Nolan’s Last Crash

The summer storm had been stalking him for over an hour, a floating angst of purple and black clouds blowing in from the gulf. Twice Nolan thought he had outdriven it, only to see it creep closer, and in the dark of night, it pounced. Rackety waves of rain pelted the windshield, drowning out the chorus of “Hey Jude” playing on the radio. As lightning split the sky, a gust of wind yanked the car to the right. Even on an August night in Florida, the wet pavement, shining in the glare of the headlights, looked slick as ice. Nolan leaned forward, straining to follow the hazy red taillights of the cars ahead. He glanced at Anne, her head leaning against a rolled-up sweater, deep in sleep. We’re not going to die tonight, he thought. He slowed the Honda Accord and flipped on his emergency flashers. Within seconds, the headlights that had been following him since the storm began pulled into the left lane, and an Audi sedan glided by. Then, a parade of cars, SUVs, and pickups passed him, followed by a semi, its rear tires spitting more water onto Nolan’s windshield.

He didn’t always drive scared. When he and Anne were first dating, when he lived in jeans and T-shirts, he and his brother Donny would take their ’67 Mustang out to the Stratton Race track east of town for open race nights. Donny was the mechanic, and Nolan drove, and even though the Mustang wasn’t always the fastest car, he usually won. He had a simple strategy: Once he got the lead, he never gave it up. If someone tried to pass him, whether on a straightaway or curve, he would floor it. His Converse All Star pressed the gas pedal so hard his knee locked. A split-second delay while fuel poured into the engine, then a roar as the car surged forward. Anne was always there, cheering him on, and as they strolled through the praising crowd beneath the stands after the race, she would squeeze his hand with pride.

But that was a long time ago, and now he was just an old man, poking along in the slow lane.

The wipers squeaking on the windshield told Nolan the rain had stopped, and he loosened his grip on the steering wheel. The storm clouds slipped away, and in the moonlight, the silhouettes of the trees bordered the highway like sentries. He turned off the emergency flashers and increased his speed until he was back in the flow of traffic. Anne was sleeping, and they were safe.

They were heading to their son’s house outside Orlando, and while Nolan enjoyed seeing Jeremy and Lisa, his grandson Zack was the main attraction. He would sit on the couch, with his arm around Zack’s runty shoulders, and they would talk about dinosaurs, sharks, and especially soldiers. On the last visit, they watched part of Saving Private Ryan until Lisa caught them and said it was too violent for a little boy. Nolan had seen the movie a dozen times, and the bad parts were over, but he knew better than to start an argument with Lisa. He took his hand off the steering wheel, reached into his shirt pocket, and felt the toy soldier he had put there before they left. He had a box of these vintage World War II soldiers in his suitcase, but he put this one in his pocket so he would have something to give Zack when they first saw each other later that night.

Cruising down the interstate, the sensation of being in a falling elevator startled Nolan. Rolling hills had replaced the flat terrain, and when he saw 351 on the green mile marker sign, he winced. He’d missed the Orlando turn-off more than an hour ago. He pulled off at the next exit and took a sharp turn into a parking lot. At first, the Cracker Barrel lot appeared empty; then he saw the two sheriff’s cars parked in the back corner. The green-and-white Chevy Tahoes faced in opposite directions so the deputies could talk, and in the dim light, Nolan could make out one of the deputies’ jackhammer arms dangling out his window. It would be safe to pull in here to get his bearings.

In the seat beside him, Anne stirred. She looked around the unfamiliar parking lot as she ran her fingers through her long, silver-gray hair. He started to tell her about the storm, but she was not interested in the details.

“Where are we?” she asked.

Nolan looked back at the deputies, averting her gaze. “Maybe a little south of Ocala,” he said.

Anne’s shoulders collapsed into her seat. “For God’s sake, Nolan.” Her disappointment dug into his chest.

“It’s not that bad. Maybe 75 miles too far.”

