Passage to Zarahemla Page 3

  “Get in!” he invited.

  Kerra hesitated, then finally tossed their luggage into the backseat. Nevertheless, she wasn’t about to climb into the passenger’s seat. Spree and the rest of the Shamans may have successfully taught her brother how to hot-wire a car, but she wasn’t about to let him drive. She opened the driver’s side door and barked, “Move over!”

  Brock did as requested, but his grin was still wide. “Sis, I didn’t think you had it in ya,” he chuckled.

  Kerra rolled down her window for a better view of the stairway and hall where Mr. Paulson had disappeared. She threw the car into gear and gingerly pressed down on the gas.

  “Punch it!” said Brock. “Let’s make like Zorro and X-it!” “It’s a parking lot,” Kerra snapped back. “You want me to kill somebody?”

  As they approached the gate of the parking area, Kerra saw something that made her eyes thin. It was a black Acura NSX-T sports car. Usually she saw it with the top down, but tonight the top was up, making it impossible to see the faces of the riders. She could feel the vibration of the rap music emanating from within though, like a pulse from the epicenter of an earthquake. Since her own window was wide open, she was terribly afraid the car’s occupants would recognize her. Such fears were confirmed as the car lurched forward, blocking her from driving into the street.

  The rap music fell silent. All four doors of the Acura flew open. Out stepped the most notorious members of the Shaman street gang. There were six in all. Leading the way as they approached the Pontiac was Torrence Ventura, or, as everyone called him, “Hitch.” He had broad shoulders and the lightless eyes of a shark. He was also the largest of the Shamans, standing at just over six-three. Kerra was sure this was why they’d made him their leader, for in the animal world of Los Angeles gangs size mattered, and might made right. But she also suspected his leadership role had something to do with his ruthlessness. There were awful rumors of the things he’d done, particularly to anyone who showed disloyalty. How, she mourned again, had her brother gotten mixed up with sewer vermin like this?

  He’d been the Shamans’ illustrious leader for the last two years—ever since a rival gang had gunned down the previous leader in Kimberly Park. Some suspected that Hitch had actually tipped off the other gang as to that Shaman leader’s whereabouts. Since then Hitch had transformed the Shamans into a power to be reckoned with. Drugs. Burglary. Car-jacking. Whatever paid the bills. And they had powerful support from the most notorious branch of the Russian Mafia in California. But tonight Torrence “Hitch” Ventura had a serious problem.

  He swaggered up to Kerra’s window while the rest of his henchmen surrounded the Pontiac on all sides. He was wearing the black and gray sports coat that had become his trademark over the top of a tight T-shirt that showed off his pecs. Like Spree, he had plenty of earrings. Any facial hair was reserved for his lower lip, deliberately shaved into a narrow stripe that came to a point at the end of his chin. Around his forehead was the same red and black headband worn by Spree—the same headband worn by every Shaman.

  Hitch balanced his arm on Kerra’s window.

  “Nice ride,” he remarked sarcastically, glancing over the Sunbird. “New?”

  “Get out of our way, Hitch,” Kerra demanded.

  Hitch feigned insult. “What are ya trippin’ for? I’m just bein’ friendly.” He looked over at Brock in the passenger’s seat. “How’s it goin,’ kid?”

  “Good, Hitch,” said Brock in a tone of deference.

  Hitch pointed at Brock’s forehead. “Where’s your bandanna?”

  “Packed,” Brock replied.

  “Those are your colors. You should be wearing ‘em proudly.”

  “Move your funeral wagon, please,” said Kerra.

  Hitch grabbed his heart. “Ouch! That hurts.” He glanced into the backseat. “What’s with the luggage? You two goin’ on a trip?”

  “As long as it’s away from you,” Kerra replied.

  “Hey, I was sorry to hear about your mother,” said Hitch, attempting to sound genuine, but failing.

  Another young man nodded and added, “Good customer.”

  He was the shiftiest looking of the bunch. Kerra knew him only as Adder. A knife wound to the face had made one of his eyes lazy. Kerra wondered if the eye was real. It might have been made out of glass. As Adder grinned, Hitch gave him a nasty scowl, as if to say the comment was in terribly poor taste.

