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Part II of II

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They said you couldn’t outrun a legend. But in Fort Stockton, all you needed was a 1978 Mercury Marquis — 400 cubic inches under the hood, rust under everything else — and a couple of good ways to keep folks guessing.

It was five months to the day since the silver beast with the roaring V12 had departed Dickinson Boulevard, carrying a man known only as Roland off toward “wherever the road stops being polite.” Since then, the diner had returned to its routine spare-change rhythms. Coffee tasted like coffee. Lemon pie tasted like tart regret and sugar. And the stories of the LM002 were recounted like campfire fables at closing time.

Until the Monday when a battered red wagon crept into town like a repentant sinner trying to sneak back into the fold.

That Wagon Comes Whimpering In

The first time you saw the 1978 Mercury Marquis wagon, you might have thought it was lost — like a dog wandering into a high-school parking lot at halftime. Long enough to need an over-length vehicle permit; chrome bumpers crooked; rear taillights dim as though saving energy for judgment day. Its roof sagged a little, like it knew the jokes people told about station wagons — and took them personally.

It pulled up in front of Grounds for Divorce around 3:17 in the afternoon, that hour when the sky over Fort Stockton starts sweating dust. A blue-and-tan Thunderbird from the old fire station idled nearby, wheels creaking — maybe rubber, maybe regret. People squinted. The dog asleep under the nearest tree lifted its head as if reconsidering its nap-spot.

Inside the diner, Lucinda paused mid-wipe.

Jimmy Don Ventura, in between movie reviews for the Telegram-Dispatch, nearly choked on his stale doughnut.

Sister Thelma dropped in from Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern, in need of something strong enough to get her through the rest of the day.

All eyes turned to the door.

In walked a man — lean, tan, with sunglasses still polished enough to reflect hope — but this time wearing a plain windbreaker and jeans dusty as old bones. Behind him, the Marquis huffed like a tired camel.

He stepped inside, closed the door gently enough to avoid rattling the windows, but firm enough to announce his presence.

Lucinda leaned over the counter. “Back so soon?” she asked, voice flat but curious.

He nodded. “Name’s still Roland.” He slid onto the nearest stool as if mounting a worn leather saddle.

Even Earl, looking up from a menu he’d memorized two decades ago, blinked slow. “Thought you left town forever.”

Roland took a breath that smelled like asphalt and ambition. “Figure some debts don’t get paid in V12. They get paid in tailpipes and station wagons.”

A hush settled — a quiet before gossip storms. Sister Thelma set her cup down and clutched her Bible like it was a cudgel. Hairless B29 edged in, itching to accuse somebody, maybe the wagon, maybe Roland. Angus Hopper leaned into a corner booth, limping just enough to remind folks he was always watching.

Rumors Hitch a Ride

By the time Lucinda poured Roland some Folgers, speculation had already mounted like vultures over roadkill.

“He’s run out of gas,” Trixie whispered to Earl. “Or money. Probably both.”

“Maybe them Saudis finally sent a reprisal team,” Hairless muttered. “LM002 belonged to royalty — that means international incident.”

“You need a shower, Hairless,” Lucinda said before he could add more.

Sister Thelma tapped her spoon against the mug. “Perhaps he seeks forgiveness. Maybe God told him to dump the beast and ride humble.”

Angus rocked back on his seat, quiet but alert. “People don’t wrangle legends unless they’ve got something to hide… or something they need buried.”

Roland sipped his coffee. The steam curled like old secrets surfacing. “Debt’s not what you think. Not money, anyway.”

Earl looked around. “Then what kind of debt?”

Roland just smiled — the kind of smile that betrayed nothing yet weighed like a loaded six-shooter. “Obligations. Loose ends. Rent due.”

Trixie raised her eyebrows. “You planning to park that wagon here forever?”

He chuckled. “It won’t stop. Not for long. I’m restocking — borrowing a little fuel, maybe buying a new muffler — then I’m back on the road. But I wanted to see this place first. Wanted to see if Fort Stockton remembered me.”

Sister Thelma stared long. “Memory’s a funny thing. It don’t always remember your face. But it remembers whoever you rode in on.”

And in that moment, the Marquis felt less like a car and more like a question.

The Town’s Inspection

Word spread fast. By evening, Grounds for Divorce had turned into the sort of madhouse Fort Stockton only sees when the power flickers, the wind picks up, or someone introduces a car foreign enough to deserve suspicion.

Whitford Brewster IV rolled by in his Cadillac Escalade, eyebrows contorted. “I’d know that Mercury wagon anywhere,” he muttered. “Looks like they painted over a coffin.”

Rusty Hammer showed up, coveralls and all, dragging a screwdriver he claimed was “just in case.” He circled the Marquis like a taxidermist auditioning a jackalope for mounted display. Lug nuts, door handles, floor mats — he checked it all. To him, a car that might be hiding secrets deserves better scrutiny than a neon “Wanted” poster on Main Street.

Angus came back twice: once with a flashlight borrowed from the fire station to scope the undercarriage, then again just as the sun went down, to peer through one of the dusty side windows. He exhaled slow. “This car’s got history,” he told no one in particular. “History and maybe some grit left in the carpets.”

Inside the diner, conversation bounced between pity and wonder, curiosity and contempt. Some whispered that Roland traded the LM002 because the Saudis caught up with him. Others said maybe he abandoned it because he saw the future: rust, dust, and more questions. Trixie spread a rumor he was scouting a movie shoot for some kind of desert drama. Sister Thelma murmured prayers that Roland would see the error of his ways.

But Roland sat calm through it all — sipping coffee, finishing pie (Kentucky Bourbon this time), and letting Fort Stockton wrap him in its suspicions, its condolences, and its curiosity.

