Fic Post: Unraveling [Shelter/Without a Trace crossover]
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Title: Unraveling, Interlude 6
Author: dragontatt
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Neither Shelter nor Without a Trace belong to me. No profit is being made from this work of fiction, and no disrespect is intended.
Word Count: 2953
A/N: Just like I have no geographical knowledge of California or Oregon, I also have no knowledge of Texas. Everything is taken from the interwebs (all hail google maps!) If anything is terribly wrong, please forgive me.
Martin hopped down from the cab of the unremarkable pickup that he’d hitched a ride in almost nine hours and 500 miles ago, landing in a cloud of red dust that swirled up into the glare of a dull street light from the crumbling asphalt at the edge of whatever highway this was in the middle of nowhere. He turned quickly to grab his backpack off the uncomfortable bench seat that he was sure had left a permanent dent in his left butt cheek. He was definitely grateful for the ride though, and more grateful still that Jerry-the-plumber-who-was-headed-home-after-a-week-of-drinking-and-fishing-at-his-old-Army-buddy’s-cabin-Armstrong was less touchy-feely than some of the earlier people he’d caught a ride with on this epic journey, people like Tom-from-Bakersfield-how-do-you-do-and-by-the-way-have-you-been-saved-yet?-White and Amber-the-unemployed-dog-groomer-hey-you-wanna-get-high-Burke.
It still amazed him how quickly Tom had gone from asking Son, have you found Jesus? to running his hand way too far up Martin’s thigh for comfort, but luckily he took Martin’s slightly panicked I’m really not interested calmly enough, removing his hand from the general area of Martin’s testicles before flipping the radio station from the local traffic report to some raucous gospel music.
Amber, on the other hand, had casually handed Martin a loosely rolled joint almost as soon as she’d accelerated back onto the highway. He’d taken a friendly toke (or two - who could remember?) but quickly handed it back when he realized Amber was stoned out of her mind. A few miles later, Martin off-handedly suggested they change places and so he’d ended up driving her beat up red Camaro for countless miles along a lonely stretch of Nevada highway while she’d stared in silent awe out the sunroof at the brilliant stars overhead.
He took a quick side step in the dark night air and swung the door closed hard just like Jerry had said, and watched as Jerry gave a little wave before squealing carelessly back onto the highway. For a self-admitted redneck, transplanted kicking and screaming from Tennessee to Wyoming only by the love of a good woman, Jerry was a good guy even if he did drive a meandering route that seemed to have no purpose other than getting from point A (Silver City, New Mexico where his old Army buddy lived) to point B (Homa Hills, Wyoming - it’s just a tad north of Casper) without any regard for how long it actually took to get there.
Martin swung his knapsack up onto his back, the weight of its contents sinking familiarly into the seemingly permanent grooves the straps had dug into his shoulders, and settled his faded red USC baseball cap a little more firmly on his head before taking a good look around. He was at a crossroads in the middle of Clayton, New Mexico, a dusty little place with an all-night diner, a theater and a rather impressive three-story building with a big sign saying Eklund Hotel.
A billboard off to his left proudly proclaimed Clayton to be the ‘Enchanted Corner in the Land of Enchantment.’ Up ahead, a pair of road signs pointed in mostly opposite directions: Highway 64 off to Boise City to the north and 87 toward Dumas to the south. Oklahoma or Texas seemed to be his choices, from what little he remembered of his last glance at his map a couple nights ago. Martin had been through New Mexico a couple times before on his trip, but never to this particular town. His odyssey had been every bit as meandering as Jerry’s, starting in California and taking him through pretty much every state west of the Mississippi.
He vividly remembered standing underneath a two-lane bridge that crossed that mighty river one night near sundown, slapping absently at mosquitoes and watching as a huge grey barge floated downstream, contemplating whether or not to keep heading east. In the end, he’d decided that anything past the east bank seemed too much like running home to Momma, too close to giving up, and so when the last bit of light had disappeared in the sky behind him, he’d climbed back up to the bridge and stood there with his thumb out and waited on a ride headed back west.
He hadn’t been to either Boise City or Dumas that he could remember, but neither place screamed out ‘pick me, pick me’ right away, so with a mental shrug he turned and headed toward the diner and its flickering neon sign that read Dinner Any Time!, determined to at least get some food in his belly before choosing his next destination. After all, the point of this journey he was on hadn’t been getting somewhere. It had just been getting away.
---
Leaving that day so many months ago had been the hardest thing Martin had ever done, even though he knew he had to do it. If he stayed any longer, he’d have just end up dragging Shaun down with him and that was the one thing he refused to do. Shaun had been so loving, so supportive even though he didn’t really understand any of what Martin was going through, didn’t know about all the dreams, nightmares really, that jerked Martin awake in a cold sweat night after night. All Shaun really knew was that Martin was falling apart and he couldn’t do anything to help hold him together.
