“Are we going to put a cross here, Ooma?” the little girl asked.
“Tomorrow honey. We just need to keep the light on for Peter and Dolan tonight and then tomorrow we’ll bring a cross.”
The use of his name was throwing Gibb. It was as if he’d died. He tried to ignore it as he realized what they planned. “You can’t stay here, ma’am.”
“But we must. Without us, the boys will be scared.”
“It’s too dangerous. There’s already been one accident here and the rubberneckers will be slowing to see what’s going on all night. Having you here will just exacerbate the problem.”
“What’s a rubbernecker?” the girl asked.
“Officer Gibb—“
“Patrolman,” he corrected.
“Patrolman Gibb, I’m not going to leave these boys out here alone in the dark without someone here to take care of them.”
“But ma’am,” Gibb said, looking at the girl first, then back at the woman. “They’re passed on.”
“Passed on where? They’re right here. I feel them as surely as I feel the arthritis in my knees. If I could speak to them, I would. At the very least they can take comfort from my presence until the sun rises.” Seeing Gibb’s resolve crumbling she hurriedly added, “You wouldn’t want someone to die out here all alone and no one know about it, would you? Have no one to care?”
Gibb felt his head shaking and followed it up with a weak, “No ma’am.” Then he added, “You just be careful here and stay away from the road. Might want to pull your car off farther if you can.”
She nodded, then turned back towards the candle.
Gibb felt dismissed. He took one step back then returned to his cruiser. He sat there for an hour watching the woman sit and talk to the spot on the ground. He couldn’t help but think of the event he’d witnessed out by Sore Finger Road and the words of Rev Boscoe. There was little doubt in his mind that the ghost of the woman had been there. "Entonces ámeme dejándome ir," she’d said. Love me by letting me go. It was as if the shrine, the cross that had been placed there, held her soul there like a butterfly pinned to a board. It kept her from leaving.
Now watching the woman preparing the accident site for a cross that would be placed tomorrow, Gibb wondered if the same thing was going to happen to the children, Peter and Dolan, and their mother. And what of the seven illegals? Would all of their souls be kept there or just the ones who were enshrined by the roadside ceremony?
So many questions.
The radio finally interrupted him and called him back towards Buckeye. There was yet another wreck and more bodies to deal with, which meant very soon there would be more crosses.
***
He dreamed that he was buried beside the road. He tasted gravel and fuel fumes. The head burned and singed his skin. He tried to move, but felt a great weight that kept him in place. There was a brightness above him that he couldn’t see past. Above it he knew was salvation. He could almost see it. If he could only rise, he could reach it.
Then came a hand, a cold skeletal hand. He didn’t want to grab it but he felt impelled to touch it. When he did, it was like a magnet and his hand was fast affixed to the cold, dead thing.
Then he heard the voice, her voice, the voice of the Long Cool Woman.
Gibb shot awake.
She’d said something to him that was already caught by the gossamer wings of his dreams. It was gone, but not in real life. He could always track her down, all he had to do was put out the call and the truckers would let him know.
He went on shift an hour early, so eager was he to talk to Rev Boscoe and the Long Cool Woman. He had an idea, something that would help sooth his soul and allow him a modicum of peace.
He tracked the convoy down heading just past West Indian School Road. He caught up to them with ease. The mourners in the bus stared at him as he screamed past. With lights flashing and siren blaring, he pulled in front of the three Harley–Davidsons. The convoy slowed as he applied his brakes. After a hundred yards, they all eased to a stop on the side of the road. He watched the bikers in his rearview mirror. Two straddled their