The Lonely Mile(56)
May 28, 3:52 p.m.
BILL’S VAN BOUNCED AND jolted over the rutted road leading, he hoped, to Martin Krall’s home. He had taken the address directly off Ray Blanchard’s bill of sale and punched it into the little GPS unit he kept in each of his delivery vans, being careful to transcribe the street name exactly, letter for letter. The last thing he wanted was to carelessly type in the wrong address and end up miles from where he needed to be—miles from where Carli was.
He was positive he had entered it correctly but now began to doubt himself as the van creaked and groaned over the desolate road. The GPS instructions had taken him on a route directly through downtown Mason, a misnomer if there ever was one. The “downtown” consisted of a drugstore, a movie theatre, and a boarded-up hotel that looked as though it had been empty since Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. Where the police station was located, or if there even was a police station, Bill had no idea.
After passing straight through Mason proper, a distance of less than a half mile, Bill continued following the GPS directions, enunciated in a stuffy, British voice that Carli had programmed into the machine months ago. She found the prissy dialect hilarious, and Bill had never gotten around to changing it. Now every word it spoke to him broke his heart. He wondered what he would find when he finally arrived at Martin Krall’s house. Would she even be alive?
He shook his head furiously and stomped on the accelerator, angry with himself for even considering the possibility of a less-than-ideal outcome. Of course she was still alive, and he was going to save her. Damned right, he was. She’s alive, he repeated in his head, over and over. She’s alive.
After passing through the town of Mason, Bill followed Route 37, a two-lane county highway that all other vehicles in the area seemed to have forgotten existed. The road wound through rolling hills, bordered on all sides by massive evergreens and the occasional two hundred-year-old oak or maple tree. Every so often, he would pass a small house or two off in the distance, set far back from the road, usually at the end of a long dirt or gravel driveway, but, for the most part, the area seemed deserted.
Finally the GPS squawked to life and ordered him to “Turn right ahead,” an instruction Bill found odd because he couldn’t see a road to turn onto. He slowed almost to a crawl and still nearly missed the exit; would have missed it, in fact, were it not for the GPS’s stuffy, British insistence that he turn.
There! Branching off Route 37 was the road Bill assumed he had to take. There was no street sign; nothing at all, in fact, to identify it as a public thoroughfare. Great, leafy maples towered over the narrow corner on both sides, and if he hadn’t been looking for it, he would have driven past, for sure. The Brit might be stuffy, but he knew what he was talking about.
Bill made the turn. The new road featured a cracked and rutted surface that had to have been laid down during the Nixon Administration and showed no signs of having been maintained in any meaningful way since. It was eerie, like being in a time machine, driving the road that time forgot through the town that time forgot. He accelerated slowly and crept along the narrow path, hoping not to meet a car traveling in the other direction. If that happened, someone was going to have to back up, because there was no way two vehicles could pass each other, at least not on this portion of the road.
But it seemed an unnecessary concern. This road was even more deserted than Route 37. No houses lined either side, no cars were parked along the edge of the road. No kids wandered aimlessly in the steamy afternoon. There was no evidence the road even led anywhere.
Bill moved on. The GPS insisted he was on the right track, and he was determined to follow through to the end.
The lowering sky matched his black mood, and it seemed as though the clouds would open up and drench the earth at any moment. They boiled overhead, black and ugly, building rapidly, preparing to unleash nature’s fury on the helpless world below. The wind whipped, catching the side of the van like a kite and pushing first to the right, then to the left, no rhyme or reason to it; the leaves on the trees flapping and upturned in a clear indication of the impending storm.
Bill moved on.
It was now so dark he considered flicking on the van’s headlights. If he encountered anyone traveling the opposite direction now, it might be the only thing that saved them, especially if they were moving too fast or not paying attention. Ultimately, though, Bill decided to risk it, leaving the lights off. He didn’t know how much longer it would take to get to Krall’s home. The GPS claimed he was nearly there, so, although Bill was becoming less and less confident in his stuffy, British companion the farther he went along this overgrown cow path, he didn’t want to advertise his presence to the man holding his daughter by shining two headlights through his living room window.
He had now traveled nearly a full mile along the road that was no more than a rumor. Bill thought about a conversation he had once had with Sandra back in the days when they were happy and getting along and could actually do things like talk without one or both of them stomping off in frustration.
In this particular conversation, Bill had expounded on his view of life: it was like a marathon road race. Every person had to slog through their own equivalent of 26.2 miles to experience a worthwhile existence.
A few people, though, Bill had theorized, aren’t finished with their race when they complete the 26.2 miles. Those people continue on, running past the finish line, slapping the pavement relentlessly. Those people run another mile. It’s a mile very few ever experience, and there are no cheering crowds rooting the runner on, no water bottles, no one watching at all. “It’s the lonely mile,” Bill had said, and Sandra had listened somberly, nodding in understanding when he finished, although he had the feeling at the time, later confirmed, that she had thought he was full of crap.