Route 412 to Tulsa

"No!" Mary shreiked as the car began to sputter. "Not again."

The car barely had enough power to get her to the side of the road where she stopped. This was the third time in as many days that the car had failed her. This time it was pitch black outside.

Mary slammed her hands against the steering wheel. "Stupid car. Stupid."

The previous day she visited a used car lot and nearly traded-in her old Chevy for a newer model. After considering the expense, she decided that her car had somehow gotten her from New York to L.A.  She was sure it could get her back.

Mary looked at her watch. It was nearly ten-o-clock and she had no idea where she was though she knew she was in Oklahoma. The last sign she saw indicated she was headed toward Tulsa where she had hoped to rest for the evening. Now she regretted her decision to take the back roads instead of the Interstate. See the country -- yeah, right. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen a car on this road.

She sat back and stared into the darkness, broken only by her headlights. She'd left New York two months ago to drive across country to visit her parents. They offered to pay for a plane ticket but Mary wanted an adventure, something she could tell her kids someday.  She was disappointed that she'd seen little of the country via Interstate and decided to take the "scenic route" on the return trip.  She hadn't listened to her parents, who cautioned her about driving alone in unknown territories.

The first time the car broke down it had been something simple, something to do with the distributor, the mechanic had said. He offered to check the car for other problems, but Mary had been in a hurry and had declined. The next time it was the alternator and the mechanic had replaced it. Now as she sat there recalling the repairs, she resolved that when she got to Tulsa she'd visit the first used car lot she could find and get something more reliable.

Mary checked her watch again then debated whether or not she should try to walk to get help or stay where she was. She didn't know how close the nearest town was and wasn't sure anything would be open and thought that it would be safer to stay in the car. She sat back and grabbed a strand of her long brown hair and began twirling it in her fingers. She must have dozed off because the next thing she was aware of was the sound of someone tapping on her window. She opened her eyes to see an old man with a flashlight peering in. Mary rolled down the window.

"Looks like you've had some car trouble," the old man said. "Anything I can do to help?"

"You wouldn't happen to have a tow truck would you?" Mary asked. She looked ahead to the dark sedan parked in front of her.  No, of course not.

"I could give you a lift into the next town," the man told her. "The garage won't be open but maybe you could find a place to sleep."

Mary looked the old man over. He was around six feet tall with thinning gray hair and wearing wire-framed glasses. He had on a plaid shirt and light colored slacks. Mary was reminded of her grandfather. How dangerous can he be? "Sure, I'd like that."

She rolled up the window and opened the door. The man stood back, shining his light on her until she was out. She locked the door and followed the man to his car. The inside was warm and the seat was soft leather and the whole interior had a light pine smell. Again, Mary thought about her grandfather. This was just the sort of car he'd have.

The old man got in and put the car in drive.

"Where exactly am I?"

"This is route four twelve," the man said. "Takes you right into Tulsa." He glanced over at her and continued, "So what's a young woman like yourself doing out on a deserted road at this time of night?"

"I'm on my way to New York. I attend school there."

The man nodded. "I'm Bernard Johnson, by the way."

"Mary Reeves."

"I sort of figured that you're not from around here," he said.

"No, I'm from Santa Monica.  I was visiting my parents."

"What brought you out here?" he asked.

"I wanted to see the country."  There was a slight hint of sarcasm in her voice.

"Bet your parents are worried about you," he said.

"Not really. They think I'm taking the expressway. I should have."

"It's not safe for a young woman out here on her own," Mr. Johnson said. "No telling what could happen."

The comment made Mary slightly uncomfortable. I'm being paranoid.  There's nothing to worry about. "Do you live around here?"

"Not far." He was concentrating on the road and not looking at Mary when he spoke.

"I'm sure it's beautiful country in the daytime."

He nodded staring straight ahead.

In the distance, Mary could see the sign for a motel. She felt relieved.

"Oh, good, there's a place."

Mr. Johnson continued to stare straight ahead. Surely he sees the motel.

When they got to the driveway, he didn't slow down.

"Hey, you missed the turn."

"There'll be other places," he told her.

Mary's mind started racing. What have I gotten myself into? Where is this guy taking me? What will happen when we get there? She looked into the side mirror at the motel vanishing in the distance.

She noticed they were going very fast. "You should watch out. The cops might pull you over."

"Don't see many police out this way," he said calmly. "Especially at this time of night."

Mary felt her heart pounding in her chest.  Her hands were shaking. How can I get away? Should I wait until we get wherever we're going and try to run or should I try to jump out? I don't want to jump out.  The fall might kill me. Hell, Mr. Johnson will most likely kill me when we get where we're going. I can't just wait for something to happen. I'll have to make something happen.

Mary ran several scenarios through her mind until she came up with one that might work. She slowly reached down and unhooked her seatbelt. Mr. Johnson continued staring at the road and didn't seem to notice what she was doing. The road they were on was bordered by trees and high grass.

Suddenly, Mary reached over and grabbed the steering wheel, jerking it roughly to the right.

"What the--" Mr. Johnson said as he tried to steady the car. It skidded across the road a time or two before running off the road into a ditch. Mary didn't wait to see if Mr. Johnson was okay.  She opened the door and sprang from the car, running toward the tree line. She lost her footing and fell into the tall grass and started crawling. Behind her she could hear the car door open and close again. She stopped moving and turned so she could see the car. Mr. Johnson was walking toward her with his flashlight. He scanned the area and the light ran right in front of where Mary was hiding.

"A young woman shouldn't be out here all alone," Mr. Johnson said loudly, his voice calm. "It's not safe."

He started walking again and Mary could hear him coming closer.  She held her breath and tried to remain perfectly still as he stopped just a few feet from where she was laying.  She heard something but couldn't believe what she was hearing.  Mr. Johnson was whistling an indistinct tune as he searched for her.  He remained standing just a few feet from her until Mary thought her lungs would burst then he started walking again.  Mary could hear his footsteps moving further and further away and she slowly let out her breath.  Finally she heard gravel crunching under his feet as he headed back to the car still whistling. She heard one door close, then the other and she let out a relieved sigh when she heard the car pull out onto the highway.

Mary stayed where she was until the sun came up. She rose to her knees and looked around and, seeing no one, she stood. She took a few moments to look herself over. Her hands and the front of her jeans were dirty and she wiped them off before walking back toward the motel. All the time she kept looking over her shoulder for a dark sedan.

At the motel, she found a large man at the front desk. "My car broke down and I need to call a tow truck."

He gave her a long stare and replied, "How did you get here?"

"I walked."

"It's not safe walking around out there by yourself," the desk attendant said. "The slasher might have gotten you."

"The slasher?"

"Yes, the 412 Slasher," the desk attendant said. "At least that's what the TV news calls him."

He explained to Mary that over the past twenty years there had been dozens of women murdered along that stretch of Highway 412. All had their throats cut. The desk attendant broke off his story and said, "Are you alright? You just turned white as a sheet."

Mary's heart was pounding and she was trembling. She felt a gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach. "Forget the tow truck. I think I need to talk to the police."