Carter's War - 2. Chapter 2

The snow drifted down around him; it was late for snowfall, but he ignored it shifting the heavy layers of clothing to ward out the cold. He trudged, there was no better word for it, and he placed one foot in front of the other without thought as to where his destination was to be. Why think about something he didn't care about. He went where he went, and never looked behind him.

There were shadows there, things he wanted never to think about again, a collection of horrors that drowned a man's soul. He kept on, his head bent against the cold, pushing forward aimlessly.

There was a rumbling on the road behind him, but he didn't turn. He was deep into farming country, a place where four-by-fours were a necessity and pick-up trucks were frequent. The large flat-bed truck rumbled past him carrying a piece of farming equipment on its back, heading for one of the farms up ahead. He moved aside to allow it to pass, focused solely inward.

He listened as the wind billowed from across the fields, a voice trapped in yearning, a memory trapped in time. The twilight was his companion and solitude guided him. He kept onwards, aware that he had stumbled too many times along the path.

A pick-up truck drew to a stop beside him; he hadn't even heard its approach, so consumed was he with his regret. He turned towards it more out of instinct than anything else. And as the window drew down, he found himself actually craving the company.

The man in the truck looked at the snow-covered young man who leaned in to look at him, spiky brown hair that stood up at odds with itself giving him a look of being unkempt, like he hadn't bothered trying. The driver shrugged; whatever, it was none of his business, and he motioned him inside, "Get in, son, I'm going into town and there is a storm coming in."

The hiker clambered in gratefully, feeling the first rush of heat in days sweep over him as he closed the door. He smiled in gratitude at the driver as he rested his head on the window. The truck pulled out onto the road and swept forward and a quiet settled into the vehicle.

"Where're you from?" the driver asked, glancing over at his passenger.

"Out west," the hiker replied, realizing it had been the first time in three days that he had heard the sound of his own voice.

"What's your name son?" the driver asked; there was a cloud of concern in those eyes, no one walked along that road in winter. "I'm Daniel."

"Marc," came the reply.

"Well, Marc, what brings you out to our neck of the woods?" The driver smiled broadly, happy to be coaxing the stranger out of his shell.

"I...I need to go somewhere..." Marc replied, still fixated on the countryside flashing past him, wondering if getting into the truck had been a mistake.

"Ahhh," Daniel replied, rubbing his beard. "Town is right up ahead; you can probably find a room at Mavis's motel, mostly for tourists during the summer, but she does stay open all year round. There is some good food there and a warm bed."

Marc nodded in thanks, "I appreciate that."

* * *

Daniel sat in the diner across the road from Mavis's, staring at his coffee then up at the room that the stranger Marc had taken. There was something amiss there and he paid his bill, leaving the diner and walking into the local O.P.P. office.

"Says his name is Marc," he concluded filling in old Sergeant Watters, "but as for what his story is, I don't know. Seems like a smart kid, but lost; there's something about the kid that has given up, something in the eyes."

"I'll call it in, Danny," Watters promised. "Should take a minute to run a background check to see if he's wanted for something."

"I don't want to get the kid in trouble," Danny said raising a hand, "I just don't want to see him wandering a road in a blizzard."

The Sergeant shook his head as he tapped the details into a computer, looking up at his friend after a minute, "Marc Lawrence, he was reported as a runaway a few years back, but he's over 18 now. I have to call this in, Dan."

"I didn't want to get him in trouble..."

Watters looked up from the phone he was dialling, "No, Dan, you did the right thing, this kid's parents have to be worried sick about him." He turned his attention back to the phone, "Hi, this is Sergeant Watters..."

Daniel sighed as he walked back to the window and looked up the street towards the boarding house. He felt guilty, like he had just betrayed a complete stranger. A tell-tale...

He remembered when he had been a youngster playing in the streets with his friends and his younger brother had shown him a dirty magazine he had stolen from the general store. Dan remembered he had been happy, now finally he had something to lord over his brother and had run to tell old Mister Benes who ran the store and told him who had shoplifted. He had honestly felt as though he had done the right thing, until his father had gotten a hold of him. And when his brother had been punished, Dan had shared it; you don't tell tales...

