Mango Digger Read online

  Leaving our site in the casino campground, we went south on business 61 for a mile and then took the ramp onto I-20 west. Two hundred yards later, we crossed the Mississippi River into Louisiana.

  Unlike the rolling hills of Mississippi, the terrain in that part of Louisiana is flat and bordered on both sides by wide open delta. The land is low, the soil black, and the highway straight.

  We were making good time toward our next scheduled stop, the Love's travel plaza at the Tallulah exit. According to Abby, Kat had stopped there for gas on her way north, and we were going to do the same.

  It didn't take us long to get there. Just twenty minutes after crossing the Mississippi River, we took exit 171, which led us into to the Love's Travel Stop.

  As with most truck stops, the parking lot was easy to get into with wide open spaces and few obstacles. It had been designed to make it easy for tired truck drivers to get there eighteen wheelers in and out of without hitting anything. The wide open lot design worked for RVs as well.

  The big trucks had their own fuel islands with super-fast diesel pumps; these were located behind the Love's store. The rest of us filled up in the islands up front. With the size of the RV, I always looked for the easiest fuel lane to get into. Usually, it was the one on the far right.

  As luck would have it, there was no one at that pump, so I pulled in and lined the motorhome's fuel door up with the gas pump nozzle. I'd learned to do this, having discovered that gas pump hoses rarely stretched the length of the motorhome.

  We had traveled two hundred and fifty miles since last fueling up and the gas gauge was showing we were down to a quarter tank. It was going to take a while to fill.

  I turned to Abby. “You getting out?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I'm going inside to look around. You need anything?”

  “Yeah. Chocolate chip cookies. And a can of Mountain Dew.”

  She shook her head in fake disgust and said, “You're weird.” Then she got out and walked to the Love's travel store entrance. The building was divided into three sections, an Arby's restaurant on the left, a convenience store in the middle and a small casino on the far right. I watched as she made her way across the parking lot until she was safely inside.

  While I waited for her return, I got out and pumped gas. I put the nozzle in the tank, set the handle to automatic and let it fill. The island had a squeegee sitting in what looked to be fairly clean water so I used it to clean the bugs off the windshield. We'd built up quite a collection coming through Alabama, and they needed to be gone.

  After cleaning the windshield, I checked the gas pump and saw that it had shut off at twenty-seven gallons. That was about right for the two hundred and fifty miles we'd traveled. The motorhome was getting just under ten miles a gallon which was not bad for a five-ton vehicle with the aerodynamics of a brick.

  Another motorhome had pulled up behind me, waiting for their turn at the pump and not wanting to hold them up, I got in and pulled over to the RV parking area. It was on the right side of the lot, facing the casino.

  Abby had yet to return, so I used the time to check on Bob. He hadn't been riding up front with us, which meant he was probably back in the bed. I hadn't seen him all morning and wanted to be sure we hadn't left him back in Vicksburg.

  It didn't take long for me to find him. He was where I thought he’d be; in the bed. Lying in the middle, licking his man parts. He looked up at me with an expression that seemed to say, “What, you don't do this?”

  I could only laugh. I left him to his business and checked the bathroom. I wanted to make sure the water pump hadn't been left on. If it had, and if somehow the plumbing had sprung a leak, the pump could run continuously, pumping water onto the floor until the holding tank was dry.

  It had happened to me once before. After a long drive over a very rough road, the cold-water joint at the shower head had cracked. The water pump was on and for two hours it pumped a steady stream of water into the shower stall. By the time I discovered the problem, the fresh water tank was empty and the water pump had burned out.

  But I'd been lucky. The break was in the shower, where the water could drain harmlessly away. If it had been under the sink or behind the toilet, it could have flooded the bathroom floor. And that would have been an expensive repair.

  Fortunately, all I needed was a two-dollar plastic joint for the shower head and a sixty-dollar replacement water pump.

