Yellow

Prologue

Friday, April 16

A man sits in a half-darkened room playing with an executive toy. It consists of a row of five metal balls suspended inside a frame. Each ball touches the one next to it in the row. He lifts the ball at one end and lets it fall back against the others. But instead of jostling all four as might be expected, only the ball at the far end of the row moves. It not only moves, it springs away from the others as if by magic, leaving the three in the center inexplicably motionless. Every time the ball at the opposite end springs into the air, the man laughs softly to himself. At the same time there is a mystified air about him.

He checks his watch and stands up. Now we can see he is a big man, powerfully built. He goes to the door of the bedroom and opens it. The curtains at the window are closed and the room is dark. The man peers intently at the bed. Only the tangled hair of the woman lying under the covers is visible. He watches closely to see if the blanket rises and falls. He shakes his head as if to clear it, his fingers go to the amulet hung on a cord around his neck. Then he picks up a duffel bag by the bed and leaves the room.

On his way to the door he passes a mirror and glances at himself. He turns and stares into the mirror. With one hand he covers half his face. He can see only half a nose, half a mouth, and one eye. He moves his hand to the other side of his face and continues to stare. Then he crosses himself. He turns off the kitchen light and opens the door.

The executive toy sits motionless on the coffee table.

There is no sun today, just clouds scudding in, hovering low over the ridge above the trailer, but he doesn’t notice them, any more than he notices the birds singing, or the dank rich smell of the woods. Behind the trailer a moving van sits waiting on a gravel turnaround. Baldwin Moving and Storage it says in large red letters along the side. The red is dulled with age, but the letters are still easy to read owing to the white outline that surrounds them—this despite the fact that the white is beginning to go yellow. No saying when the van was last washed, let alone had a coat of paint.

The man unlocks the cab and hoists himself into the driver’s seat. He starts the engine and lets it idle to warm up. He won’t need to check his load. He’d lashed it all down really tight when he’d picked it up yesterday. Unscrewing the lid of a thermos, he takes a whiff and grimaces. He rolls down the window and empties the contents onto the ground. Now he checks his watch—seven a.m.—and pulls out onto the narrow mountain road.

He looks back at the trailer as he goes past, uncertain.

It is mid-April, but this high in the mountains the trees have just begun to leaf out.

He drops down into the village, then picks up the road back through town and heads up river. He is usually a good driver, intent on his job. He signals before changing lanes, signals when passing a vehicle drawn up on the shoulder, carefully watches the traffic ahead and behind. But today he seems distracted, his confidence mislaid. Outside Wheeling he heads east towards the Turnpike. But he’s not going on the Turnpike. He stays away from the big roads whenever he can. There are plenty of side roads will take him where he’s going. It’s slower, but that’s the way he wants it.

By noon he’s dropped off his load in Johnstown, picked up a new one and is on his way south again. He chances the four lane south to the Somerset interchange with the Turnpike, then with a sigh of relief picks up a little road wandering down towards West Virginia. The countryside is quite hilly here, the bare trees throw parallel bars of shadow across the road.

About an hour later, coming around a gradual bend, he spies a yellow car up ahead. Something about the shape of it causes him to stiffen involuntarily, to concentrate all his attention on it. He speeds up, draws nearer, loses it round another curve, but as he comes out of it he is much closer and can see it is, as he had thought, an old yellow Volkswagen—and yes, it’s a convertible. Today of all days.

For the love of Jesus! he gasps.

He accelerates till he can look right down on the car’s occupants. The passenger is a blonde with a blue bandana tied over her hair, a long braid hanging down behind, just the way it was before. And of course the driver is a young guy with dark curly hair. A green duffel bag, a red suitcase and a cooler crowd the rear seat.

It’s the one, the very same one! But he knows for certain it cannot be the same one! Beads of sweat start to trickle into his eyes. He drops back quickly, he reaches out and touches the plastic St. Christopher mounted on the dashboard. There’s got to be an explanation—mustn’t let himself get spooked.

But he is spooked.

