Making Monsters: First Man Adam

By David Franklin Tibbetts

When Adam Street arrives in the small desert town of Burgundy on his Harley, he likes it and decides to stay. It seems as good a place as any to try to escape his past.

Adam is the result of a secret government-run genetic experiment. He was born to the world with some rare qualities; among them supernatural strength and speed, including h

• Language: English
• Publisher: LitFire Publishing
• Release date: Feb 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781643985947

David Franklin Tibbetts

David Franklin Tibbetts went to Brigham Young University and Utah Valley Community College (now Utah Valley University). He graduated with an Associate's Degree in Theatre Studies from UVCC. He went on to the University of Utah, where he earned his Bachelor of Arts Degree in the performing arts (Theatre Studies). He is the author of many unpublished short stories and screen plays and has begun several novels, and sequels to Making Monsters, which he hopes to have published soon. David lives with his beautiful wife, Sue, in the small town of Tremonton, Utah, where they spend most of their summer in the saddle of a Harley-Davidson.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was early summer. The sun was shining but it was a cool day, especially for early June this far south. The thermostat showed mid-seventies; normally, it would be around ninety. There were some scattered clouds but nothing that looked like rain. In fact, humidity was low again, which was normal. And there was no wind to blow up the dust. It was a nice Monday.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, Marci heard the familiar rumble of a Harley-Davidson pull in, out by the pumps. She recognized it as one of the classics. Enough bikes had gone through the station that she could distinguish the unique sound of a Harley. The potata-potata-potata emitted from the pipes had the distinct ring of an old panhead or shovelhead. She stepped out to assist the customer.

He was young and strangely handsome, probably thirty. He wielded a full, three-inch long beard. His wavy, dark hair was combed back and hung a couple of inches past the bottom of the collar of his leather coat. He wore a red, white, and blue dew rag with an eagle’s head at the front and a wing on each side that spread to the back of the scarf. He was dressed in light-brown, fringed leathers (the mountain man look) with an American flag patch that covered the back of his jacket; embroidered underneath the flag on the patch were the words, Try Burning This Flag, Dirtbag. He looked to be five-ten. It was hard to tell his physical frame. Leathers often overstate the stature of a man. He did look solid as far as Marci could tell.

Can I help you? she asked, wiping the grease from her hands with a red rag. I suppose you’ll want to fill her up yourself? Most bikers do.

He surprised her with a gentle smile, Yes ma’am. I’d prefer.

She was taken back again by his gravelly voice. She automatically took him as a smoker; bummer.

No problem. She paused momentarily. I noticed that it’s a panhead but I’ve never seen one with a belt drive.

Because the belt didn’t hit the market until eighty-three, or there about. Lot o’ old timers like the chain…you know, the purists. But the belt gives it a smoother ride.

Yeah, I suppose it would, she said, as she squatted down for a closer look. What year is it?

Fifty-two. It was a piece of junk when I bought it. I stripped it down to the last nut and bolt and built it from the ground up about six years ago. At first, I was going to keep it all original because it’s a classic, but then I decided that if I was gonna put all the miles on it that I planned to put on it, it better be solid and comfortable. So I made some riding alterations; one was the belt drive. I bored out the cylinders to ninety-six cubes and machined my own stabilizer bars. I set it up with rubber mounts and fitted it with air shocks.

It was flat black with turquoise pinstripes and a barely visible, airbrushed turquoise panther head on each side of the gas tank. There was a lot of chrome and skeleton head features on it, too; the appearance of a real badboy. His personality and his smile didn’t seem to reflect the looks of his bike.

Well, she’s pretty. But I got to get back to work.

She stood and turned to leave.

I’ll be in the garage when you’re ready to pay, she said.

What if I ride off without paying?

He grinned.

She glanced back at him.

Will you?

She smiled and disappeared into the garage.

She was a little befuddled because up close, he didn’t smell like smoke and leather tends to hold the musty aroma. She didn’t care for smokers; not them personally, just the smell; their choice, just not hers. Maybe his throat was raw from too many miles on the road. Who knows? He seemed like a pretty nice guy, nonetheless. She was a little taken by him; not his looks, but the aura of goodness that she sensed around him.

After filling his tank and running a quick once-over on the bike; oil, tire pressure, etc. – he stepped into the garage.

There was a 1975 Ford Hi-boy on the lift and Marci was working on the front end.

The full coveralls couldn’t hide her figure. She was five-five and maybe one-twenty, soaking wet. She wore a welder’s cap and her auburn hair was tucked into the neck of her coveralls in a thick braid.

I owe you twelve bucks, the man said, as he stepped into the garage.

Okay.

She turned to take his money.

I was wondering what you might charge to borrow a screwdriver, he asked. She’s running a little rich.

