadn’t at least warned her? He’d never be able to live with himself if he turned on the television and saw that. He decided to wait until he dropped her off.

Things went silent again. Lawrence became preoccupied with how to broach the subject once the time came. He continued to drum his fingers on the steering wheel as he sped along in the left lane, climbing the steep hill before him. The sun had finally fallen behind the ridge, turning the wispy stratus clouds an orange-pink. He passed loaded-down tractor trailers in the right lane, their blinkers flashing as they tried to make the long grade. In the winter, when the snow fell, the hill turned into a nightmare.

“Sure is pretty here. All them mountains,” said Kathy, gazing out her side window at a grassy meadow between two large stands of hardwoods. “I’m just waiting for a deer to jump out and run acrost.”

The trees had just recently sprung to life, not quite verdant. Tiny poplar leaves, no bigger than squirrels’ ears, were colored like the flesh of a lime. The fuchsia flowers of the redbuds weaved their way into the canopy, creating an array of pastel colors in the evening light.

“You’ve got a good eye,” said Lawrence, looking at the long shadows dappling the meadow. “I see them there a lot, feeding above the ledge in that field. Usually in the fall, though, but always around this time of day when I’m heading home.”

“You ever kill one?” said Kathy.

“Me? No, I’m not much of a hunter. Don’t think I could ever kill something. I went out a few times, but never took a shot. How about you?”

“Oh, yeah. Lot’s of times.”

Lawrence again wondered if she might be telling stories. He’d never heard of deer in Tampa.

“I love to eat them, though,” he said. “Venison. Now that’s good stuff.”

“Yeah, it is,” she said.

“I’ve got some friends that hunt,” said Lawrence. “They give me some meat every year.” He glanced over at Kathy, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. She rubbed her scarred knee with her left hand while holding the curved end of her cane in her right. She looked out the open window as the woods flashed by. A few blonde strands that had worked their way loose from her ponytail flickered over her face. “We’ve got a dehydrator at home,” he said. “I make jerky. Man, it’s tasty.”

“I ain’t much of a cook,” she said. “I had a couple of friends over this Thanksgiving past. Burnt the hell out of a turkey.” She half-smiled again, watching the road now. “We was sitting in the TV room, looking at football, drinking beer. One of them guys asks me if I smelt something burning. I tell him the turkey’s only been in the oven a half hour. He says he don’t care, he smells something. Smells like plastic on fire, he says. Then me and the other guy smells it too.”

Lawrence looked straight ahead, listening to the story. He decided he liked Kathy, which made him become even more concerned for her welfare. Again he toyed with the idea of whether he should tell her now, or wait.

“So I run in there, pull the turkey out, and sure enough there’s black smoke coming up out of that bird. Right out of its ass, looked like to me. The turkey weren’t even brown yet, still all creamy colored, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Lawrence, smiling now. “I bet I know what’s coming.”

“So I take my oven mitt, reach in, and pull out all the stuffing I’d put in there. Sure enough there’s a plastic bag crammed up its ass, all shriveled up and smoking.”

Lawrence started laughing. “The neck and giblets,” he said.

“I guess,” said Kathy. “All sorts of weird parts. Shoot, I never cooked a turkey before. How was I supposed to know they stuffed something inside it?”

“That’s funny,” said Lawrence, still laughing, though thinking that usually the instructions told you to be sure and pull out the bag. “My mom told me about it the first time I tried to cook one back in college. If she hadn’t, I’d have probably done the same thing.”

Kathy smiled, fully now, before she began again. It was an ugly smile, similar to his wife’s, the way her top lip lifted up, exposing pink gums. “Ruined all the stuffing and the turkey. I threw the whole mess off the back porch and let the cats fight over it. We ended up going to a cafeteria to eat.” She laughed for the first time; it rattled in her chest; a smoker’s laugh.

