Where the Rubber Meets the Road
by chris winters

The dash of the Mr. Ponocki’s boosted mid nineties Pontiac Camaro was disgusting.  Dust and colored wrappers accumulated near the windshield, and there was a kidney shaped stain near the passenger air vent that looked sticky; fuck knows where it came from. He pushed the gas down another 2 inches, and edged the speed up to an even fifty miles per hour.  The road curved.  He had to be careful. It was all about discipline.  Rain hit his windshield with tiny explosions, and he switched on the wipers.  The metronome like beat from the blades calmed his nerves a bit, and he took the speed back down to a legal forty.  The last thing he needed right now was a god damn speeding ticket anyway. 

His mind drifted, which was out of character for him. Who were the fucks who lived in this shit hole state anyway. As he was leaving the hotel, he could smell the bad sex and desperation on each one of the minivans and yuppie four-doors that passed him in the other lanes.  Sad, lonely assholes, he thought to himself.  That was nearly half an hour ago when at least he saw traffic lights. 

He zoned out for another ten minutes. 

He glanced in the mirror. 

His hair was cropped short, dark and wispy. Thinning.  His eyes were not unkind, but his nose was an ill shaped rock formation jutting from his pocked cheeks. His eyebrows got along so well they nearly met in the middle of his forehead.  Not exactly god damned Burt Reynolds, he thought.  It didn’t matter anyway.  Indistinct and forgettable was far more valuable than handsome in his line of work. 

He went over the list in his head and repeated it like a mantra. Bolt cutters, check, in the Hatch.  Cigarette lighter, the cheap colored plastic kind.  Check, right pocket of his Dockers.  A pack of gum, Trident, Spearmint flavored. Check, also in his right pocket. He had one small spool of camping rope. Check, sitting on the passenger seat.  Finally there was the common six-inch steak knife, the kind that could be found in any grocery store.  It was taped to the small of his back, concealed under his neat, tucked in, blue button down shirt.  Check. He was prepared.  He was in character. He was ready to go.

The target lived at 24,583 Lindbergh lane, off Fairway, well past the mall. He would arrive in less then 15 minutes.  It was early, but he could wait a couple of houses down from his destination. Prepare and scout the scene a bit. Catch his breath. Appreciate the moment. 

There was a plane ticket for early tomorrow morning back at the hotel along with another clean I.D.

He rounded an S curve in the road and a woman came out of nowhere. She was standing in the middle of the freakin’ street waving her arms, and he barely had time to swerve and pump the breaks as his heart went into over-drive . 

He came to a violent stop. 

He had missed her. 

Thank god for small favors. 

His mind had caught patches of color, blue, yellow, and the silhouette of a screaming female face.  Maybe even a dash of blond hair as he had fought to keep the car under control and avoid her.  The Camaro had come to rest diagonally on the two lane road as the rain continued to fall.  He struggled to figure out what to do next.  He had to analyze the situation.  Had she also seen his face? Did she make the car?  He pulled forward onto the shoulder. Fuck.

As the tires hit gravel and he eased to a stop, a violent banging on the hatchback startled him.  Whack, Whack, Whack, Whack!  She had chased him down, and was banging on the rear of the Camaro.  He had little chance of seeing her approach in this weather.

            Improvise.

            He unbuckled and got out of the driver’s side, and took a breath.  He called to her. She was still banging on the car, not looking in his direction. He yelled over the rain and raised his hand, aiming for assertive and calm, not threatening. The good Samaritan. 

            “Miss!, Miss!, over here, Miss!”.

            She did indeed have blond hair, as well as a disheveled light blue blouse, tan skirt, and dark blue high heels, or at least one of them.  The clothes seemed slightly out of fashion.  He spotted some chipped, pink toenail polish on her one bare foot.  She was maybe mid thirties, and was the perfect picture of distress.  She was still banging on the car.  She hadn’t registered he had gotten out yet. 

            Unbelievable.

            He approached her, “Miss, everything is fine, please, what’s the problem.”

