The Walk Read online

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-one

  The time has come, the walker said, to talk of many things. Of crop circles and UFOs and the tourists these things bring . . .

  (My apologies to Lewis Carroll)

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  The next few days of travel were tedious and largely forgettable. I walked from Douglas to Coulee, Coulee to Wilbur and Wilbur to Davenport, averaging about 28 miles a day.

  Fortunately there were places along the way to stay and eat. In Coulee, I lodged at the Ala Cozy Motel and had a green chili burrito next door at Big Wally’s Shell Station and Bait and Tackle Shop. I only wished they sold T-shirts.

  Coulee had an industrial feel, and it made me miss walking in the mountains even more. I realized how fortunate I’d been that the first part of my walk had led me through nature and her healing. In this landscape, there was nothing to do but walk and think.

  It was a 30-mile walk to Wilbur—the biggest city I’d been through in days. Wilbur was a proper city with a bank, a real estate office, and a medical clinic. I stopped at the Eight Bar B Hotel, which claimed the “largest rooms in the county,” which seemed a reasonable claim. The hotel was located next to a small burger joint called the Billy Burger.

  I left my pack in the room, then went to the Billy Burger to get something to eat. I was famished, and I ordered the Wild Goose Bill Burger named after the founder of Wilbur, Wild Goose Bill. I was sure there was a story there, but I never got around to asking.

  The Billy Burger’s walls were lined with the largest (and only) salt-and-pepper-shaker collection I had ever seen, which included a pair of dice with Vegas written in gold glitter, a couple of hula girls, some politically incorrect Little Black Sambo shakers, a washer and dryer, and a seated JFK.

  They also sold Billy Burger T-shirts and a book chronicling the history of Wilbur, which I seriously doubt will ever hit the New York Times bestseller list, though stranger things have happened. I had noticed that nearly everything in Wilbur started with the letter B, and I asked the woman at the counter, Kate, why.

  “Good question,” she said. “A big shot Wilbur citizen, Benjamin B. Banks, had eight sons, and he and the missus, Belva, gave ’em all names startin’ with B.

  “He was big on hard work, so he made all his kids start businesses to fund their college tuitions. Billy Burger was Billy’s project. He sold it when he left for school.”

  That explained the Eight Bar B Hotel as well. As I was eating, I noticed a plaque on the wall.

  Certificate of Award

  Thanks to the Aliens who made

  Wilbur their Vacation Destination.

  Beneath the plaque was a framed, double-spread newspaper page with pictures of crop circles. I had seen these pictures somewhere before, but I didn’t know they had come from Washington. I got up to read the article.

  Apparently the little town of Wilbur had been blessed with crop circles not once, but twice. The first was discovered by a crop duster in the spring of 2007. The second appeared two years later, in 2009.

  I said to Kate, “This happened here?”

  “You betcha. Twice. Over at Jesse Beales’ place.”

  “What is it,” I asked, “local teens playing a prank?”

  The woman’s eyebrows fell. “No sir. Ain’t no one here done them. They came from the sky. There weren’t no tracks in nor out of the field. The trails you see on that picture there were caused by the tourists and UFO chasers.”

  “Tourists come to see these?”

  “Yes, sir. From all over the world. Really put Wilbur on the map. They come wearin’ football helmets wrapped in tinfoil and Jesus robes. Mr. Beales says those aliens owe him $500, and he’s gonna get it, even if he has to take it from their sorry green hides.”

  “That would be some headline,” I mused. “Farmer assaults aliens with pitchfork. World destroyed.”

  The woman didn’t smile.

  “Mr. Beales should just charge the tourists admission,” I said.

  She looked at me as if I’d just solved world hunger. “That’s a darn good idea. I’ll mention that next time he

  comes by.”

  “So you think the crop circles were made by aliens?”

  “No, sir.”

  I turned to face her. “But you said they came from the sky.”

  “Air Force,” she said, her voice dropping as if to avoid detection. “They done it.”

