Silently, Invisibly

Chapter 3

Clint sat cross-legged in the dirt at the base of the exit sign, doing a one-handed three-ball cascade with some smooth rocks he'd picked up at his last stop. His back was turned toward the setting sun, his face towards oncoming traffic. He tracked the trajectory of the rocks in his peripheral vision as he watched a mole cricket wander into, then out of, his shadow.

He shifted position slightly to ease the ache in his lower back. He was hungry, and his water bottle was two-thirds empty. If he didn't get picked up soon, he'd have to find a sheltered place to spend the night. There were no buildings in sight, but there was a scraggly clump of junipers just over the rise to his left—he could see their tops—that might at least cut the wind.

He switched to his right hand to give his left arm a rest. A few more cars passed without slowing down, and he uncapped his water bottle and finished it off without pausing in his juggling. As he set the bottle down, a green Ford F-150 slowed and put on its blinker. He tossed the rocks high, one after the other, caught them behind his back and tucked them in his jacket pocket as he stood, and then dusted off the seat of his jeans.

The truck had pulled off the road just short of the exit ramp. The passenger side window rolled down as he approached.

"Where you headed?" asked the driver, a heavy, grey-haired man in a rumpled black sweatshirt.

"California," said Clint.

"Anyplace in particular?"

"Oakland."

"Okay. I'm heading for Vegas, but I can take you as far as Flagstaff. Or Kingman, I guess, if you don't mind getting off in the middle of nowhere."

"Either's fine," said Clint, picking up his duffel bag and tucking the empty water bottle inside. He set the bag in the back of the truck and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Terry Williams," said the driver, extending a hand.

"James Barton," said Clint, taking it. "Thanks for the ride."

"I'm a writer," said Terry, pulling back out onto the interstate. "Freelance. Heading out to Vegas to do a story on a hotel demolition."

Clint nodded, and noted with interest that the driver neither asked nor implied a question in return.

"You have any objection to the radio?" Terry asked after a few more miles.

"Nope," said Clint.

"Well, if it gets on your nerves, or if you want to sleep for a while, just let me know."

"Okay."

Terry turned on the radio, which was tuned to NPR, and they cruised along for a while listening to "All Things Considered." After a piece on sea turtle migration and a recap of the weather, some experts started holding forth on prison reform. Terry scowled as he listened, but made no comment until one of the speakers said, "The truth is, we're treating these prisoners better than we treat our own troops in Iraq or Afghanistan." Then he muttered "Fuck that shit," and turned the radio off.

"You been in the military?" Clint asked neutrally.

"Yes. And, as a matter of fact, I've also been in prison," Terry said.

Clint limited himself to a "Huh," but didn't ask.

"In fact, the prison term was a direct result of the military service," said Terry, "and that's all I'm going to say about that, except to say that I'm not a deserter, and I never shot anybody I wasn't supposed to."

Clint nodded, wishing with all his might that he could say the same.

"How about you? If you don't mind my asking. Don't feel like you owe me any answers for the ride, though."

"Prison, yes," said Clint. "If you count juvie."

"I do," said Terry.

"Military, no. But I have been to Afghanistan," said Clint. "As a contractor."

They rode on in silence a while longer.

"Sun's getting in my eyes," Terry commented. "I think I might stop and get something to eat, wait for it to go down. That okay with you?"

"Sure," said Clint.

"I think there's a Denny's up at Highway 117," Terry said.

"Sounds fine to me," said Clint.

"You got enough to cover dinner?" Terry asked cautiously.

"Yep. I can chip in for gas, too."

"Not necessary. Just help me stay awake."

"I can do that."

Over gigantic, cheese-laden burgers and piles of french fries, Terry explained the story he was headed out to cover. "This hotel, the Harmon, was started back in 2007," he said. "They got it about a quarter of the way done, and found the contractors had been using the wrong grade of rebar, and the building wouldn't meet code. So they changed the plans, cut it back to twenty-eight stories instead of forty. But even then it didn't meet the new earthquake standards, so the owners decided they'd rather just knock it down. It's been tied up in court since then; they're supposed to implode it a week from today."

Clint thought about Stark, and his new-suit-per-mission habit. "Fuck it, let's start over" seemed to be the billionaire way of life. Though, to be fair, Stark had a reputation for considering the fallout of his decisions: environmental, economic, and social. Maybe it was Pepper's influence, or maybe Afghanistan had been a wake-up call in more ways than one. Also, he wasn't known for cutting corners. Clint smiled, imagining Iron Man catching a subcontractor building something that didn't meet specs.

"Ready to get back on the road?" Terry said eventually. Clint nodded, and Terry got the waitress to bring them to-go cups of coffee.

"Want me to do any driving?" asked Clint.

"Maybe later," said Terry. "I'm good for now."