You just passing through?

I don’t know yet. I’m touring. I try to pick up occasional temp work if I can find something. Then, I might hang around for a couple of days.

Dinner.

It surprised her that she said that. It just popped out and she couldn’t understand why. Her face automatically blushed a little.

What? he said.

His eyebrows lifted.

They were both quiet for a moment, as she searched her brain and looked up into his sunglasses. She re-mustered her confidence.

That’s the charge, she said. My treat.

She gave him an inquiring look.

Are you a mechanic? she asked.

I’ve turned a few wrenches.

Good, if you can help me get this beast finished up by five, she pointed at the pick-up, The gas is on me, too.

I’ll be glad to help you out, but I can pay for the gas.

The laborer is worthy of his hire.

What’s that mean?

Haven’t you ever read the bible? Jesus said that. It means you work, you get paid. You help me with this truck, gas and dinner are on the house. I kind of picked you as a little brighter than that.

She smiled. She couldn’t believe how comfortable she felt with this stranger, but it was a good feeling.

You’re a little saucy, aren’t you? the man said.

She laughed. It was musical.

Three brothers will make you that way.

He got his bike and wheeled it into the garage. He placed his sunglasses in a carry pouch that was attached to the handlebars of his bike.

In just a few minutes he was done making the adjustment. He cranked it up. It sounded good and he shut it down again.

I can test it for you, to check your accuracy, Marci offered.

That’s okay. Don’t need it.

That’s confident.

Not really. I just know my bike and have kind of an instinct for these things.

Ooh. Zen H.D., huh?

He smiled that gentle smile again.

As she wiped her hands with a grease rag, she said, Well, considering the fact that I’m taking you to dinner tonight, my name’s Marci, Marci Tumbridge.

She stuck out her hand. He took it.

Sorry. Adam, uh, Street.

She gave him a quizzical look, I’m not the F.B.I. or anything. What’s your real name?

I’m serious. It’s the name I was given at birth. Why? Is there something wrong with Adam?

It’s not Adam I’m talking about.

He laughed, I know it’s a bit unusual but it really is my name. Trust me.

Do I have a choice?

He shrugged and pulled out his wallet. He handed her his driver’s license. There it was; Adam’s photo, the beard had just started, and Adam’s name – Adam Street.

Sorry. Your name is a bit different. And you hesitated saying it, like you weren’t sure if you should.

I get a little nervous around pretty girls, he smiled.

That’s got to be the lamest pick-up line in the book, pal.

His mouth dropped open.

No, I wasn’t, uh, trying to, uh, that’s not what I meant, it was just a…

She smiled broadly and chuckled , Let’s get to work on this Hi-boy and go eat.

…compliment, he said quietly.

She pulled a pair of coveralls from a shop locker that fit Adam a little big. They belonged to her father. He slipped out of his leathers and pulled them on.

She was putting in a lift kit. The rear had already been completed and all she had left was the installation of the front. Marci got him acquainted with her tools and showed him where the parts were and they got to work.

She was obviously a neat freak; a little OCD, he thought. Everything in her tool boxes were in a specific order. Wrenches were laid in the box from the smallest to the largest, evenly spaced, and glistened like new; standards were separate from metrics, opened end and boxed were apart, as well. Her screwdrivers hung in racks attached to her toolboxes; types and sizes in order – standards on the left and Phillips on the right, and the stars and odd drivers were on the sides of the other box. Her sockets were in metal boxes and ran from smallest to largest; each size of ratchet (quarter, three-eights, half, and so on). Flex handles and extensions were placed in a drawer with the appropriate socket set, etc. The big tools were the same. They hung on the walls according to size and type and placed where they may be most likely needed. She lived by that rule, ‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’ And clean – the only area that was dirty was where she was working. Adam had never seen any place like it except at the lab or in a doctor’s office. Okay, that was an exaggeration, but it was definitely the cleanest garage he’d ever seen.

Marci was surprised at how deft Adam’s hands were at mechanics. Parts slipped into place as if they knew that’s where they belonged and they wanted to be there. His hands were as skillful with tools as a surgeon’s; and he was fast. She was impressed.

The pump bell rang.

Back in a minute, she said and disappeared out the doorway.

It was Rush Kendall at the pump with his ’65 GTO; gleaming black with thin pink pin-stripes down the sides and outlining the hood. Airbrushed in pink, white, and pale blue, covering the hood was a large drawing of a ram head with blood-shot eyes, steam blowing from its nostrils, and a snarl on his face.

Rush’s two buddies were with him; Jack and Johnny Sacks. All of them were out of the car. Rush was leaning against the passenger door, between the vehicle and the pumps. Johnny was leaning against the hood in front of the grill with his hands in his pockets and Jack was sitting on the front passenger’s side fender, his feet pressed against the tire for balance.

