I watched the stranger gaze at the long shadows rolling across the Valley. Now and then, he looked down at the notebook on his lap and scribbled in a frenzy of inspiration, as if documenting a world of his own making. The glaucous light of a foggy, vernal afternoon illuminated his long, tangled hair and threadbare clothes, shrouding him in an aura of some disheveled angel sent to summon a new age I could not abide. I despised change, and long ago, I claimed this land and its era as my own.

He loped around town, clutching his notebook, as if he had no particular destination. I amused myself by nicknaming him Rambler. Other than that, I wasn’t much interested in the guy until I saw him at a party where Nancy showed up and drew him into the mess that was to come. Her return to the Valley shocked me. She must have thought I’d moved on or forgotten what betrayal meant. The faint scent of patchouli gave her away. Once, a wild short-haired blonde, she let her hair grow out and dyed it brown. Her blood-red lips and nails were now pink, and she swapped her high heels for flats. Nancy didn’t fool me. A person can disguise themselves but not their style. Besides, I knew every inch of her body.

“Can’t say the makeover is an improvement. You’re gorgeous as ever.”

“Excuse me?” Her voice was soft and sultry, the way I remembered it.

“Why’d you come back, Nancy? You got what you wanted, including my share.”

“We’ve never met. You’re mistaken.”

“I don’t make mistakes. I still have feelings for you, and I’m willing to overlook your peccadillo if we get back together and settle our business. It’s the best I can do. Otherwise…”

“Listen. I’m not who you think I am.”

She flashed her wedding band and turned her back to me.

“Hey, Martha,” a voice called out. Nancy looked around. The greeting seemed to come from nowhere. “Where’s George?”

“He’s working the late shift at the factory.”

“Surprised you came alone,” said the voice. “Not an easy drive over the mountain at night.”

“The mountain is never easy,” said Nancy.

I sat slouched in a corner of the room, sucking on my flask of memories. She glanced my way, then fixed her eyes on Rambler, who sat alone, nursing a beer and flipping through a magazine. By the end of the night, they were laughing and doing shots. I was none too pleased about that.

The next day, I watched them leave a bookstore together. He looked so happy I wanted to smash his face in. He wouldn’t mind, because Nancy would fuck him into a quick recovery. They strolled along Main then stopped beside a gray pickup. She got in and drove away. Rambler kept walking, turning down Broad Street. I caught up with him as he entered Dutch’s Place.

“Hey, man. You bagged the hottest chick at the party last night. And married, too.”

He eyed me as if I were some creep, hired to bash his indiscreet brains out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Relax. It’s a compliment. Let me buy you a beer, friend. I won’t take no for an answer.”

We sat in a booth and polished off a pitcher of Dutch’s Finest. He wasn’t talkative except to say he was a writer searching for some crap he called beauty beyond control. I noticed a stain on his white shirt.

“What’s with the blue dot on your pocket ... did your pen leak?”

My comment seemed to annoy him, as if I had no right to an innocent question.

“It’s my bullet hole in waiting.”

“Crazy way to come to a reward.”

“Yeah, I guess. Just that I have this unease about not finding what I’m looking for in the time I’ve been given. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s your plan?”

“To be a winner.”

“That’s not a plan. It’s an outcome. Besides, winning only lasts until you lose.”

“I don’t plan to.”

The whistle at the grain factory blew. A rush of ripe workers stampeded in, demanding their lunches of beer and pickled eggs. Some jerk cut through the herd and headed straight for the jukebox at the back. Two bits unleashed three deafening songs filled with whining voices and sorrowful guitars, spewing tales of love gone bad and the vengeance that followed, as if real life hadn’t dished out enough. My sinking mood seemed the perfect moment for a revelation.

“She’s not who you think,” I said. “Hey, can you hear me over this goddamn noise?”

Rambler sipped his beer.

“That chick you met—Martha—she’s a fraud. Her real name is Nancy. About five years ago, we pulled a heist in the city. I trusted her with the money. She kept the key to the stashbox and never showed up to split the take. Left yours truly waiting at the station for a train that had already departed.”

Rambler sat mum and motionless, staring at the light refracting off the empty glass pitcher. I leaned in.

“No one messes with Ronny and gets away with it.”

Rambler posed no questions, even with a brain full of alcohol.

“When did you last see her?”

He ignored me. My arm shot across the table. He held his shoulder as if I’d hurt him.

“Talk to me. Did you not hear what I said?”

“I heard everything.”

He tilted the pitcher. Bullets of light strafed my eyes.

“Put the damned thing down and answer the question!”

