A fateful meeting of metal and flesh had made him a
fugitive. From that turbulent moment,
the endless freeways and highways thrust him further and further away from
home. Even now his escape from the
accident continued to spiral with a momentum that was far out of proportion to
the original deed. Across a continent
to flee judgment in one small town, he exiled himself from his past, marooning
himself on a road that was leading nowhere.
The road had imprisoned him. It was where he had committed his crime, and
it was punishing him. Each time that he
stopped for food or rest, the road ahead reminded him that he had to go
on. Every car following mysteriously
behind became a threat. Every town was
merely a frightening stopover filled with suspecting faces.
Even now, after several hundred miles
of driving, the terrible accident filled him with dread. Because of his previous record, it would be
three strikes for him. He couldn’t go
back to prison—probably for the remainder of his life. He had driven evasively from the scene,
propelled by this fear, taking a circuitous path from highway to highway. Only once had he seen anything suspicious in
his mirror, but he knew they were still in pursuit. He had heard about the accident each hour. There was an interstate all points bulletin
out for his arrest. They would never
give up, not after what he had done.
For hundreds of miles he had driven as if they were right on his
tail. At times his concern seemed to be
unwarranted by the facts. Across a
continent to flee a murder in one small town, he exiled himself from his past,
marooning himself on a winding road that was leading nowhere.
The road had imprisoned him. It was where he had committed the crime,
punishing him for his cowardly act. The
two people he hit had died instantly.
Though there was hardly a dint on his grill and he had stopped once to
wipe off the blood and brain matter, the smear left on his conscience was
indelible. The road was therefore, from
a different vantage point, his refuge, allowing him a limitless avenue to make
his escape. And it was his
protector. Each time that he stopped
for food, gas, or rest, it reminded him that he had to go on. He seemed safe as long as he moved. Yet every car following mysteriously
remained a threat. Every town was
merely a frightening stopover filled with suspecting faces. The world he felt safe in was a narrow
corridor surrounded by homeward bound strangers.
His only consolation was being able to
stop and look out once in awhile at them and hope that he, too, could find a
new home. Although he was too exhausted
to continue his journey, he was only a hundred miles from the California border
and wanted to cross before dawn. Had
there not been a statewide net in place, he would have preferred crossing into
the Canadian or Mexican borders, but that was out of the question. His only possible refuge was his father’s
old cabin in the San Bernardino Mountains.
It was the only good thing the old man had ever left him. His mother wrote to him about the cabin
while he was in prison and told him that his father wanted him to have it. The old man had waited until he was serving
time in prison to make the offer. The
fact that he had been dead all these years and he had only his mother’s words
worried him. Though in a remote
location and on a rocky, mountain road, squatters could have taken it over, it
could have burned down, or the old man might even have sold it in spite of his
mother’s claim. Nevertheless, it had
become his only goal; he had read about criminals hiding out for years in
remote locations. If it was still there
and uninhabited it would give him respite for a while until he could plan his
next move. Unfortunately, the current
major Southwestern city he was passing through was congested with homeward
bound commuters. An apparent accident
ahead increased the congestion, until he found himself in a traffic jam reminiscent
of cities on the east coast. In a path
frequented with sudden, inexplicable detours, he at least had the grim
satisfaction to know that he had a full tank of gas and was on the right road. He had all the time in the world. He had nowhere to go except ‘away’. And yet these stoppages made him feel
vulnerable and trapped. The traffic on
both sides of his car soon became dense and sluggish. As fingers of diversity now, it controlled his dilemma, yet, for
the time being, allowed him time to search the side of the freeway for a
promising off-ramp. While he scanned
the landscape on his right for just the right detour, he spotted a row of
flares, a disabled vehicle, and a red flashing light ahead. A well-honed caution instinctively drove his
steering wheel to the left, when a car-length patch of pavement appeared beside
him. But this decision, along with his
decision not to pull over when he had the chance, turned out to be a
miscalculation: the off-ramps were now out of reach, the flashing light became
a tow truck in his rear view mirror, and the traffic seemed to close ranks
around him.
Rumbling close to him, approaching
menacingly behind, it goaded him on a great chain of being. To his tired mind, he had become merely a
particle in its body, unable to escape its momentum. When he had recovered from this distorted impression, his mind
was lulled into an even more dangerous state: drowsiness. At this point, the pressing traffic, which
had kept him alert and on guard, began thinning out on the outskirts of
town. The iron stream began emptying
itself quickly into the surrounding suburbs.