  From that, I'd learned an important lesson; when traveling over rough roads, turn off the water pump. Or risk a flooded floor.

  While in the bathroom, I noticed the smell from the litter box had gotten stronger. If I was traveling alone, I’d let it go another day. But with a guest on board, it was time to clean it.

  I kept the litter box hidden behind the curtain in the shower stall. It gave Bob a bit of privacy when he used it and also meant I didn't have to look at his doings every time I went into the bathroom.

  I grabbed two of the grocery bags I kept in the bottom drawer of the vanity, doubled them up, and used the yellow litter scoop I'd bought at the dollar store to clean the clumps out of his box. When I was done, I tied off the bags and took them to the front of the motorhome.

  My plan was to dump them in one of the many trash bins that lined the Love's parking lot. Looking out the window to find the nearest one, I spotted Abby heading toward the motorhome. She had a large white Styrofoam cup in one hand, a plastic grocery bag hooked over her shoulder, and a brightly-colored floppy hat on her head.

  I stepped out of the motorhome and dropped the bag of litter into the nearest waste bin, and went over to see if I could help Abby with the things she was carrying. When I got close, I asked, “You need help with any of that?”

  She had her head down, sipping through the red straw coming out of her drink cup and hadn't seen me. Her view had been blocked by the wide brim of her new hat. She was surprised to see me standing in her path, but she got over it quickly. She held her drink out toward me and said, “Try this. You'll like it.”

  I wasn't sure I'd like anything that came in an unmarked foam cup bought at a casino truck stop. But, against my better judgment, I took a sip.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The liquid was sweet but burned my throat as it made its way down into my gut. One sip was all I needed. I handed the drink back to Abby.

  “What's in it?”

  She smiled. “Orange juice, Mountain Dew and Red Bull. A truck driver showed me how to mix it up. He said it was a sure cure for shyness.”

  That didn't sound right to me. “A truck driver mixed this up for you? Are you sure he didn't put anything else in it when you weren't looking?”

  We'd made it back to the motorhome, and I'd helped her inside. With the door closed behind us, I repeated my question. “Are you sure the guy didn't put anything extra in your drink?”

  She shook her head. “I'm sure because he didn't touch it. I bought the ingredients myself, and he showed me how to mix them. He didn't touch anything.”

  She took another sip, smiled and said, “It's pretty good, don't you think?”

  I wasn't sure what I thought. All I knew was it had a pretty good kick and burned on the way down.

  “How much of it have you had?”

  She grinned. “Enough to know I won't be shy anytime soon.”

  She put the cup down and opened the plastic bag she'd been carrying. Reaching inside, she pulled out a can of Mountain Dew and handed it to me.

  “This is for you.”

  I took the can and was glad to see it was ice cold, the way I like it.

  She reached back into the bag and pulled out a flat of what looked like home-made chocolate chip cookies. “These are for you too. But you'll have to share.”

  Instead of handing me the cookies, she put them on the kitchen counter. She then reached back into the bag and pulled out a camo print floppy hat.

  “I got this for you so we'd match. Put it on.”

  I knew I'd look silly wearing it, but if it ma
de her happy and would get us back on the road any quicker, I was game.

  I put the hat on and moved my head side to side so she could see what it looked like. She frowned and said, “You're really not a hat person, are you?”

  Based on her response, I guessed I wasn't. I took the hat off, grabbed the Mountain Dew and went up front. I waited for Abby to join me so we could get back on the road. But she was in no hurry. She sat down at the dinette and said, “Bring me the map, please.”

  I sighed. I just wanted to get back on the road. I didn't need a map. I knew the way. We had to go north to get to Arkansas, and there was only one road from Love's going that direction.

  Reluctantly, I grabbed the atlas and joined her at the table. I opened it to the page showing Louisiana and pointed to where we were parked. I could have shown her the road we were going to take, but I didn't. I wanted to see what she had in mind.

  She looked at the map closely, moved her finger along the blue line for US highway 65 north and said, “This is the way we're going, right?”

