Page 58 of Road Refugees

Tobiah said, “They took the gun. And didn’t leave the hamburger.”

I didn’t understand what he meant. “Yes, they did. You know what this is, you men? This is Town calling out to us. He was just telling me that no one lives according to the dictates of logic. ‘Reason is slave to the passions,’ he said. ‘We must serve them, obey them.’”

Slappy butted in. “Whatchoo talking about?”

I clarified. “Like me, he believes injustices like puppy milling and spousal abuse are calls to elicit our sympathy for the victims. We know something has gone wrong. We unlock love’s strength, our power to do something about it. We have to fucking find Town. He’s not dead.”

Oddly enough, which wasn’t that odd for Tobiah, he stood at his Prius trunk pouring something into a plastic spray bottle. I really had no suggestion where to look for Town, and Slappy was striding toward the barn doors, when some guy popped up out of nowhere. The sun had set, so no one saw him coming, and I jerked my spine straight. An older guy, you might call him grizzled or gray, with drippy hair he hadn’t washed in two weeks. What seemed to be a rumpled sailor’s hat capped him off.

I was the first to demand, “Where is he? Where’s the black-haired guy who was in the back of this van with those motorcycle guys?”

He frowned. “What are you talking about? What are you doing on my property?”

Crybaby stepped forward. “We’re looking for our buddy, who was abducted behind Target this afternoon by motorcycle assholes in this van!” Ironically, Crybaby was a motorcycle asshole too, with his black leather cut.

“Is this your van?” I demanded to know.

“No, never seen it before in my life.”

“Are you Irv Beagle?” I asked as Slappy shouldered me aside and reached into the glove box.

“Who the hell is Irv Beagle?” asked the guy as he reached for his phone. “I’m calling the police, charging you with trespassing.”

He completely looked like an Irv Beagle, and Slappy confirmed it by waving the pink slip around. “Irv Beagle, Toyota Siena minivan!” His free hand poked Mr. Beagle in the chest. “Are you an accessory to Byron Riddlesberger?”

“Who the hell is Byron Rideberger?” cried Mr. Beagle.

Slappy yelled so in his face he must’ve spit on the guy. “Is this not your fucking van?”

“It is! It is my van!” admitted Beagle.

Crybaby helped Slappy by frisking Irv, I guess for weapons. After he found none, he whipped his own handgun from his ass, pressing the barrel to Irv Beagle’s temple. “Tell us right now,” he whispered, because he didn’t need to talk louder, “where the hell is Captain Townshend Spiro, you complete and utter goon?”

I even got up in the loser’s face. We all knew he knew. It was his damned car. “You know what happened to my husband!” I lied. Well, the guy knew. But Town was far from my husband. I was operating on what I’d seen on TV, and the scumbags who lived in Cornucopia. They probably watched TV too much, too. “We’re going to blast your brains all over this farm if you don’t tell us where they went!”

Slappy agreed with me. “Your fucking innards are going to be splattered like a Jackson Pollock painting if you don’t fucking tell us where Stomach and Riddlesberger went!”

“They—they”—Beagle choked—“they took him to that barn down the hill. The sheep barn.”

Just as he said this, Tobiah yelled triumphantly from the back of the van. “Blood all over the fucking place!” He sounded like this was a good thing. We all went to see how he knew this. I even dropped my Styrofoam. Crybaby even lowered his shooting arm to see what was up.

Tobiah crowed, “Look! The cracks between the metal panels are just seeping with blood! The floorboards glow. So does the ceiling!”

I gasped. “What did you do?”

Tobiah held aloft the spray bottle. “Luminol!”

“Outrageous!” cried Slappy, slapping Tobiah on the shoulder. “That’s some choice, A1 sleuthing there, buddy!”

I had no idea what Luminol was, but since it showed the presence of blood, my stomach dropped lower than a fifty-pound bag of manure. I turned back to Mr. Beagle, who was doing the slow backward perp walk to his house. “Hey you! Exactly where is this sheep barn?”

Beagle pointed with a trembling hand. Tobiah got a flashlight, and we began the careful, methodical tromp downhill under cover of darkness.

Terrified beyond all reason.

Town

I came to covered by crinkly, loud black plastic.