Motel. Pool. (7 page)

Tag gazed out at the very same view, at the same natural wonder. But even though he remained there until his ass hurt and his legs cramped, he felt no stirring in his soul. It was a hole and a bunch of big rocks, with a little squiggle of green water at the bottom. That was all. He’d felt more emotional when he’d spied the Golden Arches in Flagstaff.

Around noon, Tag stood and stretched. He ambled along the sidewalk that hugged the rim of the canyon, and he hoped for lunch. Those hopes were fulfilled when he found a gift shop, an ice cream place, and a couple of restaurants. After a quick self-assessment, he decided he was presentable enough to eat indoors. The restaurant hostess must have agreed, because she smilingly led him to a window table, where he could look out at the park’s star attraction.

Although his stomach growled, he didn’t really have an appetite for anything, so he ordered the first thing he saw on the menu. While he waited for his food, he looked dutifully at the view. A few clouds scudded over the vista, creating more complex colors as rock was shrouded in shadows and then revealed by the sun. The seat across the table from him was accusingly vacant. He felt a strange compulsion to speak to that empty space, to share some idle premeal chatter about the dining options, the scenery, the passing hiker with the great legs. He was relieved when his meal arrived. Probably the food was good, but it seemed bland and tasteless to Tag, as did nearly everything else now.

He lingered over coffee when the food was gone, and the waitress didn’t seem to mind. He left her a good tip, then succumbed to his restlessness and wandered back outside. He hadn’t gone far before the gift shop caught his eye, and he went inside. He browsed the T-shirts and books and magnets without really seeing them but paused when he came to a postcard rack. The cards displayed shot after shot of the beautiful scenery, but Tag reached out and chose a card picturing a pair of mules plodding their way down a steep trail. When he paid for the postcard, he bought a stamp as well, which he stuck on the card right away. Then he slipped the blank card into his jacket pocket and left the store.

The clouds thickened as the afternoon advanced. Tag wandered the rim trail, stopping every now and then to sit and gaze at the canyon. He stopped hoping for an epiphany, or even a distinct emotion. He still had a fuzzy brain and a blank heart, but at least he was getting a little exercise and fresh air, a nice change after being cooped up in the car for a couple of days.

Near sunset he found the perfect place to watch the sun dip below the horizon. It was, Tag admitted dispassionately, a gorgeous sight. He stood near the cliff edge as the sky turned the color of flames and then deepened to a royal purple. He listened to the other people exclaiming over the show, and he watched them take pictures that would never capture the glory of the real thing. Aside from a slight chill from the cooling air, he felt nothing at all.

O
NCE
THE
sunset was over, only a few tourists continued to stare out into the darkness, perhaps searching for constellations. Tag had hoped that this road trip would spark some feeling in him, that the Grand Canyon would startle him out of his stupor. But instead the numbness only spread, as if someone had given his soul a shot of novocaine.

He should probably have dinner, but he didn’t. He walked to his car in the now half-empty parking lot. He sat in the driver’s seat and, after digging through the debris in his glove compartment, found a pen that worked. He put the postcard on his lap and wrote.
Hey Jason. I’m sorry I was such an ass. Seriously—I fucked up. As usual. Sorry you had to pay the price. Have a good life, okay?
He signed his name, addressed the card, then tossed it onto the passenger seat. He’d find a mailbox in the morning. Right now he wanted…. God, what
did
he want? A shower, he guessed. A bed. Maybe some mindless TV.

He drove slowly out of the park. Just a few miles south was a cluster of motels and restaurants, but he didn’t stop. The lights there seemed too bright. He found himself remembering the ghost town where he’d slept the previous night, the empty lot where a motel had once stood. Once upon a time, that motel was probably as busy as the ones he passed now, and the Bluebird Café was probably packed with motorists. Maybe one of the buildings had housed a bar, someplace for the locals to relax with a few beers, maybe mix with the tourists a little. Maybe kids had stayed up late in the motel rooms, bouncing on the beds and begging to be allowed a swim the next day.

He’d find a room in Williams. Someplace quiet, where the sheets smelled like bleach and the cups were wrapped in plastic.

The highway was dark. A few cars were strung out in front of him and a few straggled behind, but he passed nobody heading the other way. His eyelids were heavier than they should have been. The damn radio was on the fritz again, picking up nothing but static and something that sounded vaguely like a pipe organ playing very far away.

That left Tag alone with his thoughts, which wasn’t a good thing. As clearly as the road in front of him, he could picture Jason’s handsome, earnest face. It was a Midwestern farmboy face, even though Jason had grown up in Kansas City. He had the kind of all-American looks that predisposed him to being a Boy Scout and a member of the high school football team, going to church with his family on Sundays, and probably helping little old ladies cross the street. Jason’s laughter came easily. He was the kind of guy who charmed little kids; who hugged all his friends, gay and straight; who loved to go out dancing, then tumble into bed with his boyfriend, sweaty and smelling of tequila. He was the kind of guy who told his boyfriend he wanted to go out to dinner, and in the pause between the soup and the steak, slipped out of his chair, got down on one knee, and produced a ring in a velvet box.

“Fuck!” Tag shouted. He rolled down the car window and let the slipstream tear the postcard from his fingers. It disappeared into the darkness.

“That was
littering
,” said an accusing voice.

Tag whipped his head to the side—and saw a man grinning at him from the passenger seat. Tag screamed. The car swerved onto the shoulder. He overcorrected, turning sharply the other way, flying across the northbound lane and onto gravel, spinning sideways. For an eternal moment, the car was poised to roll, teetering like a tightrope walker on a windy day. Tag wasn’t wearing a seat belt. He took a breath and waited to die. Then the Camry found its balance and skidded to a halt.

