Wrong Number
Marla Loomis was driving home late one night down a deserted stretch of Route 692 after working a double shift at the hospital emergency room. Although the highway was once a well-traveled thoroughfare, traffic had decreased considerably after the interstate opened. Nearly all the businesses that once lined the outdated route packed up and relocated further west. Now, only the people who lived in Whitewood, a small community ten miles to the north, used the roadway.
It was almost 2:00 a.m. when Marla heard a rhythmic thud-thud-thud coming from the front of her Honda Accord. As she pulled to the side of the road, she felt a definite resistance in the steering wheel and knew even before she got out of the car, that the tire had gone flat.
"Oh, great," she said, kicking the deflated tire in frustration. "At this hour, Pete's gas station won't be open."
Marla briefly considered changing the tire herself but knew from past experience that she probably would not be able to get the lug nuts off. Exhausted, hungry and frustrated, she got back into the car, turned on the map light above the dashboard, took her cell phone out of her handbag and dialed her husband's number.
"Landsburg Police Department," a man's voice answered.
"I'm sorry. I must have called the wrong number," she stammered.
"Marla, is that you?" she heard her husband, Ray, ask as she was about to end the call.
"Yes, it's me," she answered, confused at the apparent mix-up on the phone call. "What was all that about a police department?"
"What police department? What are you talking about?"
"Never mind. It's not important," she said. "I'm sorry to wake you up, but I just wanted you to know that I'll be late getting home. I've got a flat tire, and I'm stuck out here on Route 692."
"Where exactly on the road are you?"
"Near where Bradlees used to be."
"Just sit tight. I can be there in about thirty minutes to change your tire."
"Don't be silly. You've had a long day, and you need to get some sleep. Why should you drive all the way back here at this time of night? I'll just call Triple-A and have them send someone out. It shouldn't take too long for a tow truck to get here. It's not exactly the rush hour."
"I don't like you being out on that lonely stretch of highway alone, late at night, sweetheart. I'm already awake. Just let me get dressed first. I don't want to change a tire in my pajamas"
"No. You go back to sleep. I'll lock all the doors and remain in the car until the tow truck gets here. I promise. I'll see you when you wake up. I love you. Bye."
She hung up, not giving him the chance to argue. He had been working so many long hours lately, and he often came home nights on the brink of exhaustion. Besides, they were paying for road service; why not use it?
Marla next dialed the number for emergency roadside assistance, which was printed on the back of her AAA membership card.
After three rings, the same male voice answered, "Landsburg Police Department."
"I'm sorry," she said again. "I seem to keep dialing the wrong number. I was trying to reach Triple-A."
"This is Triple-A," an efficient-sounding young woman replied. "How can we help you?"
That's odd, Marla thought. Can cell phone signals get crossed somehow?
"I'm out on Route 692 about five miles north of the intersection with Highway 18. I have a flat tire, and I need someone to change it for me."
"We'll have someone out to you in about fifteen or twenty minutes."
Marla put her phone down and locked the doors. The dark and silent night that seemed to engulf the Honda was making her feel uneasy, so she turned the radio on and the interior light off. With the light on, the darkness outside seemed more intense, as if the windows had been painted black. At least with the light turned off, she could make out shadows and shades of gray.
At some point, she must have dozed off.
I'd better stay awake. I don't want to be sleeping when the tow truck gets here.
As the nurse sat in the Honda with the windows rolled up and the doors locked, listening to Elvis Presley ask the classic question "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" on the oldies rock station, she heard movement outside the car. She turned the radio off and listened. There it was again, a faint rustling in the brush alongside the road. A shiver went up her spine.
"Marla," she told herself, "you've seen way too many thrillers and horror movies. You hear a groundhog or raccoon and start imagining Jason Voorhees."
She then tried to make light of the situation by imagining an overfed, lazy raccoon wearing the goalie mask worn by the crazed killer from Camp Crystal Lake. But the reoccurrence of the rustling sound made her nerves tense up. She looked at her watch. According to its Indiglow dial, only ten minutes had passed since she'd spoken to the woman at AAA.
"Time flies when you're having fun," she said, still trying to use humor as a weapon in her battle against the growing uneasiness she felt.
