Shannon, My Love
Loners lead a brutally difficult life. They seem to linger just outside society's perimeter like a lone wolf that wearily circles a campfire at night. Always cold. Always hungry. Never allowed to warm themselves by the glowing, cheery heat of friendship and camaraderie. These poor souls tread through deep drifts of loneliness and self doubt. And for teenagers who wander through this remote wasteland, it can be particularly hellish. When they're rejected and aren't loved by friends or family, they often freeze to death in the cold. And that's why, when Shannon came into my life, it was like coming in from the darkness and casting myself upon the coals of love.
The moment I laid eyes on her, I was a goner. Joy bubbled in her laugh and shown in her blue eyes, and my heart sang with delight. Something about her was both joyous and kindly, and I worshiped her from afar. As for beauty, she had no equal. Her lips were full and rounded over even teeth. Her Ashland hair hung in long graceful curves over her shoulders. Even the flush on her pale cheek was like the flush of sunset on snow. I loved her so bad, my guts hurt, and my stomach churned with frustration knowing I'd never even get close enough to tell her how I felt. And that made my life ten times worse. But one afternoon in a paroxysm of true daring and boldness, I winced and asked her to be my date for the Junior Prom. When she winked and said "Yes!" I nearly fainted with joy. And that's when my life changed. Ever after that I tip-toed on clouds. And when we kissed one week later, there was no turning back. I was hers forever.
How Shannon could have loved a no-body, I don't know. But she did. And I loved her even more when she defended me against the many rude remarks tossed at me by her thoughtless friends. In return, I developed a fierce, bullet-proof loyalty to her. I became jealous of anybody even looking at her. Shannon was the woman of my dreams, and nobody but nobody was going to take her away from me.
All through the following senior year, we were inseparable. We spent endless hours together, sitting on the hill overlooking the football field, taking drives, and doing all the things she loved. Shannon was my world, and nothing or no one else mattered to me like she did. School didn't. Family didn't. Church didn't. In fact, I had it in my mind that I was going to marry her before somebody else beat me to it. The trouble was, I was so totally and completely in love with her, I was oblivious to any other possible suitor.
Without telling a soul, I plunged all my savings into an engagement ring at Williard's Jewelry and burned rubber for Shannon's house one afternoon. I was so excited, I didn't even notice my girl and another guy standing on the sidewalk together near the football field. I just gunned the car all the way to her front door and bolted up the stairs. When Shannon's mother, Mrs. Collins, exchanged a polite but strained smile with me, a steel weight dropped in my stomach. Shannon had gone out somewhere, she said, biting her lip. But she couldn't remember where. I shriveled a little at her pained expression, and after an awkward moment, I excused myself. A dull ache of foreboding curled around my heart, and I found my way to the car.
A warning voice whispered in my head to check out the football field. So I whipped my Chevy around and cruised towards the high school. The closer I got, the more uneasy I felt. Then a sudden thin chill hung on the edge of my vision. There on the hill overlooking the football field - in the exact same place Shannon and I had shared endless hours together - were two people. Hugging. One of them was Shannon.
It was almost like the chop of an ax on my neck. First I felt the keen shock of pain. Then I watched as my severed head rolled off the block and smacked the ground. Every part of my being felt the stinking whack and then shook with pain. I absolutely, completely couldn't believe what I was seeing. But there it was. Shannon had left me for another. She was mine no longer. And at that singular moment, the night with all its horrors enveloped me, and I became acquainted again with loneliness. From the darkness I had come, and into the darkness I would return.
But before the sun irrevocably spun out of my universe, I looked upon my unfaithful love one last time as she embraced the other man with obvious tenderness - and in a hushed, infinitely sorrowful whisper I said, "I love you, Shannon. I love you more than you know. I'll always love you."
And with that, I lowered my head and slowly drifted to my car. I didn't even go back home - not that anybody would have cared. I moved to the city that night. And two weeks later I joined the Navy and never looked back.