  But something else was on Hitch’s mind. He leaned down so that both of them might hear his next question. “Have you seen Spree?”

  Kerra glanced up, momentarily ensnared by the gang leader’s determined gaze. She feared that she’d paused too long, but Brock piped up.

  “No, Hitch,” he said.

  Hitch studied them closely. “Sure?”

  “Is he missing?” asked Brock innocently.

  “You could say that,” said Hitch. “I really need to talk to him. I really do.”

  There was a venomous edge to Hitch’s tone. Still, that wasn’t Kerra’s concern. She loathed this person and everything he stood for. The Shamans had recruited her brother when he was the most vulnerable, promising him loyalty, friendship, and a place where he could feel like he belonged—things Brock certainly craved. But Kerra would rather have seen her brother in a nest of scorpions. The truth was, they were only using him. He had served as a lookout, a delivery boy, and goodness knew what else.

  Kerra’d had enough. “Let go of my door, you jerk.”

  Hitch grinned and leaned further into the car. “Always so unfriendly. Why are you so unfriendly? Such a pretty thing. I could do things for you. You could use someone to watch over you. Protect you. Especially if you’re gonna be out so late at night.”

  He tried to touch her cheek. Kerra brutally swatted the hand away. The other Shamans laughed.

  Kerra heard a voice call out behind them.

  “HEYYY!”

  She could see Mr. Paulson in the rearview mirror, running toward them. Kerra decided she had no other choice, and hit the gas. The Pontiac lurched forward. Hitch and his cronies backed away as she yanked on the steering wheel, attempting to escape through the narrow gap between the curb and the front bumper of Hitch’s NSX-T.

  “Watch the car!” Hitch growled.

  She successfully threaded the gap, half wishing she might have failed, maybe left a nice scratch and dent in the Acura’s paint job. But the last thing she needed right now was to provoke the ire of the Shamans and get them chasing her through the streets of Los Angeles. The Pontiac bounced over the corner of the curb and fishtailed into the street.

  Hitch called after them as they sped away. “If you see Spree, tell him I’m lookin’ for him. Hurry back now!”

  Mr. Paulson arrived in the midst of the Shamans, winded and infuriated. “They stole my car!” he raved. “Does anyone have a phone? Can anyone . . . ?”

  He looked around at the faces of the gangsters and suddenly realized that having his car stolen may have been the least of his problems. A few were snickering, while others seemed to be circling around him.

  “Nice shoes,” said Adder. “I really wish I had me a pair of shoes like that.”

  “I kinda like his pants,” said another gangster.

  Mr. Paulson swallowed.

  CHAPTER 3

  The california desert was a lonely place, particularly at night. Maybe it was just the view from I-15. Maybe, thought Kerra, beyond those desiccated flats and sunburned mesas were rich, green oases and cool, flowing water. She’d come to learn that interstates could create that sort of illusion. Who would want to build a freeway across the best looking land? You’d build it across the ugliest, harshest-looking country possible so that the landscape remained pure and pristine. Kerra was convinced that only two-lane roads could take you to the world’s beautiful places. Two-lane roads or hiking trails.

  Today she would seek to find one of those private oases. She’d search for a place that she hadn’t seen in a dozen years. Not since she was
five or six years old. She would seek it from memory. All she remembered for certain was that it was a very short distance from an ugly, unremarkable interstate.

  Brock felt as glum as he could possibly feel. Was his sister serious? Was she really planning never to return? It was all so depressing. If they stayed, they’d be separated—maybe forever. But by leaving, Brock was bidding farewell to the only place on earth that he’d ever known. It was like a horrible video game where any path you choose leads to ultimate destruction.

  “Are you gonna tell me now?” Brock asked. He really didn’t expect his sister to answer. She’d been dodging the question for the last three hours, probably hoping he’d fall asleep, but Brock had never felt so awake in his life.

  She surprised him as she said, “Utah.”

  “Utah?” Brock shot back. “What’s in Utah?”

  “Relatives.”

  Brock’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought you always said we didn’t have any relatives.”

