Unlike Anything Else
Wilderstory 20
Quinn pulled in and parked on the far edge of the lot at Sugar’s Diner. She quickly scanned the property as she got out of her car.
The building looked old. Its brick facade was whitewashed from top to bottom. But it was clear it had seen other color schemes in the past, as countless curling scraps of pigment affirmed.
Red hand-painted lettering was applied to just about every flat surface — including the glass windows and door. Big block letters shared space with fanciful script and occasional decorative flourishes. Starbursts and arrows and things like mugs and pans with little curly wisps on top.
A woman was standing at the corner of the building. She held a cigarette in one hand, and was shielding her eyes from the sun with the other. She swiped a stray bit of ash from her apron as Quinn approached.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Quinn said, pulling her badge from a pocket inside her jacket.
The woman grinned. “Been a long time since someone called me that,” she snickered. She dropped her cigarette and pressed her heel over it. “You must be the Five-O they said was comin’.”
The name “Betse” was stitched into the top corner of her apron. She fiddled with her hair, pressing a few strands behind one ear.
“You must be Betse,” Quinn observed.
The woman nodded, squinting past her. “They said you’d be with your partner,” she said.
“He’s not my …” Quinn frowned, stepping over a concrete curb beside the woman.
She gathered herself. “I mean — he’ll be here in a minute,” she said, stiffly pushing her badge back into her jacket.
Another car pulled into the lot behind her, its tires crunching against stray bits of gravel.
Betse straightened. “Speak of the devil,” she motioned, lifting her chin toward the car. “I’d recognize federal plates any day.”
It was a brown AMC Hornet. Identical to what Quinn was driving, except for the color.
“Plus,” Betse chuckled, “they always seem to give you all the same rides.”
It was Ricky. He struggled out of the car, balancing a stack of notepads and a small cardboard box in one arm, as he closed the door with the other. He clenched a chewed up pencil between his teeth.
“Sorry I’m late,” he lisped.
Betse straightened her apron. “Break’s over. I need to get back. But I can talk with you again in a few.”.
Ricky mumbled a faltering thank you when she turned to leave. The bell on the door jingled as she stepped back into the diner.
Ricky tipped the bundle of notepads, letting the cardboard box slide off the top into one hand. He held it out to Quinn.
It was plain cardboard, and about the size of a box of nails. A heavy metallic clink came from inside as he dropped it into Quinn’s open hand.
“Compliments of Salvador,” Ricky said. “There’s more in the car.”
He freed the pencil from his lips and thumbed through the paperwork.
“There’s a woman who was here with her grandkids the morning after the incident,” Ricky said, consulting his notes. “She gave a description of a girl who matches the one from the bus, along with our unidentified kidnapper.”
“And then there’s the waitress,” he continued, nodding in the direction of the diner.
“The old lady comes here every day for coffee, so we arranged to see them both.”
Ricky slid the pencil back between his teeth and buried his face, once again, in his notes.
Quinn had to smile at the sight. The glasses. The tie. The notepads. The pencil.
After a moment, he paused and looked up.
“What?” He asked.
Quinn grinned. “Nothing,” she said.
She took a moment to gaze around the lot, taking in the details. Narrowing her eyes, she imagined the daily churn of vehicles that passed in and out.
“Why don’t you go in and get set up,” Quinn said. “I’m going to take a look around.”
Ricky nodded and shuffled past.
Traffic sounds from the nearby highway filled the air with a constant wooshing sound, punctuated by the occasional grind of large trucks. Quinn watched after Ricky, who swung himself awkwardly through the ringing door.
Alone, she wandered slowly along the front of the diner, kicking loosely at a pile of cigarette butts on the ground. Through the glass windows, she could see the lingering remains of the the morning’s breakfast crowd on the tables inside. At the front the edge of each sat a decorative juice glass filled with tattered flowers, brown and curling in the filtered sun.
She continued past them to the end of the building, where she lingered at the corner window. A bundle of bright purple and green caught her eye, bulging out of the top of the last glass.
Odd, she thought. But not helpful.
She turned the corner, stepping along a sliver of shade that followed the edge of the building to the back.
The rear of the building was unpainted, with black patches of tar running along random cracks. A mess of cables from the roof connected to a nearby electrical pole, casting bleak stripes along the ground and sharply up the wall.
Quinn stopped in front of the metal back door. It was rusted, to the point that it almost matched the color of the bricks. A pair of cartoon eyes, roughly painted, peeked over a No Parking Sugars Staff Only sign at its center.
The concrete at her feet was broken, giving way to sandy patches of soil and weeds. Quinn’s gaze followed a worn path that ran from the back door to a pair of large metal dumpsters. One for trash, the other for grease.
They were nearly butted up against each other. But through the narrow span between, Quinn noticed a glint of light.
It was chrome. Or maybe glass.
Bright and clean, she thought, unlike anything else here.
Quinn walked slowly toward its source. And as she rounded the large metal bins, it came into view.
An Arizona highway patrol car. Champaign colored, and draped in a fine layer of dust.
In spots along the rear end and side, the dust was smeared away — as if someone had rolled themselves unevenly along its length. The door on the driver’s side interrupted the smooth contours of the vehicle. It was shut, but not completely.
Quinn stepped carefully toward it, navigating the narrow space between herself and the dumpsters. The rolling noise of traffic from the highway was muted, mingled now with the stray buzzing of flies from the garbage.
She peered into the car as she passed the side windows. Jutting from the dash was the police radio. Its coiled rubber cord hung in a low arc, ending with the handheld mic on the seat.
Quinn pulled lightly at the door handle. It was unlocked, and the door creaked open enough for her to slide inside. She began to reach for the radio mic, but stopped short.
Laying her cardboard box on the passenger seat, she removed the pistol from her side holster. With a click, she swung open the cylinder, letting the bullets slide into her hand.
Quinn set them aside and opened the cardboard box. A tightly packed array of new bullets glimmered inside, filling the box from edge to edge. They almost glowed. Fresh and metallic smelling.
There was a slash of blue paint running across all of their headstamps.
“Salvador,” Quinn smiled.
She fumbled with the box, trying to pry one out with her fingernail. Giving up, she tipped it sideways — letting the contents jingle out into her open hand.
A loud clacking sound rang out from the radio speaker, followed by a garble of static.
Quinn set her gun aside and grabbed the handset. She clicked the button with her thumb, on and off, holding it close to her cheek. A muffled voice was on the other end, but it was cut off by more static.
She struggled with the receiver, lightly turning the frequency knobs on the radio with her free hand.
Then it hit her.
It was a sound. But it was something she felt more than heard.
A single thump.
And it was coming from the back of the car.