Anne sifted through her purse and removed her phone. “My God, Ocala? How could you keep driving like that?”

“The storm was intense. I was squeezing the steering wheel so tight my fingers hurt.” He extended a leathery hand and flexed it. Anne ignored his hands, and Nolan continued, “When it finally stopped, I was so relieved I just kept driving.” Anne stared straight ahead, nibbling her lower lip, and then pecked at her phone. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m calling Jeremy.”

He grabbed her arm. “Let’s not get Jeremy involved. Give me a second to figure out how to get back on the interstate. We’ll still get there before midnight.”

Anne held up her hand to hush him. “That’s no good. He’s expecting us now; I need to let him know what’s going on.” Nolan tried to open his window to let in some fresh air, but the Accord was new, and he fumbled with the buttons. When he finally got it open, the smell of cooking grease wafting in the warm, sticky air greeted him. He watched the deputies as Anne explained to their son why they were still two hours away. When the conversation ended, Anne turned to Nolan, delivering the verdict, “Jeremy thinks it would be best if we didn’t drive anymore tonight. We need to get a hotel and go over tomorrow morning.”

Nolan slid his fingers under his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Now it was officially a big deal. “So he’s disinviting us?”

“Don’t go blaming Jeremy. They’re all tired and don’t want to stay up until midnight.” He knew there was more coming, like those seconds between when you stub your toe and the pain hits. Anne added, “And Jeremy thinks — and I agree — you shouldn’t be driving anymore. He and Lisa are both coming tomorrow morning, so he can drive our car back to his house.”

“I knew you two would overreact,” he said. “I missed an exit.”

Anne shook her head. “No, you drove us halfway to Georgia.”

“I heard of a great little spot to get some peaches,” he said. His lame shot at humor missed; Anne didn’t crack a smile, and instead pointed to the two sheriff’s cars heading out of the lot. One of the cars looped in alongside them. The deputy, with a shaved head and the physique of a professional wrestler, stepped out of his car, approached Nolan’s window, and asked if everything was okay. Not seeing the need to recount his driving miscues to law enforcement, Nolan assured him they were fine. The deputy shined his flashlight on Anne, then into the back seat.

“No drug deals going on here,” Nolan said, and Anne slapped him on the shoulder.

“Just being careful, sir,” the deputy said, in a politely rude manner. “There was a little boy abducted a couple hundred miles north of here, and they think he may have headed this way.”

Embarrassed, Nolan tried to pivot, “That’s just awful — I mean, we’re just on a trip to see our grandson.” He paused and added, “He’s doing very well.”

The deputy squinted for a moment, trying to make sense of Nolan’s comment, then gave up. “Well, you folks should be moving on out of here. Not a good idea to be alone in an empty parking lot this time of night.”

* * *

While Anne scrutinized every stop and turn, Nolan drove a mile and a half until they found a hotel. Anne settled in for the night, occupying the bathroom and arranging her rows of bottles and jars on the counter like chess pieces. Nolan looked around the room at the scraggy carpet and chipped furniture. Probably loaded with bed bugs, too, he thought. The dull drone of the highway traffic filled the room as he dug through his suitcase, looking for a T-shirt to sleep in. He found an old one from the Daytona 500 he’d attended with Donny. They wanted to go again, but never did. The last time they’d talked about it was four years ago, just after they sold the store. Nolan was sitting next to Donny’s hospital bed, watching his brother die from thyroid cancer, and they talked of plans they both knew would never happen.