The two in the car have given no sign they are aware of him, despite his aggressive tailgating. It’s almost as if they were expecting him. Is this a trap then, or maybe some kind of hoax to test his nerves? All his weeks and months of foreboding rush in on him.

But—the thought comes to him like an inspiration—there’s no dog in the car! There would have to be a dog for this to be the same one. He gives a sigh of relief. So it’s all a coincidence. Must be some nut case out there painting old VW convertibles yellow. He laughs shakily, but he’s okay, he’s himself again.

Something else occurs to him. The other car had a missing rear hubcap, he can’t remember which one. Won’t hurt to take a look. He closes the gap between them again, but from behind he can’t be certain. He pulls out to pass, and Christ, the left rear hubcap is missing! So it’s got to be the same one—only it can’t be. He happens to know exactly where the other one is. He rears back, heart pounding. He wants to get away from here, away from the little yellow car. He presses down on the accelerator and inches forward—he presses down some more. But the Volkswagen is accelerating too. Are they playing a game with him?

He’s looking down right now, says the driver. Keep looking straight ahead, let him get a good look at you. Now, release the dog!

The blonde in the passenger seat lets go the leash on a liver-spotted spaniel she’s kept huddled under her legs. It scrambles over onto the rear seat and begins to bark at the truck.

Gasping for air, the trucker struggles to keep his rig on the road.

Chapter 1

Seven months earlier

A yellow VW convertible is drawn up in front of a large, comfortable-looking house in Wynnefield, an upscale Philadelphia neighborhood. It is a venerable old pile but well-tended, with newly painted carpenter gothic trim icing the wrap-around porch. Old trees shade it, and the garden is lush with end of summer growth. The little car in the driveway, its trunk lid up, its top down, somehow looks out of place, squat and peculiar.

Trailed by two liver spaniels, a young man and a girl are coming in and out of the house loading the car with books, bags, odd cartons, a P.C. Once the trunk is full, they stuff the overflow into the back seat, a green duffel bag and a red suitcase. At the last minute the girl, April, brings out a cooler. She stands there hesitant.

Willy, if we put this in the back, where’s Onion going to sit?

Oh don’t worry about Onion, Willy laughs. He always finds himself a spot somewhere.

April is a tall blonde, her height emphasized by the brief red shorts she is wearing, not to mention her skimpy clinging top. Her hair, tied back under a blue bandana, falls in a long braid down her back. Willy, in rumpled khaki shorts and a tee shirt, is dark and compactly built, with curly black hair. The two of them have the inescapable look of students returning to college.

Two men, both a little older than Willy and April, appear in the door of the house. Richard, though not as tall as Willy, is dark and powerfully built, with an intense, serious air. The other, Stanley, is sandy haired and slight, with rather delicate features.

Richard has been watching the somewhat disorganized loading process with increasing exasperation. As Willy slams down the trunk lid for the forth or fifth time—he is always finding something else to squeeze in—Richard says,

Got your billfold, got your cell phone, got your—

Yes brother dear, I’ve even got myself a clean hanky.

Undeterred, Richard advances on the car.

Where the hell did you get this damned thing? He kicks a tire. I didn’t know there were any more of them around even.

Language, Richard, language! Heavens above, what would they think at St. Marks, you being a doctor of divinity and all, and the rector—

Assisting priest.

—and the assisting priest. I’d been looking forward to a blessing on our chariot, not curses.

Did you get this thing insured, is it even insurable?.

Willy shrugs.

I’ll do it in Ohio. Rates are cheaper over there.

And if you bump into somebody on the way? A lot can happen in five hundred miles, you know.

Give it a rest, Rich. You’re acting like a mother hen.

"Oh excuse me, nobody ever bumps into anybody these days—silly of me. At least you could have got that fixed." He gestures toward a missing rear hubcap.

Richard, says Stanley quietly.

But Richard is not to be diverted. He turns to his brother’s girl friend.

Are you really traveling dressed like that, April?

What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?

Well, if you really want every sex-starved truck driver leering down at you. . .

April leans idly back against the car, making a show of her long bare legs.

You know, Richard, she drawls, I’ve never actually come across a sex-starved truck driver. And I’ll tell you, with no air-conditioning in this bug, I’m not about to accouter myself like a nun, if that’s all right with you.

