by Joe Nobody
One of the guards rolled the shopping cart full of packages inside the small room and then closed the door. Dusty heard the fellow check the knob, making sure the prisoner was secure.
Dropping immediately to the floor, Dusty listened to his captors through the gap between the linoleum tile and the bottom of the door. He heard the head man bark, “You two go back out and watch the store. I’ll call the Kemah PD and get a car out here.”
Following their orders, he listened as the two men stamped off. The boss hung around for a moment, and then his footsteps faded into the distance as well.
Dusty grabbed the door handle with both hands and pushed hard. It opened without much effort. The gum had done its job, blocking the lock’s bolt from fully closing into the frame. He had learned the trick from an older boy in high school, sticking a mouthful of the sticky substance in the side door’s lock so they could sneak in on weekends and play basketball in the gym.
He cautiously stuck his head out of the opening, finding the area empty of any store employees. He returned to the closet, rushing through his bags and packing his purchased items into the new backpack. Sticking the Glock and one of the new cell phones in his pocket, he exited the pseudo-cell and made for a far row of shelves.
The red light of an exit sign was visible up ahead, and it was tempting. His initial reaction was to make a rush for the back door, but something else drew his attention. There was a camera mounted on the wall. Glancing around, he noted the place was thick with the electronic eyes. That was a problem.
Even if he made a clean escape, there was little doubt his image resided on the store’s security system – probably from multiple angles. That video, when analyzed, would confirm he was still alive, lead to the taxi, then the hotel, and finally an undeniable implication of Grace.
His hard-won new identity would be toast, the alias zipping through every law enforcement database in the country. Ducking between two large boxes, he hid in the shadows, trying to think things through.
He had to erase his tracks. The phones, pre-loaded credit cards and everything else he’d just purchased would be on the receipts. It wouldn’t take the authorities long to tie it all together. That video tape had to go – it was the only solid proof that he was still among the living.
He pulled out one of the plastic-covered phones, making quick work of the packaging with his pocketknife. The setup screens seemed to take forever, but eventually he had service. He had made a shopping list on the hotel’s stationery and found the phone number directly below the fancy letterhead.
“Southside Harbor, how may I direct your call?” A friendly voice answered.
“Room 515, please.”
Grace answered on the second ring.
“It’s me. You need to get out, and get out of there right now.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
In as few sentences as possible, he explained what had happened.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, but regardless, you have to get out of that room. Call a cab from the lobby or just start walking, but get out.”
He could hear her breathing through the phone as her mind raced through the options. “Okay. Meet me by the fountains at the boardwalk as soon as you can. Our boat is probably still there – that might be the only way for us to skedaddle. That place will be busy this time of day, and I’ll pretend to shop and lose myself in the crowd.”
“Okay – I’ll see you there.”
Checking the aisle from both directions, Dusty crawled out of the nook and retraced his steps. Down the hall from his holding cell were a series of office windows, a few of them leaking light through the glass. Maybe he could find the recording equipment for the surveillance system.
The rumble of an approaching forklift caused a mad scramble for cover, the dockworker zipping past without seeing him. That heart-stopping event was closely followed by voices. Two employees, each carrying a brown lunch bag, entered one of the doors. The employee break room, he decided.
He bent low, duck-walking under the first window where several people were chowing down on their chosen meals. The next door was closed, the window dark. On the third door was a small sign, “Security Office.”
He slowly peeked around the edge of the window, spying the security boss typing on a computer keyboard. Behind him, on a rack, were half a dozen video recording machines. How do I get him out of there?
New voices sounded behind him, and there wasn’t anywhere to go. He spotted a large bulletin board nearby and moved quickly to stand as if he were reading the latest results from the company softball league. Two workers walked by, paying him no attention.
After they had passed, he strolled by the offices and found himself in another warehouse area. The place was huge. Again, he found a cubbyhole, crates of garden hoses on one side, racks of shovels, rakes and hoes on the other.
How could he get the security man out of his office long enough to remove the tapes?
He shifted positions to get more comfortable and almost knocked one of the long-handled shovels from its hanger. He caught it mid-fall, cursing under his breath at his clumsiness. That thing would have made one hell of a racket banging up against the wall, he chided himself. Someone would have come to see what all the fuss was about.
It was then that he noticed the wall-mounted fire station. Directly across from the rows of hanging tools was an alarm, hose and extinguisher. It was equipped with one of those “Break the glass in case of fire” devices.
Examining the shovel still in his hand, he whispered, “That is a stupid place to hang these tools… one of them could fall and set off the….” A mischievous smile crossing his lips, he suddenly had a plan.
Peeking out from his hide, he made sure there wasn’t anyone nearby. He hefted the shovelhead and smashed the glass. Hooking the edge of the heavy tool on the handle, he pulled down the alarm and scurried behind a nearby soda machine.
Strobe lights flashed and claxons sounded throughout the area. He heard the security door fly open; the head guard’s voice rumbling, “What the hell is going on,” as footfalls raced away. Dusty popped his head around in time to spy the store cop rounding the far corner, being followed by the wide-eyed employees from the break room.