Jack spit a slimy wad of chew saliva out in front of the car into the lot.

Rush was a big cowboy; six-two, two hundred thirty pounds and all muscle. He wore a straw cowboy hat, a pocket T-shirt, Levi’s, and green/yellow, snake skin, pointed-toe boots. He was clean shaven and sported a mullet.

He had been a bully ever since Marci could remember. And he had wanted Marci as his girl since they were in the seventh grade together.

She never liked boys like Rush – arrogant, tough, spoiled, and stupid.

His two friends, Jack and Johnny, were a couple of poor, gangly boys with low self-esteem and no social skills. Their hair was a little long, stringy, and dirty. Jack donned a T-shirt and jeans and Johnny wore full coveralls. Both of them wore work boots and a baseball cap, Johnny’s was turned around backwards. There were eight years between them but they looked about the same age.

They hung out with Rush because it made them feel tough. Nobody messed with Rush Kendall, so nobody messed with them.

How much do you need, boys?

That depends on what you’re offering, Marci, Rush said.

The other boys started laughing.

He continued, I figure if you check my dipstick, I could give you a good lube job.

And I figure if you don’t watch your filthy mouth, I can break your jaw with a tire iron, she said, flatly.

That angered Rush.

You better watch your mouth, sister, or I’ll quit acting like a gentleman.

I’ve never seen you act like a gentleman, Rush.

The Sacks boys chuckled.

How much gas do you want?

Maybe I don’t want gas. Maybe I came for you.

That ain’t gonna happen. So you might as well fill-up.

Rush grabbed Marci roughly by the arm. It’s gonna happen someday whether you like it or not.

She shook her arm loose and tried to move away. He grabbed her braid, jerking her head back. She nearly fell down.

Adam stepped into the bay doorway.

Let her go, pal, he said.

Rush’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

He pushed Marci away and marched over to Adam, saying, I ain’t your pal.

Then, he picked Adam up in a bear hug.

Adam thrust his arms out, breaking the hold. He dropped to his feet and Rush threw a quick right cross. With unbelievable speed and agility, Adam caught Rush’s wrist with his left hand, twisted his arm to his side, and brought his right hand to Rush’s throat. He shoved the bigger man against the door frame, nearly taking him off his feet. He moved in close and stared up into Rush’s face. He emitted a low, deep-throated growl. No one could hear it except Rush. He got a close look at Adam’s eyes and turned white.

Jack and Johnny started to move in. Adam turned his head quickly toward them, his brows furrowed, his eyes narrow.

Get in the car, he said quietly. I can break his neck with just one quick twist of the wrist.

They stopped and stared at him. Adam continued his glare. They went back and clamored into the car. Adam turned his attention back to Rush.

I’m going to let you go now. You are going to get back in your car and drive away. Understand?

Rush slowly nodded his head. Tears leaked out of the outside corners of his eyes. His face was red and puffed.

Adam released him. Rush stumbled over to his car, coughing.

Just before getting in, he croaked out, You’re a freak, man.

He got in the car and drove away, smoking his tires as he went into a U-turn that steered him back toward town.

Adam walked over to Marci. She stared at him.

Are you okay? he asked. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lose it, like that.

She continued to stare at his face.

Marci? he asked.

Your…eyes. I hadn’t really paid any attention, you know – to detail. You had sunglasses on at the pump, then we got busy and…wow…you have the strangest eyes I’ve ever seen. She stepped back a pace. And where did you learn to fight like that? I’ve never seen anybody move that fast. It was cat-like. Her eyes lit up. Just like your eyes. It was awesome.

She smiled and her face glowed.

No it wasn’t, Adam said. Awesome would have been steering clear of violence.

Bull, she said firmly, her smile disappearing.

She stuck her finger in his face.

Awesome is knowing when to be and when not to be violent, and maintaining complete control on the ‘when to be’. What you did was awesome.

Maybe I better hit the road. I seem to run into this kind of trouble wherever I go.

No way. You owe me a dinner date, she said, matter-of-factly. You aren’t going anywhere.

I promised to help on this pick-up. But when it’s done, I’m gone.

No. You made me two promises and I’m holding you to them; and the second was dinner.

Actually, dinner was the first one, He sighed. I don’t want to get you into trouble because of me.

I don’t get into trouble and you’re not going anywhere until after dinner. A man should be good for his word.

There was a long pause as she stared into his face.

Then, she said, Shouldn’t he?

Adam slumped his shoulders.

Yes, he should. But not at the expense of others.

Good. Then, it’s settled. We’re on for dinner.

That’s not what I’m saying.