  It was a question with an easy answer. “Yep, that's the way. We'll stay on 65 until we get just beyond Pine Bluff, then we take 270 into Hot Springs. If we leave now, we'll be there in four hours.”

  She seemed satisfied with my answer and said, “Good. Let's hit the road.”

  I closed the atlas, took it back up front and stowed it in the pocket behind the driver's seat. I started the motorhome and waited for Abby to join me. She had gone back to the bedroom to put something away. Then, after a moment, she came strolling up front, drink in hand, humming a tune that sounded familiar, most likely from a TV commercial.

  After she sat and buckled herself in, I eased away from the Love's parking lot and headed back across the interstate and got us on US 65, heading north. Unlike the wide open four to six lanes of the interstate, US 65 was an older, two-lane blacktop going through small, forgotten rural towns of Louisiana.

  It was bordered on the east by high dirt levees that kept the Mississippi River at bay, and on the left by flat fields of withering corn stalks and other crops that had been recently harvested.

  The speed limit was fifty-five on most stretches of the road but dropped down to thirty-five when going through the small towns that popped up every few miles.

  Of these, Transylvania was the most famous, but only because its name had a connection to Dracula. The town itself was just three buildings, the Transylvania Post Office (a popular place for tourists to mail letters), the Transylvania Elementary School (home of the vampires), and the Transylvania Exxon and Tire Center.

  I was surprised Abby didn't say anything about the strange name of the town as we drove through. I looked over and saw that she had closed her eyes and might have been dozing. Maybe the high from the truck stop drink had worn off or maybe she was just bored. It was easy to get that way when riding as a passenger in a motorhome. Nothing to do but watch the world go by mile after mile.

  Twenty minutes later, just as we were leaving Lake Providence, she woke with a start and said, “Pull over! Now!”

  We were doing fifty on a two-lane road, with no shoulders and nowhere to pull over. I lifted off the gas and asked, “What's wrong? Are you sick?”

  She pointed ahead. “That gas station up there. Pull in.”

  The station had been abandoned a long time ago. The sign had been stolen, the windows had been broken out, the pumps long gone. There was nothing left but the sad shell of someone's failed dream.

  “You want me to pull in there?”

  “Yes, pull in and stop.”

  The way she said it convinced me she was sick and needed to get out. Maybe the truck stop drink was the problem. Whatever the reason, I slowed and turned onto the crumbling asphalt that had once been the station's driveway. Trying to avoid the broken glass near the abandoned building, I parked on the edge of the lot, close to the road.

  I turned to Abby. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  I expected her to tell me more or for her to get up and head back to the bathroom. But she did neither. She just sat in silence.

  I finally asked, “Why are we here?”

  She looked at me, cocked her head and said, “I don't know. I just had a feeling we needed to stop. There's a connection to Kat here, but I don't know what it is.”

  I took a deep breath and sighed loudly. Then asked, “We going to be here long? Should I kill the motor?”

  She was staring out the passenger window and didn't answer right away. Finally, she turned to me and said, “I don't know how long we're going to be here. Why don't you go back and check on Bob? I'll call you when I'm ready to leave.”

  I killed the motor, got up and went back to see Bob. If Abby didn't want me up front with her, it was fine by me. We were only a few hours away from our destination and the day was still young. If she wasn't in a hurry, I wasn't either.

  I found Bob on the bed and I decided to join him. When I lay down beside him, he said, “Muurrph.”

  I said, “Yeah Bob, I know. She's weird.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  With the window in the bedroom, I had a good view of the abandoned gas station outside. Like many of the older ones, the building was divided into two parts. On the right, a small glassed-in office. On the left, a roll up garage door where cars could be pulled in and worked on.

  More than likely, there would have been a single bathroom behind the building. When the station was open, travelers could get a key from the office and use it to get inside the washroom. If they were lucky, the toilet would be semi-clean and the facility would be useable.