Radio reception was spotty, so they switched to Terry's iPod. His taste in music was pretty eclectic, ranging from Ella Fitzgerald to Springsteen. Cynicism about war was a running theme on his playlist: "Hey, Ho" and "Fighting for Strangers" and "Last to Die" played in quick succession.

Terry glanced over at Clint. "You're thinking I'm pretty much over being a soldier," he said.

"I'm thinking getting shot at, or having your friends get shot, probably gets you over it pretty quick," he replied.

"Less getting shot at these days, more getting blown up," said Terry. "But actually, if that was all there was to it, I'd probably have gone back a couple more times. It's things like Guantanamo, or School of the Americas, or what happened to Bradley Manning. It gets to where you want to pretend you're Canadian, it's time to quit."

"School of the Americas. That how you ended up in jail? Protesting?"

"Got it in one," said Terry. "You?"

Clint sat silent for a moment. "Jumped another kid at school and cracked his skull for him," he said. "Lucky for me he recovered."

Terry winced, but said nothing. They drove on. Clint settled back in his seat after a while, and Terry lowered the volume on the sound system.

Time passed. Eventually Terry spoke.

"You awake?"

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna take a pit stop at the next exit. Get some more caffeine, maybe. I'm starting to get tired."

Clint sat up and rubbed a hand over his hair. "Want me to take over driving?"

"Yeah, if you're up to it. Just for a while. Till Flagstaff maybe."

"Okay."

They pulled into a truck stop. Both used the restroom; Terry went back out to pump gas while Clint foraged for snacks. They'd just gotten back to the truck and Terry was pulling out his keys when he stiffened suddenly.

"What?" said Clint, then followed the other man's gaze.

Terry had his eye on a couple who'd just gotten out of their car in the adjacent parking lot, which belonged to a small, shabby motel. The man had his arm tightly around the woman's—girl's—waist. She seemed unsteady on her high heels.

"Stay here, James," said Terry. He opened the door, reached under the seat and came out with a pistol. He tucked it in the back waistband of his pants and pulled his sweatshirt down over it.

"What the hell—"

"He's got a knife," said Terry. "Call 911." He began walking towards the other parking lot, slowly.

"Fuck," Clint said and pulled out his phone. 911 didn't work, but *HP did. "I-40 westbound, exit 277, need police and an ambulance," he said, then switched off his phone and put it away. Terry was halfway to the couple by now, waving his arm and yoohooing and weaving a little.

"Hey! Heeey! Y'all seen my little dog?" he called. The guy with the girl walked faster.

Clint slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and strolled in the general direction of the truck stop, getting out from behind Terry to get a line of sight.

"Hey man! You seen a little white dog? He just ran off," Terry called.

"Fuck off!" yelled the guy. The girl—definitely underage and definitely scared—looked back and forth from her captor to this possibly drunk lunatic.

"I'm just lookin' for my dog!" Terry protested, and the thug took the knife out from between himself and the girl and held it up threateningly.

And a rock bounced off his right temple, and he dropped like a sack of bricks.

The girl stood stunned. Terry's head whipped around and he spotted Clint lounging against a light pole, tossing a second rock up and catching it.

"Nice," said Terry, and turned to the girl. "Are you okay?" he said, making no move to approach her.

She nodded.

"The highway patrol's on their way," Clint said.

"Want us to stay here with you?" asked Terry. "Or would you be more comfortable just waiting inside the store while we keep an eye on this guy?"

"I'll wait inside," she said in a near-whisper, her eyes huge.

"Fair enough," said Terry.

Clint waited until the girl had crossed the threshold before checking on her former captor. Pulse and breathing were steady, but the guy was out cold. Clint looked up at Terry.

"If it's all the same to you," he said, "I'd rather not be here when they get here."

"For that matter, same goes for me," said Terry.

"Just a second," said Clint. He pulled two zip ties out of his pocket and tied the unconscious man's wrists and his ankles. Then he retrieved the knife (a rather flimsy switchblade), wedged the blade under the edge of the streetlamp's base, and snapped off the hilt. "Okay, let's roll," he said. "Want me to drive?"

"Sure," said Terry. He tossed Clint the keys, got in the passenger side, and stowed his pistol under the seat.

Clint started the truck and pulled out. About two minutes later they passed the Highway Patrol car going the other way, running with lights but no siren. The ambulance was about a mile behind it.

"Security camera's going to have your license plate," Clint commented.

"I'm not worried about it," said Terry. He glanced over at Clint. "Coming from a juggler, the rock-throwing's not too out there," he said, "but the zip ties are a little worrying."

Without taking his eyes off the road, Clint gave the Boy Scout salute with a completely straight face. Terry cracked up. It was a heartfelt laugh, not just a nervous adrenaline-dump giggle, and Clint found himself smiling along with it.