He tried to convince her that he might be cause for more trouble, but she wouldn’t hear it. A few minutes of discussion passed and a police car pulled into the lot.

See, Adam sighed, throwing his hand in the direction of the cruiser.

A cop, in his early thirties, got out of the car. He wasn’t a big man; five-nine, a hundred-seventy pounds – but he walked with an air of confidence. What caught Adam’s eye was his side arm. He wore a long barrel colt .45 six shooter in a low-hanging draw holster.

Marci, the cop nodded. Then, looking at Adam, he said, And you must be all the trouble I just heard about.

He was roughing up the lady.

Oh, I figured as much. The kid’s a giant butthole. I just wanted to see the monster that stunned him. That idiot isn’t afraid of anybody, and I think he soiled his pants after dealing with you.

The officer chuckled.

I’m sorry, sir, Adam said. I don’t like acting out like that. He took me by surprise, kind of.

Well, son, what I’m really interested in is your eyes. He told me about them, too.

Adam lowered his head and slowly shook it.

Come on. Let’s have a look, the cop said with a smile.

Adam lifted his head and let the officer look closely at his face. Adam’s eyes were just like a cat; a narrow slit of a pupil, running vertical, with golden irises.

Well I’ll be. How on earth did you get eyes like that? They look just like a cat’s.

It’s called felis oculi syndrome. I inherited it from my mother.

Does it affect your vision?

In a way. I see things like any other human being during the day, and it’s all in color. But ironically, I have better night vision because of them. The only thing I hate about them is the attention they draw.

The officer chuckled again, Well, I won’t bother you anymore about it, but after talking to Kendall, I had to see it for myself, buddy. By the way, the name’s Kyle Rudolph and welcome to Burgundy.

He put out his hand and Adam took it. It was a solid, confident hand-shake.

Adam Street, sir.

Don’t call me sir. Kyle works just fine.

Kyle, Marci said. Rush really got aggressive with me, today. I’m used to him being pushy and obnoxious but he grabbed my hair and jerked my head back; nearly taking it off. It hurt. He was more than a bit scary. I was grateful that Adam was here.

I can arrest him, Marce, if you press charges. And I’d be glad to do it, too. But that’s up to you.

I don’t want to do that. If you could talk to him, you know, just warn him or something, I would appreciate it.

I’ll take care of it.

Kyle tipped his head to Adam, smiled at Marci and turned around. He got in his car and headed back to town.

He seems like a pretty nice guy. Most cops take one look at me and want to run me out of town or put me in jail.

Can you blame them? Bad-ass biker; degenerate hippie; beats up the neighborhood kids; and has cute little kitty eyes. You’re a scary guy. She grinned. Now, how about that truck?

As they walked into the garage, Adam said, You’re gonna take some getting used to, I think.

Me? she said with exaggerated surprise and innocence.

You are the strangest woman I have ever met.

Marci laughed out loud.

Chapter 2

"O rder whatever you like," Marci said.

I’m a pretty healthy eater, Marci, Adam replied.

That’s okay. I can afford it.

He mulled over the menu for a couple of minutes.

The steak and salmon look pretty good but it’s twenty-two bucks.

I told you, whatever you want. Stop feeling guilty. If I had to pay you for your work today, steak and salmon would be cheap wages.

Yeah, well, you bought my gas, too.

Ooh, twelve bucks.

The server showed up. Maxine was an older woman, mid-forties, but very pretty. Her bleached blonde hair was big like the old cowgirls. Her make-up was a bit heavy with long fake eyelashes. Her cleavage, under her ruffled blouse, gave the impression of very voluptuous breasts. Her tight Levi’s exposed the finer shape of her derriere. She could attract the attention of any male beyond puberty.

Hey, Marce, how’s business? Can I get you a drink while you’re deciding?

Business is good, Max. I just hired on new help today.

Adam shot her a look.

If I could just get him to order, we might get to eat before breakfast.

Fine, Adam said.

He looked at Maxine.

I’ll have the steak and salmon and the all-you-can-eat salad buffet.

He clapped his menu shut and handed it to her.

And to drink?

Water.

Marci said, You can have anything.

Water, he said.

How do you want your steak?

Medium-rare or rare, whichever leaves it bloody.

Potato?

Fries, smothered in brown gravy.

Mm, that sounds good. Okay, how about you, Marci?

Fish and chips; and a Diet Pepsi.

That’s it? Adam asked.

It’s a good meal.

No wonder you’re so skinny.

I’m not skinny.

You need to put some meat on those bones if you’re gonna do the kind of work you do.

I’ve been working that shop for years. I’m pretty tough, buddy. Don’t give me any of your…

Maxine cut her off. Don’t make me put you two in separate corners. I can’t have kids fighting in here. We are a respectable establishment and it’s bad for business.