Owning a hardware store with Donny had been great, but it wasn’t racing cars, and after 30 years, Nolan had had enough of helping people match screws to nuts. But not long after he’d drifted into retirement, he began to miss feeling necessary. Retirement demanded nothing from him, and he had nothing to offer in return. He tried the typical things, but since arthritis crept into his joints, the fishing gear he no longer used cluttered the garage, and weeds covered his vegetable garden. A couple of months ago, while volunteering at the food bank, he lost his grip trying to put a box of spaghetti sauce jars on a high shelf. The jars shattered, and sauce spilled all over the floor. The smiling manager suggested he might be better suited to handling the paper goods, and Nolan never went back. While Anne had her clubs and church activities, he trudged through the suffocating stillness of empty days. Sitting alone on the front porch every morning, he watched his neighbors drive by on their way to work. Most of them had dreary jobs they hated, but they headed out each morning with a purpose, and he envied them.

He took a few steps towards the bathroom and said to Anne, “You realize that if I stop driving, you’ll only get to see Zack once a year. You don’t drive on the interstate, and Jeremy’s too busy to come see us.” After a few seconds of silence, he yelled, “I know you heard me!” Anne came out of the bathroom, rubbing lotion on her hands. She looked at Nolan’s suitcase on the bed and frowned. Nolan knew he had violated one of her deadly sins, but he left the bag alone.

Anne said nothing as she pretended to adjust the thermostat, then she turned and pointed to the suitcase. “Really, Nolan?” He waited a long moment, then pulled the bag onto the floor and sat on the bed. Anne brushed the bed with her hand and sat next to him. She rubbed her palm in small, gentle circles on his back.

“You’ll be fine,” she said. “I can drive us around town, and we’ll get you a bike like mine.”

“You know it’s not up to you — it’s my car.”

“Honestly, Nolan, you should have stopped driving after the crash.”

The crash had happened three months ago. He’d had a few fender benders before, but this one was scary. His mind had wandered for just a few seconds, and when he saw the black pickup ahead had stopped, he couldn’t react fast enough. The airbag deployed, and he sustained a few scratches, but no one was seriously hurt.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“The folks at Allstate would disagree — they totaled your car.”

“I mean, no one got hurt.”

“What if you hit a car full of kids instead of a big truck?”

An image of tiny bodies crushed in the back seat of a car shot through his mind, and he shook his head. “Don’t say that; there weren’t any kids.”

“For God’s sake, you were driving tonight like you were in some kind of trance.” Her voice cracked, “We can’t wait until someone gets killed.”

As if on cue, a truck from the highway blasted its horn. Nolan turned from the window back to Anne. “Look, I missed an exit, and I’m sorry, but you’re making way too much out of this.”

“Oh, Nolan, it’s not just me. Jeremy’s been worried about your driving for a long time.”

“He never told me that.”

“Why do you think he never lets Zack ride with you?”

Nolan stiffened. They’d spent $300 on a car seat so they could take Zack places on their own, but he couldn’t remember the last time they used it.

Nolan grabbed the key fob from the desk. “I’m going out.”

“Out? It’s almost midnight.”

“I’m going to get some gas; I want to start the drive tomorrow with a full tank.”

“This is a really bad idea,” Anne said as she stood. “You’re not proving anything except you’re a stubborn old man.”

* * *

They had passed a bright, bustling RaceTrac station on the way to the hotel. It was across the highway, and Nolan needed to traverse six lanes to get there. Even though he had been driving on this road just an hour earlier, his eyes were not adjusting to the nighttime traffic. He turned to his left, and a galaxy of headlights blinded him. The cars appeared motionless, hovering above the road, then shot past him. Nolan put his glasses on his thigh and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. It didn’t help. He considered turning around and going back to the hotel, but another car had lined up behind him, so he turned the Accord right and nudged into the far right lane. The response was a ferocious chorus of car horns and screeching tires. In the rearview mirror, he saw a car behind him skidding to a stop. Chased by the horns, he drove a block and turned into the first gas station he came to. Nolan switched off the ignition and sat in the car for a moment, taking some deep breaths. Anne was right again.

