Canis Familiar: Chapter 3
"DAT-dadada / DAT-dadada," Fred warbled under her breath, three hours into the trip to Texas. She loved this song -- "Carol of the Bells," the title was -- but she could never remember all the words, and was forced to ad-lib most of it. "DAT-dadada / DAT-dadada / DAT-dadada / DAT-dadada..."
"This little ditty going to end anytime soon, Petal?" Spike asked her hopefully. She grinned.
"Someday, maybe. Are you having fun yet?"
"Oodles, but if I hear much more of the Mannheim Steamroller I may have to kill something."
"Okay," Fred acquiesced. She leaned forward in the passenger seat and fished another audiocassette from the glove compartment, and switched it out with the tape in the player. The dashboard speakers burst forth the helium balloon voices of Alvin & The Chipmunks.
"Oh, thank you so bloody much," Spike chuckled. Fred giggled hysterically and shrieked, "Me, / I want / a HU- / -la hoop!"
"You know, it's my turn to pick the music," he reminded her. "Where's that Talking Heads tape?" Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he changed cassettes a second time, and settled back into the somewhat lumpy driver's seat.
"You miss the Viper, don't you?" Fred said sympathetically. "You don't look very much at home in this ploddy old van."
Spike looked over at her in mild surprise. "Hadn't thought about it...yeah, it was a fantastic little car, wasn't it? Wish I'd taken you for a drive in it." He could picture her in it now, seated next to him, her cute little ingenue face alive with excitement as they zipped down the freeway, and he felt the pang of regret for good things overlooked and opportunities not taken. Suddenly he reached out and popped the tape player's Eject button. He picked up one of the Christmas tapes and squinted at it in the dark. "Used to like this tune back in the day."
He inserted the tape and jiggered the FastForward and Rewind buttons and then it was Fred's turn to be surprised: "In The Bleak Midwinter," played on a harp. A slow, peaceful song, one that spoke of gas lamps and the graciousness and hush of Victorian parlors.
She gazed at Spike wordlessly. After a few stanzas, she stretched out her hand and touched his cheek. Then she curled up with her head on her folded-up car coat and love in her face, and they continued to listen in comfortable silence.
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"WINIFRED. My God, Hon, where ARE you?" For the first time in her life her father's voice had sounded old, and it made Fred weep to think of what her work and her choices had put her parents through. Her explanation of her latest disappearance had come out rather garbled, choked as it was by tears, and she had decided to refrain from telling them that she'd actually died this time -- saying that she'd been in hiding from her evil, vengeful former employers would be upsetting enough. Likewise, the revelation of Illyria could wait for the time being.
"You're not driving here by yourself," her father had announced, putting his foot down. "We're comin' out to get you."
"It's all right, Dad; a friend is coming with me."
"That nice English fella?"
"Yes-" And then she'd realized that he meant Wesley.
"I mean no -- his name's Spike -- well, William, but he goes by 'Spike'...you remember the vampire ghost friend of Angel's I told you about last year?"
"Huh?" The description was obviously lost on him. "Oh...I was talking about your fella that worked there at the law office with you. The one you were with when we saw you last."
It had pained her to think of Wes. "He's dead, Daddy," she'd answered, her voice barely audible. "He was murdered by the Senior Partners' people just before we left Los Angeles."
"My God," he'd said softly.
Wesley; wise Cordelia; sweet, funny Lorne...I miss you guys so much. How did we lose so many so fast? How did we get so scattered apart? Fred suddenly, desperately hoped that Angel would indeed have a good time with Nina, that Charles would enjoy his holiday with Kay's family and the Kheims, that Michael would have a safe journey to his relatives in Nebraska. And Good Night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.
She had no idea who Mrs. Calabash was, only that her father had always said that when he tucked her in bed as a child, using the gravelly voice of the narrator from the "Frosty the Snowman" cartoon, but she wished Mrs. Calabash well, too.
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The trail weaved back and forth like a drunk making his way through a filled-up parking lot, but eventually it always circled back to Interstate 10. Always, too, Jordy's smell was accompanied by those of five other people, all of them strangers to Oz. It was harder in large towns and cities, where the trail became lost in pollution and chemicals and a thousand other odors, and it sometimes took him days to pick it up again.
