ANY ROAD, ANY TIME


People who like the sound of rain on a roof are not only inside, they’re planning to stay there, Gil thought as he pulled on his rustling Gore-Tex with the patch that read BLAKE’S SHELL STATION - Body Repair and Emergency Towing. And then, as a final touch, in italicized threading, the Blake’s Towing slogan: Any road, any time.

It was a simple slogan but Gil was proud of it. It embodied his attitude toward his business—his commitment to delivering a level of personalized service that separated him from anyone else in the county. And he knew it was a good slogan because it looked good stitched in his rain slicker, and his son Jerome loved saying it.

Gil just wished he didn’t have to live up to it right then. The rain was absolutely lashing down and he’d been snuggled up next to his wife Gretchen’s warm behind. Then he heard the phone ring—on diversion from the station. The alarm clock by the bed said 3:20 AM. Someone was in trouble. A traveler with a cell phone who’d called information or seen the sign? A local who’d broken down near a pay phone? He just hoped it wasn’t the State Police. Usually when they called late at night somebody was seriously injured or dead.

But Gil didn’t grumble. You couldn’t run a gas station and towing business in a rural location and resent an emergency call in the middle of the night. He’d known people he’d towed who had become regular customers for gas and butane, even if they had to go way out of their way. They’d met him in a moment of need, whether it was just an inconvenience or a full-scale emergency, and his prompt, friendly resolution of the problem had won them over for good.

Of course, it didn’t always work out like that. Sometimes people didn’t thank him—they were too worried about what had happened or how much everything was going to cost. If they were traveling through, they often just disappeared, never to be heard from again. He’d had two bad debts since opening the station, both relating to towing—but sometimes he got thank-you cards—and one couple who’d been on their honeymoon when they’d broken down always sent him a Christmas card. Come to think of it, it had been a night very much like this one.

He went over to the answering machine and played the message back. It was a woman’s voice. It didn’t sound like she was in a pay phone. He couldn’t get a fix on her voice. He played the message again just to be sure he’d heard right. She was at what locals called the “mudslide section” between Saw Pit Gully Road and Bethel Creek, although she didn’t call it that. She was unhurt but her car had broken down. She didn’t leave a name. By God it was raining.

He peered around the room going through his mental checklist, then headed out to his pick-up. The time on the microwave clock showed 3:25 AM. Ambrose, their arthritic Labrador woke up and crawled off his stinky old sofa cushion to give his formal what-the-hell-is-it-this-time blessing. Gil tenderly crushed one of the old dog’s ears in his hand.

The rain sluiced down. As he stepped out through the kitchen into the garage he heard water overflowing in the downpipe by the kitchen window. He was pretty sure he’d cleaned it out only a month before. He’d have to clear it out later. Old Bob, the pick-up fired up. Another loyal beast. Gil clicked on his high beams and the halogen night driving lights he’d fitted. After dark these country roads could be as black as the inside of a cow. Once he’d almost hit a cow. A big Holstein standing right in the middle of the road. Thank God it was a Holstein because it was the pattern of white patches that caught the lights and caused him to brake. As it was, he swerved off the road—straight into a bog. Had to call Leonard, one of his two part-time employees (who really did grumble) and get his own tow truck to come and drag himself out.

So Gil was always very careful. He couldn’t afford not to be. On any level. He and Gretchen had a combined mortgage and business loan that they could just see over the top of, and he didn’t mean to slip behind. They had done that briefly once before. Gretchen had had to take a job at a tool factory 25 miles away and he’d done three grave shifts a week as a security guard. Never again. It wasn’t always smooth sailing, but Gil was determined to make his business as successful as his family.

The rain curtained down. He felt like he was driving through a waterfall. Not a soul around, which was hardly news. It would take a lot to get a sane person out on a night like this. He didn’t even get out of third gear, creeping around each corner, trying to keep as much rubber on the road as he could.

