Damascus Road Read Online Free PDF Page A

shoulder at the Cuda.
    “Is that your car?” Moe asked.
    “That one?” I said, acting thick. “Oh. Yep.”
    “Give me the keys,” he said, pushing the gun into my line of
sight.
    “Oh! I see…” I said. I fumbled in my pocket and produced the
car keys. “Here you go.”
    Moe reached for the keys and they slipped off my finger and
hit the linoleum at our feet. I saw them move in unison, all of them looking
for the keys, all of them bending, straining in interest.
    I slammed my knee into Moe’s head, sending his skull
rebounding into the adjoining table. I splashed my coffee into Larry’s face,
who reeled backwards. Curly tried to raise his revolver, but I was already
moving, slamming the stoneware mug into the side of his head, shattering it. He
dropped to the ground.
    My arm was still in a sling, so I kept it in tight to my
body and backfisted Larry in the jaw. His eyes went blank and he fell, landing
on Curly.
    I turned in a circle. Three down.
    “Thou shalt not steal,” I said.
    I retrieved the revolvers and my car keys and sat back at my
booth. I opened each cylinder, dropping the shells on the counter, until I had
emptied all three handguns.
    There was an uncomfortable silence in the air. I looked up
and found the diner patrons looking at me. Truckers and families, men and
women. I looked back at Karen behind the counter.
    “Could I get a new cup?” I asked.
    The police arrived at the same time as my omelet. Karen told
the police the whole story in a rush, words tumbling out of her mouth of what
had happened and the shock and how fast I moved and how I saved all their
lives.
    When I looked, up I saw the police officer looking at me as
his fellow law enforcement officers led away the stooges. He did not say a
word, only stretched out his hand and shook mine. He nodded and I nodded back.
He walked out and left me to my breakfast, which is what I wanted in the first
place.
    I crossed the city limits of St. Louis while the sun was low
in the sky. After the open roads of the highway and straight stretches of road,
the gridlock of the city was stifling, frustrating. Bumper to bumper, sucking
exhaust in the city, praying for an opening, a hole in the wall of traffic. It
never came.
    Truth be told, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing my father
again. If the situation were different; if I were the person I was a year ago,
the second I was outside of Officer Tyrell’s jurisdiction, I would have turned
the Cuda west and hit the gas. My dad would be in the dust and I’d never have
to talk to him again.
    But I wasn’t that person, and it was disturbing to me.
Somewhere in the course of all that had happened with Chris and the car crash
and Tyrell, I had lost myself. I was no longer the James Michael Marlowe I had
grown up with. I was uncomfortable in my own skin.
    My father was Ellis Marlowe. Growing up, I remembered moving
from town to town following my father. I watched him put on his uniform. I
watched the rows of ribbons grow on his chest. He told me that he was being
deployed to Grenada, Panama, Guantanamo Bay… when I was a senior in high
school, Colonel Marlowe was deployed to Iraq in Desert Storm. He left with
hardly a word to me or my mother.
    My brother, Thomas, joined the Army to be closer to my
father. Went through boot camp. Next was Ranger training. He was in a unit that
was deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan under the watchful eye of my dear old dad.
    It would have been a sweet story. Like father, like son.
Things don’t always turn out that way. No story book endings. I had to pick up
the pieces at home. In the end, home wasn’t even really home anymore, so I took
to the road.
    That’s the thing about the road. It never disappoints. It
never lets you down. It may be rough or smooth, but it’s always there for you.
The yellow ribbon of centerline never doesn’t show up or miss your birthday or
forget about family. It’s always there. Always waiting.
    I could hear it, sometimes. It called to me.