It was a windy day when I returned. Twenty years can seem like the twinkling of an eye when you've lived hard and fast. But I had an honorable discharge in hand, and it had been far too long since I'd visited my old neighborhood. And far too long since I'd laid eyes on the girl I still desperately loved.
I didn't even know if Shannon still lived in the area. Surely she had moved away with somebody and started a family. She probably wouldn't even recognize me if she still was in the neighborhood. But before I paid her a visit, I wandered over to the high school and sat on the hill that overlooked the football field.
As I gazed across the field, preoccupied with sad, gentle memories, a little breeze lifted my collar, and my hair gamboled in the tiny gust. I looked across my old haunt with inexplicable feelings of emptiness and regret. Life had become a bitter battle, and I had little to show for it. I tried to swallow the lump that lingered in my throat, but I couldn't. The hill brought up too many memories of a youthful happiness skewered on the pike of betrayal.
Then as I turned to get up, I saw her.
It was Shannon. As she drew near, my mouth dropped and I looked at her intensely. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all. Ash blond hair. Flush on her cheek. Slender white neck and proud shoulders. My mouth opened and I tired to speak, but she lifted her finger to her lips for me to remain quiet and be still. Shannon dropped her chin on my chest with a sigh of pleasure and wound her arms inside my jacket and around my back. The mere touch of her hands sent a warming shiver through me, and my body tingled from the contact.
My hands locked against her spine and I whispered into her hair. "Oh, Shannon, Shannon. I love you so much! Why did you leave me? You knew I loved you. Why did you leave me for another?" I gently rocked her back and forth, and she obviously had no desire to back out of my embrace. She looked up into my eyes and her breath softly fanned my face. But she said nothing. Then she parted her lips and raised herself to meet my kiss. And she was gone.
She was gone, and I never saw her go. For a full minute I stood in the same position, holding on to thin air. But Shannon had disappeared.
Panic welled up in my heart. I yelled. "Shannon! Shannon!!!" But no one answered. Only the wind filled the cradle of my arms. I ran across the spine of the hill to my Pontiac Grand Am and punched the accelerator to the floor. Maybe I could catch her at her house. But when I got there, an old woman whom I hardly recognized answered the door.
"Mrs. Collins?" I asked quizzically. "Is that you?!"
A dull look gave way to a tepid smile as something flickered far back in the old woman's eyes.
"David? David Davenport?!"
We hugged in the doorway, and then Mrs. Collins insisted I come in.
"First, Mrs. Collins - Is Shannon home? Did she come this way? I have so much to say to her. There's so much to tell her. Is she here?!"
The old woman flinched and retreated a step. She struggled with some uncertainty that had been aroused, and she looked up at me with effort.
"David . . . I thought you knew. Surely by now you would have known," Mrs. Collins said as animation left her face. She paused and continued in sinking tones. "My daughter Shannon died twenty years ago. She . . . simply lost the will to live. I know that she had a broken heart. It happened a year after you left for parts unknown. You never left word with anybody."
The blood drained from my face. My mouth went dry. "But she was with another guy, Mrs. Collins. She'd left me for somebody else. I saw them. They were together on the hill," I said, barely in a whisper.
"Someone else?" she asked. "You mean Danny? They'd always been close. David, the guy you saw with Shannon that day was her brother. He'd just returned from a tour in Viet Nam. She hadn't left you for anybody. She still loved you very much!"
I stood at the door transfixed. By the time I left, I thought better of telling Mrs. Collins who I 'd encountered on the hill.
Zero to the bone
Our eyes bugged out as we strolled into the living room of the two-story rental house. I looked at my wife, and she grinned back. We'd hit the jackpot! The place was downright palatial, complete with shag rug throughout, mirrored walls, and enough room to quarter an entire NFL football team. And the unbelievable thing was, the rent was low. I mean, too low for this kind of castle - but who was complaining? We signed the papers and moved our little family in before the ink dried. And for about a year, we couldn't have been happier. That is, until something unearthly blew in from the dark one night and moved in with us. Then all hell broke loose.