Their modest cedar-clad house with its prominent white hog-shaped butane tank was only a short drive from what passed for the town of Woodley, where the gas station was located. It was there that he kept Big Rex, the tow truck. Jerome, who of course cared nothing about equipment leasing, vehicle depreciation, monthly repayments and balance sheets, looked at Rex with a boyish lust for machinery. To hear him describe the truck to other kids made it sound like his Dad drove not just a tow truck, but a marvelous, dangerous and mysterious contraption—part time machine, part rocket ship, part armored tank.

The real Rex was slightly short of most of these non-standard features. There were no rocket launchers or night vision periscopes. The truck was not specified for effective maneuvering underwater. Nevertheless, when it came to pulling cars out of muddy ditches or towing away a wreck, Rex had no peers in the county—and Gil had a business advantage he worked hard to sustain. Which, he kept reminding himself, was why he was going out in the pouring rain that night. Because no one else would do it. For a hundred miles around, he was the fixer, the hope. He was the Man.

He pulled into the driveway of the station, put up his hood and ran out of the Dodge. As quickly as he could he unlocked and opened the door to the garage and turned on the lights inside. Then he ran back to the pick-up, drove it in and shut off the engine. The rain was even louder on the roof of the station that it had been at home. He thought again of the woman he was going to meet by the side of the road and what had called her out.

He checked his tools and flares, and took his cell phone from its charger. He doubted what kind of reception he’d get near Bethel Creek but he always took his phone, just as he’d always kept a CB in his vehicles. As he told Jerome, “in emergencies, you can never have too much communication.” Then he jumped up behind the wheel of Rex, backed out and locked up again, leaving the lights on.

He threw the gearshift down into second to make the curve around the Lea’s place. Branches slashed at the metal on top of the truck. The county should make them trim those trees, he thought, or some semi would do it for them and make a mess. The rain pounded down so that air seemed to be filled with static like the old dispatch radio he’d had when he worked for that big outfit in Portland. That’s when he’d learned about 24-7 roadside service, emergency repairs, towing, first aid—he’d done it all back then. He must’ve been 22 when he started. Got thrown in the deep end his first night. Young kid, maybe 18, had robbed a liquor store—shot one of the cashiers in the process. Cops chased him, but he got away. Or so he thought. He ended up spinning out and rolling down an embankment in front of a rest area. Gil watched it happen. An old woman had left her lights on and fallen asleep for a couple of hours. Gil was cleaning the corrosion off her battery terminals when the kid’s car went over the side. He ran to take a look, not knowing the kid was running from the cops.

Down the embankment Gil went, slipping and falling, almost breaking a leg—and there was the kid all busted up. Gil tried to get him out of the car but the kid shot at him and told him to get away. Eventually, the gas tank ignited and Gil watched helplessly as the car burst into flame, the boy screaming. About fifteen minutes later the cops arrived and tried to arrest Gil, thinking that he was the driver—until they found the boy’s body.

He drove past the Golden Willow Country House. It looked like no one was staying there. He hadn’t thought of that incident in a long time and he wondered what had brought it to mind now. He felt tenser than usual, and tired. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt so tired. He wished they had enough money to go on a vacation. A nice big family vacation somewhere where it was warm, but not hot. Somewhere where he didn’t have to worry about money.

He passed the Pottery Works and the abandoned house on the corner of Dogleg Road. The night was so thick he couldn’t see the chimney. Then he was to the Fullerton’s, a modest sized dairy farm, which was the home of the wayward Holstein that he’d almost broadsided, only the accident which hadn’t happened had almost happened on Boundary Road, way on the other side of the property. Driving by he thought he could see a light, which didn’t surprise him. Terrence was probably already up checking the milking machines. Gil wondered why he felt so tired. Maybe he was coming down with something. He’d take 1000 mg of Vitamin C and Gretchen would make him a hot lemon when he got home.

“When was that going to be?”

He was talking to himself again. No wonder his throat was sore. Where in hell was Saw Pit Gully Road? He couldn’t remember when he’d felt so tired.

The woman must not have been local, he realized. Otherwise, she’d have left her name. He wondered where she’d been calling from.

Bumph! He ran over a couple of beer cans. Rex crushed them under wheel like a juggernaut, powering through the sopping darkness, lights ablaze. Yes indeed, Gil thought, it must’ve been something to see that tow truck plowing through the rain on a night like this. The woman would sure be glad!