They laughed along with some nearby customers who found the scene funny. Maxine turned away to deliver the order to the kitchen. Adam’s eyes followed her to the kitchen doors. Marci caught Adam.

Ahem, she coughed. She’s a little old for you, hot pants.

Adam turned red with embarrassment.

What? I was just seeing where she was going.

I suppose her butt could tell you, Marci said with a smile. But you should roll your tongue back into your mouth, clean the saliva off your chin, and go get your salad.

Adam smirked. What is it with women that they think a man’s mind is always on sex.

I don’t know, she said. Probably, because it is.

Adam stood up, rolling his eyes and went to the salad bar.

It wasn’t bad. It didn’t compare to Chuck-a-rama, but it was a pretty good salad bar. They had three types of lettuce, there was spinach, cherry tomatoes, two different types of beans, ham chunks, and shredded Colby-Jack cheese, along with cauliflower and broccoli, and peas and corn. At one end of the bar were cottage cheese, peaches, pears, and green jell-o; plus three types of salad dressings; ranch, French, and Italian. He loaded his plate with all the greens and extras, with a generous helping of ranch, and he returned to his seat.

Johnny Boys was a fair sized restaurant. It was split into two dining areas. The larger room could hold about forty people and the smaller room maybe twenty-five. The larger room had a fountain/counter that seated another ten.

Marci told him that Burgundy was founded in 1880.

Eight years later someone built a saloon. The saloon was made up of the large dining area and a bar where the fountain sat today. In 1924, two brothers bought it and turned it into a restaurant.

Sometime in the early sixties, they bought the office space next door and knocked out part of the wall for an entryway.

The large room still had most of the original tables and booths and a few of the original chairs; all having been refurbished and repaired over the years. The replacement furnishings that were brought in over time were built in a style that complimented the western atmosphere and authenticity of the place. The benches in the booths, which were originally wooden, had been recovered with a brown Naugahyde over cushions to give a more comfortable sit for clientele, yet still maintain the ‘old west’ appearance.

The fountain and counter, and the full upper-wall mirror behind it, were bought from an old drugstore that was destined for demolition back east somewhere. The owners of Johnny’s discovered it in the classifieds of one of those restaurant supply magazines when they were fixing up the newly acquired room, back in the sixties. The timing was perfect.

The drugstore had been built in the 1930’s and the entire fountain set-up had been with that store from its beginning. The drugstore went out of business because it was prepped for demolition, along with other small businesses in the area. The town there was putting up a new mall. The drug store sold everything they could to come out ahead. The corporation that bought them out gave them about twenty percent over value but it was still taking away their livelihood. So they felt to make money where they could. And rather than see the beautiful fountain demolished, they sold it.

The marble counter matched up well in Johnny’s and they got it for pennies on the dollar. They tore out the old bar and replaced it with the fountain. They reupholstered the stools to match the décor of the restaurant.

The walls and floors of the entire restaurant were a tuck and groove oak and decorated with old western antiques and photos; pictures of all the mayors and council members over the years, some of the founders of the area, influential people, and many of the businesses that had come and gone, had been placed on the walls throughout the establishment.

So tell me, how does a restaurant like this do so well in such a small town? Adam asked.

Good food, good service, I guess, Marci said. People come for miles to eat here. People from Phoenix, Albuquerque, Vegas, and St. George have eaten here. Word gets around about the excellent food and the reasonable prices. The beef and pork come from local farmers and it’s butchered at our local meat packers. The stock is fed corn-rich feed and it’s hung and cured just right. The ranchers get top dollar for their stock. And because it’s all local, there is no shipping cost for the restaurant. As a result, Johnny’s can give good prices for high quality food. I don’t know much about farming or butchering but what I do know is that the people in this area take pride in what they do. When you try that T-bone, you’ll see what I mean.

It’s a T-bone? Usually, it’s just a sirloin.

Not at Johnny’s.

No wonder you stay here.

I graduated from Cornell in business. I came back here to take over my father’s shop because after seeing other parts of the country, I didn’t want to be anywhere else. Small town America is where life is truly lived.

It sounds like a nice place to settle down.

Marci smiled at that.

They shared a little small talk. Adam avoided questions that were too personal. Marci was thoughtful enough to let them slide. Most of the conversation was Marci talking about her hometown and the people who lived there – and Rush, the banker’s son.

He was a big kid all his life. His dad’s a control freak. He wants to own the entire town. For instance, one of our fuel tanks developed a leak. We had to replace it and pay to have the surrounding soil purified of petroleum. It cost us a small fortune. We had to borrow from the bank. Rush’s dad’s was the only bank that saw it as a viable loan. The other banks thought the shop was too old to invest in. I think Clayton Kendall hoped that he could steal it from us through default or something. It’s a twenty year loan. For some reason, Rush got it in his head that it means I owe him personal favors.