At first, we shrugged off the spooky noises to the normal aches and groans of such a capacious house. But after a few months, we could set our watches to the nightly raps and taps ricocheting off the walls. Joyce and I would tuck our kids in bed for the night, when some ghostly hand rapped the woodwork throughout the house. Sometimes the brittle whacks mimicked B-B's striking the walls. At other times, it sounded like a bony old hand thumping the place. The more it happened, the more anxious we got. We tried our best to ignore the nightly din. But the hair- raising, creepy feeling snaking down our spines wasn't easy to dismiss.
One ghastly night, just as Joyce and I were about to fall asleep, something hefty took two steps up the staircase and paused. Whoever it was must have been a real porker, because each stair moaned and cracked under his feet. At first I thought I was dreaming, but then I could clearly hear the intruder laboring up the steps, lumber down the hallway, and then freeze right outside our door.
My heart stopped. The door handle moved back and forth. I catapulted out of bed, fumbled for my K-bar knife, and dove for the door. Everything happened in slow motion, just like my fights in the Nam. I seized the handle and flung the door wide open, ready to gut the guy.
But nobody was there. Only emptiness. Minutes later, after I stuffed my heart back down my throat, I poked around the house trying to ferret out our guest, but it was all in vain. Whoever it was had made a clean getaway. And I was left in a cold sweat.
Two nights later, just as I was nodding off, a glass jar was smashed to bits in the kitchen. Electrified, I careened downstairs to do battle with the prowler. My blood was up, and this time I wasn't going to let the intruder get away. But again, nobody was there. I turned the kitchen light on and starred at the floor. The knife rack had been swatted clean off the wall, which was really strange, considering nothing short of an atomic blast could have dislodged it. But even more freaky, three butcher knives were carefully arranged on the floor in the form of a "V," with each knife pointed straight at me!
After that, weird things became normal fair around the house. Our bathroom door would shut on its own, leaving my kids or wife in the darkness. Our clock radio turned on by itself, blaring heavy metal music (which we detested). My desk chair would swirl around all by itself. The snaps and wall raps increased in frequency. Our fire alarm screamed at all hours of the night without cause. And those terrifying footsteps continued on a nightly basis.
We tried in vain to rid ourselves of our unwanted guest, but nothing seemed to work. We wore holes in the carpet praying for deliverance, but the ghostly presence grew more determined. One black night, the kitchen window exploded in a thousand pieces. And once again I hurtled downstairs, knife in hand, ready to bisect the first shadow that lunged at me from the darkness. Again, I was all alone. I scanned the floor for broken glass, but there wasn't any. Everything was intact. No news was good news, I thought. So I drew in a deep breath - and froze. I wasn't alone.
Electricity corkscrewed up and down my whole body, making my hairs bristle. Although I couldn't see it, something evil and horrid was leering at me from the darkness, and it was moving my way. As blackness encircled me and alarm bells clanged in my brain, I let out a yelp and turned for the staircases. As my right foot hit the first stair, a bloodcurdling laugh erupted behind me. It was high- pitched and hideous, like the devil himself was pealing in my ear. I froze to ice, zero to the bone.
Freeze that image for a moment. I'd known fear before, but nothing like this. Viet Nam had tutored me in the intricacies of terror, and I'd learned to cope with it. But this was different. Way different. The personage behind me wasn't a Viet Cong sapper bent on slitting my throat. I was in the presence of pure evil, and I knew if I didn't move quickly, I could kiss my keister good-bye. But try as I would, I couldn't move my limbs. My legs were cakes of ice. My arms were riveted in place. And my throat was cinched shut. I was scared right down to my tail bone, convinced I was about to be swallowed up in Satan's jaws.