The station was a dingy relic with eight pumps and a Stop and Shop store. As Nolan clambered out of the car, he noticed a white Jeep Cherokee parked on the other side of the gas pumps. The Jeep driver bustled toward the store, his head jerking in small, birdlike pivots as he scanned the parking lot. He stopped and turned. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go.” At first, Nolan couldn’t see who he was talking to, but then a boy appeared beside the Jeep, inching toward the man. The man strode back, snatched the boy’s hand, and gave it a sharp tug; too hard for such a small child. The boy’s shoulder bumped the back of the man’s leg, and the boy spun his feet to keep up with the man’s long steps. Just outside the store, the man stopped and pulled the hood from the boy’s sweatshirt over his head. This late at night, a boy that age should be home in bed, Nolan thought. That deputy never even gave them a description of the missing boy, so how was Nolan supposed to do anything? There were probably hundreds of small boys in cars driving by on the interstate. The odds that this was the kidnapped boy were minuscule.

The pump blared about a sale on pizza and 12-packs of soda as Nolan put his card in the slot, and a message appeared: “Card invalid.” Nolan sighed. He had paid the Visa bill a couple of weeks ago. The card was good; the problem must be with the pump. Walking to the store, he glimpsed his reflection in the glass doors. When did he become so hunched over? He straightened his spine as much as he could and entered the store. As he approached the counter, the remnants of old soda spills stuck to the bottom of his shoes. A broken sign for lottery tickets drooped from the ceiling behind the counter. The store smelled of stale coffee and neglect. The clerk was a bony young man with the empty expression of someone counting the minutes to the end of his shift. Nolan described the problem with the card, and the clerk told him to try the card again, pointing at the counter. Nolan studied the array of devices, looking for a suitable place to insert the card. Nothing looked familiar. The clerk pointed to a small, black cube, but Nolan still couldn’t see a slot and circled the card over the device, like a helicopter looking for a landing spot.

“We also take cash,” the clerk said. “It might be simpler.”

Nolan ignored the snarky remark, handed two twenties to the clerk, and said, “I’m getting a snack, too.” Anne loved her chocolate, and if he could find a Dove bar, it might help smooth things over when he got back to the hotel.

The man and boy were standing in the candy aisle. The boy looked about the same age as Zack. His blue denim shorts were grimy and grass-stained, but his Spiderman sweatshirt looked new. As Nolan approached, the man said to the boy, “Just pick something.” The sleeves of the boy’s sweatshirt were too long, and he struggled to free his hand. The man snatched a bag of red Twizzlers and handed it to the boy.

“That’s a lot of sugar for a little boy this late at night,” Nolan said. “He may never fall asleep.”

The man wore a black Tampa Bay Rays hat, and a white walrus mustache straddled his mouth. A little tuft of scraggly white hair hung below his mouth, as if a piece of his mustache had fallen off and landed on his chin. He had powerful shoulders, but his belly hung over his belt. He shifted his weight back and forth between his heels and his toes as he studied Nolan. A toothy smile flashed across his face, and he nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m probably spoiling him.” He spoke in a measured rhythm, as if each word was being turned over and examined from every side before it trickled out.

“So, where are you guys heading this late?” Nolan asked. If Anne were here, she would give Nolan a dirty look. It embarrassed her when he asked strangers personal questions.

The man hesitated. “Atlanta,” he said. The deputy said the kidnapped boy was coming from Georgia, so that didn’t match. Nolan tried to get a better look at the boy, but the man shifted his body, blocking Nolan’s view.

Leaning around the man, Nolan addressed the boy: “You look tired, little man. It must be way past your bedtime.” The boy looked at Nolan; his lower lip seemed to tremble, but he said nothing.

“He’s shy with strangers,” the man said, as he maneuvered himself back between Nolan and the boy.

Like he was acting with you in the parking lot, Nolan thought. He turned back to the man. “If you’re heading north, you must have driven through that storm — that was some rain, wasn’t it?”

The man nodded. “Yeah, pretty bad.”

Nolan reached into his pocket and pulled out the toy soldier. He bent over and showed it to the boy. “Would you like this?” he asked. “This one doesn’t have a gun. He’s carrying the flag, and that means he’s very brave.”