On the left hand side of the dirt road there were wet maples and beech trees just beginning to show their buds—but the darkness of the night and the heaviness of the rain made it seem like the trees were fully leafed, thick and strangely hungry. On the other side, a remnant of pines still remained, forgotten after the mill closed. Black as the night air they looked now—tightly grouped, vaguely sinister old spruce and loblolly pines that had escaped harvest. Gil didn’t like this part of the area. When they’d first arrived, someone in Woodley had told him about a State Trooper who was psycho—used to bring young girls out here and rape them.

Rex’s high beams reflected back off the mirror-ribbons of the rain. Gil clicked down, but couldn’t see anything, so he hit the highs again, the truck lugging hard at about 3000 rpm’s, until he shifted. He saw something off to the side of the road. An older 5-Series BMW, black, Oregon plates. He’d just begun to think that maybe the whole thing was an elaborate prank—only he couldn’t imagine who would do such a thing. Now at least there was a real car there. He’d sort out the problem in a matter of minutes and one way or another he’d be home within an hour—or at least for breakfast. The car wasn’t the kind he’d been expecting.

He pulled up alongside it, blocking the road. There was no reason not to—no one would come by for hours, maybe even days. He wondered who the woman was. Why was she here?

He pulled up the emergency brake and shut off the engine but left all the lights on. He thought of Jerome asleep in bed back home. And Gretchen, who might not have been asleep. And old Ambrose who most assuredly was asleep, and snoring too.

Gil glanced at his watch. Just past 4:00 AM. He pulled up his hood and grabbed his long Magneto flashlight with the Easy-Hold molded rubber grip. If he’d been working for a big place, he’d have radioed in then and let dispatch know he was on the scene. Working for himself, there was no one to radio except Gretchen and he didn’t want to disturb her again. It was still raining hammers and nails. He climbed out of the cab.

He knocked on the window of the black BMW. The windows were tinted. He couldn’t see in. He pounded on the glass as the rain pounded down on his Gore-Tex. Suddenly the horn on the BMW honked loudly and he just about jumped out of the coat. He heard the lock click.

The door opened. “God!” a voice said.

Gil’s heart bounced and he braced himself with the flashlight. Then it occurred to him that the woman had fallen asleep waiting for him.

“I’m sorry!” the voice inside yelled, trying to be heard over the rain.

She’d dozed off and he’d startled her—and then she’d hit the horn by accident.

Unless the horn was some kind of signal.

Why would he think that? Shit, it was raining.

“Blake’s Towing Service!” he announced, pointing to Rex.

“Thank God!” the woman shouted. “I thought you weren’t going to come!”

“I always come!” Gil assured her loudly, although for some reason he thought it sounded pompous. “Any road, any time,” he tried.

“I know!” the woman.

“How?” Gil hollered—but it seemed stupid in such circumstances to ask how she’d heard of him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, sticking his head into the car, rain from the peak of his hood dripping down on the worn but well cared for leather of the front seat. Thup, thup.

Then he heard her say, as if repeating herself, “That’s why I called you!”

“OK” he nodded. “Pop the hood!”

He stepped clear of the car, closing the door for a moment—and then it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen her face—the light inside hadn’t come on. Maybe it was an electrical problem. Or maybe she hadn’t wanted him to see her. He flicked on his flashlight and the powerful beam slashed through the rainy darkness between Rex and the bristling black wall of the pines. He spotted around the tires to see if they were in any way bogged. Not even close. He moved to the hood, raised it and braced it, probing with the beam. The engine looked downright sanitary. He checked plugs and points, the battery. He checked the alternator. He poked the bright beam around like a man searching with a needle for someone hiding in a haystack. Everything looked fine. He moved back to the driver’s side window and rapped on it. Just the window came down, a light shown in the dash.

“What’s it do?” he said loudly.

“It just stopped,” the woman said loudly back.

“While you were driving? Where were you coming from? You staying nearby?”