I don't know what did it, but all at once a grenade detonated under my feet, and I vaulted the stairs in three steps. I nearly scarred my wife into apoplexy as I dodged for her in the dark and hit the bed. I couldn't even squeak out a sound. Her eyes bulged out of her skull as she turned toward the door. I swiveled around at the same time and nearly swallowed my tongue. The evil spirit had followed me up the staircase and stood in our doorway, gaping at us!
Joyce screamed bloody murder. I screamed, too. I'm surprised every glass in the house didn't burst. But our shrieks managed to startle the kids out of their beds. For reasons we can't understand, the demon hesitated and turned to see our girls duck into our room and jump into our arms. At that precise moment, it slipped sideways into the wall and vanished.
It took a long time to reel our jaws off the floor. Needless to say, we didn't sleep the rest of the night. Which was all the time we needed to pack our bags and hit the road.
The spook could have the place.
Private McGill
By June, 1918, American forces were hip deep in the war. Arnie was a corporal in the Fifth Marine Corps, and his unit advanced into Belleau Wood, a tapestry of woods strewn between oat and wheat fields. The Fifth's onslaught was so rapid, rear units of heavy artillery were ordered not to fire for fear of dropping shells on our own troops. At one crucial point, the Fifth Marine Corps was perched on the edge of a V shaped oatfield, flanked on all sides by thick woodland. Beyond lay the German army, bayonets fixed.
Arnie's best friend in all the world was one Maxwell P. McGill, a one-time Sargent busted to private. Max was a good guy by all accounts: the loyal kind who'd back you up when the chips were down. The only problem was, he had a butt-ugly nose, and his fists took exception to anybody making fun of the fact - rank notwithstanding. But no matter: Arnie thought the world of Max. And apparently, the feeling was mutual.
When circumstances permitted, Max and Arnie stayed together. But on this particular day, Arnie found himself in the vanguard, while Max followed behind and to the right about fifty yards. The unit was ordered to move out, with each man strung out ten to fifteen yards apart. When they reached the middle of the oat field, all hell broke loose.
Five Marines to Arnie's left crumpled in unison. It must have caught Arnie off guard, because he froze a little too long, allowing a German machine gunner to zero in and stitch him good. One bullet hit him in the left arm, just above the elbow. Another smashed through his left shoulder blade, and the last ricocheted off the barrel of his rifle into his right eye. Even then, he moved forward until he fell face first in the dirt. Arnie flopped over on his side and observed the Marine next to him squirming and thrashing around, drawing enemy fire. The poor guy was chewed to bits as bullets impacted his body, gouging out chunks of flesh, gristle, and gore. Finally, the man grew still, giving Arnie a little breather from enemy lead. But the worst was yet to come.
The fire was hot and heavy, most of it zinging over Arnie's head by about twelve inches. He tried to yell for help, but nobody seemed to hear. Marines were falling like matchsticks all around him. Time and again he heard men getting up and charging through the oats, and time and again he heard men getting ripped apart. Progress was being made, but at a terrible price.
It was June, and it took a long time for it to grow dark. By then, Arnie was racked with agony. The pain in his arm, eye, and shoulder was excruciating. But as bad as that was, thirst nearly drove him crazy. The very thought of cool water trickling down his throat twisted his throat into a square knot. He wondered if he had any chance at all of getting out of his predicament alive. Considering the entire field around him was deadly silent, he didn't think so. Not a soul stirred.
Then someone moved towards him through the oat field. It had to be one of his own since the swishing sound came from behind and to the right. The enemy was somewhere up front. In no time the Marine standing over him knelt down and gingerly lifted Arnie into his arms. It was Maxwell.
Before Arnie passed out, he looked Max in the eyes and tried to say "thank you." But Maxwell already seemed to understand. His face was silhouetted in the moonlight, and Arnie thought he saw a serene smile on his friend's lips. But no matter. Max carried Arnie back towards the aid station a full mile in the rear. And that was the last Arnie ever saw his friend.