The boy reached for the soldier, but the man tugged him back. “He can’t take that.”

“It’s all right, I have a whole box for my grandson.”

The man started to say something, then reached down and grabbed the boy’s hand. “We’ve got to get going.” He turned and hustled the boy to the back of the store, toward the bathrooms.

Nolan scanned the store, but he was alone. He walked to the front counter where the clerk crouched on a stool, his thumbs dancing across his phone. Nolan cleared his throat and pointed to the back of the store. “There’s something not right about the man and boy back there in the bathroom.”

The clerk looked up. “Are they sick? Because I don’t wanna be cleaning up anyone’s puke.”

“No, no, it’s the way the boy acts. They don’t act like a father and son. And the man is giving him candy at midnight.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what parent would do that? I think the boy might not be his. The police are looking for a kidnapped boy — maybe we should call the police.”

The clerk looked at the ceiling and scratched the back of his neck. “You want me to call the cops and report this dude for giving a kid candy late at night?”

Nolan shook his head. “It’s not just that. It’s everything — the body language, the way they interact — it’s not right.”

“Did the kid say something?”

“I tried talking to him, but he’s too afraid.”

The clerk stood. “Who said that’s his son, anyway? Maybe he’s an uncle.”

“Okay, even if I’m wrong, what does it hurt to call the police and have them talk to them? I just saw two deputies right down the road.”

“What does it hurt? The cops get pissed at me for wasting time, the store gets sued, and I lose my job. If you want to call the cops, go ahead — you don’t need me.”

“I would, but I don’t have a phone.” Nolan owned a phone, but he rarely used it. It could be in the car or even back at the hotel. The clerk shrugged and sat back down.

Nolan eyed the Jeep parked outside. If he could get the license plate, he could call the police when he got back to the hotel. Rushing outside, the first thing he noticed was the thick brown dust coating the Jeep. It looked like one of those cars someone would scrawl, “Wash Me” on. He cupped his hands around his eyes and peered inside. A blanket and pillow covered the back seat, but there was no car seat. Nolan walked around the back of the Jeep, and a green plastic tarp, sticking out from the bottom of the closed tailgate, hung over the license plate. He reached down and pulled the tarp away, revealing a Florida plate with a long mishmash of letters and numbers. Nolan repeated it out loud as he walked back to the store, but with nothing to write on, he would never remember it all.

Inside the store, the man was at the counter, and the clerk was handing out change. The man palmed the boy’s head and steered him toward Nolan and the door. Nolan put his hand out, grazing the man’s shoulder. “Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?”

The man stopped, turning just his head. “I told you, we need to get going.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just wondering …” Nolan hesitated. “I was wondering if the boy was okay. It seems awful hot to be wearing a sweatshirt and a hood.”

“How is that your business?”

“Well, if a little boy is sick or needs help, it’s everybody’s business — right?” The man glared at Nolan, but he said nothing and reached for the door handle.

“Why did you lie about where you’re taking that boy?” Nolan asked.

The clerk set his phone on the counter. The man glanced at the clerk and shifted back toward Nolan. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You told me you were heading north to Atlanta and drove through the same storm I did. I just checked, and that Jeep hasn’t been in any rain for a long time.”

The man lifted his shoulders, rose to a full head taller than Nolan, and said, “Look, pops, you’re confused. You’re the one who started talking about a storm — I never said anything about rain.” He jabbed his finger at Nolan. “Just stay away from me and my boy.”

“Is he?”

“Is he what?”

“Is he your boy?”

As the man looked over at the clerk, Nolan stooped, trying to lower his head to the boy’s level, but his knee gave way. He grabbed at a wire display case, pulling it to the ground, and dozens of bags of chips slid across the floor. Nolan, down on one knee, ignored the commotion.   “Are you okay, son? Do you need help?”

