I Still Prefer Phoenix

Wind on Highway 40 kicked snow across the road in a constant low cloud colder than a dead man's kiss. I was coming down Columbine Pass at a roaring ten miles an hour and the only thought in my frozen head was which corner would be the one to send me plummeting ten thousand feet to an icy death. Officially, the road was closed, but they hadn't actually gotten the sawhorses across until after I zipped by right under johnny law's ever-benevolent concern for my personal safety. At the time I'd thought I was being smarter than the average joe. After all, if the road's closed, that means it's clear, right?

Forty miles later with over a hundred miles still remaining to the bottom of the pass I knew different. Free of traffic and clear are indeed two different qualities, which is why I didn't hesitate one iota when I saw the familiar sign for Wabash Cafe and Truck Park. Wilma would be behind the counter today, with hot roast beef, mashed potatoes and a fresh pot of coffee. If it weren't for the fact that Fred keeps a loaded shotgun under the counter I'd have carried Wilma off a long time ago.

With a scream of frozen air brakes and a dangerously rattling jake brake, I crunched all eighteen wheels into a long slot as close to the cafe door as I was confident Fred would let me get away with. As cold as it was I was pretty sure he'd give me a bit more freedom than usual, provided I didn't hit Wilma's planters. No daises until June, of course, but that didn't mean Wilma would overlook running one down.

I left the engine running, double-checked the wheel-brakes, locked down all the doors, and made sure the padlock on the trailer door still held. A twenty dollar Masterlock might seem kinda silly considering the value of the cargo, but a heavier lock wouldn't make much difference to a professional anyway.

The glass in the cafe's front door was busted out. I'd never known Fred to leave something like that unrepaired, but figured the storm had caused it, pushed the door open and headed right on inside.

Inside was sheer chaos. Tables near the door sat empty, with sugar shakers, napkin holders, and silverware all neat as ever, but the candy case below the register was a ruin. The register itself was down on the floor in about a million little pieces with pennies, nickels and dimes scattered around it like shrapnel. Red stuff I knew darn well couldn't be ketchup was running down the wall behind the counter. I didn't see Fred or Wilma, and I wasn't about to go looking for them, either. Slow as I could, I backpedalled right back out into the freezing wind and snow.

There's a lot of things a man can encounter that chill him to the bone. A Rocky Mountain blizzard does a fine job of it, but it's nothing compared to finding an empty diner run by friends that has just been ransacked. Right then the winter inside me was a whole lot colder than the one outside.

I worked my way back to the truck, got on the horn and radioed the State Patrol. A few minutes later a Colorado Smokey in chimney slacks and wide-brimmed hat wheeled her jeep up next to my truck on the side opposite the diner. She jumped out with a shiver, came over and pounded on the passenger side door. Soon as I cracked it open she climbed in and sat next to me.

"I'm Officer Lynne Runninghorse," she said with a smile. "You the one that called this is in?"

Black curls hung down under the brim of her hat, framing dark brown eyes and a coppery complexion. She had Kiowa cheeks, but her dainty nose and narrow mouth had probably come north from somewhere down around Taos and she hadn't gotten those curls from any tribe born on this side of the Atlantic. Her name tag said, "Runninghorse", but they'd had to crunch the letters up real tight to fit them all on the standard plaque, making it hard to read.

I tipped an imaginary hat at her. "Ethan Daniels, ma'am, and yes, that would be me."

"Anybody in there?"

"I didn't see anybody," I replied with a shrug, "but I didn't look too close, either."

"Just stay here in your truck while I check it out!"

Then she was out the door and headed around the front bumper before I could get out a reply. I cussed a bit, pulled the door shut in flurry of blowing snow, slapped down the lock and muttered to myself about how staying warm and dry sounded like a fine idea to me. A few minutes later she was back at her jeep radio calling for ambulances, forensics teams, and all the other folks it takes to investigate a modern crime scene. After a bit she was back pounding at my door with a clipboard in one hand and a flashlight in the other. I motioned her over to the other door, reaching over and unlocking it again while she made her way around the front of the truck.

"Whoo-eee, that's cold," she let out soon as she got herself seated and the door shut. "How in heaven's name did you ever get past the Salinas checkpoint? Might as well let me see your logbook. Mileage and all that stuff will have to be included in the report."

"Didn't come from Salinas," I said as I handed over the books and watched her flash a light at the odometer. "Left Salt Lake this morning with a load of Sony stuff for a warehouse in Denver and thought I'd take a shortcut. Didn't plan on this much snow."

"Don't even try to tell me you didn't check weather reports before you came crawling up the Divide. No one but a fool would be running Columbine Pass in this weather." She glanced over at me through the corner of one eye while she made notes on her clipboard and offered up a knowing smirk. "You don't look much like a fool to me, but here you are anyway."

"Yeah, I checked, but the guy in Denver is a real pain and always wants his stuff two days before it leaves the coast. Don't know why he doesn't just go ahead and pay air freight. Maybe then I could get a run down to Phoenix and avoid Columbine altogether."