Two weeks later, Major Bernhard dropped by to see the survivors of the June 6th push. Eventually he stopped at Arnie's cot and exchanged a few words. Arnie asked how his best friend was doing.
Major Bernhard's face tightened and he dropped his gaze. Arnie asked again, and this time, the major informed my grandfather that Max had been killed in action. Shot through the head.
Arnie's eyes narrowed to slits. "Exactly when was he killed?" he asked.
"About ten minutes after we saw you go down," came the major's reply.
"But that's impossible, Major," Arnie protested. "Maxwell brought me all the way back here that night for medical treatment. I swear to you, it was McGill who saved my life" The major left the tent minutes later shaking his head. Private Maxwell McGill had been killed in the line of duty exactly eleven minutes after Arnie had been shot.
No one took credit for carrying my grandfather one mile through the darkness to the aid station.
Only Max could do that.
The Prom
If any two kids were in love, it had to be Jenny and Tad. It was almost as if their romance were foreordained. They were the most popular couple in the school, and all the girls swooned over the handsome pair, including me.
The Senior Prom was held in the old Keminsky Building downtown that year. I remember everybody dressing in their best - boys in smart tux's, girls in stunning dresses. Without a doubt, the class of ‘68 was the best looking group ever. Everybody was in high spirits. But about an hour into the festivities, people began to wonder where Jenny and Tad were. Both had been designated the king and queen of the Prom, and it seemed a little brassy for them to show up late. As the clock ticked on, the questions grew louder.
And then exactly at 8:30 p.m., the couple breezed in and took their place in the middle of the floor and danced as if nothing were wrong. A bit odd, I thought, considering they had a few duties to perform as the main couple. But at least they were here. Now everything could continue as planned.
But when the band stopped, Jenny and Tad continued to dance, oblivious to the crowd around them. Their stare was riveted to each other, and they waltzed around the floor to the amazement, and minor irritation, of our student body presidency. The whole thing struck me as being very odd. Everybody created a huge circle around the floating couple as the two danced on to music no one could hear.
I remember Jenny's face. It was fixed with a beautiful smile, like it was chiseled in white marble. In fact, I marveled over her snowy, sallow complexion. Happiness seemed to beam from her very spirit. And yet as they glided silently over the floor, I noticed a tear roll down Jenny's cheek. Tad was stone faced. People were getting uncomfortable. It was highly unusual for two people to take center stage like this. After all, Jenny and Tad weren't the only couple at the dance. I got a little indignant and towed my date over to one of the chaperones and suggested we get the Prom rolling some other way. All at once the huge gallery doors opened and several people piled in, among them the police chief and our school principal. I was called over to a growing collection of seniors and school personnel.
Everybody turned ashen faced. One girl screamed. I tried to keep my eyes from popping out of my skull. Nothing the police chief said made sense. Jenny and Tad were right here. The entire senior class had seen them. Was this somebody's idea of a sick joke? I looked up to find Jenny and Tad on the dance floor, but they'd disappeared. Nobody had seen them leave, and there was absolutely no trace that they'd even been with us. Nausea reached way down and squeezed my stomach.
Tad and Jenny had been killed in a head-on collision with a drunk driver at exactly 8:30 p.m.. They were on their way to the Prom.
Bus Driver Man
It was the end of the day, the sky had transmuted into a deep blue-black wash, and I was screaming for joy. My track team had just won the regionals, and I didn't care if we had to float all the way home. Everybody was dancing and jivin' and having a good ol' time, and not a one of us paid any attention at all to the flood crashing over our heads. At a time like this, the weather was the last thing on our minds. It was party-hardy time.
Old Jackson didn't seem to mind much, either. But he dutifully gathered us up like a mother hen and got us aboard our dilapidated school bus. He slammed the door shut and off we went into the storm.