He was in the security office in seconds, taking a moment to study the complex-looking recording system. Shrugging his shoulders, he pressed a button labeled “Eject,” and smiled when a tape cartridge appeared in the slot. Fifteen seconds later, he walked out with a backpack stuffed full of cassettes.
People were rushing everywhere. He spotted the elongated corridor with the exit sign and decided that was his best way out. Less than a minute later, he stepped into the bright sunlight, shielding his eyes while he got his bearings.
Walking casually, he made for the front of the store and his waiting taxi. The stroll was much longer than anticipated given the huge dimensions of the retail giant. When he finally arrived at the corner leading to the parking lot, he chanced a glance around the wall and noticed several people rushing for their vehicles. A police car was just arriving, the officer a little confused by all the commotion.
Dusty strolled right past the cop, his cab still waiting along the sidewalk.
“Sorry that took so long, the store was having electrical issues,” he announced, opening the back door.
“I thought they’d arrested you for shoplifting or something,” the cabbie teased. “Back to the hotel?”
“No, I feel like getting a bite to eat. How about that boardwalk place?”
“Sure enough,” the guy replied, pulling the car into gear and rolling off.
“We’ve got him,” sounded the excited voice through the cell phone’s tiny speaker.
“Where?” asked Shultz, his heart already racing.
“Kemah. He was picked up via a patrol car’s dash cam, walking out of a department store.”
Kemah, thought Shultz, it all made sense. An easy place to dock a boat and get lost in a thi
ckly populated and touristy shoreline. Then a scowl crossed the agent’s face, his mind registering all of the landmarks in the area, everything from NASA’s Johnson Space Center to the Kemah Boardwalk.
“Make absolutely sure the local cops don’t try to be heroes. If they can keep an eye on him, then fine, but don’t try to take him down under any circumstances. Houston’s already suffered enough damage. I want a full tactical team, including the best sniper in Houston, at my parking spot in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Twelve minutes later, a caravan of federal SUVs rolled out of the FBI’s parking garage, Agent Shultz accompanied by one of the agency’s elite hostage rescue units, which included some of the finest long distance shooters in the world.
Dusty spotted Grace roaming the waterfront shopping area, staring through a storefront window, two large shopping bags filled with packages weighing down her arms.
“We’re running out of money quick, darling,” he teased, walking up behind her. “Do I need to cut up your credit cards?”
She glanced down at the overflowing bags and grinned. “This is the stuff we bought at the hotel. I didn’t have a suitcase. I’m glad you’re okay. What happened?”
They strolled together while he relayed his adventure, making for a secluded area not far from the amusement park.
“That was a smart move,” she finally pronounced after he’d finished. “You were right – we’ve got to be more careful.”
Taking a seat on a bench, Dusty scanned the area as if expecting to see SWAT teams maneuvering toward their perch. “I’ve got to get away from here. So do you,” he finally announced.
It was obvious Grace didn’t want to contemplate their separation. “They had to know I was at the ship channel. I’m assuming Agent Monroe let me go because he was hoping I would get in contact with you. I drove my own car to the pier, and they probably followed me there. So what’s my story when I do resurface?”
Dusty kept scanning the crowd, half of his brain wondering what he would do if the cops did appear. Would he pull the rail gun? Should they try to run? After a minute of observing nothing but tourists, he refocused on Grace’s dilemma. “You can’t deny you were there, so why not play the stunned victim routine? You don’t remember what happened and somehow found your way home.”
“Home? Do you think going back to Fort Davis is a good idea?”
“You’ve lost your purse, ID, keys, car, and luggage. You’re going to need money, access to a phone and internet. We need you functional and comfortable.”
“They’ll arrest me again as an accessory. I’ll be back in jail before you can say ‘Habeas Corpus.’”
Dusty pondered the statement for a bit, his eyes continuing to search the crowd. “Don’t you have a right as an attorney to meet with your client? I mean, even if he’s on the dodge?”
She nodded, trying to map it all out in her mind. “I do, but there’s a gray area here. If I believe you’re about to commit a crime, then as an officer of the court I must report any contact to the authorities. On the other hand, normally, I can’t really be arrested as an accessory. But they’ve already proven that the rules can be completely rewritten when they arrested me over Hank’s case. Assuming that they somehow did not slap me in irons, how would I get home? No car and no ID to rent one. I can’t fly. And these new shoes are not exactly designed for power walking,” she smiled weakly, attempting to lighten the mood, a small part of her clinging to the hope the two would not have to separate.
“How about a bus?”
Grace had never ridden on a bus before, the suggestion eliciting a grimace from her. “Really? That’s the best way? Won’t the police be monitoring the bus station?”
Dusty hadn’t considered that, his mind trying to think of a better way. “Hey! Wait! I know. Come on.”
