Phantom Car

“THERE WEREN’T ALWAYS DRAGONS IN THE VALLEY!” the bare-chested man slurred as he lunged at the glass divider in the police cage. His sweaty hamstrings squealed on the ice-cold bench as the seat belt halted his advance. I knew better than to engage Edwin Bigwarrior, my current prisoner, in conversation after the cuffs went on. It would just amp him up again which is not what I wanted for the 45-mile expedition to the county jail. I turned the FM radio up as we left the reservation and turned onto Old Highway 78.

“This was the land of my people, before your kind came and destroyed it like dragons!” he hissed before letting out a wail resembling a dying ox. I tuned Edwin out and focused on my speakers as “Outside” by Staind played on the radio. It was the only station that reached this far out of the city, but I didn’t mind. I looked over the dash of my freshly washed Sheriff’s F-150 and admired the golden blanket the sun laid over the desert as the guitar ushered in the famous chorus from Aaron Lewis. Suddenly, my steering wheel thumb-drumming was broken by the piercing sound of Edwin’s coughing fit as his breathing became labored and rapid.

“Edwin. You good?” I questioned to no reply, toggling the prisoner view button of the dash cam below my mirror. I asserted louder this time, “Mr. Bigwarrior, I need you to sit up straight for me.” Keeping one hand on the wheel, I turned to see the six foot four, olive-skinned male hunched over his left knee, his greasy black mane dripping sweat on the floor of my truck. My heart rate accelerated almost as quickly as the eco-boost engine did as I pressed my foot to the gas and grabbed the dispatch radio. I rapped the glass divider with the back of my hand, nearly shattering the watch on my wrist and administered a final “EDWIN!” He was still out cold. I activated my lights and sirens, and prepared to ruin my dispatcher’s coffee break by telling her I had an unconscious prisoner miles from the nearest hospital. As the delineator posts began passing my peripherals with increasing frequency, I pushed the talk button on my radio. Just as the three chirps alerted me to talk, a loud “WOOOOOOO” that would’ve intimidated Ric Flair blasted through my open mic. Edwin shot upright, wide awake and let out a long, intoxicated cackle in admiration of his practical joke. I set my radio down and killed my lights and sirens before closing the glass slider and locking it. “Very funny,” I resigned as I couldn’t help but chuckle in relief to myself at an octave low enough for Edwin not to hear it. I begged the dispatch Gods for forgiveness and turned the radio back up in time to hear Mr. Lewis’ voice trail off with the sun as the landscape shifted from its gold hue to a dull navy.

Edwin and I continued to glide down the empty highway, his incarceration becoming more tangible as each mile post passed his window. I had been a Sheriff’s Deputy for two years, which was more than enough time to become acquainted with Edwin Bigwarrior. I had arrested him more times this month than I had done my laundry. It was usually for the same combination of intoxication and domestic violence, but this time it was less routine. The beloved matriarch of the community was missing from the Paiute reservation, and Edwin was the last person to be seen with her. After detectives found enough evidence to bring him in, I was sent to take his freedom. As per expected, he was heavily intoxicated but went quietly as my back up stood guard at the back door of his trailer.

The click of my Smith and Wesson handcuffs acted as a somber appetizer for the cell-door that would latch in front of him in the coming hour. I was trying to find another radio station now that we were closing in on civilization when Edwin’s muffled voice found its way to the front seat. “Hey Deputy, someone’s following us.” I glanced in my mirrors and saw nothing. Maybe he had mixed some mushrooms or ayahuasca into his afternoon bender, I thought. “There’s nothing there, Ed” I assured as I negotiated a sharp hair-pin turn on the highway. “Yes there is!” Edwin attested. “He’s swerving all over the place. It looks like a cartoon-car.”

I looked in my rear view a second time and saw a flash of headlights before they vanished as quickly as they arrived. I checked again, making sure I wasn’t imagining things. The rear view remained empty, revealing nothing but the scrolling white hash marks that divided the two lanes. I moved my focus back to the road ahead when in the corner of my eye I caught another flash, this time in my driver’s side mirror. Once I glanced left, the lights moved to the passenger side. I glanced right and they moved left. There was definitely someone behind me, and they were driving erratically, but where did they come from? There were no turn-offs for miles on Highway 78. It was a straight shot from the reservation back to the city.

I returned to the rear view mirror and it was clearly visible. A pair of amber headlights swerving from one side of the highway to the other, no further than ten feet from my tailgate. I sped up to create separation and they sped up too. I tilted the wheel left, straddling the lane markers and it followed. I tilted right, and it mirrored my movement. I verified there were no cars on the horizon in front of me, took a deep breath and punched the gas pedal until it was flush with the floorboard. The Coyote V8 roared with life and the turbo began to whistle as the speedometer twitched from 65 to 90, then smoothly climbed to 100, 110, 115, 120… After briefly gaining distance from this phantom car behind me, it closed the gap. It was back on my rear bumper floating from side to side as if trying to perform a pit maneuver to spin my truck out of commission. Who was this? Was it someone coming for Edwin? He couldn’t have contacted anyone from the back of my truck, his phone was in the Ziploc bag next to me in the front seat! Edwin’s breathing became rapid again but this time it was no ruse. The steering wheel rattled and jerked beneath my grip as my truck fought to maintain its top speed of 120 miles per hour.