So Martin left, just packed his backpack one day while Shaun was at school and hit the road in his old hiking boots. He’d already dropped out of USC a few weeks before, so this was the next logical step. The first few miles were the toughest, every fiber of his being was screaming at him to turn around, find a phone, call Shaun, go home. But he didn’t, and that night he slept on an empty bench in a bus station, arms tight around his knapsack both for comfort and security. The next morning he pulled out a ten and bought a ticket for as far east as it would get him. When he got off the bus, almost 100 miles away in Nevada, he felt a little better knowing that Shaun was safely far behind.
After the first day or two, he didn’t bother heading in any particular direction. Any way would do just fine. He’d walk by the side of the highway and when a car would come along he’d stick out his thumb. Sometimes he’d get a ride, sometimes not. If he didn’t, he’d just keep walking and sometimes a car coming the other way would stop to offer him a ride, like the driver could see that for Martin it wasn’t so much the destination, it was the journey.
And on the days he couldn’t get a ride, well, that was alright too. He’d walk, knapsack cinched high on his shoulders, cap down low on his forehead and gaze kept firmly on the asphalt in front of him as he moved. He’d walk, and sometimes he’d count his steps and he’d do his best not to think. ‘Cause after all, it was the thinking that’d really done him in. Those times that he could forget, forget about the girl and her eye, the trial and the casual indifference of nearly everyone involved, those were the times he craved.
--
A tiny bell chimed as he pushed open the door to JR’s Diner, and his stomach rumbled even before the overwhelming smell of fried onions and strong coffee reached his nostrils. ‘Pavlov wins again,’ he thought with a little grin and pulled the door closed behind him to keep in the cool air.
One glance around confirmed JR’s was pretty much the same as any of the other diners he’d been in the last few months - dull red vinyl booths, some of them with seatbacks artistically patched with duct tape, standing in a neat row along the outer wall; a line of stools next to the counter; a green chalkboard whose handwritten menu boasted arrogantly, if a little ungrammatically, “Best” Apple Pie ANYWHERE, and a couple of harried-looking waitresses, probably named Edna or Alice or Sue, who gave him the once-over with eagle-sharp eyes as he settled gingerly onto the closest stool. The fluorescent lights overhead were harsh to eyes used to the evening dusk, and he squinted and looked down briefly.
The nearest waitress, who was pouring coffee for a pair of florid-faced trucker-types, said in a voice rough with overuse or too many cigarettes, “Be with you in a minute, hon.”
“That’s fine,” Martin said, giving a friendly up-tick of his head to the trucker Edna (Alice?) was standing in front of before easing his backpack off his shoulders. He dropped it on the floor and tucked it safely in front of his feet with a well-practiced motion. He took off his cap and tossed it down on top of his knapsack with a yawn, watching as the waitress slowly made her way over.
“What can I get for you, sugar?”
Martin smiled instinctively at her before glancing at the menu board. As any good, slightly anal-retentive former Accounting major should, he knew to the penny how much money he had in his wallet (as well as how much emergency money he had tucked under the lining of his right boot) and after a moment’s mental calculation, he said, “I’d like the pot roast special, and a slice of your apple pie, please. Plus a big glass of ice water.” Even with a not embarrassingly small tip, that should leave him over twelve dollars in his wallet to make it across Texas on. Or Colorado, whichever.
---
Martin ate with that quiet intensity that only occurs when a Fitzgerald hasn’t eaten well since the night before, savoring his overdone pot roast and ignoring the casual scrutiny that came from both the truckers and the waitresses alike. Once he’d eaten a little over half the entree, he took a big bite of apple pie, just to see if it lived up to all the chalk-written hype. It certainly came close, although he vaguely remember a slice he’d had in Idaho somewhere that seemed more than a match for it, and so he alternated bites of the roast with the pie until they were both gone. He’d just finished the last bite of gravy-drenched mashed potatoes that had come with his blue plate special when one of the truckers, a big bellied fellow who’d been lingering over a third - or was it fourth? - cup of coffee stood up with a grunt before looking in his direction.
“I’ll be going east, just as soon as I check out my truck. Passenger seat’s empty, if you’re interested.”
“Where you headed?” Martin asked as he pushed his empty plate away and reached for his water glass.
The trucker smiled - at least, it looked like a smile but Martin supposed it could have been a muscle spasm that made his bushy mustache twitch - and said, in all seriousness, “A ride’s a ride, son. Does it really matter?”
Martin thought that over for all of half a second before replying, “No, I guess not.”