You guys about ready to leave? Stanley interjects. He steps forward and gives April a hug, then punches Willy on the shoulder. Safe journey, you guys—and don’t forget to stop off at the falls.

Ah yes, the falls! Willy grins. Think we’d miss ’em after the way you two’ve been raving on about ’em?

You’ll have to keep an eye peeled, warns Richard. "The turn-off’s easy to miss. There’s an old barn at the turnoff. Still has a Chew Mail Pouch Tobacco sign on it."

It’s an hour or so beyond Connellsville, Stanley adds, just over the West Virginia line.

Sounds fine, you guys. We’ll be there tomorrow afternoon and needing a break about then.

Richard and April shake hands rather formally, then Richard slings an arm round his brother’s neck.

Take care of yourself little brother, you’re the only family I’ve got left now. Willy gives him a bear hug, climbs into the car and starts the engine.

Call me if there’s any trouble or, you know, just call, Richard exhorts them.

We will, we will. Willy manages a good-natured smile.

The car moves forward, then stops with a jerk.

Onion! Willy shouts.

One of the liver spaniels runs towards the car and hurls himself into the back seat. He immediately roots around to make a space for himself.

The car stops at the foot of the driveway. Before turning into the street, Willy looks back. Richard is holding the other spaniel by it’s collar as it struggles to follow them. He waves.

Poor old Parsnip, he and Onion have never been separated before.

Sad, says April, "but Jesus God, What was that all about back there?"

Richard? Well, it’s only six months since Mom and Dad died. He thinks he’s got to take care of me. Don’t be too hard on him.

He’s certainly on your case. I like Stanley, though. How long have they been together?

Richard didn’t come out till after the funeral. How long before that is anybody’s guess.

What’s Stanley do?

He’s a nurse. He works in the emergency room at St. Agnes Hospital. He’s the one notified Richard about our parents after the accident—didn’t want him to hear about it from some cop.

Nice of him. They seem happy.

She falls silent.

A penny for ’em, April.

"Oh…just thinking… about us living together, you know. You still sure about it?"

What a question! Of course I’m sure. Why else are we going back a week early if it’s not to find a place together? Getting cold feet?

No no! It’s just…it almost seems to good to be true. She smiles happily.

What did your mom and dad say when you told them?

April doesn’t answer.

God, April—you never told them, did you. Afraid they wouldn’t approve of me?

It’s not that. My mom would be okay. It’s Dad… What did Richard say?

Touche. I didn’t tell him either. He’d just have kicked up a fuss.

After a moment they both burst out laughing.

They work their way down to the Montgomery exit where they join the Turnpike. It is well into the afternoon when they turn off at the Somerset exit onto a winding two-lane highway. A moving van with Baldwin Moving & Storage lettered on its side has made the same turn ten minutes ahead of them.

Chapter 2

W ell, we timed it just right, says Willy. Double yellow lines all the way to the top, and we’re stuck behind this old banger. A large geriatric van is bumbling along just ahead of them.

Relax, it’s not as if we were in any major hurry. April yawns and stretches her long legs as far as the cramped quarters of the little convertible will allow. Greenery, mountain scenery, what more do you want—and all this good ozone. She breathes in deeply. Would you really rather have gone all the way on the interstate?

The late afternoon sun comes slanting in through their windshield. Willy tucks in close behind the high van to shade them from the glare.

The backside of this truck does have a certain majesty, I suppose.

They come to a relatively straight stretch along the crest of the hill Deep valleys fall away on either side. The Laurel Highlands, this is a part of what they had come to see. Irritated by the truck blocking the view, Willy pulls out to pass, but the truck picks up speed too. Finding himself rapidly running out of road, Willy is obliged to floor it to pass. He gestures angrily at the driver, who pays him no attention. He is far too busy leering out his window at the spectacular legs and scantily clothed body passing beneath him. He gives his air horn a couple of blasts. Without deigning to look up, April raises her arm full length and throws him a languorous finger.

Not a good move. The truck immediately speeds up and camps dangerously on their rear. It inches forward as if to tap their bumper.