It was slow-going over the roads. And after about an hour or so, most of the guys nodded off into a drunken sleep. But I wasn't one of them. I nuzzled my two shinny trophies like they were my own kids. Boy, my dad going to be proud of me. I'd taken first place in the sprints, and I was jubilant about it. I just wished we could get a little more juice out of the old bus and get home quicker.
As I stared out the window, I shook my head. I'd never seen rain come down like this before. It was as thick as cement out there. I couldn't even see the hills rolling off to the west. I wasn't even sure how our driver, Mr. Bobby Jackson could see where he was going. But if there was anybody who could get us through this soup, Mr. Jackson could. Or so I hoped.
Things turned ugly outside. When the sun disappeared, a giant black blanket rolled over the entire countryside, and it was near impossible to see anything ten feet beyond the bus. Lightening struck occasionally, washing the landscape in zillion-watt shades of eerie, cadaverous white. I looked up to see if Mr. Jackson was okay.
And from what I could see, he was doing fine. Except that he pulled our yellow beast off the road, parked, and donned his thick rubber rain coat. I high-stepped over arms and legs and made my way to the front.
"Anything wrong, Mr. Jackson?" I asked. "We got a flat tire or something?"
The bus driver didn't even look at me. He finished pulling on his boots and then pushed past me to the door. I opened it for him.
"Mind the bus, Mr. Washington. I've got to check out the bridge. See if it's still there. I'll be back in a minute." The bus driver then jumped off the first step and plunged into water up to his knees. "Damn!" he said.
I sat in Mr. Jackson's driver seat and watched the old man wade through the water forward of the bus. Then he disappeared in the cascading rain and dark.
I awoke with a start as drops of water pelted my face. Mr. Jackson was shaking some of the rain off his back. Then he removed his coat and boots and took his place. With nary a word, he turned the bus around and headed in the opposite direction. I was relieved the old bus driver came back in one piece, and I was too tired to ask what happened. I found my way back to my seat and fell fast asleep.
When the sheriff banged on the bus windows with heavy fists, everybody nearly had apoplexy. Somebody lunged for the door, and in seconds, five or six troopers clambered aboard and herded us off the bus like so much cattle.
"How did you guys get home?" the beer-bellied sheriff bellowed.
"Who drove this here bus?"
Everybody looked at everybody else and didn't understand the question. We were standing in the school parking lot, and that's all we knew.
"You, Washington!" The sheriff pushed his ponderous belly in my face. "Why didn't you boys call for help? How could you have left the poor guy out there?"
I was tired and I was completely mystified. And I didn't like the way Mr. Whisky Breath was pushing his weight around. Besides, the porker had B.O.
"Man, I don't know what you're talking about. Mr. Jackson drove us home, OK?!!"
Sheriff Mason's cheeks turned red, matching his nose color. "Look kid, I'll spell it out so even you can understand. The Marshall Bridge washed away last night in the storm. It was directly on your route home. Your bus driver, Mr. Jackson was found floating two miles downstream. Dead. As in drowned! And you guys left him there. Not only that, but you turned around, made a detour, and found your way here without so much as a ‘how do you do.' So, would you kindly tell me who drove you home?!" I looked over the crowd's heads trying to find our bus driver, but he was nowhere to be found. When asked again who drove the bus home, I shook my head in complete disbelief.
All I could think of was . . . Mr. Jackson did. The bus driver man.
Collision
Sometimes in the dead of night, you see some pretty strange things in the desert. To this day, my brother officers think I was hitting the juice at the time, or I'd temporarily lost my sanity. But I know better. And so did Captain Chester Wagoner. I'm a highway patrolman in one of our desert states. At the time this incident took place, I was working the graveyard shift. Some ol' boys don't enjoy working nights, but I kind of like them. Playing host to a huge canopy of stars puts everything into perspective. It gives you time to think. And except for the occasional drunk driver, speeder, or flat tire, things are usually pretty quiet on the road. It's kind of nice, actually. I've had to oversee some accidents now and then, but mostly, desert night patrol is pretty routine.