“I was driving along and it started making a funny noise! Then it stopped! I’m not a mechanic! That’s why I called you!”

Gil didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to ask her how she’d managed to call him—he doubted there’d be reception out here—but talking over the rain made saying anything awkward. He turned around and went back to look at the engine. Everything looked fine. He went back to the window. It rolled down. “Try the ignition!” he said.

“I did!” the woman said plaintively.

She must be flustered, he thought. He hadn’t heard a single click. He doubted seriously if she’d turned the key. “Let me try!” he yelled through the rain and motioned with the flashlight for her to crawl over to the passenger side. He opened the door trying not to get water everywhere, and then realized that that was impossible. He bent down and slurped inside, scrunching wet Gore-Tex, and pulled the door shut behind him. Then he reached down to turn the key and couldn’t find it.

“Where’s the key?” he asked, too loudly now that the rain was shut outside.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why? I’m going to try to start your car so I can go home and get some sleep!”

“You think so?” the woman said.

“I—” He still couldn’t see her face clearly. “Listen, what’s going on?”

“This is an emergency,” the woman said.

He turned in the driver’s seat just enough to see that she was wearing a chocolate brown overcoat—a man’s coat it looked like—and a nice one too. She pulled open the coat and in the radiance of Rex’s lights he could see that she was naked underneath.

“God.”

“Look.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the car,” he said peering at her face now. The rain eased slightly, making his voice grow. He clicked on the long flashlight in his lap. He didn’t want to be alone in the car with her without more light—and the overhead obviously didn’t work. She’d probably taken out the bulb.

“Just look at these,” she said fondling her breasts.

He had the light pointed toward the floor but in the glow he could see her breasts were big—and firm for a woman her age—which he guessed was early 40’s. Her nipples were hard. He swallowed. His throat was really sore now and the car seemed to be getting smaller. She bent down her head and held up a breast and began sucking the nipple. The rain began to slow.

She ran her tongue around the nipple, pinching it with her long fingers—then biting it—sucking on it loudly. He dropped the flashlight on the floor. The rain went almost silent.

“Well,” she said lifting her other tit to her mouth. “What about it?”

“What about what?” he heard himself whine. The car kept getting smaller—he didn’t know where to look—what to do. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Babe, if you can’t see what I’m doing, you’re dead.” She dropped her boob and darted a hand into his crotch. “Ooh, no, you’re not dead. Not yet anyway.”

“What? What did you say?”

“Hand me that flashlight.”

He was surprised to find that he did. He had to get a hold of himself.

“It’s so long and thick,” she said.

“Listen, I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing, but you don’t call an emergency roadside service out in the middle of the night in this kind of weather!”

“Oh!” the woman moaned softly, holding the flashlight so that the light bobbed slowly across his face, the other end of the Easy-Hold grip stroking between her legs.

“Stop that!” he snapped, scrunching in his Gore-Tex jacket. God, he was hot. Maybe he did have a fever. What the hell was going on?

“I needed some emergency roadside service,” the woman snickered.

“This isn’t funny!” Gil groaned, his head pounding.

“No,” she agreed. “It’s not funny.”

Outside the rain was all gone now. Everything was still except for the dripping of the trees. All the branches were dripping after the downpour and the windows were beginning to steam up.

“Listen, I’ve got a family—I run a business…”

The light kept hitting him in the face—he tried to turn away—he wanted to see the woman’s face. Was there something familiar about her?

“Oh,” she whispered. “I’m getting so wet.”

“Why are you doing this?” Gil moaned.

“It feels like a huge cock trying to get inside me.”

“Why me?”

“Oh, God…I’m going to come! I’m going to…ahhh…”

She began manipulating the flashlight faster, holding onto it with both hands now—no longer just rubbing with it—but thrusting—pulling and pushing. She shook with a spastic frenzy, almost screaming—collapsing back against the fogged glass of the window, her breasts rising and falling in the blurred light, her scent filling the car.

Gil couldn’t move. His forehead was on fire but his mind had frozen. His cock had grown frighteningly hard. He smelled her, slouched open on the seat beside him. Wet leather. The smell of sex and rain. He couldn’t think. All he knew was that he had to get home. Before something bad happened.