And there he was, nearly sixty years later feeling like he had just told tales. He rationalized it; he was doing what he felt was best for the ragged stranger he had picked up on the side of a deserted road. But that wasn't really true, he had sensed something was amiss and had come running to Watters.

He scrubbed the stubble on his chin and looked back at the sergeant who had just hung up the phone.

"Well, Toronto wants to have a word with him," Watter's said reluctantly. "They want me to pick him up and hold him till they can send an officer out to have a word with him."

Daniel nodded, "Anything serious, Jim?"

"He was arrested for possession in Toronto a few months back, but there wasn't enough evidence to hold him so they let him go." He shrugged, "It's only a few questions, they'll process him and probably let him go when they're done." He stopped, seeing Daniel's reaction, "You did the right thing, Dan."

Daniel gave a reluctant nod of agreement, "Yeah, I know. Can't help feeling sorry for the kid, though. Do we know why he ran away in the first place?"

Watters blew out a heavy breath as he collected his jacket and hat, "He was attending U of T, and one day he just stopped showing up for class; aside from being picked up in Toronto, no one's heard from him in months."

"Too much stress or something?" Daniel asked holding the door open for the sergeant.

Watters shrugged, "Sometimes kids just can't handle it. His mother lives in Vancouver. She married recently into a decent income bracket; new family and they have everything they wanted, except him. He just got up one morning and never came home. Apparently he spent some time in juvenile hall in Vancouver."

Daniel shook his head, "Christ, makes me glad mine stayed here. David's oldest, though, is about to go to university, scary thought."

Watters sighed as he walked up the street with the old man, "Some kids can make it, some just get lost. My daughter is just about to graduate from law school..."

* * *

He shivered in the cold on the steps; he had tried for so long to get the hell out of that city and yet somehow he had come full circle. He should have stayed in Vancouver, but there was only so much of that place he could stand. If he had had the cash he could have hopped a train or a bus to Montreal where he had been trying to get to before he had been picked up.

But that was like the police, though. Not that he blamed them for doing their job, just that he needed to be more careful in future. He was grateful he wasn't carrying anything; and flatly denying knowing anything when the officer had interrogated him meant they had nothing to hold him for. So now he shivered outside the Division 41 station on Eglington waiting for her to show up.

Why he had called her, out of everyone he knew in Toronto, was anyone's guess. Probably because he knew that she would come, that sometimes no matter how much time passed some feelings never went away. He dug his hands into his pockets, Toronto just didn't change. It was the same as it had been when he had arrived, Frosh week madness. Except it felt surreal to him, like he had changed and the city had stayed the same.

He wasn't a wide-eyed kid out on his own for the first time. He was... more realistic now. And that wide-eyed innocent kid didn't exist anymore.

He glanced over his shoulder towards the ominous history museum that sat dark and foreboding in the middle of a field of snow next to the police station. He used to sit on the steps of that building with her, smoking pot and talking about the future. That cool kid from Vancouver who could impress people with his metro attitude.

Now he was just another street kid without a home.

The small Volkswagen swung up to the curb in front of him, more rust than car; he wondered how it was still running. She got out of it and he was in the past again; she stared at him with those large dark eyes as if she was unsure that he was really there. And before he knew it she had her arms around him and was crying into his shoulder.

He felt his hands go about her, a rote more remembered than desired. He stared down at the top of her head and sighed. He had made a mistake in calling her; even a year later he still didn't feel what she felt and that still killed him inside. But he couldn't hurt her again; he should have called someone, anyone else. But no one else would have come.

"Hey," he said softly, rubbing her back to ease her sobs, "it's alright..."

Libbet pulled back from him and sniffed back her tears. She was a mess, but was trying her best to keep it together. He felt it then, the pity that had driven him away from her in the first place; that unbearable sensation that made him hate himself for not loving her. He affixed a smile to his face as she helped him load his backpack into the car. And then they were heading back to her apartment in Scarborough.

As they travelled in near silence, he rubbed his forehead and stared out of the window in regret. Welcome home...