At least it seemed that way up until 3 April 1982. After that, I transferred to day shift.
I was nodding off on a side road that snakes along the main highway. It was a great speed trap, since I could wedge behind a convenient berm and hide most of the car's profile. At night I was near impossible to see. Anyway, I was sitting in my spot, doing nothing in particular, when the radio sputtered to life. The reception was terrible - weird, even - and I couldn't recognize the controller's voice. I shook myself awake.
I could barely understand the message. I tried to reply, but the system was so screwed up, I couldn't raise the station. But no matter. I'd caught the word "accident" and the location of the collision. I hit the lights and drove off in a cloud of dust. I had twenty miles to cover.
When I arrived at the scene of the accident, I lost my lunch. The powder blue Ford Crown Victoria was carrying a family. The other car's windscreen, a Chevy Bell Air, was splatter all over with catsup red goo. It took a minute to figure out the quivering Jello in the front passenger seat was a woman. The driver was missing. After heaving my guts out, I found the driver dead as a doornail on the other side of the road. His head was missing.
Something strange was going on here. Both cars were ‘50s vintage. I knew people still drove old antiques like this around, but what were the chances of two of them going head to head on a desert highway in the middle of the night? Even their dripping, bloody clothes looked a little dated. It was really weird.
I walked back to my unit and laid flares around the site. I didn't want another car to make this a threesome. That done, I tried to raise the station, but the radio still sputtered badly. I grabbed my mouth to keep from puking again, knowing I had to make absolutely sure the other car's occupants were dead. I reached in and poked around in the goo. Believe me, folks, bodies were smashed to yogurt all over the place. The Ford driver's head resembled whipped potatoes. His wife was cut in half at the waist and lay upside down in her seat. Their three small kids had catapulted from the back seat on impact and resembled bloody chopped sirloin on the dashboard. I pulled back my hand and hurled all over the hood.
I had a clear shot of the road from the peak of our little hill. I could see the highway for miles both ways, but nothing was moving on it. Except that I thought I saw some lights off the side of the road about three miles distant. I made a quick decision to rocket down the road to whomever was there and see if they had a CB radio. I knew better than to leave the scene of an accident, but in this case, I had no choice.
Thankfully, I lucked out. A semi was squatting on the shoulder of the highway, lights on. It was an unusual place for a trucker to plant himself in the middle of the night, but I didn't care. Minutes later I was on my way back to the accident with the trucker on my tail. He'd raised somebody in the nearest town on his CB, who then called Highway Patrol.
When I reached the top of the hill, I thought I'd gone crazy or something. This was nuts. The cars and occupants had vanished into thin air. I knew for a fact that I was in the right place. I pulled off the road, got out, and scanned the immediate area for the victims, but there were none. No cars, no bodies - nuttin'. I asked the trucker to run up the road to see if he could spot anything, and he did. But ten minutes later he came back with a quirky sneer and big question mark on his face. I could tell what he was thinking.
Early the next morning, I faced my brother officers and my captain with a tomato-red face. Word had preceded me, and the boys were belly laughing in the isles. But mercifully, and quite inexplicably, straight-faced Captain Chester Wagoner let is slide without comment. In some strange way, I knew the captain believed me.
Three weeks later, an anonymous manila file lay near my locker. I thumbed it open and dropped my jaw. There on a crumbly, yellowed newspaper photograph were two cars smashed in a head-on collision. One was a ‘55 Ford Crown Victoria, and the other a ‘54 Chevy Bell Air. No passengers survived, the caption read. According to the article, it had taken place exactly where I'd seen the accident. My eyes popped wide open. The first patrolman who responded to the accident was a very young patrolman named Chester Wagoner.
The clipping was dated 3 April 1958.