“What question?”

“When you last saw her?”

“Martha?”

“No, Nancy.”

He shook his head as if I were the one confused.

“I stopped by her house a few days ago. Met her husband.”

“Where does she live?”

“The other side of the mountain.”

“Can’t figure out why she married him.”

“I’d marry her, too, if I could,” said Rambler.

“You’re drunk ... or crazy. You don’t know her.”

“I like her enough. She’s a nice person. Wonder if George realizes how lucky he is.”

“Wouldn’t call him lucky. Besides, the man can’t count to five without using his fingers, and he’s not much to look at.”

Rambler yawned and stretched his arms as if he were bored. I couldn’t get him to see anything my way.

“Pitcher’s empty, Ronny. I’ll get a refill.”

“Forget the beer. We’re going over the mountain.”

“What?”

“Got to find out why she married him. Besides, you, me, her ... could be fun.”

“What if her husband is there? Wouldn’t look right.”

“George won’t be a problem.”

My head throbbed from the noise in the bar, and half my ass felt numb from sitting on the gun in my back pocket. Over the stench of sour hops and grain rot came the faint scent of patchouli. Two women stood nearby, trying not to spill their beer or drop their eggs. The blonde had some hard miles on her, but she was a sure thing right out of the gate. Her friend was none the worse for wear. I stood and offered them our booth.

“Why don’t you boys join us?” said the blonde.

“I’m sorry, but my buddy and I—”

“Too bad,” her friend said. “You’re kinda cute.”

“Hang on a moment.” I turned to Rambler.

“These gals are begging us to service them. We’ll have plenty of time to head over the mountain.”

“Which women are you talking about?”

I looked back. The women were gone. Two men sat in our booth.

“What the hell is going on? We gave our seats to the ladies.”

“I don’t think so, Ronny.”

“You saying I’m lying?”

“No. It’s crowded and you made a mistake, that’s all.”

“I don’t make mistakes.”

“Let’s leave before things go south. It’s too nice a day to spend in jail.”

I was mad as hell. Rambler held my arm and led me out. I clenched my teeth, shut my eyes, and felt the blonde’s hips buck and writhe beneath me. Then I wondered if she’d remember who I was. It’s a terrible thing to feel like you’re less than a memory—and worse if you’re not sure you were even that.

Rambler balked at taking his jalopy over the mountain.

“Not sure I can drive, Ronny. My head’s spinning.”

“Let’s switch. Give me the wheel.”

“Nobody drives her but me.”

“Fine. Don’t go getting us killed and make sure no trooper stops us.”

I opened the glovebox and stashed the gun while he revved the engine. We lurched forward and headed for the mountain.

The thought of him visiting Nancy a few days ago riled me. I’d bet he screwed her and kept it a big secret—putting on new-age airs while carrying on age-old shenanigans behind my back. We made it a few miles up the mountain before the car sputtered and stalled. Rambler laughed like an idiot as we rolled backward down the incline.

“Shit. Do something! You’re gonna get us killed.”

“Just having fun,” he said, slowing to a stop.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Rambler failed to start the engine several times.

“Now what—push this piece of crap the rest of the way up the mountain?”

“Sorry, Baby. My friend has anger issues,” he said to the car. “You know I love you.”

Damned if the engine didn’t turn over on the next try.

“See, Ronny. You have to know how to treat her.”

When we reached the top of the mountain, he pulled onto the shoulder and rolled down his window. The temperature had dropped about twenty degrees since we left Broad Street. Rambler sat in a trance, staring at the vast expanse before us, then got out of the car and crossed the road, stopping on a bluff beyond a row of glistening pines.

“Hey, Ronny, check out this view. It makes me shiver.”

I got out of the car and caught up to him. “You’re shaking from the cold. Besides, we didn’t come to sightsee.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“Let me guess. On top of a damned mountain?”

“Maybe we died back there like you thought we would.”

“You’re crazy. It’s too soon to die. Besides, what would be the point of your bullet hole in waiting?”

Rambler’s eyelids fluttered as he mumbled something about how springtime came to the Valley but hadn’t reached the mountain, and that neither could exist without the other. Then he placed his hands on my shoulders, pursed his lips, and gazed into my eyes.

“Nancy, darling. Why, oh why, did you marry George?”

I can’t stand being made a fool. It took all my grit not to knock his teeth out. The sun rolled behind the evergreens. I peered at the road ahead. Jagged strips of dark ice covered the edges of cracked asphalt.

“Let’s go.”