  “The Air Force did it?”

  “Yes sir. We got Fairchild Air Force Base just down the road a piece. They’re always conducting top-secret research. Probably some new, high-tech laser beam.”

  I thought of another headline but kept it to myself. Air Force declares war on Farmer Beales, burns circles in crops.

  “Course it could also just be aliens,” she relented. “It’s a strange world we live in. You never know.”

  “No,” I agreed, “you never know.” I sat back down and finished eating. “That was a good burger. Thank you.”

  “We got shakes too. Intergalactically famous.”

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-two

  It is good to walk. Even if you have somewhere to go.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  I was tempted to stop and see the crop circles but not curious enough to add the miles.

  Eight miles out of Wilbur, I stopped for breakfast at a roadside café in a tiny farming town called Creston, which, incidentally, I thought was a much better town name for an alien landing.

  I ordered biscuits, fried ham, and scrambled eggs, which I heavily seasoned with Tabasco sauce. The café’s chef and proprietor (he introduced himself as Mr. Saville), was a balding Korean War veteran with a Marines tattoo and the build of a greasy-spoon chef.

  It was as if Mr. Saville hadn’t talked to anyone for a few years as he spoke nonstop about whatever came to mind, though most of what came to his mind involved the New World Order conspiracy and 1992 Populist presidential candidate and former Delta Force commander “Bo” Gritz.

  Mr. Saville was a life-long resident of Creston and was proud to inform me that Harry Tracy, the final surviving member of the Hole in the Wall Gang, was shot at a Creston ranch not 3 miles from the café. I suppose every city has its claim to fame.

  I paid my bill, promised I’d buy Mr. Gritz’s book, and started off again. It was a long, dull day of walking, and the afternoon’s highlight was watching a bobcat cross the highway about 50 yards ahead of me. I wasn’t sure if I should be worried about the animal or not. I’d read that bobcats rarely attack humans and usually only when they’re rabid, which really isn’t a comforting thought since, if I had my druthers, I’d rather be attacked by a nonrabid bobcat. Just in case, I picked up a large rock from the side of the road, which turned out to be a total waste of motion since the cat was gone when I stood back up.

  It was twilight when I reached the town of Davenport—

  a real town with a Lion’s Club sign at its entrance. It also had a pretty good Mexican restaurant where I ordered the chile verde burrito combo plate and a flan dessert. McKale always ordered the flan dessert.

  As I was paying my bill, I asked the waitress where I should spend the night. The way she looked at me made me a little uncomfortable, and I was afraid that she was going to suggest her place. I was relieved when she suggested the Morgan Street Bed and Breakfast and Coffee Shop just a few blocks further down the highway. I left her a $5 tip, lifted my pack, and walked off to find the inn.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-three

  The proprietor at the Bed and Breakfast had been through Bali, China, Nepal, Europe, and death. But not in that order.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  The Morgan Street Bed and Breakfast was a quaint, Victorian-style home built in 1896. It was simple, as far as Victorian motifs go, though it still had some decorative spindling, a large, front-facing gable, and a Queen Anne turret with a bell-shaped dome.

  McKale would have loved this place, I though
t. McKale was a bed-and-breakfast connoisseur. As I wrote before, her surprise plan for our lost weekend was to stay in a bed and breakfast on Orcas Island. She had made a list of B&Bs in the Pacific Northwest, and every few months we’d hit one of them. One time, when I was too busy with work, she stayed in one on her own.

  I pushed open the wrought-iron gate and walked up to the porch. The front door was locked, so I rang the doorbell and almost immediately heard footsteps. A deadbolt slid, and the door opened to a middle-aged woman with silver hair and blue-rimmed glasses. She wore a yellow sweater over a red print dress.

  “May I help you?”

  “Hi. Do you have any vacancies?”

  She smiled. “Yes, we do. Come right in.” She stepped back from the door.