Still moving heavily near the city limits, the highway had veered west
to avoid a huge row of black mesas.
Most of the remaining motorists emptied more quickly into outlying
reservations and suburbs as they chased the dying sun home. Now, as the road dipped south again, he
seemed to have the road to himself. The
great and uncompromising feeling of guilt and loneliness he carried with him
was dulled by exhaustion. Sunset and
the collapse of night signaled to his eyes that he was on the brink of falling
asleep.
In spite of the danger, he decided to
wait until it was completely dark before stopping to rest or get something to
eat. But as the sun blinked out below the
horizon, his eyelashes fluttered desperately to make room for blurred and
unsteady vision. Finally, a sudden dull
pain coursed through his brain, and he awakened as suddenly as he had fallen
asleep, smarting slightly on his forehead yet apparently still moving. Either he had hit something or rode over a
bump in the road. There was no one in front of him. Had his forehead hit the steering wheel? What caused such a momentary shot of
pain? Immediately trying to sum up his
dilemma, he gripped his steering wheel and peered breathlessly ahead. He knew that he had fallen asleep, but it
couldn't have been for long. A second
or even a split second could have been disastrous, thought shaking his
head. He had been careless not to pull
into a MacDonald’s or other drive through for coffee. He could have tail-ended someone or veered off the road. And yet, to his surprise, there was no one
ahead or behind him. He was moving at
the same speed, in the same lane, and going to the same place he had been going
for days: the California border.
Once again doubt consumed him. What if his plan to sneak into California
proved foolhardy? There could, even at
this early stage, be a roadblock? Was
his crime great enough t to warrant such a measure? Much of his fear, he realized, after so many miles, was magnified
by the deed, itself: the faces of the old couple he struck, the sickening sound
of bones crunching and the thump of his wheels driving over the bodies in the
road. Despite his fears, however, he
had seen nothing yet to justify them.
There was so much other news crowding out that one event: the current
war, a new terrorist threat, and a multiple murder at a military base. Was he that special? His throbbing head, drooping eyes, and
trembling frame told him once again that he needed food again and he needed
rest. At this stage of his journey, he
decided it was time to stop. He was
ravenously hungry and craved a shower, and he couldn’t drive another mile
without once more falling asleep.
Pulling off the road, he sat there a moment, letting his headlights burn
the dark. With hesitation, he turned
off the ignition and lights and set the gearshift in park. In the middle of nowhere, having no idea
where he was, he felt safe enough to sleep.
Reaching into his glove compartment, he pulled out his clock, its
phosphorescent face emitting an eerie light.
Next to it sat a bag of Fritos, which would have to suffice for dinner,
until he officially stopped. Raising
the clock up carefully, he set it for one hour, and then adjusted his seat to a
comfortable angle for sleep. After
closing his eyes and snuggling into his coat, he let his mind and body take
flight on that path of retreat on which he was again driving: always away, never
toward—away from his life, pursuits, family, and friends, away from everything
he once loved. As he dreamed, the
images changed to different people and different places but always came back to
the same familiar theme: the road, his crime, and the long, long journey away.
At the end of a series of crashing
events, he had arrived, from a world in which all the atoms were in
collision. A failed career, broken
marriage, and drift into white-collar crime, culminating in the hit-and-run
crime committed on the road had led to this point. If he hadn’t hit those pedestrians, he wouldn’t have taken this
detour. If he had of stopped, instead
of fleeing from the scene, he could have told them the couple had been
jaywalking. What prevented him from
making this decision was the fact he had been drinking beer that evening, and
there appeared to be no witnesses. If
he hadn’t been drinking, if there had been witnesses, and if he had been
clear-headed enough to make the right decision, he might have gotten off with a
DUI and escaped jail…. If—that awful conjunction that would haunt him all his
days. One terrible event, far worse
than graft and cooking the books had brought him to the lowest point in this
life.
Now in the midst of sleep, with his
alarm clock set to ring, he was about to take the greatest detour of his life.
******
From nowhere again, lights appeared in
his mirror, but this time he did not see them.
Entering his ears, but too faint to awaken from sleep, were the sounds
of an engine being cutoff, a door lightly shutting, and footsteps on the
shoulder.
“Sir,” a voice came into his dream,
“please get out your car!”
At first he thought he was still
dreaming. A nonsensical imagery had
been playing in his dreamscape. The
flashlight in his eyes proved to be his wake up call. Again the shadowy figure demanded he exit, rapping the window
impatiently as he remained frozen in his seat.
“This is the highway patrol,” the man bellowed.