He pretended not to hear. I should have taken his key and pushed him off the mountain. Instead, I huffed in frustration and headed toward the car. A cloud of flies buzzed a few yards up the road. It seemed too cold for them to be out at this altitude. I followed a curving path of red drops that led to a deer lying in a gulley. Sunbeams caromed off her large teeth and her bulging, maggot-ridden eyes looked skyward as if in prayer. Her belly was torn open, likely the work of mountain cats. I looked at death with neither pity nor disgust, but excitement about how nature meted out punishment. Savagery got things done, and who’s to say the animal didn’t deserve it?

Rambler sat waiting in the car. He released the parking brake and we coasted down the far side of the mountain. The car accelerated, swerving across the lanes, its tires squealing as they barely gripped the slick, winding road. A bitter taste filled my mouth.

“Stop! I’m gonna puke.”

He slammed on the brakes. I rolled down the window and let Dutch’s Finest fly into the freezing wind.

“You don’t look good, Ronny. We should turn back.”

I knew what he meant—stay the hell away from Nancy. I wiped the saliva off my chin.

“Keep going. I’m fine.”

Her house was hidden in the woods at the bottom of the mountain road, not far from the north-south highway. Rambler spun the steering wheel and the car fishtailed between two bare trees. We rumbled along a forest path, jostled in our seats by mounds of dirt and wooden debris. The tire treads kicked up pebbles and shot them at the underside of the car. It sounded like guns popping off. The dirt road finally turned to gravel and leveled out. I needed to piss.

“Roll down your window, Ronny. You can hear the creek water on your right.”

Rambler seemed to know a lot about this place. We pulled up behind a gray pickup parked beside the house. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and rested his head on his arms as if regretting that we’d come. A few seconds later, the weight of his body set off the horn. The front door opened and Nancy stepped out.

“Hi, there,” she said in her deep, sexy voice.

Rambler got out first. They hugged. She didn’t expect to see me, judging from the expression on her face.

“Nice place,” I said, acting friendly. She knew better.

She turned to Rambler. “The house is a mess. I wasn’t expecting guests.”

“Be right there,” I said, watching Rambler gawk at Nancy’s ass as he followed her. I took the gun from the glovebox, shoved it back into my pocket, then looked for signs of George as I walked toward the house. The loose doorknob nearly came off in my hand. The air inside reeked of cigarette smoke and patchouli.

“Gotta piss, bad,” I said, holding my crotch.

Nancy scowled. She used to find it funny.

“The bathroom is at the end of the hall,” she said.

I finished my business and was ready to beat the hell out of the two guys in the bar for stealing our two women. It took a moment to clear the confusion before I stepped into the living room. Rambler sat in a worn armchair. Nancy sat on a loveseat missing a cushion. Between them sat a chipped coffee table. It made no sense. She had enough money from the heist to buy a nice house on a hill.

An old phonograph sat on the floor beside a crate filled with record albums. Over the fireplace hung a Purple Heart medallion alongside Martha Dandridge’s high school diploma. How far would Nancy go to convince me she wasn’t her?

“Where’s your husband?” I asked.

“Working.”

She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table. Nancy never smoked—or, maybe I forgot.

“How is he?”

She drew hard on the tobacco and exhaled the answer. “Fine, I suppose.”

“Suppose?” said Rambler.

“I don’t see him much. The factory is on your side of the mountain and we’re never sure what shift he’s working. George stays at his friend’s place in town during the week unless he gets a ride home. He can’t drive because of the war injury.”

“You must be lonely,” I said. “Should get a pet.”

“And have it mauled by cats coming down from the high ground?”

“So, George might not be back for a few days.”

“He shows up … unexpectedly.” It sounded like a warning.

Nancy took another drag then stood and rested her hands on her belly. “I’ll make coffee,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

Rambler flipped through the records. I stared at the wedding picture. I recognized Nancy, but George looked too tall and must have lost about fifty pounds since I last saw him, no longer the little, round jerk I remembered. Nancy returned holding two filled mugs. How subtle. She set them on the table, then reached for another cigarette.

“You still have one burning in the ashtray,” I said.

She ignored me, lit a second cigarette, then asked Rambler why we had come.

He shot me a look as if to say, “Go ahead, Ronny, ask your dumbass question why she married George.” I sat silent.

“You never asked how I am,” she said.

“Sorry,” said Rambler.

“Pregnant.”

“Congrats,” I said. “George ought to be proud of what he did to you.”

“Cut the wisecracks, Ronny.”

“Don’t get uptight, Rambler.”

He gave me a strange look, as if I’d insulted him. I suddenly realized that I’d called him Rambler to his face for the first time, and that I never knew his real name.