Without planning it, Tag popped the shifter to Park, flung open his door, and leapt out of the car. He stood there, breathing hard, every muscle in his body tensed. After several seconds, the passenger door opened. Someone got out—Tag couldn’t see details—and sauntered to the front of the car, where he was illuminated by the headlights.

He was a young man, twenty, maybe twenty-one years old. His sandy hair was short on the sides but longer on top, swept back in a sort of pompadour that probably required a lot of product. He was a couple of inches taller than Tag’s five eight. His plain white tee stretched over wide shoulders and a muscular chest and tucked into the trim waist of his blue jeans. He was smiling.

As Tag gaped, the man turned his back and perched his butt on the hood of the Camry. Tag didn’t see how the guy managed to produce a cigarette and lighter, but the flame flickered brightly, the guy exhaled noisily, and a cloud of smoke drifted through the headlight beams.

Tag stepped around his open door and walked in front of the car. The man looked relaxed, a little amused. “You almost killed yourself just now,” he observed.

“Who the fuck are you? And how the hell…?” Tag ran a shaky hand through his hair. Had he really been so preoccupied as not to notice someone sitting in his backseat when he left the park? He certainly would have noticed him climbing into the front. It wasn’t like the Camry was a big vehicle.

The guy took another puff and tapped ashes onto the ground. “My name’s Jack Dayton.” He tilted his head slightly. “Maybe you heard of me? I was in a couple of movies.”

Tag shook his head mutely, and Jack shrugged. “They weren’t very big parts.”

“But what the fuck…? How…?” Tag smoothed his hair back, as if that might help make sense of things—or at least enable him to utter a coherent sentence. But he remained incredibly confused, his heart beating wildly. Later he might decide that was a good thing; his heart hadn’t been beating much at all lately. But now he only felt like he needed a chair and a stiff drink.

Jack took a few more leisurely drags on his cigarette before grinding it out beneath his heel. He wore black leather boots that looked like they’d seen a lot of miles. “I hitched a ride. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Hitched? But… I locked my car. And I didn’t
see
you, not until just now.”

“Locks aren’t a problem for me. And as for the rest….” Jack blinked out of existence.

It was just like that. One moment he was leaning against the Camry’s hood, looking smug and a little gleeful, and the next he was gone.

Tag staggered backward a step, then another.

And Jack reappeared, grinning ear to ear. “Neat trick, huh?”

“Oh, fuck,” Tag moaned. He got his feet under sufficient control to stumble back to the car, where he collapsed into the driver’s seat. He slammed the door, then had to lean far across the passenger side to close the other. The engine was still running, so he threw the car into gear, took a second to assess which way was south, and screeched off the shoulder and back onto the road. He drove fast. If Officer Friendly or any of his pals were patrolling this stretch of highway tonight, they were going to be pissed off. Tag didn’t care.

For a good chunk of Tag’s life, he’d expected mental illness to appear at his door like an uninvited relative. The only question was which relation was going to show up. Would it be Cousins Alcoholism and Depression from his dad’s side of the family, or Uncle Schizophrenia from his mom’s? Hey, maybe there would be a great big family reunion and
everyone
would gather round. But now that he’d made it all the way to twenty-nine—although he was a chronic fuckup who was occasionally kind of down in the dumps over his mistakes—he’d thus far avoided visits from psychoses.

Until tonight.

He flew past dark smudges of low trees. He saw a pair of taillights far in front of him that within moments were immediately ahead. He zoomed into the oncoming lane to pass, then zipped back to the right. He could do this all night. He’d just keep the accelerator pressed to the floor until he ran out of gas, until he outran his craziness.

Right.

Moaning, Tag pulled off the highway. He cut the engine and the lights, leaned his head against the steering wheel, and waited for the world to go away.

“My Ford went way faster than that.”

Tag didn’t startle this time. He didn’t even look to the side, because he knew what he’d see. A hallucination sitting there and grinning at him. “Go away,” Tag mumbled.

“I wish I could drive. It’s been such a long time. Boy, I’d have that big steering wheel in my hands and the engine rumbling like a tiger, and we’d eat up those miles. I miss that car. She was
solid
. Steel and leather, with some nice chrome trim. Not plastic and… and spit, or whatever your little car’s made of.” He sighed noisily. “She finally died on me. Wonder what happened to her.”

“Why now? Couldn’t you have crept up on me more gradually instead of
wham!
Full-blown psychotic episode in the middle of fucking Arizona.”

“I been with you all day. Since last night.”

Tag’s curiosity got the better of him, even though interrogating figments was pointless. “Last night?” he asked, rolling his head so he could see Jack.

Jack nodded. “Yeah. When you stopped. I climbed inside while you were sleeping. Thought it was time for a ride.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Didn’t see me. I know. I can do this, remember?” Jack wavered from sight—more slowly this time—then sharpened again. “Actually, it’s been a while since I was visible. Took me a while to work up to it.” He held his arms up slightly to examine them. “I’m doing a pretty good job. No see-through. Oh, and I remembered the clothes.” Even in the darkness, his teeth glinted when he smiled.

Maybe, just maybe, if Tag stayed rational, he could force the crazy away. “So you’re telling me you’ve been tagging along with me all day?”

“Yep. Saw the Grand Canyon. Never saw it before. Kinda stupid, considering how close I’ve been for so long. It’s real pretty.”

“And I picked you up last night?”

“Sure. There used to be a motel there. You saw the sign, right?” Jack didn’t wait for an answer. “I died there. And now—”

“You
died
?” Great. Tag wasn’t just hallucinating people, he was hallucinating
dead
people.

“Well, yeah. I’m a ghost. Thought you’d figured that out by now, on account of the… you know.” This time Jack flashed out of existence and back in, all in two blinks of an eye.

A ghost. Of course. “And you died at the motel.”