He seems dangerous.

He’s never been mean, like today, just obnoxious. You know, a bully, pushing and shoving and mouthy. I’ve noticed that he’s been getting more aggressive over the past six months or so; not just to me, but others. He had assault charges brought against him two months ago for beating up Stevie Grimes, the assistant manager at the hardware store. He beat him pretty badly. He always picked on Stevie; ever since he was a senior and Stevie was a sophomore in high school – but he had never hit him or hurt him. You know, just hazing. Stevie was kind of a nerd.

Stevie? No wonder he got picked on.

Yeah, I know. It was his birth name. Not S-t-e-v-e-n or S-t-e-p-h-e-n, but Stevie. Makes you wonder what goes through a parents head when they name their kids.

So what happened to the assault charges?

Rush’s dad paid Stevie twenty thousand dollars to drop the charges. Stevie agreed to it on condition that Rush never bother him again. Rush had to apologize to him and he left him alone after that.

Is he doing drugs?

Rush? I don’t know, maybe.

Those punks he hangs out with look the type.

She chuckled and smiled.

I hate to tell you, buddy, but you look the type; Harley, long hair, beard.

Hey, Harley riders get a bad rap.

Oh really, she said in a baby voice, drawing a frown from Adam.

She smiled and said, You know the difference between a Harley/Davidson and a Hoover vacuum cleaner?

No. What?

The position of the dirtbag.

She burst into laughter. Adam flipped a chunk of broccoli at her.

Before she could retaliate, Max showed up with their main dishes.

No food fights, young man, Max said with a smile.

Sorry, Adam said, embarrassed.

She placed his plate down. Here ya go.

It was a huge steak; perfectly bloody, too – nearly an inch thick and weighed over a pound. The salmon filet was a six inch square and just as thick as the steak. The rest of the plate was covered in French fries and gravy. She set a small bowl of carrots and string beans next to his plate.

Now, this is a meal, Adam said.

His face lit up.

Good luck eating it all. You just put down a massive plate of salad, Marci said.

Salad doesn’t fill you. And if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s putting away food.

After Maxine had finished serving them, she went to check on another table. She no sooner left and Adam bowed his head and silently said grace.

Marci assumed that’s what it was because he closed his eyes and bowed his head. No sounds were made, but his lips moved like they were forming words. It took her back a little. She was impressed.

Do you always say a blessing on your food?

Yes. God’s been good to me.

What are you, a Mormon?

No. But I’ve had a pretty rough life, so I’m grateful for anything that brings me a moment of happiness; like today.

He smiled.

Maybe we can talk about it sometime, Adam; your life, I mean.

He smiled an avoidance smile and they ate in silence.

This was the strangest man Marci had ever met, and she liked him.

Chapter 3

They left the restaurant in Marci’s hot pink ’66 Mustang. It had matching mags all the way around with big fatty tires on the back and low-profiles on the front. She jacked up the rear end enough to give the back tires clearance in the wheel wells and flared the rear fenders so that they covered the tires and gave it some style. It had two and a half inch pipes with glass packs. When she cranked up the engine, the 352 modified with the Holley four-barrel carburetor rocked the car back and forth and the thunder from the pipes rattled windows in any nearby houses.

She didn’t do it often, but occasionally it was kind of fun to show off. And yes, she did it for Adam the first time he got in the car at the shop to go to dinner. She left a forty foot patch of rubber outside the station when they left and squealed the tires three out of the four gears. She could have gotten another squeak out of fourth but she had to slow down for town. It had a high performance rear end to withstand the occasional outbursts of power.

When they pulled out of the restaurant parking lot, she didn’t do any showing off. Once was enough.

She looked at Adam and said, I can’t believe how much you ate.

I warned you.

But you don’t have an ounce of fat on you.

I have a hyper metabolism rate. I’ll be hungry, again, by midnight.

How can you afford to eat?

I’ve learned to control my hunger. I don’t usually eat a lot at a meal, but I was starving tonight. I try to eat smaller meals several times throughout the day, instead of three. I eat a lot of complex carbs and proteins; and lots of vegetables. I try to stay away from processed foods and sugar as much as I can; they burn too fast – and I have a high risk for diabetes. But I eat a lot of spuds, brown rice, whole grains; things like that.

Wow. You know a lot about diet.

I know a lot about my diet. I have to. I was born with a lot of, oh, you might say… differences. He changed the subject. Talk about different; what got you interested in mechanics? I’m no sexist, but there aren’t a lot of women that work on cars, or know much about them for that matter.