“Let’s go, Ronny. I didn’t come here to upset Martha.”

“No, Rambler. Get it right. Her name is Nancy.”

I crossed my legs and got comfortable in the chair.

“Nancy, darling, enlighten Rambler as to who you truly are. I told him everything at the bar. He’s a lousy listener and probably dumber than George.”

She sank into the loveseat and dug her nails into the fabric like a frightened kitten.

“Tell him who knocked you up!”

“Why are you saying these horrible things?”

“Come on, Nancy. That’s no way to talk to the father of your child.”

“You’re crazy! I barely know you.”

She looked to Rambler for help.

“Get up,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

“We’re not going anywhere, Rambler.”

“Damn it, Ronny. You want to be a winner. Act like one.”

I stood and drew my gun.

“What the hell? Put that away!”

“I counted you a friend, Rambler, but you shouldn’t have gotten involved. Think of this as a favor.”

“Involved with whom, a favor for what? Stop joking.”

“It’s no joke.”

The trigger clicked with its usual smoothness. The bullet pierced Rambler’s chest and he slumped over the armchair.

“Don’t hurt her, Ronny.”

I fulfilled the prophecy of his bullet hole in waiting, but the ingrate could only think about Nancy. A thin thread of blood connected the buttons on his white shirt as he sank lifeless to the floor. Nancy dropped to her knees and cradled his head in her lap, gently stroking his tangled hair.

“Clean up this mess. We don’t want George getting upset when he comes home.”   

The police found Rambler in a field of tall grass on the opposite side of the north-south highway, slumped over the steering wheel of his ’59 American. His death made front-page news in the Daily Star the next day, and Rambler instantly gained fame in the stunned Valley.

Nancy hadn’t lied. That evening, the front door unexpectedly swung open. Unlucky George—from the wedding photo—limped in, holding a cane in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other. Rambler’s fame faded shortly thereafter when a farmer found George’s body in a cornfield with a bullet in his head.

* * *

“Hand over the key.”

“What?”

“The key to the stashbox in the goddamn city.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I pressed the gun barrel against her temple.

“Okay. Please don’t hurt me.”

She slid off the chair, took a key from a vase, and tossed it.

“This looks like a house key.”

“I swear it’s the one.” Her lips twitched as if uncertain she had convinced me.

“It better be.” I slipped the key into my shirt pocket and buttoned the flap.

“Get in the truck.”

We turned left onto the paved road.

“The city is the other way,” she said.

“I know.”

“Why are we driving up the mountain?”

“Need to show you something, first.”

I reached the top, got out of the gray pickup, opened the passenger door, and dragged her out by her long, dyed hair.

“Oh, God. Why are you doing this?” she whimpered, reeling from the sight of the mangled deer. “No more killing.”

A cold wind swept through the dimly lit pines. The scent of patchouli distracted me as my hands brought her lips to mine. She was Nancy, Martha, the blonde at the bar—all caught in my numb embrace—until I pushed her away.

“Two men had to die before I earned your kiss. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Let me go. You’re making a big mistake.”

“I don’t make mistakes. If you’re Nancy, you deserve to die. If you’re Martha, you know who I am and need to die. The truth is, I’m not sure anymore.”

One bullet brought down beauty beyond control, as Rambler aptly put it. I left her for the cats. I hopped into the pickup and stared at the gun barrel that held the souls of deceitful women and ill-fated men, then shoved the gun into the glovebox and gave a final thought to Rambler’s words: Winning only lasts until you lose. I tossed his new-age notion out the window and headed down the mountain.

Long ago, I realized people get what they deserve, and the fools are surprised because they didn’t see it coming. Lights flash; sirens scream; nothing changes. I know the future because I invented the past. In the rearview mirror, the disappointed Valley faded into darkness. I turned onto the highway and slammed my foot down on the gas pedal. I am goddamn unstoppable—a winner forever—heading south to find the real Nancy.

Stephen Myer is a writer and musician in Southern California. His stories and poetry have been published in The Literary Hatchet, Bewildering Stories, Tales from the Moonlit Path, Roi Faineant Press, Muleskinner Journal, JayHenge Publishing Back Forty, Kafka Protocol, and Masque & Maelström Anthologies, Yellow Mama, Black Petals, The Avenue Journal, Close to the Bone, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Blood Fiction Anthologies Vols. 2, 3 & 4, Exquisite Death, God's Cruel Joke, Moonday Magazine, Fiction on the Web, and elsewhere. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Award for Literary Fiction.