Chapter 9
Roman couldn't believe it. It was simply too ridiculous to be true.
Christ, when was the last time he'd had a flat tire? When, for that matter, had anyone he knew had a flat tire? Roman couldn't remember. He actually thought that modern science had about eliminated such things, what with tubeless tires, steel-belted radials, etcetera, ad infinitum.
But, a flat tire it was! And, by the looks of the rubber, Roman had apparently hit something that had chewed up the tire first before spitting it back out.
So, what had he hit? A can? A bottle? A spike? God only knew; because, whatever it had been, it was now out of sight somewhere behind him. And, when you came right down to it, what in the hell difference did it make what had been the culprit? The damage was done.
But, it couldn't have happened at a worse time. And, the sooner he got it taken care of, the sooner he could be on his way.
Roman delivered a kick to the guilty tire which was now deflated to a point where the metal rim was almost touching the ground. Roman then headed for the trunk. Searching through his keys for the correct sone, he simultaneously checked his watch for the time.
Goddamn, but it was almost nine o'clock! And, it was already dark out here in the hinderland, and it would be getting darker as the sun dropped further and further beneath the horizon.
Roman estimated the time he had left to reach the cabin. He had passed through Denning Creek about an hour and a half ago. That meant it was still another hour and a half to the cabin. One and a half added to nine equalled ten-thirty. Plus another quarter of an hour to get the tire changed would come out around ten-forty-five. The plane wasn't scheduled in until two. That still gave Roman plenty of time.
He turned the key in the lock; and, the trunk lid popped open, revealing the interior. When Roman saw first were the two road flares. He decided there was little point in wasting the time to put them out. He had managed to steer his car well off onto the apron of the road. And, even if the car were sitting dead-center of the white line, it seemed highly un-likely there would have been much danger. This stretch of road wasn't traveled all that often, possibly because, even though it was paved, it somehow continued to be marked as a dirt road on most road maps. Even paved, it didn't seem to serve very little purpose other than allowing several people access to their cabins in the wilderness area. Roman had often suspected that some rich guy with a summer retreat somewhere in the neighborhood had somehow wielded a certain political pressure to get the road hard-topped. Because, the only other purpose the road served-that being the connecting of two major north-south highways-was done better by other roadways which were shorter and less curvy.
Even while Roman was consciously concerned with rehashing the dumb luck which had put him into this fucking mess, on this particular evening, his subconscious was registering the fact that the worst was yet to come. Because, while Roman hadn't yet mentally registered the fact, his eyes had scanned the trunk more than once and come up with no jack.
But, damn it, there had to be a jack!
Roman leaned further into the trunk, his hands quickly tossing to one side a blanket Roman thought for sure was hiding the illusive-and very necessary-piece of equipment.
No jack! Damn it, there was no jack!
"This is fucking-A ridiculous!" Roman commented to himself and to any woodland creature who was within hearing distance. "There is simply no way this could be happening to me."
Roman went back to the passenger seat of the car and took the flashlight out of the glove compartment. He came back to the trunk, again moving the blanket, again finding nothing. He moved the light methodically back and forth, covering every last segment of the trunk space. There was the spare tire: all nice and new and ready to go, smelling of rubber. There was the tire iron. There were a couple cans of oil. There was the blanket.
"So, where in the fuck is the jack?" Roman asked himself, thinking about all the standard jokes that revolved around people who talked to themselves.
Roman methodically conducted yet another search of the trunk area, this time running a hand along the outer limits, actually believing that the jack would suddenly be materializing.
He did have a jack, didn't he? Hell, every new car came complete with a jack, didn't it? And, this car was a new one, wasn't it? Six months old, as a matter-of-fact.
So, where was the goddamn jack? When had he seen it last? For that matter, had he ever seen it? Assuming it had been there, where was it now? Yet, if it had never been there, was it likely Roman would have missed it before now? Probably not. Because Roman had never had a flat tire in his life, and he would probably have paid little attention to the presence or absence of a jack in his trunk. There was always the AAA to call to take care of such bullshit, wasn't there?
"This is fucking ridiculous!" Roman stated aloud, feeling frustrated, feeling angry, feeling more than a little stupid.
Of all the fucking, goddamn times for something like this to happen, why in the hell did it have to be on this particular night of Roman's life?
Roman lowered the trunk lid with a bang. His mind quickly began contemplating his alternatives. He could get in the car and keep on driving. That would mean the same as driving on the wheel rim, since the rubber was as deflated as an unleaven pancake. Roman wouldn't get too far that way, and he would ruin the car in the process.
He could walk back to Denning Creek and see if he couldn't get someone to loan him their car. Roman didn't like that idea for a couple reasons. One, he saw no sense in calling specific attention to his presence in the area on this particular night; and, Denning Creek was a small enough burg so that anything soon became everyone's business. Also, since it was just as far to Denning Creek as it now was to the cabin, it would be faster just to walk to the cabin.
The time: nine-fifteen. Nine-fifteen from two a.m. equaled close to five hours. Could Roman walk close to seventy miles in five hours? The only way he saw that happening was if he chocked up five hours of four-minute miles. Fat chance of that!
Still, he had to do something. He was wasting time just standing around.
Roman headed off down the road, trying to remember if there were any telephones between where he was and Denning Creek, or where he was and the cabin. He couldn't remember a one. There weren't even any telephones in most of the area's other cabins, either. Those cabins that even had lights, like Roman's, usually were utilizing their own generators.
"Jesus!" Roman said, kicking a rock in his path, hoping that might somehow ease his frustration.
And, Roman found himself wondering what Cary, Larry, and Marsha would think if they arrived at the cabin and found it empty, without Roman there. Would they panic?
Christ, but Roman hoped one of the three had the sense to assume that Roman just might have had a flat tire en route to the rendezvous. At the same time, however, Roman realized that was probably just a little too much to hope for.