---
In later years, sometimes Martin occasionally wondered how different his life would have been if he’d been less eager for a ride in a comfortable 18-wheeler instead of a rust bucket of a pickup again and had actually bothered to find out where they were heading. But then again, how could he have known what would happen? And so after draining his glass in one long gulp, he’d stood up long enough to pull his wallet out of the front pocket of his jeans. He left six well-worn singles tucked neatly under the edge of his plate before picking up his knapsack by the nearest strap.
He headed to the restroom for a quick pit stop, barely glancing at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands before scurrying out the door, hoping that the trucker, wherever he was headed, hadn’t changed his mind and left without him already.
He smiled at Alice (Edna?) when she called out a hoarse but cheery, “G’night, shug,” and pushed the door open with his shoulder before exiting into the vaguely cooler night air of the parking lot. He smoothed his still damp hands over his hair and headed around the corner of the building.
The truck was there, an 18-wheeler whose dusty trailer contrasted sharply with the chrome bumpers that gleamed under the street light. The trucker was there too, checking the lock on the back of the trailer. He saw Martin and gave him an impatient wave. “C’mon boy, gotta get this load moving.”
---
As it turned out, Billy the trucker (that was his name) was on his way to Texas and so that’s where Martin went, too. Billy made this run, and the return trip, about once a week he said, moving crops one way and farm supplies the other. Martin only rode with him a few hours, dozing his way through grasslands, rangelands and acre after acre of farms and got out at the first town they came across. It was still dark when he hopped down from the cab but that didn’t really matter - he’d waited out the dark to morning’s first light in unfamiliar places before.
This next town he got out at, whatever it was called, was barely more than a wide spot in the road, with a gas station, yet another all-night diner and one lone block comprised of a few mostly empty stores, but once it came to life a few hours later, Martin managed to walk away completely schooled in chess. As he’d wandered down the street, peering into random windows, just killing time, the clerk at Hardison’s Hardware had waved him into the store with what Martin realized a couple hours later was an evil, eager grin.
He also left with a gift, a bit of salve for his slightly stinging ego, in the form of a brand new straw cowboy hat. Seems he’d accidentally lost his USC cap somewhere, either back at that last diner, or in Billy’s truck.
“You’re gonna need that later to keep the sun outta your eyes,” Joseph said, waving away Martin’s offer of payment. Martin shook his hand and thanked him again before heading out the door.
There was a bounce in Martin’s step as he headed west down the uneven sidewalk toward the restaurant Joseph had told him about. It was nice to have a little easy company now and then, someone who didn’t ask personal questions or expect anything from him other than maybe a relaxing game of chess or two to pass the time - well, mostly relaxing anyway.
The restaurant, a BBQ joint actually, was a good mile or so past the drugstore that was perched on the outskirts of the tiny town, and was evidently the halfway point to the next tiny town along Highway 87. But Martin just settled his backpack a little more comfortably on his shoulders and set out, long legs eating up the blacktop in a deceptively relaxed pace. Huge fields on either side of him were filled with crops that Martin couldn’t identify, but he didn’t really care. It was a lovely cool day, cool for late July anyway, and his mind was pleasantly worn out after getting massacred at chess.
As he got closer to Tommy’s Smoke Shack, coming down off a little rise in the highway, he was surprised to see the parking lot was nearly full even though it wasn’t quite noon on a Thursday. But then come to think of it, a town this small probably didn’t have many restaurants to choose from come meal time, and besides it smelled great. A haze of bluish gray smoke crawled along the contours of the metal roof before escaping off to the small stand of mesquite and pine that had obviously been planted in hopes of hiding the unending view of yet more acres of farmland.
He bypassed the front as he’d been told to, and headed for the back door, near where all that wonderful smoke was emanating from. His mouth was watering and his stomach growling by the time he got close enough to knock on the wooden door. He took a tiny step back and waited, and then the door opened with a snarled, “What d’ya want?”
Martin held his ground, even though his first instinct was to take another step or two back to safe distance. “You must be Tommy. Joseph over at the hardware store told me you might be looking for some help for the weekend?”
Tommy came out the door, a cloud of smoke following close behind, and looked down Martin a moment. He was a tall man about fifty, with narrow shoulders, close cropped graying hair and a bit of a rounded belly that stretched his greasy white tee-shirt, but Martin felt sure that stomach was made of muscle, not fat. “And how is old Joseph doing today?” Tommy asked finally.
“Good enough to kick my ass at chess twice,” Martin said with a grin.
Tommy grunted, and said, “You work from now through clean-up Sunday night, work hard and don’t piss me off, don’t steal anything and I’ll pay you 75 bucks. And it’s only that much cause that asshole Jeff ran off with his girlfriend to Amarillo two weeks ago and left me shorthanded. I ain’t been able to replace him permanent just yet and I’m still pissed about it, so don’t try to beg anymore money out of me - deal?” He stuck out his hand and glared at Martin, daring him to say no.
“Deal. I’m Martin.” And he took Tommy’s hand in a firm handshake.