  I walked inside onto a Persian rug. The room was warm and elegant.

  “Just set your pack down right there,” she said, pointing to the floor next to the stairwell.

  “Thank you.”

  She walked over to a mahogany Victorian writing desk against the wall and pulled a register from a cubby. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I slid the pack from my shoulder and leaned it against the wall.

  “Your name, please.”

  “Alan Christoffersen.”

  She looked up. “Are you related to that singer?”

  “No. It’s not spelled the same.”

  She went back to her register. “Very well. We’ve only one other guest tonight, so you have your choice of rooms. They’re all nice, unless you have an aversion to stairs.”

  “I’m fine with stairs.”

  “They’re all the same price, too, except the honeymoon suite. I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting that.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “My name is Colleen Hammersmith. But you may call me Colleen.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll put you in the green room. It has a nice new mattress and duvet I picked out myself. I’ll just need your credit card and some ID.”

  I took out my wallet and pulled out the essentials. “There you go.”

  She swiped my credit card, then handed me back my card and license with a slip of paper and pen. “Please just sign there.”

  I signed the form.

  “And here’s your key.” She handed me a brass skeleton key. “You’re in room C, right at the top of the stairway. The bathroom is at the end of the hallway. It’s shared with the other room, but you’re the only one on the second floor tonight. My room is just down this hallway, to the left next to the kitchen. Please let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I retrieved my pack and carried it up the stairs. I unlocked the door, then stepped inside. The space was dimly lit by a brass floor lamp, and I turned on the overhead light.

  The room was tidy and feminine, decorated in typical Victorian style with cream walls adorned with framed pictures of flowers—lilies and daffodils—a gold-framed mirror, and shadow boxes displaying antique toys. There was a tall, antique French-style armoire and a small, leather-topped round table with ball-and-claw feet. In the center of the room, there was a large bed with a solid mahogany headboard and a floral-patterned duvet piled high with lace-trimmed shams.

  I took off my pack and laid it against the wall, then removed my parka and set it on top of my pack. I walked to the window and parted the curtains. The only view was of the Strate Funeral Home and parking lot across the street. I pulled down the blind, then undressed, laying my clothes and shoes at the foot of the bed. I pulled the duvet down to the foot of the bed, piled the shams in a corner of the room, then peeled back the sheets and lay back on the bed. The sheets smelled fresh, the way they did when McKale pulled them out of the dryer. In fact, the whole room smelled good, like lavender, and I noticed a purple fabric sachet on the nightstand next to me. The experience was a far cry from the shack I’d camped in only earlier in the week. As I lay there thinking, there was a knock on the door. Actually, more of a kick.

  “Just a minute,” I said. I got up and put on the robe that hung from the closet door, then opened the door. Mrs. Hammersmith stood there balancing a basket of blueberry scones in the crook of one arm and holding a saucer and a teacup filled with steaming water and a small wicker basket filled with tea and sweeteners.

  “I thought you might like some tea before you went

  to bed.”

  “Thank you.”

  She stepped past me, setting everything down on the nightstand. “There’s a spoon in the service.” She smiled at me. “Nothing like a spot of hot tea to help you sleep well.” She walked back to the door. “I won’t bother you anymore. Good night.”

  “Night.” I began to shut the door.

  “Mr. Christoffersen, I forgot to ask, what time do you think you’ll be wanting breakfast?”

  “Maybe seven, seven thirty.”

  “I’m an early riser so I’ll have the crossword done by then. I’ll be making my raspberry muffins and egg frittata. Do you eat ham?”

  “Yes.”

  “Frittata with cheddar and ham it is.” She turned and walked down the stairs. I shut the door and locked it, then turned off the light, leaving the room lit only by the floor lamp.

  I sat down on the bed and dropped a bag of tea into the cup. As it steeped, I took a bite of the scone. It tasted good, but I was still full from dinner, so I put it back in its basket. I lifted the tea bag out of the cup and lay it on the saucer, then poured in two packages of Sweet ’n Low. I stirred it with the spoon, then lay it, with the saucer, next to the bed. I slowly sipped the tea.