  Back in the day, the station was probably a welcome sight. Gas, water, air and bathroom. A mechanic on duty who could try to figure out why the old jalopy was overheating.

  All that was long gone. Now it was just an empty building with a sagging roof, busted down doors, and broken windows. Thieves had stripped away everything of value.

  As I looked at the forlorn building, I saw movement in what looked like a bundle of rags blown against the southernmost outside wall. I looked closer, thinking maybe it was an animal rooting around for food, maybe a lost dog.

  As I focused on the movement, I could see it wasn't a wild animal. It was a woman with a black trash bag over her body, huddled against the wall. I couldn't see her features well enough to be certain, but it could have been Kat.

  I went up front to tell Abby. She looked at me and said, “What?”

  I pointed out the window. “Over there, against the wall. Do you see her?”

  Abby looked where I pointed, squinted her eyes, and after a moment, said, “Yes!”

  She turned to me and said, “Stay here.” Then she got out and walked slowly toward the woman.

  As she got closer, the woman saw her coming and tried to make herself invisible. But it was too late, Abby had seen her, and she couldn't hide.

  When Abby was about ten feet away, she stopped and asked, “Are you okay?”

  The woman lifted her head. I could clearly see she wasn't Kat. She looked at Abby warily, then grunted something that sounded like, “I'm fine.”

  Abby didn't believe her. “Do you need help?”

  The woman again looked at her, then at the motorhome, then back at Abby. “Are you going to hurt me?”

  Abby held up both hands in a calming motion. “No, we're not going to hurt you. Do you need a ride? Maybe something to eat or drink?”

  The woman struggled to stand. She'd been sitting a long time; her joints were stiff. When she finally got to her feet, she pulled the black trash bag over her head and dropped it on the ground beside her. She was wearing jeans, a gray long sleeve sweat-shirt and tennis shoes. Other than her hair being a mess, she looked like a college student coming home from spring break.

  She rubbed her neck, looked at Abby, and smiled. “I'm Grace. I'm trying to get home. Lost my ride and had to spend the night here. If you're going north and promise you're not going to hurt me, I'd be grateful for a lift.
”

  Abby went over to stand close to the woman. They talked, saying things I couldn't hear. Then Abby pointed to the motorhome and Grace nodded. She walked back to where she had been sleeping, moved a pile of rags, and retrieved a small suitcase.

  With case in hand, she and Abby walked back to the motorhome. Not wanting to spook them, I moved to the driver's seat and sat. I would do nothing until Abby introduced me.

  They came in the side door, Abby first followed by Grace. Abby immediately pointed at me and said, “That's Walker. He's one of the good guys. You won't have to worry about him.”

  Grace smiled and nodded. I nodded back.

  Abby pointed to the back of the motorhome. “There's a bathroom back there. If you feel like using it, you can.”

  Grace set her suitcase on the floor and said, “If you don't mind, I'd like to wash my face and hands.”

  Abby nodded. “Go ahead. Make yourself at home. When you come back, we'll get you something to eat.”

  Grace started toward the back, but stopped and asked, “Is there anyone else in here?”

  Abby shook her head. “No, it's just me and Walker. And his cat, Bob. No one else.”

  She seemed relieved. “Good, I'll be right back.”

  She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Since I figured she’d want to use the sink, I turned on the water pump, using the switch on the dash. It started running almost immediately, delivering water to the bathroom fixtures.

  A few minutes later, Grace returned. She had washed the road dirt off her face and hands and combed out the tangles in her hair. She looked to be about twenty-five, maybe two inches taller than Abby. Not skinny, but not overweight either. No visible tattoos, no needle marks, no scars. Short but manicured nails. I was still thinking she could have been a college student.

  Abby invited her to take a seat at the dinette and asked me to bring the atlas and join them. Before she sat, Abby grabbed three bottles of water from the fridge and the unopened package of chocolate chip cookies she'd bought at Love's.