Slow down! Slow down! April shouts. It’s the only way to deal with a horse’s ass like this. She turns and glowers back at the driver, who makes a lewd gesture. She quickly turns around and faces forward again, her face flaming.

"God, aren’t some people primitive!"

They are approaching a downhill stretch when the truck pulls out—to pass as Willy supposes. But as it pulls level with them, the truck begins to inch over into their lane, crowding them onto the shoulder.

Jesus, he’s trying to run us off the road!

Willy accelerates frantically.

Alerted by the fear in his master’s voice, Onion begins to bark wildly. The truck, still in the left hand lane, again tries to crowd them onto the shoulder. Willy has the gas pedal pressed hard to the floor. He is leaning forward as if to urge the little car faster by sheer will power. At last the road starts to climb again, grows steeper and more winding, and they begin to inch ahead. Gradually they pull away, putting more distance between them with every rising curve in the road. Willy is worried when they reach the summit, but the downhill side of the mountain is sharply switchbacked, the truck is unable to catch up. Willy is driving dangerously fast, taking the curves at almost twice the posted speed. The tires scream in protest around the badly banked corners, the trees seem to spin round as they whirl past. April grabs Onion’s collar with one hand, the edge of the door with the other, and hangs on grimly.

I think you’ve just come across your first sex-starved trucker, April. Never mind, Mr. Baldwin of Moving & Storage will soon be history. This may not be a Porsche, but we can outrun him uphill any day.

The thickly forested roadside makes it easy to disappear from the trucker’s view. Willy keeps checking the rearview mirror. As they round a bend after a long straight stretch with no sign of the truck behind them, he pounds the wheel.

"All right!" he crows.

April looks over at him. Willy’s face is alight with a wild joy. He’s OO7, he’s every kid playing cops and robbers. She loves him, so she says nothing even as she clings onto the side of the car with white-clenched hands as he races down through the foothills.

Finally she ventures,

Willy? Weren’t we going to be camping back up there in those hills tonight?

All three of us you mean—you, me and Mr. Moving and Storage? Not my idea of a good night’s rest.

So where are we spending the night?

Take a look at the map, see what the next town is. We’ll get a motel there, okay?

Okay. So can we slow down now please?

Better not till we get there. He can still spot us from a long way off in this car.

It is dusk as they wind down into Connellsville. Willy pulls off onto the first side street and drives slowly through a residential area.

What are we doing back here, Willy? This is hardly motel country.

Without answering, he pulls up in a side street. He switches off the engine and pats the car lovingly.

"We hope he’s going straight through town, but we can’t afford to bet on it, can we. So we keep a low profile, at least till it gets dark. And anyhow, we don’t want some motel clerk spotting Onion. A lot of places won’t let you in with a dog in tow."

But when it’s dark and they set out to look for lodging, they are dismayed to find that what appears to be the only motel in town is a bleak brick affair, the only parking right out front. The VW will stand out like a sore thumb. Willy turns around and drives back along a state route leading north. To their great relief they find a tiny mom-and-pop motel. They pull deep into the parking lot.

Aha! cries Willy, just what the doctor ordered.

He pulls up on the far side of a dirty white Suburban, which conveniently screens the VW from the street.

Willy walks back to the office. ‘Mom’ is not in evidence, ‘Pop’ turns out to be a bored Pakistani who rents him a room for two, one double bed, for thirty dollars a night.

The bathroom fixtures are old, but clean.

Let’s make do with what’s in the cooler, April says as they unpack. I’ll feel safer eating in tonight. And as long as we’re here, I’m going to take advantage of that shower.

Willy stretches out on the bed. Almost to his surprise he finds himself reaching not for the TV remote, but for his cell phone.

Hi Big Brother, just thought I’d let you know how we’re doing.

Willy? Where are you camped? Sounds like you’re right on the road.

We are, we’re in Connellsville. We decided not to camp out after all.

Why not? You sound a bit shaken up. You okay?

"We’re fine now. We did have a run-in with one of your sex-starved truckers back there, though. The idiot damn near had us in a ditch. We only escaped