            Finally she looked up.

            She was trembling.

            “ My, my car, my car, oh ah….” She trailed off.

            “Its alright miss.  What happened?  Please, everything will be fine. Where is your car?”

He reached his arm out, and touched her shoulder. She flinched, but reached up and grabbed him back.

Hard.

She seemed to have more then a little trouble focusing.

            “Here, over here!”. She yelled, and pulled him back along the road.

            After about fifty yards, she stopped and pointed into the woods along the side of the road.

            It wasn’t hard to find the spot she was looking for.  There was debris and a nasty trail running off the road into the woods, and a clear spot where the car must have lost control. 

            Fuck, he thought again. Now what.

            She was scrambling off the shoulder, and into the tree line.  She was beckoning for him to follow. He hesitated.  Ah hell, he thought.  He had a bit of time, and he was curious.  She had now seen him and his car.  He would figure it out before the cops got here. 

            He followed.

            The car was another twenty-five yards into the woods, and partially on its side, stopped against a tree. It was a dark red Japanese compact, and must have been going fast when she lost control. The metal was slippery.  The driver’s side door was open and the rain made everything wet, dirty, and dangerous. 

            He looked inside. 

            Her purse had spilled all over the passenger side of the car. The windshield had shattered and her airbag had deployed. 

            He looked in the back. 

            There was a Blanket and an empty car seat.  Assorted kid crap.  No kid.

            “ He took him, just took him”. She was yelling.

            She was pointing deeper into the woods.

            “How COULD he, that ASSHOLE ”, She ranted.

            “What happened exactly, miss, are you alright.”

            “ I’m o.k. O.k. I … think. He grabbed my leg, we fought and … I was driving, and we, we, the wheel turned, the rain…” She trailed off.

            “Please!, we have to find him, call the police. Find him.  He’s crazy.  The ASSHOLE”, she repeated.

            Christ.  I can’t get more involved in this, Ponocki thought.  Redneck idiots. Jerry Springer shit.  Look at her for Christ’s sake.  He was not going to chase down some Mook in the woods, especially in this rain.  Besides, he was working, and if he wasn’t careful he would soon go from being early, to being damn late.

            He steadied himself and tried for polite and responsible. What would a normal, reasonable asshole say?  Someone Tom Hanks could play in a movie.

“I’m sorry miss, I’m late for an appointment it seems like you are alright, and I think we should get you dry, and to somewhere safe. I’m not sure what happened here exactly, but I’m sure the cops can work it out.  Please, let me drive you to the nearest gas station.”

            “ NO”, She screamed.  “No. no, no, no, no, no."

            She was hysterical and pacing.  Her hands were clutched into tight fists, little wads of crazed defiance. She advanced towards Ponocki and pleaded in unintelligible sounds.

            “Stop”, He said forcefully.

            He was getting frustrated now. Angry. Losing patience.

            She suddenly slapped him hard across the face.

            He was stunned. Taken aback.  She hit him again.

            Without thinking, he hit her hard in the stomach and she doubled over.

            He quickly turned around and jogged towards the road. Enough was enough of this crazy country fried nonsense.

            Once he reached the road he was slightly disoriented. For a second he lost his way and wasn’t sure if he was parked to the left or right. He began to move right when he was knocked flat, his breadth rapidly leaving him. He felt the rain and dirt in his mouth as he struggled for breath, and tried to work out exactly what was happening. Was it a god-damn heart attack? He was on the ground wheezing and trying to get up, and his vision narrowed and things began to fade. He blacked out.

            Ponocki awoke in the dark. He smelled gasoline, and body order. Mold.  He was still disoriented and his head throbbed a bit. The room made no sense as his eyes began to adjust to the darkness.  He saw a table, some chairs, but everything upside down. He saw a doorway by the crack of light near its seams, but again something was off with the orientation.  His neck was cramped, and the knife taped to his back was digging into him. At least he still had it, he thought. 

