with Troopers from Lawrence, Beaver, and Mercer also chipping in. Buck Flanders’s brother put it in computer stocks, which were brand-new then, and she ended up making a small fortune.
‘As for Ennis, a story started going around the various troops over here in “western PA that he’d run off to Mexico. He was always talking about Mexico, and reading magazine stories about it. Pretty soon it was being taken as gospel: Ennis had run away from his sister before she could finish the job of cutting him up with that Ginsu Knife tongue of hers. Even guys who knew better — or should have — started telling that story after awhile, guys who were in the back room of The Country Way when Tony Schoondist said right out loud that he believed the Buick in Shed B had something to do with Ennie’s disappearance.’
‘Stopped just short of calling it a transporter unit from Planet X,’ Huddie said.
‘Sarge was very forceful dat night,’ Arky said, sounding so much like Lawrence Welk —
Now here’s da lovely Alice-uh Lon — that I had to raise my hand to cover a smile.
‘When she wrote her Congressman, I guess she didn’t talk about what you guys had over there in the Twilight Zone, did she?’ Ned asked.
‘How could she?’ I asked. ‘She didn’t know. That was the main reason Sergeant Schoondist called the meeting. Basically it was to remind us that loose lips sink sh — ‘
‘What’s that?’ Ned asked, half-rising from the bench. I didn’t even have to look to know what he was seeing, but of course I looked anyway. So did Shirley, Arky, and Huddie. You couldn’t not look, couldn’t not be fascinated. None of us had ever pissed and howled over the Roadmaster like poor old Mister D, but on at least two occasions I had screamed.
Oh yes. I had damned near screamed my guts out. And the nightmares afterward. Man oh man.
The storm had gone away to the south of us, except in a way it hadn’t. In a way it had been caged up inside of Shed B. From where we sat on the smokers’ bench we could see bright, soundless explosions of light going off inside. The row of windows in the roll-up door would be as black as pitch, and then they’d turn blue-white. And with each flash, I knew, the radio in dispatch would give out another bray of static. Instead of showing 5:18 PM, the clock on the microwave would be reading ERROR.
But on the whole, this wasn’t a bad one. The flashes of light left afterimages — greenish squares that floated in front of your eyes — but you could look. The first three or four times that pocket storm happened, looking was impossible — it would have fried the eyes right out of your head.
‘Holy God,’ Ned whispered. His face was long with surprise—
No, that’s too timid. It was shock I saw on his face that afternoon. Nor was shock the end of it. When his eyes cleared a little, I saw the same look of fascination I had seen on his father’s face. On Tony’s. Huddie’s. Matt Babicki’s and Phil Candleton’s. And hadn’t felt it on my own face? It’s how we most often appear when we confront the deep and authentic
unknown, I think — when we glimpse that place where our familiar universe stops and the real blackness begins.
Ned turned to me. ‘Sandy, Jesus Christ, what is it? What is it?’
‘If you have to call it something, call it a lightquake. A mild one. These days, most of them are mild. Want a closer look?’
He didn’t ask if it was safe, didn’t ask if it was going to explode in his face or bake the old sperm-factory down below. He just said ‘Yeah!’ Which didn’t surprise me in the least.
We walked over, Ned and I in the lead, the others not far behind. The irregular flashes were very clear in the gloom of the late day, but they registered on the eye even in full sunshine. And when we first took possession (that was right around the time Three Mile Island almost blew, now that I think about it), the Buick Roadmaster in one of its throes literally outshone the sun.
‘Do I need shades?’ Ned asked as we approached the shed door. I could now hear the humming from inside — the same hum Ned’s father had noticed as he sat behind the Buick’s oversized wheel out at the Jenny station.
‘Nah, just squint,’ Huddie said. ‘You would have needed shades in ’79, though, I can tell you that.’
‘You bet your ass,’ Arky said as Ned put his face to one of the windows, squinting and peering in.
I slotted myself in next to Ned, fascinated as always. Step right up, see the living crocodile.
The Roadmaster stood entirely revealed, the tarp it had somehow shrugged off lying crumpled in a tan drift on the driver’s side. To me, it looked more like an objet d’art than ever
— that big old automotive dinosaur with its curvy lines and hardtop styling, its big wheels and sneermouth grille. Welcome, ladies and gentleman! Welcome to this evening’s viewing of From a Buick 8! Just keep a respectful distance, because this is the art that bites!
It sat there moveless and dead . . . moveless and dead . . . and then the cabin lit up a brilliant flashbulb purple. The oversized steering wheel and the rearview mirror stood out with absolute dark clarity, like objects on the horizon during an artillery barrage. Ned gasped and put up a hand to shield his face.
It flashed again and again, each silent detonation printing its leaping shadow across the cement floor and up the board wall, where a few tools still hung from the pegs. Now the humming was very clear. I directed my gaze toward the circular thermometer hanging from the beam which ran above the Buick’s hood, and when the light bloomed again, I was able to read the temperature easily: fifty-four degrees Fahrenheit. Not great, but not terrible, either. It was mostly when the temperature in Shed B dropped below fifty that you had to worry; fifty-four wasn’t a bad number at all. Still, it was best to play safe. We had drawn a few conclusions about the Buick over the years — established a few rules — but we knew better than to trust any of them very far.
Another of those bright soundless flashes went off inside the Buick, and then there was nothing for almost a full minute. Ned never budged. I’m not sure he even breathed.
‘Is it over?’ he asked at last.
‘Wait,’ I said.
We gave it another two minutes and when there was still nothing I opened my mouth to say we might as well go back and sit down, the Buick had exhausted its supply of fireworks for tonight. Before I could speak, there was a final monstrous flash. A wavering tendril of light, like a spark from some gigantic cyclotron, shot outward and upward from the Buick’s rear passenger window. It rose on a jagged diagonal to the back corner of the shed, where there was a high shelf loaded with old boxes, most filled with hardware oddments. These lit up a pallid, somehow eldritch yellow, as if the boxes were filled with lighted candles instead of orphan nuts, bolts, screws, and springs. The hum grew louder, rattling my teeth and actually seeming to vibrate along the bridge of my nose. Then it quit. So did the light. To our dazzled eyes, the interior of the shed now looked pitch-black instead of just gloomy. The Buick was only a hulk with rounded corners and furtive gleams which marked the chrome facings around its headlights.
Shirley let out her breath in a long sigh and stepped back from the window where she had been watching. She was trembling. Arky slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a comforting hug.
Phil, who had taken the window to my right, said: ‘No matter how many times I see it, boss, I never get used to it.’
‘What is it?’ Ned asked. His awe seemed to have wound ten or twelve years off his face and turned him into a child younger than his sisters. ‘Why does it happen?’
‘We don’t know,’I said.
‘Who else knows about it?’
‘Every Trooper who’s worked out of Troop D over the last twenty-plus years. Some of the motor-pool guys know. The County Road Commissioner, I think — ‘
‘Jamieson?’ Huddie said. ‘Yeah, he knows.’
‘ — and the Statler Township Chief of Police, Sid Brownell. Beyond that, not many.’
We were walking back to the bench now, most of us lighting up. Ned looked like he could use a cigarette himself. Or something. A big knock of whiskey, maybe. Inside the barracks, things would be going back to normal. Steff Colucci would already be noting an improvement in her radio reception, and soon the DSS dish on the roof would be receiving again — all the scores, all the wars, and six Home Shopping stations. If that wouldn’t make you forget about the hole in the ozone layer, by God, nothing would.