“Are you good and hard?” she whispered.

He couldn’t speak.

“Show it to me. Let me see.”

She began fingering herself again, holding the flashlight so the beam spotlighted his crotch.

“I’ve got to get home,” he said. It seemed to take all his strength.

“Show me your cock,” she whispered—just like the wet squishy sound she was making with her fingers.

“I—I can’t. I’m married…”

“There’s no one around. We’re all alone.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s wrong but—”

“Wrong?” the woman said, her voice rising slightly. “What do you mean? Wrong with me?”

“I just mean—”

“Babe, there’s nothing wrong with me. Now let me see your cock.”

“I can’t. I’ve got a family. I run a business!”

“And you’ve got a hard-on. You want me to suck it, don’t you? You want to give you a nice hot blowjob. Then climb on that big thing, huh?”

“Stop talking like that!”

“Why? Makes you horny? You want to fuck me in the ass? Do you fuck your wife in the ass?”

“Shut up!” Gil shouted, but it sounded like a sob. “Please.”

“Take it out,” the woman whispered.

“No…”

“Take it out.”

“P-lease…”

“Take it out, I said. Or I’ll kill you.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” the woman cooed, pulling out a snub-nosed .38 Ruger.

“What did you—”

“I want to see some meat and I want to see it now!”

“God! What are you doing?” Gil gulped.

“Show me your fucking dick!” the woman screamed.

The sky had cleared. It was just getting light. Rex’s lights had receded slightly into the very slowly smearing brightness. The birds had started up. Gil trembled. He couldn’t help himself. He thought about rushing her, but she held the revolver tightly. She could shoot him right there in the car and walk away scot-free. Everyone would think he’d tried to rape her.

He thought of Jerome sleeping peacefully in his little bed back home, Ambrose farting on his sofa cushion—Gretchen worried about him, making coffee, wondering when he was going to get back.

He felt his hands—as if they were separated from his body—fumbling at his zipper. He’d have to play along—he couldn’t afford to upset her. He had to wait and make his move at just the right time…

“What’s wrong, Babe? A minute ago you were drooling and now you’ve gone all shy on me. Oh, I see. You’ve lost your hard-on. Bet it’s never happened before.”

“I—”

“Shut up. Here’s the deal. If you don’t get it up for me, I’m going to shoot you.”

“What?”

“I’m going to shoot you. What do you think about that?”

“Why…why are you—doing this?”

“Start playing with yourself. I’m not going to suck you—not going to make it easy for you to get hard. Hah! You like that? Easy to get hard?”

“You’re—”

“Come on big guy. Get him up. Then we can get it on.”

“You need help,” he said.

“You’re the one who can’t get it up.”

“You’re holding a gun on me.”

“Lots of men would think that’s horny.”

“You’re crazy!”

“You’re impotent. So much for your little slogan. Any car, anywhere.”

“Any road, any time,” Gil rasped, but she just laughed.

The flashlight shone down on him so that his penis was literally spotlighted. It had never looked so small to him before. Shriveled. Still he rolled and pressed the head between his thumb and index finger, raising and lowering the foreskin gently but firmly—trying to quiet his mind, his heart. If he could get into her he could overpower her. She would shoot him, he felt sure.

“Hey, Babe, I think you’re making progress. How’s that for performance under pressure! Come on now. Yeah, I like watching you. Did you like watching me? You thinking how good it’s going to be to fuck me? My tight pussy. And my ass? Ooh, yeah. You’re starting to rise to the occasion. Christ.”

Gil worked harder now, sweating in his Gore-Tex, watching the sky go a pale blue through the misted glass. Every so often the woman circled her stiffened nipples with the barrel of the gun. He thought of going for her but he didn’t know if he’d be quick enough.

“C’ mon Babe! Beat that meat!” she sighed. “Oh, yeah, it’s getting bigger and bigger. Shit, you’re hung like a goddamn flashlight! Ha, ha.”

Gil watched his cock in the hot beam of light. The head was thick and swollen now—he felt the rhythm working—the pressure building. She was fingering herself again now, finding a rhythm to match his own.