Finally, her hand went out to the ignition, and she turned the key to the accessory position. The radio came on again. Elvis was gone, and Weird Al was singing "Amish Paradise." That was just what the doctor ordered! How could anyone's spirits not be lifted by one of Weird Al's parodies? Marla sang along, temporarily forgetting the darkness that was just outside.
"No phone, no lights, no motor cars, not a single luxury ...."
The rustling noise was louder. Whatever was out there appeared to be getting closer to the Honda, but it was so dark she could not see a thing. Worse still, her mind had strayed from the humor of the accordion-playing pop star to the images of Michael Meyers in his William Shatner Halloween mask, Freddy Krueger and his razor-like glove and all the other psycho killers she had found so entertaining while sitting in a crowded movie theater or in the safety of her own living room.
Wait until Ray hears about this! she thought. He'll never let me live it down.
When she looked at her watch again, she realized almost an hour had passed since she pulled to the side of the road. Where was the tow truck? Maybe she should have had her husband come to her aid after all; he would have been there by now, and the tire would have been changed.
Maybe if she concentrated on what awaited her at home—a good meal, a hot shower and a comfortable bed—she would be less concerned with the sounds being made by Rocky Raccoon, or maybe it was Rocky the Flying Squirrel.
To pass the time, she began to sing acapella, without the radio accompaniment.
"We've been spending most our lives living in an Amish paradise. We're all crazy Mennonites living in an ...."
Marla caught her breath as she heard something hit the back of her car. In the rear and side view mirrors, she could see only darkness. She sat motionless, barely breathing. Only her heart continued working—and doing an admirable job at that, beating almost twice as fast as normal. Then a scratching sound came from the back of the car as though something was crawling along her rear bumper or fender. Maybe if she could reach her flashlight under the seat, she would be able to see what type of animal it was. But she was too frightened to move.
"It's okay," she kept telling herself. "All the doors are locked. Nothing is going to get inside. The worst that could happen is that the paint will get scratched. Even if I get a minor dent or two, it's no big deal."
What was keeping the tow truck? Slowly she reached for her cell phone and redialed the previous number.
"Landsburg Police Department."
"Not again!" she said in exasperation.
Then the familiar young woman's voice came on the line.
"Triple-A Emergency Road Service. How can we help you?"
Marla was too frightened to care what was wrong with her wireless phone service. She only wanted to get back on the road and drive home. Although the scratching sound now seemed to be heading toward the front passenger door, she made a valiant effort to keep the fear out of her voice.
"This is Marla Loomis. I called about an hour ago. I'm still here on Route 692, waiting for someone to change my flat tire."
"I know, Mrs. Loomis. I sent the truck out as soon as you called, but there's been an accident not far from you. The police called our tow truck to the scene. But, it ought to be there soon. Probably in less than a half an hour."
"A half-hour? That long?" The hysteria was creeping into Marla's voice, but she no longer cared. "I'm all alone out here, and some animal is scratching the outside of my car."
"I'm sure you'll be fine, Mrs. Loomis. There are no dangerous animals in that area. The skunks are the only ones you'll have to keep an eye out for."
"But I phoned more than an hour ago. Your truck should have come here first and then gone to the accident afterward."
"With all due respect, ma'am, you're safe inside your vehicle, and there was a driver pinned inside an overturned car. Our truck was needed to get him out of the wreckage."
Marla experienced a sense of guilt followed by humiliation, yet still, a numbing fear pervaded.
"You're right. I'm sorry. I'll just wait for the truck. Thank you."
Once again, she asked herself why the hell had she refused her husband's offer to change the flat tire. She would be home in bed now instead of sitting in her car in the outer limits, about to take one step beyond and enter the Twilight Zone, a place where not even Weird Al Yankovic could save her.
Soon a new sound joined the scratching, a soft, low moaning. It was no raccoon, squirrel or skunk. The thing outside her door, still hidden in the darkness, was human.
"Go away! Please!" she whispered to the darkness. "Just go!"
Terrified, she frantically grabbed the cell phone and punched in the number for the police. The phone rang and rang, but no one answered.
"Where the hell are the Landsburg police when you need them? Are they all out on their nightly coffee and donut run?"