In Tucson it swung south down Interstate 19 all the way to Nogales, on the Mexican border. At around two o'clock in the afternoon, Oz entered a tacked-together building with blacked-out windows and a one-style-fits-all yellow sign on wheels with "LIQUER-BEER-W1NE" spelled out badly in big slide-on letters.
Inside the air was warm, but close and fetid. The furnishings were as random as the building's exterior: a pool table circa Sears Catalogue 1973; bits of assorted chairs and tables; a couple of commercial refrigerators stocked with brown and green and amber bottles. In places the soiled vinyl flooring had ripped free of its moorings and curled up at the edges, waiting to trip a wayward foot.
"Corona," Oz said to the jaundice-colored man behind the counter. The man nodded tiredly and began searching through one of the coolers.
The room's other occupants, a very large and very dangerous-looking biker and two bored, scrawny young rednecks, turned and looked at the new customer. One of the rednecks stared jeeringly into Oz's eyes and made soft kissing noises, silently challenging him. Let's see what you're made of, College Boy. There's two of us and just one of you and it's not often that we get a chance to kick someone's ass, really kick it.
Oz ignored him and handed the bartender some crumpled dollars and a photograph. "Have you seen this kid around here lately?"
Jaundice examined the snapshot. "Uh-uh. He a runaway?"
"No. We think he's been kidnapped. He might be traveling with a group of four or five people."
The bartender clucked sympathetically. "Jesus, that's too bad. If I see him I'll be sure and let the cops know."
"Tell them to call the Phoenix police. That's where he's from. Here's his name." Oz took a pen from his coat pocket and scrawled Jordy's moniker on a paper coaster. "Thanks." He picked up his beer and crossed the room to the door, well aware of several pairs of eyes boring holes in the back of his head. Once outside he blinked in the bright sunlight. He was nearly to his car when he heard the liquor store's door open and close again.
Shit.
He looked up, expecting the rednecks and their testosterone-fired knuckles. What he saw alarmed him almost as much: the biker, walking toward him, the face atop his bull neck intense.
The biker parked one huge, meaty hand on the driver's-side door of Oz's car. He held out the other. "C'n I see that picture a second?"
Oz fished the photo from his pocket and the biker studied it for several long minutes.
"I don't know if this is the one," he said finally, "But a few days ago I saw a group, couple of men and women, two cars, at one of those rest stops on the side of the highway, back up toward Tucson -- those places with a Coke machine and a shitter, y'know? One of 'em bummed a cigarette off me and said they were goin' to Roswell to look at the flying saucers. They had a kid looked kinda like this with 'em."
Oz's entire body tightened. "Was he all right?"
"I don't know, he stayed in the car mostly; didn't get a real good look at him. Didn't pay any attention to what the cars looked like either. Sorry."
"No, it's cool; that helps a lot." Roswell. I-10 to Las Cruces. State highways from there, north and east.
"Here," the biker said, and pulled a worn business card out of his wallet. "There's a cycle repair shop in Tucson. You can get hold of me there if you need to."
Oz took the card, barely hearing him. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it." The biker swung his leg over a nearby Harley and kicked it to life with a buzzing roar. Oz got into his own vehicle, dropping the unopened, forgotten beer to the floorboard, and pulled onto the road behind the motorcycle.
On I-19 several miles north of Nogales, the biker raised one arm and began pointing at a roadside park and restroom facility. Oz waved in acknowledgement. The biker made a thumbs-up signal, and then continued on up the highway, finally vanishing into the distance.
The rest stop was quiet and deserted, with only the sound of the wind and, as he drew closer, the soft hum of the soda machine. Oz moved slowly around the grounds, breathing, listening. He came to the door of the men's room and pulled it open. It protested, squealing a little, and the sound echoed hollowly through the room and startled the silence.
He walked toward the room's far end, and at the last urinal on the wall, he found it.
The area around the rim that the cleaning crew had given only a lick and a promise. The area where a frightened, tired, nervous little boy had lost his aim and splattered a signature for anyone with the proper olfactory senses to read and recognize.
Stay alive, Jord. Piss on everything. I'm coming for you.
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