The shop’s been in the family for four generations, my father wanted to retire.

What about your brothers?

She stared forward in silence for a moment. She bit down on her bottom lip. A dark fog seemed to fill the interior of the car.

Dead, she said flatly, melancholy straining through her voice.

I’m sorry.

The oldest was gunned down at the beginning of the Iraq war. Tears spilled over her eyelids and ran down her cheeks. The next one died helping a little girl in Baghdad. She was crying. He thought maybe she had lost her mother. She was four or five. There was a backpack strapped to her with a bomb inside. He didn’t see it until he reached for her. The bomb squad concluded that it was activated by remote; like a phone or an electronic device of some kind. Three of his comrades were seriously wounded by the blast.

She looked over at Adam, tears streaming down her face.

She said, Someone had strapped a bomb to a little girl to blow up a handful of men. What kind of monster would do that to a child?

She looked back to the road and took a deep breath and continued, My little brother was jogging down the highway two summers ago. He was a senior in high school and preparing himself to join the Marines when he graduated; like his brothers…and my dad, and my grandpa, my four uncles, and my great-grandpa – all on Daddy’s side. I don’t know if anyone beyond that had joined, but it became a family tradition, I guess. Anyway, Bud was hit by a car; hit and run. Nobody saw it. Kyle found him about a mile west of our station early in the morning. Never did find out who hit him.

Man, I’m really sorry, Marci.

She half smiled.

Don’t be. It’s been over two years since Buddy died; the youngest. My mom never really recovered from it after that. She died the next year; on the first anniversary of Bud’s death.

Marci continued to stare quietly out the windshield. Tears streaked her face and spilled onto her shirt.

There was nothing wrong with her, Adam. She just…died. She was sitting in the living room in the semi-darkness. Daddy came up from the basement and found her; dead, with Buddy’s picture in her lap. I mean, is that spooky or what?

She nearly choked out the last words.

Yeah, that is weird. Maybe, she died of a broken heart.

Maybe. I think Daddy held on for me. We’re all we have left.

She gave a heaving sigh and wiped the tears from her face with her hand. She smiled weakly at Adam.

I’m sorry, she said. I didn’t mean to do that. I mean, I hardly even know you, and to drop a brick like that in your lap, it’s…it’s just…I mean, I’m really sorry.

It’s okay. I’m glad you told me, he said with reverence. It says a lot about you; your character. He smiled. It explains why you’re so tough. You had to be. If you don’t mind me asking, what were your older brothers’ names?

Brent and Billy, Billy was named after Daddy.

She made a right turn.

Uh, what about my bike? Adam asked.

It’ll be okay.

If you want my help tomorrow, I’ll need a ride.

Not a problem.

So is this the way to the motel? I kind of thought it would be on Main Street.

You’re not going to the motel. You’re staying at my house.

I don’t want to put you or your father out, Marci. I can do a motel.

Nonsense, Daddy will be glad to have you and there’s plenty of room at our place. I can’t afford to pay you much, but I can afford to put you up. Of course after tonight, I’m not so sure I can afford to feed you.

She smiled mischievously.

I’m not sure I should stay at your house, Marci.

Why? We’re not going to sleep together.

I have my reasons.

So tell me.

I can’t.

Gee, that’s too bad. I guess you’re staying. If you can’t give me a reason why, I can’t let you go anywhere else.

Adam stared out the side window for a moment and then looked back at her.

Staying with you could be dangerous for you and your father, he said.

How? she asked.

I can’t tell you right now. It just is.

So what are you, a serial killer?

No, he said, a little agitated.

Well, bummer.

He turned back to the side window, defeated. Anguish pounded in his mind, drawing a tension headache. He needed this woman to be safe. He wished he could tell her everything.

Marci pulled into a half-circular driveway in front of a medium-sized, brick home. It was two stories with a porch large enough that it had a two-person swing on the side of the front door; the porch was one step above the yard. The circular drive was paved. Off to the side of the house was a river rock driveway that led to a double-car garage that attached to the side of the house. The house had a white picket fence in front with a walk-in gate by the sidewalk and a cement walkway that led to the front door through the paved driveway. There was a gate at each end of the drive and both swung inward and were open. Other than the lawn, the only garden décor were four rose bushes between the gravel drive and the front yard, along the side fence.

The place felt good to Adam.

They got out. He grabbed his bag out of the backseat. It was an old canvas military duffel bag. Marci led the way into the house.

The first one to greet them came bursting through a doggie door at the back of the kitchen. He was a five year old English boxer. He came sliding across the hardwood floor into Marci, nearly knocking her over; his huge tongue flopping all over his face and the bridge of his nose.