  “We don’t,” said Kerra. “Not really. These are relatives from . . . from our dad’s side of the family.”

  Now Brock was truly flabbergasted. “Our dad’s side?” “Yes.”

  “How long since—?”

  Kerra didn’t wait for him to finish the question. “I haven’t seen them since I was five or six years old.”

  “Are you serious? Then why in the h—!”

  “Don’t use that language!” Kerra scolded. “We’re just gonna visit. It’s not permanent. They may even help us.”

  “Help us how? I’ve never even heard of these people. How come we’ve never gone back so I could meet them?”

  “That was Mom’s choice. She didn’t like them. They’re Mormons.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve never heard of Mormons?” Kerra asked.

  “Not really. Are they like gypsies or those guys who shave their heads and sit like this?” He demonstrated by crossing his legs on the seat, pressing his palms together in front of his face, and making an ommmm sound.

  “I don’t think so, but they’re weird in other ways. Haven’t you ever seen those guys who ride bikes with white shirts and ties when the weather is a hundred degrees?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “But it gets weirder. Once a month they’re not allowed to eat. They don’t smoke or drink beer or coffee. And they’re always praying.”

  “You remember all this from when you were five?” “Vividly.”

  “What else is weird? Can they eat meat?”

  “Probably not. At least not ham or baloney. You also have to take a year’s supply of food wherever you go.” “Even to school?”

  “No, dumkoff,” Kerra replied, rolling her eyes. “To school I think they just have to take a seventy-two-hour survival kit. They believe the end of the world could happen at any time. And don’t cuss around them. They believe you’ll go straight to hell if you cuss.”

  “Ouch,” said Brock. “Straight?”

  “Don’t pass go, don’t collect two hundred dollars. Mom used to say they got more ways of going to hell than anybody on earth.”

  “Sounds like a fun family,” said Brock sarcastically, lacking enthusiasm. “Whoopee.”

  “Right now they’re the only relatives we got,” said Kerra. “And our only hope till I figure out what we’re gonna do next. I don’t want you making fun of them.”

  “Me?” said Brock innocently. “How could you think I’d do such a thing?”

  “Gee, I wonder,” said Kerra, sending him a crooked smile.

  A dozen miles past Barstow, Kerra’s eyelids starting drooping. She and Brock found a rest stop and spent the night trying to sleep with the constant sound of truckers coming and going as they stopped to use the rest rooms. Kerra tried to doze with one eye open, fearing that some evil traveler might try to get inside the car, or that a highway patrolman might roll by and check out the license plate. Surely Mr. Paulson had reported the vehicle as stolen by now.

  But despite her efforts, Kerra soon found herself in deep slumber. Sometime in the middle of it all, a dream began forming in her head.

  She saw in her mind a leafy, verdant forest, the sun piercing brightly through the branches. The sunlight illuminated the face of a little girl, perhaps four or five years old, in a red summer dress. There were wildflowers in her streaming blonde hair. Her eyes were alert and alive, and laughter echoed all around her as she played amidst the trees around the edges of a small clearing. Not all the laughter emanated from her. She could hear laughter from another voice. Someone was with her, but Kerra couldn’t see the other face.

  She was awakened by the sound of a car horn and raised her head with a start. Kerra turned to see the source—just someone in an SUV teasing his friend to hurry back from the rest room. It was morning. The sun was glowing orange in the east. Kerra glanced at her brother, still sleeping in the seat beside her, his folders of Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh cards snuggled in his arms. She smiled. For a kid who’d learned to hot-wire cars, Yu-Gi-Oh and Pokemon seemed like his last connections to a semi-normal childhood. Not that Kerra was any expert on the subject of normalcy. Brock restarted the car and they recommenced the journey.

  Before noon they reached Las Vegas, Nevada, where Kerra purchased a meal for them at the drive-thru of Carls Jr. An hour later they passed through the Virgin River Gorge at Arizona’s northwest tip, and for the first time since departing L.A., Brock looked up from his card collections to take in the towering, candy-striped cliffs on either side of the highway.