They talked the rest of the way about the usual things. Kids: he had two, her none. Married: he was, she divorced from ‘a cheating son-of-a-bitch.’ Remarried? ‘Hell no, why bring the law into it? I learned my lesson.’ And before too long they’d made it to Lawrence’s exit. He’d gotten so caught up in the conversation that he’d momentarily forgotten about the warning he needed to give. But now that he’d gotten to know her, he knew he had to say something, whether it scared her or not.

“If you can just get me to the closest on-ramp, then I’ll be good,” she said as Lawrence flicked his turn signal. “Cops can’t hassle me as long as I ain’t on the interstate.”

“All right,” he said, pointing. “I’ll exit, then pull over by that ramp over there.”

Lawrence took the same exit he did every day, traveling down a decline that stopped at a T. A little square Waffle House, with a checkered metal awning wrapping around the front, sat to his right. The parking lot was filled with cars, almost all of them sporting out-of-state tags. He turned the car to the left, which felt strange since he’d never gone that way in the past five years—not once since he’d started working for the phone company. He pulled over to the side, clipping some tall weeds with the front bumper. When the car came to a stop, he ratcheted the emergency brake and knocked the stick shift into neutral. He was nervous about bringing up the subject. The palms of his hands were moist.

“Listen, Kathy, I have to tell you something,” he said. “I didn’t want to say anything while we were driving because I didn’t want to freak you out.”

She looked over at him. She started rubbing her knee again, and her hold on the cane tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly. Tension seeped back into the car, the same as when she’d first gotten in.

Lawrence sensed her uneasiness, but strangely, for whatever reason, he found her discomfort slightly enjoyable. An odd feeling of power crept over him. He spoke slowly now, deliberate. “There’s a serial killer running loose out there. I don’t know if you’ve heard about it or not, but they think he’s probably a long haul trucker.”

“Shit,” she said, low and nearly inaudible. “Around here?”

He didn’t know what was happening, but he liked the sensation. He’d planned on telling Kathy with the best of intentions, but something about her fear unexpectedly aroused him—not sexually, just a sort of mischievous stimulation. It reminded him of one time when he’d been a boy and pulled the tail of a cat that had wandered into the garage. He knew that pulling the tail was wrong, but he found the temporary guilt well worth the shock and surprise the cat experienced. And he did feel guilty now—knowing what he was doing was wrong—but not so much that he stopped.

“No, not around here,” he said. “Mostly in Oklahoma. They think it’s a trucker because most of the women are getting picked up at truck stops. Lot lizards, they call them. Prostitutes.”

“Oh, Jesus, Lord. But that’s a long way from here,” she said, showing a subtle sign of relief.

“Well, yeah, it’s a long way, but the problem is the bodies are turning up all over,” he said, watching Kathy’s expression as it dropped back to despair. That pleased him. “I think he’s killed seven so far. All strangled. Women have been found in Texas, Florida…Missouri, I think, too. Truckers can cover a lot of distance. That’s why he’s going to be hard to catch. I don’t want to scare you, but I thought you should at least be aware.”

But scaring her, he realized, was exactly what he wanted to do. He felt like he understood why a serial killer did what he did. Lawrence didn’t necessarily understand the killing part, but the power, the control, the mind games, all of that was like an epiphany to him. He figured the actual killing was just the inevitable next step.

Kathy stared ahead, fidgeting with a loose thread on the edge of her shorts. She twirled it around her finger, cutting off the blood, turning the tip red, nearly purple. Lawrence could almost see her mind at work, trying to figure out her next move. It excited him, this chess game.

“I really appreciate it,” she said. “It’s scary, but I’m glad you told me.” She pulled the handle on the door and started shuffling out. “I just head up there, right?” she said, nodding toward the on-ramp.

When Kathy stood up, Lawrence realized he didn’t want her to leave yet. “Yeah” was all he managed.