            It was then he realized he was partially upside down. His hands were bound as well, behind a support pole of some kind. He suppressed the urge to panic and tried to get his bearings and figure out exactly what was happening.

Count to ten and breath in and out. 

Calm down.

He found his center and began testing his bindings. The bindings were made of tape, not rope, or metal. Maybe duct tape.  He listened, trying to get some details on just where the hell he was.  He heard some creaking wood above from the wind, so he must be in a basement of some kind, and he still heard the rain, pelting the walls, maybe even hitting a window behind him.  Time moved slowly, and it was hard to know if seconds or minutes were passing.  Eventually he loosened the binding on his wrists by twisting and pulling his arms against the pipe. He sat upright and freed the knife from against his back. His shoes were gone, and there was some kind of injury between his shoulder blades.  It was probably related to whatever knocked him down by the road.

He checked his watch and saw it was 6:30PM.  Almost two hours had passed since he blacked out, and the window of time for completing the job had come and gone. 

He had completely fucked the pooch on this one.

There was no obvious way out except for the door in front of him.  It turned out there was a small window in the rear of the room, but it was too small for a man to crawl through, and it was blocked by rocks and grass. 

He walked slowly towards the doorway in front of him, with the knife held in his right hand.  There were three small steps leading up to the door and he crept slowly up each one.  Once at the door he gently pushed it outward and tried to get a peek at what awaited him on the other side.  He saw an old kitchen, dirty and unkempt, but occasionally used if the dishes in the sink were any indication.  All the lights were off, and there were no sounds except for the weather outside.

No signs of life. No warmth.

Fine by me, he thought.

He moved further into the house and proceeded through the kitchen and into the main living area.  He saw an old couch and chair, an old T.V. and rotten bookshelves.  Dust was everywhere. The carpet was old twenty years ago.  He tried not to touch anything, and made his way to the front door and cracked it slowly open. More nothing.  He walked out into the rain, and saw a nondescript lawn.  Daylight was fading, but he could make out a gravel driveway wrapped around the front of the simple two-story house, and a single ugly tree shot upwards from the middle of the front yard. Some old toys lay strewn about, a tiny bicycle, some various plastic sports equipment.  He made his way up the driveway, and began to walk to the main road.

God only knew where he was. 

            He had gone about thirty feet up the drive when he felt punched in the back, and fell forward.  He couldn’t feel his legs and he began to feel very cold. Everything slowed down, and he noticed something was entangling his arms. He looked down and saw his intenstines, grey snakes that smelled like shit.  His whole god-damned middle was blown out.

            He stared up into the dimming sky, and saw a shape come over him holding a shotgun of some kind. The threatening silhouette was yelling into his face. He smelled her sour breath.  He was starting to fade again and he could barely hear her ranting.

 

-----------------           

Judy Landry pulled into her driveway on Lindbergh lane at 5:30PM, thirty minutes late. The traffic was terrible tonight, probably due to the nasty weather.  She had maybe another hour before Jerry was due home from the airport.  He was back in town from D.C. and she wanted the house to look nice. She wanted a nice dinner on the table to celebrate the case being nearly over after almost 3 years of litigation.  Jerry almost had it won, and even the defense knew it. They were making desperate moves, reckless decisions.  She put the grocery bags down on the counter in the kitchen, and switched on the news. 

She began to prepare dinner as images of a pretty young blonde woman flashed on the Television, behind her. The reporter was reporting on the ten-year anniversary of an unsolved missing persons case.  A young woman named Karen MacDonald had lost her baby boy ten years ago today, and despite nearly three weeks of extensive searching, he had never been found. Karen had insisted a drifter took him from her car after she had picked him up hitchhiking out past the mall, on state road 22.  No suspect was ever found, and the boy was still missing.  The case went unsolved.  A drawing flashed on the screen of what the boy might look like today, ten years after the alleged abduction.  The report ended with the sad news that Karen had also disappeared after years of battling stress and mental health problems following the crime.

She had been in and out of various institutions, but her current whereabouts were unknown.