  Tension was percolating inside Kerra like a coffeepot. It was a strange kind of tension. Yes, she was anxious about finding her destination. She was nervous to think about how her relatives might react. But it was more than that. Something else was making her restless. She couldn’t put a finger on it. It felt as if she were being drawn here, but that didn’t make much sense. Her funds were dwindling fast. If her Mormon relatives didn’t take her in, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. She’d find a job, she supposed. She was willing to do just about anything. She and Brock could live out of the car for a few days. No big deal. Whatever happened, returning to California was not on the agenda.

  As the Pontiac Sunbird crossed the border into Utah, Kerra realized that its engine sounded a little different, as if something were knocking around under the hood. Don’t quit on me now, she whispered inwardly, almost prayerfully. It’s just a little farther.

  She bypassed the green golf courses and prim townhouses of St. George and continued on another fifteen miles until she saw the exit sign for a community called Leeds— population 412. This was it. She recognized the name. As she took the exit, her heart started pounding.

  Brock pressed his face against the car window. He’d heard of towns this small, seen them in movies, but he’d never actually visited one. Leeds had only one main street, about a half mile long, lined with run down, turn-of-the-century houses, modular homes, a large building labeled The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and one small diner/convenience store. No malls. No movie theaters. No arcades. The middle of nowhere. Brock spotted a young boy in a Cub Scout uniform. The kid was actually helping a little old lady across the street.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding,” he muttered under his breath.

  Kerra was concentrating hard now, following a memory, a vague image from her childhood. The Pontiac’s engine sounded worse than ever, like her brother’s stomach after consuming an entire pepperoni pizza. She reached an intersection with a dirt road and a hand-painted sign: Lee Instruments 3/4 mi. Kerra stopped the car.

  “You sure you’re not lost?” asked Brock.

  “No,” said Kerra wistfully. “This is it. I know it.”

  She turned the wheel. The car rumbled down the washboard road, passing a grove of almond and cherry trees. Brock finally noticed the knocking sound in the engine.

  “Is there something wrong with the car?” he asked.

  Kerra didn’t answer. Just a little farther.

  Finally the
y reached an octagon-shaped, ramshackle shop, whitewashed, weatherworn, and surrounded by various articles more befitting to a junkyard: car engines, old furniture, and more than a few stray cats. Most unusual of all, however, was an old, dead juniper tree upon which hung several objects. At first Brock couldn’t tell what they were. Then he figured it out. They were musical instruments— violins—glistening in the sun with a new coat of blood-red varnish.

  Brock turned to his sister and asked, half seriously, “They grow on trees?”

  Kerra smiled. “It’s your grandfather’s shop. He makes violins.”

  “My grandfather?” Brock repeated, as if it were an unfamiliar word, a foreign phrase that had to be carefully pronounced.

  Kerra could still recall the smells—the sweet, acrid scents of exotic wood and burning resins. She could almost hear his voice, rambling on and on about re-creating the secret varnish of Anton—Antoni—Antoni Stradman, or something like that. Funny how she could recall the old man’s voice, and even almost remember the name of the old violin maker that he strove to emulate, but she could hardly remember her grandfather’s face.

  Kerra didn’t stop. She continued driving past the shop, past the violin tree, and past a sign that clearly read, “Private Drive.” The dirt road descended into a thickly forested hollow. As the car passed through the clawing shadows of the trees, peculiar feelings were stirred up in Kerra’s heart. The hollow was an eerie, hypnotic place. One of the last times she’d visited here, these woods had been under several feet of water. There’d been a flash flood. She seemed to recall someone explaining that such floods occurred every decade or so, but that the water never came up quite high enough to flood the property directly surrounding her aunt and uncle’s house. Such inundations over the centuries had left a strange tangle of dead and living trees, many growing in odd, twisted directions, all of them competing violently for the light of the sun. At present the area was sprawling with undergrowth: rabbitbrush, moonflowers, thistles, and thorny mesquite, along with flourishing patches of yerba mansa whose green and crimson leaves gave the forest floor a kind of subtropical character. Wild grapes grew along the red cliffs on the left, originally planted—she couldn’t believe she still remembered!—by Spanish explorers three hundred years earlier. Kerra drove very slowly, gazing into the tangled maze of branches and undergrowth.