The Transaction (Sorta)

Three days later, Roland pulled the wagon to the old abandoned hangar at Fort Stockton Regional Airport & Feed Lot — the same vague location folks had speculated about last time. The runway lay cracked and broken like an old promise, weeds poking through like tentative believers, even the grazing longhorns unable to hide their disinterest.

He opened the tailgate and pulled out a single duffel bag. Lucinda and Sister Thelma, curious beyond caution, followed at a safe distance in Lucinda’s old Jeep Wagoneer. Angus trailed last, gun belt loose around his hips, not wanting to spook a man who could still be as dangerous as a drought.

Roland set the bag down. He unlocked the duffel, and inside — tucked in a battered cardboard box — was paperwork. Old deeds. Export forms. Faded cab receipts from airports around the world. And most conspicuously, a deed of sale for the LM002.

He laid them on the cracked runway asphalt like cards you don’t want to play but have to.

Sister Thelma sucked in a breath. “What’s this?”

Roland didn’t look at her. He stared down the runway at nothing. “Closure. That’s what it is.”

Angus folded his arms. “You selling off the Sultan’s car — then dumping the Marquis too?”

Roland shook his head. “No. I’m not selling. I’m passing on. Passing on responsibility.”

From the duffel he pulled a pair of old keys — heavy, polished, dangling on a rusted ring. He dropped one into his coat pocket, and laid the other on the asphalt, toes away from it. The key glinted in the sunset like a warning or a promise.

“Some cars,” he said softly, “don’t want to die in garages. They want to fade on roads where no one’s looking.”

He turned, left the duffel, and got into the Marquis. The 400-cubic-inch V8 coughed, sputtered, then turned over with a rumble — more country than exotic, more confession than roar.

Sister Thelma stepped forward, hesitated, then picked up the key on the ground. She fingered it, staring at the worn metal. “You leaving it here?”

Roland’s silhouette rose in the driver’s window, head cocked.

“Maybe someone needs to remember what a blessing really looks like.”

He slammed the door. The Marquis’ rear shock groaned, then it coughed into motion. Dust rose, brief as memory, then vanished.

The runway settled silent again.

Aftershock in Fort Stockton

Next morning at the diner, the Marquis was gone. So was Roland. In their place sat a heavy silence, punctuated only by the drip of the Bunn-O-Matic and the scuff of Lucinda’s broom across the checkered linoleum.

Earl stirred his mug, stared into the bottom. “Well. God bless him.”

Trixie nodded. “Left us the car key though.”

Sister Thelma wiped her eyes. “Left more than that. Left a question.”

Angus hunched by the jukebox, scratching at his beard. “People pass through. Cars break down. Sometimes stories end. Sometimes they just… change address.”

But already, the legend had fled, replaced by new rumors. Somebody claimed the Marquis ended up at the airfield as a secret landing pad for senior ministers. Others swore they saw a black helicopter circling overhead at dusk, like Fort Stockton had been upgraded to geopolitical waypoint. Hairless insisted the key belonged to some kind of “international diplomatic locker,” full of geopolitical secrets disguised as carburetor gaskets. Mayor Goodman tried to capitalize — suggested renaming the airfield “Roland Roamway,” only to have his staff block him on grounds that Roland paid for nothing and probably wouldn’t appreciate the honor.

Lucinda quietly tucked the key into a small lockbox behind the counter. “In case the right story shows up,” she said.

Earl often glanced at the lockbox when no one was watching, like a man checking for hidden cobras under his hat.

Sister Thelma offered prayers once a night — for safe travels, for lost souls, for whatever lived inside that duffel bag. She told folks God might still beam redemption onto tailpipes if you drove straight enough.

Angus kept driving his perimeter loop well past sunset, checking the roads, the desert edges — listening for the rumble of a V12 or a station wagon coughing its final goodbye.

Epilogue — Or Maybe a Pause

Months later, in the dusty hush before supper, a stranger rolled in.

Red dirt on his boots. A faded guitar strapped over his shoulder. He stopped by Grounds for Divorce and ordered coffee — black, like the kind Roland used to drink when he first came through. He studied the menu board, nodded politely to Lucinda, and glanced around like he’d heard the rumors but preferred silence.

Lucinda set the mug before him. He tasted.
“That’s… proper,” he said.

He slid off a wrinkled envelope. Five dollars — two ones and a three-dollar bill, a joke or a test. She smiled and pocketed it.

He tipped, then left — without a name, without a story, but with eyes that might’ve carried desire or redemption. Maybe both.

Outside, he threw a glance over his shoulder. In the dusty dusk, you could swear you saw the outline of a station wagon — longer than an August afternoon, sagging rear springs, taillights dim but alive — standing behind him. Maybe it wasn’t there. Maybe it was just the desert playing tricks.

He walked away. The diner’s neon buzzed against the plain Texas sky.

Lucinda leaned out the door, squinted along the road. Earl joined her, tipped his hat. Sister Thelma closed the blinds. Angus hunched by a table in the back, elbow on the faded Formica.

The night settled in, slow and scorched with possibilities.

Inside, Lucinda said aloud, though the words might’ve been for herself: “Maybe some stories don’t end. They just take a different road.”

Earl nodded, slowly but certain.

Angus took a final long look across the diner.

Then, outside on the highway, the wind crawled through the cracks in the asphalt, carrying dust and memory. Somewhere out there, in some town whose name would never mean anything to Fort Stockton, a late-seventies Mercury Marquis sat idle — keyed up with quiet history, ready to roll again when the road looked lonely enough.

And the sun set like a wink.

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