Damascus Road by Charlie Cole Page A

attacked me in the john.”
    There it was.
    “I’m a fool,” I said.
    “You’re not.”
    “I am. I’m sorry, Blake. It’s been a long day.”
    “That it has,” Wallace said.
    “Everything had been taken care of,” Blake said. “The tools,
the parts, the room, whatever you need. I’m glad to help.”
    I stepped closer to him and extended my hand. He shook it.
And then I hugged him. I never hug people. Not a hugger. Never seemed right.
But what Blake Harrison did in that garage separated him from the rest of
humanity for me. I saw something in him that I had never seen before.
    “I’ll make the arrangements for the wake,” he said. “Is
there anything else you require?”
    I had no right to ask for anything more and I don’t think
that even Blake would have imagined that I would ask for what I did.
    “Blake, I need to ask you for something.”
    “What is it?”
    “When I was in the crash with Chris Beck… there was a
semi-truck involved. I need to know who was driving the rig.”
     
    TO SAY THAT I SLEPT DEEPLY IS TO INSULT DEEP SLEEP. I was in
a near coma. I was unconscious for twelve hours, without moving and,
mercifully, without dreaming. When I finally did rouse, it was like swimming
through a sea of cotton. Colors and sounds were muted. My ears felt a pressure
from the intense quiet of the place. Sunlight streamed in around a pulled shade
and the light was a soft golden color. And the smell…was that…bacon?
    I sat up and looked around. The room was a small studio, the
furnishings simple and dated, but functional and clean. I’d fallen asleep in my
clothes, so there was no need to get dressed. I used the rest room, washed up
and followed the smell of breakfast meat down to the first floor.
    In the back of the garage was a kitchen where I found
Wallace cooking bacon, eggs and pancakes.  Coffee was brewing. God bless him.
    “Good morning,” I croaked.
    “I’m sure it is somewhere,” Wallace said with a grin over
his shoulder. “You slept to noon, but it still does a soul good to have a
hearty breakfast.”
    “Couldn’t agree more,” I said. “I’m sorry…about the way I
acted last night.”
    Wallace plated the food and poured me a cup of coffee
without offering me cream or sugar. It was fine that way, but it told me
something about the man. His generosity was done on his terms; this was no
hotel.
    “No worries,” he said. “You acted like a fool. You were
right about that. But you manned up and admitted to it, and that’s what
counts.”
    “Yes, sir,” I replied. “Thank you for breakfast.”
    “Blake asked me to feed you, otherwise you would have been
on your own,” Wallace said, but he had a smile that seemed to indicate that he
found a little humor in this.
    I tasted the eggs, then the pancakes, the bacon, the coffee
and had to force myself to slow down. I was ravenous. I looked around the
kitchen while I chewed, and Wallace watched me surveying his place.
    “Something on your mind?”
    “What is this place?” I asked. “It looks like a firehouse.”
    “It was,” he admitted. “They built a new building down the
block when they outgrew the space, and I bought this one when I retired from
the fire department.”
    I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
    “I restore classic cars, some of the modern ones as well;
and occasionally, I take on a special project,” Wallace said, stabbing his fork
in my direction and gave me a lop-sided grin.
    I nodded, hanging my head in defeat.
    “What’s on the agenda for today?” I asked.
    “That’s up to you,” Wallace said. “But I would wager that
you’re going to need parts for that fine automobile out there.”
    “Yes, sir. Safe bet.”
    “Do you have clothes other than what’s on your back?” he
asked. He wrinkled his nose slightly and chuckled. I had no defense. The shower
had still eluded me.
    “I don’t,” I admitted. “Can we go shopping?”
    “That we can. Finish up and I’ll meet you in the truck, and
we’ll