No, she realized. Most of them were probably at the scene of the accident—all but the tired officer who had somehow temporarily intercepted her three previous phone calls. What had happened to him? She let the phone ring, hoping he would soon return from his break.
"Whoever you are," she announced in a loud and, hopefully, brave-sounding voice, "I've got a cell phone and I'm calling the police."
Abruptly the moaning and scratching stopped. Maybe the pervert had gotten the message. Encouraged, Marla continued to bluff, speaking into the still unanswered cell phone.
"Landsburg police?" she said. "I'm sitting here on the side of Route 692 with a flat tire. I've called Triple-A, and a tow truck is on its way. However, I want to report that someone is outside my car in the darkness, trying to frighten me. Would you please send a patrol car over?"
She waited a few seconds, pretending to listen to a police officer's reply and not the sound of the persistent ringing.
"How soon? That's great. Thank you."
The moaning started again.
"The police car is only a mile or so away. It'll be here any minute."
Still, her tormenter continued moaning, and the scratching on the car resumed. Suddenly, she heard the thunk of the door handle. Someone was trying to open the passenger door.
"It's locked, asshole!" she screamed.
The intruder then started to pound on the door, as if knocking to gain entry.
"Go away, damn you!"
Despite her show of bravado, the pounding continued. Then her tormentor picked up a rock and smashed it against the Honda's passenger window, creating a spider web of cracked glass.
"No!" Marla screamed and threw the cell phone against the passenger door.
It fell back onto the seat, and its plastic housing came apart at the seams. The overwrought nurse screamed again. Then she turned the key in the ignition and floored the gas pedal. The Honda raced down the highway, dragging the unseen, would-be assailant along the shoulder of the road several yards, before finally running over him with her rear tire.
Now a new sound could be heard in the darkness. This time it was a welcome one: the familiar wailing of a police siren. Marla hit the brakes, put her head on the steering wheel and cried with relief. She was vaguely aware of the patrol car stopping behind her and of the two officers examining the body that lay by the side of the road.
"I'll bet this is the guy that was involved in the accident down the street," she heard one patrolman tell the other. "I heard after he was freed from the wreckage, he refused to go to the hospital, despite the fact that he could barely walk."
"It looks to me like he collapsed along the way and crawled here," the second policeman said. "Poor bastard! He made it this far only to get run over."
One of the officers, Pedro Gutierrez, finally walked to Marla Loomis's Honda and tapped on the window.
"Please step out of your vehicle, ma'am. You'll need to come with us to the station to clear this matter up."
Like a robot, the nurse unlocked the door, opened it and got out. As she followed Officer Gutierrez back to the squad car, she could not help turning to look at the body on the side of the road. Despite the injuries he sustained when his car flipped over, not to mention those he got during the harrowing ordeal that followed, Marla could still recognize him.
She fell to her knees beside him and threw her arms around his lifeless body. The officers tried to pull her away, afraid she had gone insane at the thought of killing an innocent man.
She turned and looked up at them, her face covered with tears, and sobbed, "It's my husband. He must have been on his way here to change my flat tire."
* * *
More than a month later, a haggard-looking Marla Loomis, still trying to put together the pieces of her shattered life, drove to the Landsburg police station. There she spoke to Pedro Gutierrez and his partner, who had come to her assistance on that dreadful night. There was one question she had to ask them: how had they found her out on Route 692?
"We received your report that you were stuck out there with a flat tire and that there was an intruder outside your car," Officer Gutierrez replied.
"That's not possible. I never spoke to anyone at the police station."
"The desk sergeant took the call."
"He couldn't have!" she stubbornly insisted.
"I tell you he did."
"I saw the phone on the car seat. It broke when I threw it against the window."
"You must have phoned us before it broke."
"You don't understand. I called my husband, spoke to Triple-A twice, and then attempted to call the police station."
The two officers looked at her questioningly. What was she trying to get at?
"But I shouldn't have been able to speak to anyone that night. There was no battery in my cell phone."
"Amish Paradise" lyrics written by "Weird" Al Yankovic. © EMI U Catalog, Inc., Jobete Music Company, Inc., Black Bull Music, Inc., T-Boy Music Publishing, Inc., Boo Daddy Publishing, Songs of Polygram International, Madcastle Muzik and Only Prod.
What a time we live in— even my cat has his own cell phone!