The boy’s face crinkled, the way little boys do before they start to cry. Backing out the door, the man pulled the hood of the boy’s sweatshirt. Pointing at Nolan on the floor, he said to the clerk, “You need to watch that old guy — I think he’s been drinking.”

Nolan pushed on his knee, grunting as he stood. He turned to the clerk. “We have to call the cops right now. That guy lied about where he came from. He covered up his license plate, too.”

“The kid looked fine. He was smiling a minute ago.”

Nolan slapped the counter. “Didn’t you just see him? He’s scared to death.”

“I’m not seeing what you’re seeing.” The clerk walked around the counter, lifted the display rack, and began picking up bags of chips. “I think you’re the one who scared him, knocking over the chips and crawling over to him.”

“You know what they do to little boys, don’t you? Are you going to just let this happen?”

“Look, man, you’ve been pretty mixed up since you got here. You can’t even run the gas pumps, and you’re knocking over stuff and not making sense. I don’t know if you’ve been drinking, but you’re messed up. If you want to call the cops, that’s up to you.”

“I don’t have my phone. Give me yours.”

“Not a chance, dude; I want no part of this.”

Nolan pushed the door open, his knee throbbing as he limped toward his car. The man pulled the boy toward the Jeep, and Nolan yelled, “Wait!” — his voice tinny and weak. As the boy disappeared behind the Jeep, Nolan climbed into his car and looked for his phone in the cup holder. Nothing. He dug his fingers deep between the seat and the console and felt the phone’s smooth plastic cover. He pinched the edge of the phone between his fingers and tried to lift it, but the phone was wedged in tight.

Out on the highway, a motorcycle roared by as the Jeep started moving. Nolan could see the clerk through the store window, his head again hunched over his phone. If the Jeep got back on the interstate, they’d be gone forever. There was no one else to stop them — only Nolan.

The Jeep turned to pass in front of Nolan, accelerating and heading for the highway. If he pulled in front of the Jeep now, he could block its path. With a crash in his parking lot, the idiot clerk would have to call the police. Nolan pressed the start button and shifted into drive, his right foot now on the brake. The Jeep was almost in front of him.

Nolan could see the boy’s head in the back seat, and he eased his foot onto the gas pedal.

He couldn’t let them leave.

He had to do this.

He floored it.

The Accord launched forward, but he was too late to get in front of the Jeep and smashed into the driver’s side with a metallic crack, followed closely by a thump as the Accord pushed the Jeep into the yellow concrete bollards that guarded the store. The front end of the Accord lodged into the side of the Jeep as Nolan kept his foot on the gas, and the Accord pressed forward, pinning the Jeep against the bollards. The man tried to back the Jeep up, but the pressure of the Accord pushing forward stopped him. He began to flail about inside the Jeep, like a moth trapped in a jar. He pushed on his door, but the front grill of the Accord was pressing against it, and it wouldn’t budge. The man yelled, but Nolan couldn’t make out the words, if there were any. The man leaned over to the passenger side and shook that door, but it was held shut by the bollards. He shook the steering wheel and yelled some more. He never turned back to look at the boy.

The boy sat in the back seat, just ten feet away from Nolan, his face trembling in quivering sobs. Nolan held his palms out to calm the boy. “It’s okay,” he said, although he knew the boy couldn’t hear him. “Be brave.” Nolan ached to get out and comfort the boy, but he knew that if he took his foot off the gas pedal, the man might free the Jeep. As a distant siren sounded, he shouted to the boy that help was coming.

Unable to leave the car, Nolan folded his arms across his chest and, feeling the toy soldier in his shirt pocket, placed it on the dashboard, as close to the boy as he could reach. The soldier held a painted American flag high with his right hand and planted his left hand on his hip as he prepared to march forward. Nolan’s action caught the boy’s attention, and he gazed at the soldier. As the sirens grew louder, gradually and gently, the sobs quieted. The police would be there soon to take the boy home. Anne would be proud.