  The room was comfortable and warm, but I wasn’t happy there. The surroundings were too similar to what McKale and I had experienced together. It was like going to a party where the hostess was missing.

  My heart ached and I began fearing the onset of another panic attack. I set down my tea, turned out the lights, and climbed under the covers, hoping to fall asleep before panic found me.

  I woke around seven or so, the morning sun leaking through the sides of the drawn blind. I put on my robe, grabbed some fresh clothes and underwear, then walked down the hall to the bathroom and showered and shaved. Walking back to my room, I could hear the clinking of dinnerware downstairs in the dining room. The delicious smell of home cooking wafted upstairs.

  I hung up the robe, pulled my road atlas from my bag, and walked downstairs. To my surprise there were no other guests in the dining room. Mrs. Hammersmith smiled when she saw me.

  “Good morning, Mr. Christoffersen,” she said brightly.

  “Call me Alan,” I said.

  “Alan it is,” she replied. “I have a nephew named Alan. He’s quite an accomplished cellist.”

  “Then a name is all we share,” I said. “My musical ability is pretty much confined to my iPod.”

  She smiled. “I hope you’re hungry. I’ve always had trouble cooking for so few people. I always make too much food.”

  “I’m famished. Where would you like me to sit?”

  “Wherever you like. This table by the window is

  nice.”

  I walked over to it and sat down. “Am I the only guest here?”

  “You are now. The Gandleys left just a few minutes before you came down. Gigi was eager to get home to Boise. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She walked over to a service table to get the coffee pot. “Did you sleep well? Was the bed okay?”

  I hadn’t slept well, but the bed had nothing to do with it. “The bed was great. Very soft.”

  “Not too soft, I hope. It’s a new mattress. How was the room?”

  “The room is beautiful. My wife . . .” I stopped myself.

  “Your wife?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  She looked at me for a moment, then began pouring the coffee. “I’m pleased to hear you liked the room. I must tell you, one or two people have complained about the view of the funeral home. Personally, I just think
they were afraid of death.”

  “Well, I can understand that. Everyone fears death.”

  She stopped pouring and set the pot down on a nearby table. “I don’t,” she said. “At least not since I was twelve.”

  I looked at her curiously. “Why twelve?”

  “Because that’s when I died,” she said. “I’ll be right back with your breakfast.”

  She walked out of the dining room, leaving me to mull over the statement she’d dropped so casually, as if it hadn’t required explanation. She returned about three minutes later, carrying a plate. “Here’s your ham-and-cheese frittata. And this is a raspberry crumb muffin. You’re going to love it. I got the recipe from Magnolia Bakery in New York City. It’s out of this world.”

  She set the plate in front of me. I had less interest in the food than what she’d said. “What did you mean about dying when you were twelve?”

  “Just that I died.”

  I wondered what I was missing. “But you’re not dead.”

  “No. I came back.”

  “Back from death?”

  She nodded.

  I had always been fascinated by stories of near-death experiences. “Would you tell me about it?”

  She looked at me for a moment then said, “I don’t think so. People get a little . . . ,” she carefully chose a word, “. . . upset about it.”

  “Please. It would mean a lot to me.”

  She looked at me for a moment, then sighed. “Okay. You eat, I’ll talk.”

  She sat in the chair across from me. “The summer I was twelve, my little brother and I climbed a tree in our front yard. We hadn’t noticed that the tree had grown over some power lines, and as I was climbing, I accidentally grabbed a power line. All I remember was a flash of light and a loud snap. Seven thousand volts went through my body. It actually blew holes through the bottoms of my Keds. It melted the flesh where I grabbed it.” She held up her hand. “It left me with this.” There was a deep, channel-like scar crossing her fingers. She looked at me. “You’re not eating.”