“Open your goddamn door!”
Jolted into action, he turned the key, ground the
ignition, and sped away down the road.
Stomping the accelerator to the floor, he was thankful he was driving a
V-8. In hot pursuit, siren blaring, the
squad car began its chase. For several
miles he was chased, gradually gaining ground on the trooper, until something
dreadful happened. Up ahead a man was
crossing the road. In the middle of the
desert it could have been a Navajo Indian or a stranded motorist. It made no difference. This time, he swerved the wheel to miss the
jaywalker and found his car plunging over an embankment and suddenly in
mid-air. Certain that his time had
come, during the time he swerved off the road and crashed, he found himself
praying for forgiveness and mercy for his immortal soul. A lifelong Catholic, he managed also begin
reciting the Rosary. When his vehicle
hit the ground, his head hit the roof of the car, then, as it began to roll
down a short hill, slam the windshield and then the side of the door. For those moments, as he lapsed into
unconsciousness, his body floated in the inner space between life and death…and
then there was darkness.
When he awakened, he was lying in the sand, outside
of this vehicle, apparently thrown clear of the burning car. “Thank you Lord,” he mumbled. “I’m
alive. That’s all that matters.” At
this point, he fully expected the trooper to find him, arrest him, and bring
him to justice for his crime. In fact,
he was resigned to his fate. But the
desert was quiet. The night that had
collapsed onto this corner of the world was, with the exception of a
cloud-covered moon, forebodingly still.
He was alive, he concluded now, and he had been given a second
chance. If he was caught now, at least
he wasn’t dead. If he somehow escaped,
he must somehow find that cabin and lay low for a very long time.
Without a car, however, his task was daunting. He would have to run into the desert to
escape capture and surface far down the road, hoping to reach the next
town. He could not imagine what he
would do at that point. He had just
enough money for motels and gas. Now he
wouldn’t have to worry about filling his tank, but he would have no
transportation. His prospects boggled
his mind…. Yet he was momentarily free.
Looking back as he ran into the desert, he could see no one on the
highway. Why hadn’t he patrolman shown
up? He must have seen his burning
vehicle. Where was his pursuer? It occurred to him, as he walked in a daze
those moments, the highway patrolman should be on the side of the road now, studying
the scene, and yet he was nowhere in sight.
Slowing down, as he scanned the ground below, he found the setting
eerily silent. Not so much as a cricket
chirped nor did a single night bird fly overhead. When, after a short while, his eyes could make out the distant
lights of a city, he felt safe enough to skirt the shoulder of the
highway. Scanning the road behind once
more, he surged ahead, a second wind feeling him with courage and
strength.
When he reached the outskirts of the town, a sign
greeted him, barely legible in the light.
Strangely enough, the letters of the sign had been etched in stone,
which seemed peculiar for such a small town.
As he approached the sign, he was finally able to read it. The moon broke through the clouds that moment,
highlighting the inscription. It read
Welcome to Purgatory. There wasn’t a
population figure below it, which also seemed strange, and beyond the
pretentious landmark, sat a hamlet of darkened houses and one lone restaurant
that read simply ‘Motel’—none of which inspired confidence. But he knew, as he passed the sign, crossed
the threshold into the town, and entered the manager’s office that he would
finally be safe. No mortal man could
touch him now. Considering his crime,
he would, in fact, be here for a very, very long time.
“Greeting stranger,” an elderly man
called out. “We’ve been expecting you.
Hah, another “death bed repenter.
If you hadn’t uttered that prayer, you’d be in a much worse place….
Will, you have a reservation. Let’s
call it an extended stay.”
“So it’s true,” he replied numbly. “I passed a town
called Furnace Creek in New Mexico. It
looked like this in the dark, but this really is Purgatory!”
“Of course,” the man frowned. “What did you expect?…
Heaven?… Hardly, after one last minute prayer.”
In spite of his earlier resolve, sudden misgivings
filled him. A chilling thought rang in
his head: he wasn’t alive; he was dead.
Nevertheless, he was greatly tempted to escape and continue his odyssey
to the mountain cabin.
“How long will I be here,” he asked looking around
the room in panic—a century, a millennium, a million years?
The man shrugged. “That depends on you sir. I’m just the caretaker—a sort of gate
keeper, until my times up.” “By the way,” he warned, “there’s no way out. You’ll find that out soon enough.” “Go
ahead,” he made scooting motions, “flee.
Everyone tries it. I did
to. Run, along now!”
As he backed away from the desk, the man stood there grinning with
amusement, a gleam in his dark eyes.