She passed the logbook back to me, letting her hands linger on my fingertips way too long and changing her smile to one meant to please.

"If you did that then you wouldn't be here, now would you?"

For a moment there a whole confusion of things went running through my head. How cold it was outside, how Fred and Wilma had been two of the finest people I'd ever known, and most of all how odd it was to be having a woman half my age offer me the kind of smile I hadn't seen in years. Colorado winters sure can do strange things to people's minds.

I shivered. Cold inside and cold outside, I wondered if I'd ever feel warm again.

"Yeah, but I still prefer Phoenix."

She liked that so much she smiled again.

* * *

Spring came and wildflowers set the edges of Highway 40 ablaze in color. Fresh seed cones and new growth let blue spruce live up to its name, emerald green leaves decorated the aspens, and animals became more frequent in places were water and food were near the highway. Early May found me roaring down a clear road beneath cloudless blue skies. The whole world was alive with color, freshness, and crystal clear mountain air.

Ten miles outside a one-horse town named Kremmling I saw the smoke. A huge pillar of sooty black rose hundreds of feet above the town, the top edge trailing off to the southeast. This looked like trouble. Highway 40 runs right through the center of town, and I needed to turn south on Highway 9 with a load of fancy electronic gadgets, auto parts, yard tools, and canned goods destined for Silverthorne. If the fire was bad enough to block the road, the delay would infuriate the old guy that ran the one-man warehouse in Silverthorne. On a couple of occasions he became so irate he threatened to refuse the late shipments. He'd never actually turned me back yet, but there was always a first time.

Five miles outside of town I hit traffic. Four miles later everything came to a dead stop. At the city limits a State Trooper was waving the trucks onto a siding while the cars were being shuffled down Spruce Street to Eagle Avenue. Since both roads were closed to trucks over three tons, me and a logger were forced into a makeshift parking area alongside a Canyon City Meat truck and a hauler for Safeway. The grocery guys were union, so they'd set themselves up a little campsite with a coffee pot on a Coleman stove, an Igloo cooler, and a pair of lawn chairs. When the logger hopped down and saddled over to join them I knew I wouldn't be welcome, so I wandered over to where another State Trooper was leaning on her hood keeping an eye on things.

We recognized each other at the same time. Officer Lynne Runninghorse looked even better in the clear light of spring. With proud Kiowa cheekbones, almond-shaped Asian eyes, and a petite nose, she was even prettier than I remembered. Her deep brown eyes opened a bit wider when she recognized me.

"Officer Runninghorse," I tilted an imaginary hat and she touched the edge of her wide-brimmed real one in reply.

"Ethan, wasn't it? Guess you didn't make to Phoenix after all, did you? What can I do for you, Ethan. And don't ask me for permission to continue on. Road's closed till the fire's out."

I spread my hands helplessly and put on my best innocent smile. "Why, Officer Runninghorse. Running down a mountain in a blizzard is one thing, attempting to bypass an established road block, that's something different altogether. Man'd be a fool to even try."

She grinned. One of the first things she'd ever said to me was I didn't look like a fool. I suppose she assumed I didn't remember. In all honesty, I was surprised she did.

"That's good to hear, Ethan, saves me the trouble of trying to talk you out of it. So, what brings you over here instead of sharing coffee with the other guys."

"Well, for starters, they're union and I'm not. Besides, as I recall there's a diner up the road a bit and I was wondering if I'd be stuck here long enough to grab a bite of lunch."

"Big Shooter Coffee's two blocks up, Starfire Sandwiches is a block beyond. The first makes some good bagels and muffins, the other has a lunch menu that ought to please just about anybody. Besides," she gave me a long, appraising look from scalp to toenails, "you look even skinnier than you were back in January. Don't you eat?"

"Oh, I eat, all right. You're looking pretty trim yourself there, Officer. 'Course, I reckon you have to run down bad guys and such. All I do is drive."

She blushed, laughed a bit, and gestured over her shoulder toward town. "Walk on down and grab yourself a bite. They're saying the road will be closed at least another hour, maybe two. Even if it's not, your rig won't block the others if they have to leave before you get back. Better than the Safeway guy, I practically had to park his truck myself, but you didn't hear that from me, got it?"

"Got it! Can I bring you a cup of coffee on the way back?"

"Yeah, that'd be real nice, Ethan. I'm not supposed to accept gifts, but a cup of coffee shouldn't raise too many eyebrows. Just don't drop anything in it, okay? I'm not saying you would, but some truckers have strange ideas about what's funny."

"Don't worry, Officer Runninghorse. The only drug I use is strong coffee. Anything else rattles a man's brain around so he can't think straight. Catch you on the flipside."

Inside I was boiling mad about the delay, but I smiled, tipped my imaginary hat again and went off in search of lunch. The old guy in Silverthorne would be furious, but it wasn't her fault, and there was nothing anybody could do about it.