After a few seconds of me jockeying back and forth like a NASCAR driver fighting to prevent another from passing, the mysterious car backed off. As Edwin continued to hyperventilate in the police cage, the vehicle pulled even with me in the opposing lane and I was left utterly speechless and awestruck with what I beheld. The car appeared to be something from another era. It was a jet black 1941 Lincoln Continental. I knew this because I had just watched a documentary on the making of “The Godfather” films, which sported the same iconic car in the infamous tollbooth scene where James Caan’s character Sonny was gunned down. This one wasn’t in much better shape than the one peppered with bullet holes in the film. It was caked in dust as if it had been marooned on the highway for days if not weeks, the passenger side window was shattered and the front passenger tire flapped and rippled on the asphalt because it was flat.

What happened next was the unexplainable portion of the encounter. I didn’t have the luxury of wondering why this phantom car was able to maintain 120 mph with a flat tire, because as soon as I took the swift analysis of the vehicle, gunfire erupted from the cabin. The rapid snap of what sounded like a Tommy gun cracked over the roaring engines. Thankful I was a left-handed shooter, I kept my right hand on the wheel, punched my left hand to my hip and in one motion drew and fired rounds on target while canting my Glock 21 at an angle to avoid damaging my door. I stared at the blinding muzzle flash for what felt like an eternity before it cut out. I continued to fire until my slide locked back and I had to reload. While I pressed the magazine release and reached for the polymer stick containing my next 13 rounds, I kept my eyes on the target, while maintaining my position on the highway. What I saw, or didn’t see, is what I still can’t comprehend. There was no one. No hand on the wheel, no torso in the seat, no legs near the pedals. Nothing. Finally, as I finished reloading my weapon and racked the slide forward by striking it on my thigh I aimed it back to the cab of the Lincoln. However, as I squeezed off the first two rounds of the fresh magazine, the vehicle flickered and disappeared. It was gone as abruptly as it had arrived.

Still acting on my training, I instinctively pushed the red emergency trigger of my in-car radio and shouted as clearly as I could “10-33! 10-33! Whiskey 30, 10-33! Shots fired, black sedan!” Before the dispatcher directed the cavalry of every city and county officer on shift that night to my location, I patted my chest and squeezed my fist to check for blood. I was clean. I eased my truck back down to the speed limit and began the combat breathing I was taught to quickly lower a heart rate following an engagement. I tranquilly counted to three one thousand as I inhaled deeply, held for three seconds and let it out in a deep, methodic sigh. Once my physiological reactions to the stress were under control, I turned back to Edwin. “Edwin, are you good? Are you hit?” For a split second I saw Edwin stone cold sober, and for a brief moment even felt empathy as I saw the humanity in his traumatized eyes. Then, without warning his weathered face twisted into a grotesque contortion of fear as he shrieked “LOOK OUT!” before crunching into a protective ball, throwing his hands over his head to clutch the back of his neck. I turned forward to see the Lincoln’s headlights blinding me head on. With no time to react I too threw my hands in front of my face, knowing it would do nothing to better my chances of survival. I heard the deafening clash of metal and felt the sensation of gravity abandon me as I started to roll. Well, I think I started to roll, everything went black just before I scraped the asphalt.

When I woke up, I could smell nothing but the invasive stench of burning coal as what appeared to be an antique locomotive thundered behind me. As I got my bearings I realized I was laying on the ground of a shoreline instead of sitting in my truck. Not only that, but my radio wouldn’t work, and my cell phone was gone. I can only assume I lost my phone in the crash, but the radio should’ve worked. It had full battery at the beginning of shift and wasn’t damaged in the accident other than a couple of scratches and some dust. I stood up and could remarkably walk without any pain. The only discomfort I felt was that of sitting in my truck for thirty minutes on the drive to the jail. I walked towards the water to try and plot my location and slowly sinking in front of me was my brand new patrol truck.

The water was up to the window sills, but there was enough time to see if Edwin’s cell phone was still in the Ziploc bag. As I got closer to the truck, I saw that the back window had been kicked out. Edwin was gone, along with my favorite pair of handcuffs. I moved to the front window and broke the glass using the window punch on my knife. After desperately searching the cab for the cell phone, my time ran out. I took a deep breath as the water rose over my head and kicked hard against the passenger door, propelling me away from the two-thousand-pound piece of metal that was my patrol truck moments ago.

I swam back to shore, which is when I saw the monstrous bridge towering over the river. I stripped my polyester uniform which was now soaking wet, unstrapped my bullet proof vest and unfastened my leather duty belt. I stocked the pockets of my 5.11 cargo pants with my extra handcuffs and the tools on my belt, save for the Glock 21. I checked the magazine, which displayed 11 rounds. I tucked the weapon in the small of my back, taking care to cover it with my black under shirt. I could hear busy city streets and traffic noise above me. I had no idea where I was, but it was clear that I was far from the desert I patrolled five nights a week.

Still dripping with river water, I crested the shore to the sidewalk, where I discovered dozens of old 1950’s era cars parked on the curb. I thought it could have been a car show like they did back home every summer, until I saw the fire truck. It looked like a cherry red version of Mater from “Cars” but with a single long hose on the back and a rotating light on top. It zipped through the traffic as its siren wailed, growing loud as it passed by then fading into the distance. I was utterly confused. Had I died and been reincarnated in the 1950’s? Was Heaven really just New York City during the baby boom? I needed answers. Coincidentally, the next thing to pass me was you. I heard you shouting “Extra! Extra!” with your burlap bag of “The Evening Bulletin” and your cloth New York Yankees hat. I figured if anyone knew what was going on it would be the kid who walks the street everyday handing out papers. So what do you say, kid? Can you tell me where the hell I am?

The twelve-year old boy stared at me without saying a word. The look on his face at least confirmed one thing for me; I did not belong here. I had to figure out what happened to me, where I am, when I am, and how to get back home. I also had one more problem: tracking down Edwin. I took two copies of “The Evening Bulletin,” one to use as a towel and one to use as a guide. Then, I embarked on my quest.