frontage road into a halogen-lit gas station at Emigrant Gap. The gas station was crowded and oddly surreal-looking, the pump area brightly lit and busy.
McCauley turned off the engine. The car’s radio, playing a country-western station stayed on, the music playing over the sound of the moving windshield wipers. “Jesus, kick me through the goal posts of life!” The song’s lyrics seemed oddly humorless in the early morning.
All the deputy’s twenty-seven years—three, very hard ones, spent in Iraq—showed as he glanced into the rearview mirror. He pulled on his cheap Sears winter gloves, then opened his car door. A cold wind was blowing straight off the Sierra. As T.C. walked, he pulled out his cell phone. He could make out traffic below on Highway 50 as he lifted the cell phone to his face. He’d dialed his home number in Timberline.
“Are you okay?” T.C. said. All the talk of dead wives had scared him. The deputy heard his wife’s sleepy voice come on the line. “I just felt like talking to someone,” he said. “I’m at the Denny’s at Emigrant Gap. I’m taking Willis to Sacramento.” He could barely hear his wife’s voice over the wind. “Just wanted to say hi. I’ll call again when I get to the facility. I should be home around four, if the roads stay plowed.”
“There’s been a lot of strange news,” his wife said. “T.C., a lot of people are going missing here in town.”
The deputy held the phone and looked out at his patrol car. “That’s what Willis said would happen.”
“What?” his wife said. She worked as a fourth-grade teacher at the elementary school.
“Willis said that was going to start happening,” T.C. said into the phone. He had to speak up because the wind was gusting so hard.
“What?” his wife said again.
“The one who killed his wife and children. Willis Good. You know,” T.C. said. “He said his wife turned into some kind of monster.”
“What’s Willis got to do with this? Poor man,” his wife said.
“I don’t know.”
“T.C., I’m scared. I called my brother’s house in Reno this morning, and no one answered.”
“Well, the phone lines are probably down because of the storm last night,” T.C. said.
“No . . . the lines are okay. I checked,” his wife said. T.C. didn’t hear the last part because of the wind, and the blaring of a big semi-truck’s horn, passing below on the freeway.
“I love you, baby,” she said. “Did Willis do it?”
“Yeah, he did it. I love you, too,” T.C. said. “I’ll see you for dinner.” He lowered his phone. He turned and looked at the sheriff’s car. If I start believing Willis’ story, I might as well follow him into the nut house myself.
T.C. got back in the patrol car. He looked in the mirror. Willis looked at him.
“You heard something, didn’t you?” Willis said. “I can see it in your face.”
“My wife’s people have gone missing in Reno,” T.C. said.
“I told you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you told me. I think it’s the phones. The lines are probably down,” T.C. said. “You know, because of the storm, so they don’t answer. Cell towers aren’t working, I mean.”
“It’s not the phones, God damn it!” Willis said. “It’s them. They’re turning into them!”
“Monsters, right?” T.C. said.
“I didn’t say that exactly. But yes, if you want to call them that: monsters. All right. Call them anything you want. What difference does it make what you call them?”
“You expect me to believe that bullshit, Willis?”
“All right. Wait until your wife disappears, then,” Willis said.
T.C. turned around. He looked at the prisoner through the dirty plastic divider. Anyone would look like a criminal through that plastic , he thought.
“I tell you what. If she disappears, I let you go,” T.C. said. “How’s that?”
“If she disappears, you won’t want to let me go,” Willis said.
The deputy pulled out of the gas station and crossed the frontage
McCauley turned off the engine. The car’s radio, playing a country-western station stayed on, the music playing over the sound of the moving windshield wipers. “Jesus, kick me through the goal posts of life!” The song’s lyrics seemed oddly humorless in the early morning.
All the deputy’s twenty-seven years—three, very hard ones, spent in Iraq—showed as he glanced into the rearview mirror. He pulled on his cheap Sears winter gloves, then opened his car door. A cold wind was blowing straight off the Sierra. As T.C. walked, he pulled out his cell phone. He could make out traffic below on Highway 50 as he lifted the cell phone to his face. He’d dialed his home number in Timberline.
“Are you okay?” T.C. said. All the talk of dead wives had scared him. The deputy heard his wife’s sleepy voice come on the line. “I just felt like talking to someone,” he said. “I’m at the Denny’s at Emigrant Gap. I’m taking Willis to Sacramento.” He could barely hear his wife’s voice over the wind. “Just wanted to say hi. I’ll call again when I get to the facility. I should be home around four, if the roads stay plowed.”
“There’s been a lot of strange news,” his wife said. “T.C., a lot of people are going missing here in town.”
The deputy held the phone and looked out at his patrol car. “That’s what Willis said would happen.”
“What?” his wife said. She worked as a fourth-grade teacher at the elementary school.
“Willis said that was going to start happening,” T.C. said into the phone. He had to speak up because the wind was gusting so hard.
“What?” his wife said again.
“The one who killed his wife and children. Willis Good. You know,” T.C. said. “He said his wife turned into some kind of monster.”
“What’s Willis got to do with this? Poor man,” his wife said.
“I don’t know.”
“T.C., I’m scared. I called my brother’s house in Reno this morning, and no one answered.”
“Well, the phone lines are probably down because of the storm last night,” T.C. said.
“No . . . the lines are okay. I checked,” his wife said. T.C. didn’t hear the last part because of the wind, and the blaring of a big semi-truck’s horn, passing below on the freeway.
“I love you, baby,” she said. “Did Willis do it?”
“Yeah, he did it. I love you, too,” T.C. said. “I’ll see you for dinner.” He lowered his phone. He turned and looked at the sheriff’s car. If I start believing Willis’ story, I might as well follow him into the nut house myself.
T.C. got back in the patrol car. He looked in the mirror. Willis looked at him.
“You heard something, didn’t you?” Willis said. “I can see it in your face.”
“My wife’s people have gone missing in Reno,” T.C. said.
“I told you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you told me. I think it’s the phones. The lines are probably down,” T.C. said. “You know, because of the storm, so they don’t answer. Cell towers aren’t working, I mean.”
“It’s not the phones, God damn it!” Willis said. “It’s them. They’re turning into them!”
“Monsters, right?” T.C. said.
“I didn’t say that exactly. But yes, if you want to call them that: monsters. All right. Call them anything you want. What difference does it make what you call them?”
“You expect me to believe that bullshit, Willis?”
“All right. Wait until your wife disappears, then,” Willis said.
T.C. turned around. He looked at the prisoner through the dirty plastic divider. Anyone would look like a criminal through that plastic , he thought.
“I tell you what. If she disappears, I let you go,” T.C. said. “How’s that?”
“If she disappears, you won’t want to let me go,” Willis said.
The deputy pulled out of the gas station and crossed the frontage
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