Pulling her up by the hand, they headed for the hotel lobby where they’d initially tried to get a room. “I remember seeing something that might do the trick,” he responded to her questioning look.
Inside, he made for a rack of brochures and pamphlets advertising local attractions. He scanned for a moment and then reached for one, handing it over to a puzzled Grace.
She read the heading, “Luxury Bus Tours to Las Vegas,” flipping open the folder to scan the information inside.
“I’ve seen these busses at the truck stop at the I-10 exit north of Fort Davis. You could get off there and call Hank to come and give you a ride home.”
Glancing up from the advertisement, she frowned. “And what if they don’t stop there anymore?”
“Tell the driver you’re getting sick and need to get off the bus. Pretend you’ve got a bomb. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe they publish a schedule of stops?”
She pondered the suggestion, more questions than answers crossing her face. “How do you know they don’t require an ID? How would we be sure the cops aren’t monitoring their terminal… or wherever you board one of these things?”
Dusty led her out of the lobby, leaflet in hand. “I don’t, but it’s a private touring company. It can’t hurt to call and find out. Besides, those busses look pretty comfortable, and I doubt law enforcement monitors them like they do the regular transportation hubs.”
An hour later, they found themselves in one of the numerous restaurants occupying the waterfront. They had their choice of seating, the establishment just opening. After glancing around, Dusty asked their server for a seaside view in the corner, away from the main traffic flows. He sat with his back to the door.
Grace had been working with her new phone, speaking with the bus company’s representative and pretending to be a tourist dying to see the Las Vegas strip. She had dialed Hank’s home number, hanging up when he’d answered. She didn’t know if FBI ears would be listening, the call serving to confirm her neighbors had returned home.
“I don’t see why it won’t work,” she finally announced. “There’s a tour leaving this afternoon. You board the bus at their office, which is a short cab ride away. They do indeed stop at that same exit you mentioned. Hank is home, so I wouldn’t be stranded.”
Dusty merely nodded as her tone indicated she still wasn’t convinced the plan would work. Finally, after a sip of his coffee he ventured with a question, “So what’s troubling you?”
Her eyes were moist when she looked up. “I want us to stay together.”
He wasn’t sure how to reply, fifty different responses flashing through his mind. Eventually, he chose the words. “I don’t want to be away from you either, but we both know it’s best in the long run.”
Merely nodding, Grace didn’t answer for a bit. “And what about you? Where are you going? How are you going to travel?”
“One problem at a time,” he answered, “I can concentrate on my itinerary now that we’ve got you settled.”
Their meal was served, a light brunch that both diners toyed with more than consumed. After a few bites of his sandwich, Dusty offered, “I think being close to Mexico is probably my best option. There are lots of towns down there that accommodate everything from transients to immigrants. If I get a sense that the cops are honing in on me, maybe I can scoot across the border and buy some time.”
Conjuring up images of outlaws from old cowboy movies, Grace frowned. “I don’t think you can just ride a horse across the Rio Grande anymore, Dusty. Have you ever been down there?”
He nodded, “When I was refurbishing my airplane, I drove down that way and bought some parts. It’s actually very industrialized in some areas… the NAFTA agreement prompted the construction of big plants that otherwise would not be there. It seems like a good place for a bandit to remain anonymous.”
The restaurant grew more crowded as the hour approached lunch. They were on their third refill of coffee when the manager stopped by, clearly wanted to recycle the table in the now full dining room. “Is everything okay?” he inquired, the third employee to ask the same question in the last four minutes.
“Everything has been wonderf
ul,” Dusty replied, “We were just leaving.”
The couple sauntered outside after paying their bill, the bright sunlight and excitement of the growing crowd not helping their mood. “We need new luggage,” Dusty announced. “You can’t get on a tour bus with shopping bags without drawing attention, and I need to get rid of this duffle. The security guys at the store have no doubt filed a police report by now, including a description of my bag. The cops will be looking for a guy carrying such an unusual item around.”
Grace nodded her agreement, a melancholy expression brought on by the task that advanced her departure.
“Let’s get our luggage situation taken care of, and then I’ll use one of these pre-loaded cards and my fake ID to rent a car. I’ll take a separate cab to the agency, and turn it in after I find a spot to settle,” he said gently.
They spent the next 30 minutes rushing into a shop, dividing the money and coordinating how they would communicate. The time flew by, both so intent on their last few moments together that there wasn’t any opportunity for emotions to work their way in. Dusty spied his chauffeur pulling up along the access lane and announced, “Time to go.” He took Grace by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes, “I love you. We’ll be together soon.”
“Oh, Durham. I hate this… but… but you have to. I understand. And you have got to know that I love you too,” she managed before the tears streamed down her cheek. “I will see you soon, Durham Weathers… of that you can be sure.”
He stood motionless, watching as she entered the taxi. A thousand things flooded his mind as she drove away. Things he wished he’d said, feelings he hoped she understood. After a final wave goodbye, he watched until she was out of sight and then turned for the hotel lobby so the clerk could call him a cab.