Kathy opened the backdoor and grabbed her duffel bag, slinging the strap over her shoulder. She gripped the handle of the cane in her left hand. “Thanks for the lift,” she said through the open window. “And don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

Lawrence opened his door and popped out. “Wait,” he said, loud and forceful. His sudden vigor surprised even him. He left the door open and made his way to the back of the car, his slick-bottomed wingtips zipping across the pavement. Off the road and in a drainage gully, clinging to a brittle stalk of last year’s milkweed, was a yellow wrapper from a McDonalds’ cheeseburger. A waxy cup lay on the road’s edge in the gravel, the lipsticked straw still poking through the plastic lid. Lawrence unintentionally stepped on a ketchup packet, busting it like a water balloon. A stream of red splattered on the rear tire of the car while the packet adhered to the heel of his shoe. He didn’t even notice. He opened the hatchback and started rummaging around.

Kathy had jumped at Lawrence’s words, then glanced toward the on-ramp nervously, but stayed put. There was nowhere for her to go. The rumble of diesel engines and the hollow sound of tires making time roared on the overpass above her. Sloppy spray-painted letters marred the concrete support pillars—Robert loves Crystal 4 ever.

Lawrence continued looking for something in the back. He finally found what he wanted, but intentionally stayed behind the car for a few extra seconds, prolonging the situation. He wanted it to last. He glanced over at the drainage gully, thinking it a perfect place to put a body if he had to. Covered in weeds and trash and not visible from the road.

As he made his way toward her he eyed the red letters of a Shell gas station sign looming above the Waffle House. The sign floated in the air atop an incredibly tall pole—at least twice as high as the tallest tree—luring customers in from the highway. Lawrence thought about how he used to take his dad’s calculator and punch in the number ‘71077345.’ Then he’d turn it upside down and look at the screen, where it magically spelled out ‘ShELLOIL.’ Of course, even better than that was typing ‘hELLhELL,’ hoping his father wouldn’t catch a glimpse before he hit the ‘Clear’ button.

He sidled up next to Kathy, imagining that if he were ever going to do it, this would probably be the time, with no cars going by and the overpass partially obscuring them from view. “Here,” he said, “take this.” He handed her a Phillip’s head screwdriver. “I thought I had a Buck knife but I can’t find it. This’ll be better than nothing.”

She took the screwdriver without hesitation and stuffed it into the side pouch of her duffel bag.

“Thanks,” she said, seeming to relax.  “You’re a good man, Lawrence.  And God

bless.”  

“Good luck,” he said. He walked to the back of the car, shut the hatchback, and returned to the driver’s side. The engine idled softly as he pressed the clutch and put the car in first, readying to swing a U-turn. He thought about getting home, knowing the dogs would be at the gate waiting to greet him, their tails wagging until they sniffed his pant legs. Then they’d try to decipher the foreign smells of the stranger that lingered on him; they’d lick the ketchup from his shoe and the cuff of his pants. He wondered how they would react if he’d actually hurt Kathy. Probably different, he decided. But he hadn’t had any reason to hurt her. A catalyst, he thought, is what someone would need in order to go through with it. Then once you did it the first time, it probably got easier and easier. For him, the catalyst was obvious enough. If he could just catch his wife in bed with the cable guy. Or the meter reader. Or a neighbor. It didn’t matter who. He’d noticed all of them eyeing her at one time or another. And the way she always talked to them and smiled that ugly smile, like she was so happy to see them. He knew what she was up to. All he needed was that catalyst.

He swung the car around, knowing his wife would have dinner ready for him when he arrived, hot and on the table. The incessant chatter of the children—a trait apparently inherited from their mother—would bounce around the kitchen, their voices filled with excitement because Daddy was home. He knew he wouldn’t mention Kathy, as he’d only get a nagging earful about the dangers of picking up strangers. He could hear her now, “What if that woman tried to hurt you?”

He looked at the back of Kathy, guilt now overwhelming him, as she hobbled up the on-ramp in the last of the evening light, trying to catch a ride to Knoxville. He punched the accelerator, contemplating whether to go home or to just swing the car around and go back for her. But then what? Yes, that was the question.

Then what?

Home

Bios