Into the night he ran, due west, unwilling to accept his fate. He had, after all asked for forgiveness,
surely, he merited heaven. He must be
in a hospital bed right now, in a coma.
This had to be a bad dream. He
must wake up and rejoin the living…. He was not ready to die. As he ran passed a row of apartments,
darkened or dimly lit, however, he looked forward and saw rectangular shape
looming ahead of him. Running around to
the front of the shape, he saw in the moonlight those same words, etched in
stone: Welcome to Purgatory.
Seeing the empty desert behind he felt encouraged,
and began running again, his goal to prove that he wasn’t dead. The unsettling silence was depressing. He longed to see headlights from oncoming
vehicles or the lights and sound of a plane overhead. At least, he expected to hear birds, insects, or the wind
whistling alongside his face…. And yet there was nothing. Finally, when he saw lights in the distance,
his pace slowed. He dreaded what lie
ahead. “Please God,” he prayed, “give
me one more chance!”
But he had
his chance. As he approached another
rectangular monolith, he could make out in lunar light the words again “Welcome
to Purgatory.” Beyond this landmark sat
the same Motel office and its apartments.
With one last ounce of rebellion, he ran directly into the desert and,
after a fruitless stretch, saw the highway ahead. This time he was able to see the demarcation of the town, from
sign to sign, the small cluster of buildings and motel complex fixed squarely
in the middle. Moving like a
sleepwalker this time, he arrived in the manager’s office, walked up to the
desk, and was handed a key.
“It’s so dark out there,” he muttered. “Even the
moon shuns me.”
“It’s always like this here,” the manager explained
wearily. “There’s no day—only night. It
never changes. You don’t sleep. You don’t eat…. You just pray a lot… and
wait for your turn.”
“How long have you been here?” He turned to ask.
“What was your crime?”
“I was a garden variety thief.
I’ve lost track of time in this place.
There are no clocks or calendars here…. If it’s been this long for me,
think how long it’ll be for you. Get
used to it and do your time…. You’re going to be here a long, long time.”
******
The burning wreck he had left behind
was now surrounded by an investigative team from nearby Kingman, Arizona. A fire engine sat on the shoulder, as
fireman returned their gear to the truck. The highway patrolman, who had chased
him, stood in the background with a fellow officer, a dour look on his face, as
he explained his hot pursuit.
“I did what I thought was correct, but
I should’ve let the bastard go and called ahead.”
“What exactly happened?” asked the second officer,
staring at the smoldering car. “Did he just loose control?”
“I dunno.” The first officer shrugged. “Why he cut
his wheel like that I’ll never know.
Maybe it was suicide. There wasn’t
any traffic on the road, not so much as a rabbit.”
“Well he’s toast now.” The second officer smiled
grimly.
Down in the hill, an investigator was shining a
light into the wreck, muttering to his partner, “I don’t think he
suffered. This must’ve shattered his
skull. The number of the plate that
highwaymen gave us belongs to hit-and-run driver. Unless someone stole his car, that’s him inside. Well, he paid for his crime. Son-of-a-bitch ran over an old couple. He just kept on going. He got a taste of what’s waiting for
him. I bet it’s pretty hot there:
h-e-double-l!’”
“No one really knows,” the second investigator
chided. “That’s one place we don’t return from. I’m getting along in years.
In my church, we believe in a middle place for some folks.”
“You mean Hades?”
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s called Purgatory.”
“Oh yeah,” the first man chuckled. “That’s where you
get a second chance. When I was young,
I remember the preacher of my church.
For him, it was either turn or burn—no in between. I kind’ve like what the Catholic’s
offer. I’ll probably get a few
centuries in Purgatory myself. Is it
hot or cold down there?”
“Whose to say its down or up,” the other men said
thoughtfully. “It could be hot or cold.
It might just be a dark unfriendly place for folks to ponder on their
sins.” “I don’t want to go down there.” He shuddered comically. “I might meet
my ex-wife.”
The two men laughed, an edge to their voice. Their laughter carried up the hill, sounding
callous to the highway patrolmen now leaving the scene. Recalling the behavior of the driver, the
first officer sat in his patrol car a moment, staring into space. Why had that man swerved off the road? He
asked himself, recalling his frightened face.
He had a fast car and might very well have escaped. Instead, he turned his vehicle sharply in
what seemed suicidal, winding up burnt to a crisp.
“Jesus
Christ,” he muttered, “I shouldn’t have chased him down. Why’d he do such a damn fool thing?”