Brain! Settle down! Marci said, laughing and grabbing his ribs and scratching vigorously, getting him even more worked up. He slobbered kisses all over her face.

Then, he noticed Adam. His ears stood up as well as his eyebrows. He cocked his head to one side, then, to the other, and backed up a pace. He stared at Adam for a moment, moved nearer cautiously and sniffed his pant leg. He backed off again, lowered his ears, and emitted a quiet warning growl.

Brain? What is the matter with you? Marci said, while wiping the slobber off her face with the bottom of her shirt.

Don’t be upset with him, Marci. I have that initial affect on dogs. I don’t know why but they sense a threat from me.

But he isn’t like this. He loves everybody.

It’s not him, it’s me. There’s something that bothers them; cats, too. They adjust, but they need to get to know me. I promise it’ll be okay.

He squatted down and put his hand out to Brain. The dog elicited a quiet growl.

Marci’s eyebrows rose. She had never heard him growl at anyone; only at other animals.

Brain hesitated coming to the extended hand, turning his head back and forth, with a curious expression on his face. He looked up at Marci.

It’s okay, baby. Adam’s a good guy.

Come on fella. I’m not going to hurt you, Adam said.

Brain inched up to Adam. He looked back up at Marci. Marci squatted down next to Adam and put her hand on his shoulder. She stroked the back of Brain’s neck.

It’s okay, baby. Come on, she said.

Brain finally emitted a quiet groan and sniffed Adam’s extended hand. Adam turned it over, palm up. Brain began to sniff his arm, up one side and down the other. He remained cautious. Adam didn’t move until Brain pushed his head up under Adam’s hand. Then, Adam stroked his head and scratched behind his ears. But he remained quiet and Brain remained prudent.

Adam whispered, It’s good to meet you, boy, and then he slowly stood up.

Brain gave Adam another curious look and then trotted back outside; stopping momentarily at his entrance to look back at Adam. His eyebrows raised again and he slipped through the doggy door, the wooden flap squeaking back and forth as it came to a rest.

He just needs to adjust, that’s all, Adam told Marci.

That ranks about an eight on my weirdo-meter, Marci said.

I’ll try to explain it some time later. But I promise it isn’t Brain and it isn’t because I’m bad or evil or anything. But on a different day, it’ll all be clear, I promise.

She gave him a stern look. He sighed.

I promise, he insisted.

Marci wasn’t satisfied but she let it go.

Adam looked around at his environment. The room to the left of the entry was rustic. It had a dark stained hardwood floor. The walls were a tuck-and-groove, one-by-four, varnished barn wood. An old player piano sat at the right wall, opposite the outer wall which had a large nine-paned, picture window. A dark-red brick fireplace was centered on the opposite wall from the entry. Above the fireplace was a large family portrait framed in an old horse or ox collar. A couple in their forties sat in straight-back wooden chairs in the center; the two older brothers stood behind them; a much younger Marci stood to the left and her younger brother, just a kid, was on the right. All of them smiling and Buddy pulling a face while holding out the longhorn sign with his left hand (or you might call it the hang-ten sign if you’re from the west coast). There were several photos spread across the wall above and around the old piano; framed in barn wood, horseshoes, rope, and other homemade, western-style frames.

The first two that caught Adam’s attention, centered together over the piano, were the 16 X 20 oak frames, with a dark red stain. A Marine emblem was attached to the bottom center of each frame; a small American flag was attached on the upper right corner and a matching Marine flag on the upper left. Each Marine was in dress blues with a look of pride, honor, and integrity written in their eyes. No wonder Bud wanted to be like his brothers. Surrounding each photo were other pictures of the boys; in Iraq, high school, and as kids. Directly below each Marine photo, in a glass case, was an American flag folded in the proper triangular fold; the parental gift for a fallen soldier.

On the right side of the piano, hanging on the wall, was a memorial of Bud; a 12X16 senior photo, surrounded by pictures of him in football, wrestling, and track. Adam couldn’t help but notice what a solid kid he was; about five-eleven, Adam’s height, probably a hundred and eighty pounds, and lean and rippled. The boy was a true athlete.

On the left side of the piano was a graduation photo of Marci from college. Next to it was her high school grad photo in a smaller frame. She seemed to be quite an athlete herself. There were photos of her in volleyball and track. One frame had a certificate for breaking the state record in the mile and a first place ribbon hanging off beneath it.

Immediately left of the family photo, above the fireplace, was her parent’s wedding picture and on the right was a photo of her parents holding a poster paper with the number 25 written in huge letters in magic marker, encircled with colored drawings of flowers. Her father had a paper chain clasped around his neck, his tongue hanging out; and her mother stood on a stool, holding the end of the chain