I caught up to the others in the middle of a particularly fiery tirade from Dean. He saw me approach and shifted his ire in my direction, “Seriously, Prov? You stuck around to hear more of that guy’s crap?”
“I was just hearing him out,” I said calmly, weary of escalating an already tense situation. “He’s scared to death of the Warlock, I think.”
“Of course he is,” Dean said, turning away, “because he’s an ignorant yokel.”
Cal gave me an apologetic smile as I fell into step beside him. “Dean thinks they were just putting us on, screwing with us – just like the ladies at the laundromat,” he told me quietly.
“Do you think so?”
He shook his head. “I think HE believes it’s true.”
“Me too.”
Thankfully, Dean was finished berating me, but his criticism of the squatters, the “simple-minded buffoons” of Karhaus, and most everything else related to the situation continued all the way to Brent’s car. The fact that no one paid much attention to him didn’t dampen his enthusiastic evangelizing.
Brent walked in the lead. He didn’t speak, barely acknowledging anything around him, including us. Cal kicked stones and roots as he walked. Occasionally he humored Dean with a nod or non-committal grunt.
Brooke eventually settled beside me. After walking in silence together for a few minutes, I finally asked, “What’s the plan?”
She sighed. “Go back home. Call the cops again, Brase’s friends, recheck everything. And then…” she groaned, “finally tell our parents, I suppose. They deserve to know.”
Cautiously, I spoke the word, giving it just enough of a lilt to be identified as a question, “Orvoston?”
Her narrowed-eyed glare told me everything I needed to know about her opinion of that option.
This was it then. The end of the line. Defeat admitted. I certainly didn’t blame them, but I still felt… I don’t know. I felt like maybe we were all about to make a big mistake.
Of course, THAT, I realize, was likely selfish pangs of advance withdrawal. And it was pathetically self-serving.
We came into town as a black cloud darker and more imposing than any of those heralding yesterday’s deluge. Even Cal’s ever-resilient chipperness had been diluted into gruff disinterest.
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With their hiking gear loaded into the car, it was just a matter of a few goodbyes and they’d be on their way home. Brent hugged me, briefly, but didn’t look me in the eye as he pulled away. “See you soon, man,” he said in a tired rasp of a voice.
He slid into the drivers eat, but Dean gently nudged him before he could start the engine. He didn’t protest, hopped across the center console, and stared numbly out the window.
“I hate seeing him like this, “I told Brooke.
“Me too,” she said with significantly less sympathy. “But he needs to get it together. Feeling bad for himself won’t bring Brase back.” Her expression softened and she sighed. “I guess at this point it feels like nothing will, though.”
“He’ll come home,” I promised. “There will be some explanation, something we haven’t thought of. You’ll text me about it in a day or two and--”
Vulgarity in a familiar key erupted from the car. Dean had just cranked the ignition and his litany of obscenities was the ONLY sound coming from the vehicle.
“Oh, no,” Brooke whispered.
Dean tried to turn the engine over once more and once more generated only a foreboding silence.
Dean got out of the car, scowling at the hood as if personally offended. Cal replaced him behind the wheel, trying his hand at coaxing the metal beast to life. Unsurprisingly, his attempts were just as ineffective. Now it was his turn to challenge verbal decency laws.
“Pop the hood,” Dean sighed. Cal complied and then got out and joined him. Brent wordlessly slid back into the driver seat.
Cal and Dean huddled before the exposed engine for ten minutes. Dean did most of the poking and twisting while Cal nodded and shook his head at intervals while the rest of us waited with baited breath. At the end of the sequence, Dean slammed the hood shut and assured us with great confidence, “I have no idea.”
~~~
Taxis might be hard to come by in Karhaus, but road assistance was prompt enough. It was a “slow day,” the technician explained when he asked.
“Aren’t they all out here?” Dean muttered to Cal.
We nearly cheered when the technician attached his jumper cables, juiced up the battery and...
… Nearly wept when the engine didn’t respond.
“Huh,” was the technician’s professional opinion. He repeated the process several more times before finally deciding, “Sorry, folks, but it’s dead. DEAD, dead.”
“Can you tow us?” Cal asked hopefully. The technician’s brow furrowed as he looked back at the sedan he arrived in.
“Sure…” he said, smiling coyly. “Let me just hook you right up to my four-cyllinder shitbox.”
“Stupid question,” Cal conceded grumblingly.
“Whose the best local mechanic?” Brooke asked. “Or, maybe : who can we get to look at it RIGHT NOW?”
This time the technician glanced skyward. The moon was already out, though it still shared heavenly dominion with the sinking sun. “Uh… no one ‘til tomorrow. Shops here will be long-closed by now.”
“Can we just buy a battery somewhere?” Brooke pressed. She glanced at Dean, who nodded. He is the most mechanically-minded of the group (which, admittedly, isn’t saying much), but apparently believed himself at least capable of changing a car battery.
The mechanic frowned. “Can’t say you’ll find any retail shops open, either,” he said. “They go to bed a ‘mite early around here. But,” he waved his hand toward the unresponsive engine, “tell you the truth, I don’t expect a new battery will do you much good. You’ve got some significant issue here.” He brightened, “Could recommend you a good hotel, though. The wife just loved it.”