“I’m ready!” he cried. “You want to do it now?” God he felt relieved—if he could just get his hands on her!

“Good job, Stud. But I changed my mind. I want to see you come like that.”

“Like this?” he sighed disappointedly.

“Yeah. Tough break, huh? You shoot your load and I won’t shoot you.”

“You want me to come—like this?”

“That’s what I said, Babe. On the dash.”

“You want me to come on the dash?”

“That’s what I fucking said, didn’t I?”

Gil’s mind spun—his erection was thick and strong now, the skin a little raw, but he spat on his hand and the squishy feel of the saliva and the pressure of the hand gripping his rod, taking him to the edge—he couldn’t understand. “Why?”

“You’ll figure it out one day.”

“What?”

“Keep beating it!”

“What do you mean?”

“Shoot it!” she screamed.

“I—I’m going to come!”

“Shoot that load!”

“Ah!” Gil gasped and almost blacked out with the orgasm.

He couldn’t breathe. He thought he was having a heart attack. She panted, having come again herself. He felt sure he was going to cry. She exhaled deeply and glanced out the window, then back at the dash. “You must’ve been ready to explode.”

“I’ve—got to get home.”

“What a mess, Babe. You’ll never be able to clean all this up so the cops don’t find a trace. Never.”

“What?”

“They’ll find out there’s cum in the car and they’re going to want to know whose it is—don’t you think?”

“What do you mean? What—what happens now?”

“Now? Now’s when it all starts.”

“Where all what starts?” Gil choked.

“You’ll find out.”

“Who are you?”

“You’ll remember me.”

“I don’t know you!” Gils gasped, almost sobbing now.

“Who’s going to believe that?”

“What?”

“Who’s going to believe what you say?”

“You’re insane!”

“Get this through your head, Babe. No one’s going to believe you. Not about this—not about anything. Not anymore.”

She slipped the barrel of the gun inside her mouth and pulled the trigger.

The shot was both loud and not loud. Unreal.

Gil’s hand slipped and hit the horn, startling a flock of crows. Frantically he rubbed the windows to see if anyone was around. Rex looked like a toy now, abandoned in the middle of Saw Pit Gully Road.

His pants and jacket, the seat, the dash—everything was sticky and wet and the woman lay back against the partially shattered bloody window, her overcoat open, breasts sagging now.

Gil swallowed hard, not feeling how sore his throat was. The close air smelled of the gunshot mingling with semen and her wet thighs. Through a smudge in the steamed-up windows the sky was getting lighter and lighter. Everything dripped with dead rain.

What was it she’d said—“This is where it all starts?”

He started to clean up and then realized it was hopeless, just as she’d said. He couldn’t concentrate. He had to get home.

He drove Rex straight back to the house. The sun was all the way up, the sky fresh and rinsed—a gigantic radiance sweeping out over the trees. Gretchen had turned on the classical music station, which she only did when she was really worried. The house smelled of coffee and sleep and Ambrose, who dragged his hind legs over, tail wagging hard the moment Gil slipped through the door.

“Any road, any time!” Jerome screeched, racing out of his bedroom, half in pajamas, half dressed for school.

“Y’all right, hon?” Gretchen smiled anxiously. “You were gone so long I almost called Leonard.”

“I’m home…” Gil mumbled.

All he could think of was the phone call he had to make. To Sheriff Willessee.

“How come you didn’t go back to the station? Everything okay? Get out of all those damp clothes and tell us all about it.”

“What?”

He’d have to go back to the station to make the call.

“Want some eggs, hon?”

He couldn’t make the call in front of them.

“Any road, any time!” Jerome growled, imitating Rex.

“Stop it Jerome! Let your father get settled.”

“Hey Dad!”

“Coffee, hon?” Gretchen asked, smiling so hard it seemed to him that she was going to cry.

“I’m home,” Gil replied, but his voice rose slightly, as if it was a question.

Ambrose crawled over and began vigorously licking his hand.

Kris Saknussemm is the author of Zanesville and Private Midnight. He lives near Sydney.