by R. J. Blacks
The officer approaches the window and addresses Will.
“License and registration,” he says.
Will hands him what he asks. The cop studies it for a moment.
“So you’re an exterminator.”
“No, not really,” Will says.
“Then how do you explain this?” he says, pointing to the door.
“Oh, the sign. The car came like that.”
“I see, impersonating an exterminator.”
“Is there a law against it?”
“Could be, if you’re deceiving someone.”
“We’re just passing through. Ain’t no time to deceive anyone.”
The cop gazes at Will for a few seconds.
“Okay, let’s keep it that way,” he says, and hands Will back the license.
The other cop approaches my window and then stands right outside the door, repeatedly slapping the flashlight against his free hand, as if he were holding a night stick. I stare straight ahead pretending not to notice.
Suddenly I realize I’m still holding the ice cube and napkin against my swollen lip. As inconspicuously as possible, I allow my hand to slowly slide down my chest and onto the seat. I then relax my grip allowing the napkin and ice cube to slip through my fingers and onto the floor. It would be a big mistake to draw any attention to the cut on my lip.
The officer shines his flashlight through the window and onto my face. I continue to stare straight ahead, avoid looking at him. He taps on the window so I turn to face him. He motions me to roll down the window so I do what he asks.
“I need to see your license ma’am.”
“But I wasn’t driving.”
“Doesn’t matter, I need a positive ID.”
I reach into my purse and hand him my license. He glances at it and then does the unimaginable.
He places it into his shirt pocket!
I feel my heart pounding and my hands begin to shake.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“We have reason to believe you and your friend just came from that rest stop about twenty minutes up the road.”
Thoughts race through my mind. If we denied it, and he had an eye witness, he would know we were lying, and that would give them grounds to bring us in for questioning. But if we admit it, then that would open us up to more questioning, and who knows where that would lead.
A lawyer friend once gave me some good advice. He said, “Never lie to a police officer. But there’s no need to give out more information than what he’s asking for.” I decide to follow his advice.
“Yes, we were there.”
“Did you notice anything unusual at the rest area, specifically in the ladies room?” he asks.
I think to myself, what does ‘unusual’ mean exactly? If someone were raised in a high-crime area, violence would be a daily occurrence and not at all unusual. It all depends on perspective. I decide the question is too vague, and a vague question deserves a vague answer.
“No, nothing unusual.”
“When you entered the ladies room, did you see anyone lying on the floor?”
“When I entered the ladies room, I was the only one in there. I’m certain of that. All the stalls were open and I didn’t see or hear anyone else in there,” I respond.
“And what about the grounds, did you see anyone there?”
“There was a young man standing by a black car. He was smoking a cigarette. I only caught a glimpse of him; he was minding his own business so I paid him no mind.”
“Was he still there when you left?”
“The black car was still there, but he was gone.”
The officer suddenly shines his flashlight onto my face, studies it for a moment.
“I see you cut your lip. Would you like to tell me about it?”
Oh shit, he would have to say that. Now he’s going to want to know how I cut it and then one question will lead to another. And then there’s the tear in my blouse. If he makes me get out of the car, he’ll want me to remove my jacket. He’ll see the tear and ask me how that happened. One thing will lead to another and suddenly we’ll be taken to the police station for more questioning. And then they would fill out a police report. If Damon is as well connected as Will believes, he would have the means to check it out, and it would give him all the personal information he needs to track us down. I need to defuse this now. I’ve got to play it cool.
“It’s really nothing officer,” I say. “I just accidently bit my lip.”
The officer moves closer, shines the flashlight on my mouth.
“Looks bad. Your lip’s all swollen.”
“It’s not that bad. Hardly hurts at all.”
He thinks for a moment, then says, “Don’t go anywhere,” and then strolls to the back of the car. The other officer joins him and I can see them talking, but they are too far away to hear what they are saying. Then the first cop, the one from the driver’s seat, strolls back to the police car and starts talking on the radio. A couple of minutes pass and I see him nod to the second cop, the one that was beside my window. He saunters back to me, shines his flashlight into the car, and then hands me my license.
“You can go now,” he says.
And then I let my curiosity get the better of me.
“Excuse me officer, did something happen at the rest stop?”
I didn’t really expect him to answer—officers never give out confidential information—but then he surprises me and says, “We got a report that a young man was in the ladies room lying unconscious on the floor. The EMT’s treated and released him, but we’re trying to figure out how he got there in the first place. The man claims he got dizzy, wandered in there by mistake, and then passed out. The whole thing sounds a little fishy to me. From the bump on his head, it looks like he hit the floor pretty hard.”
I was bursting to tell them the real story, about how Damon followed me into the ladies room, and how he had tried to rape me. I wanted them to know in no uncertain terms what a menace he is to society and that he should be locked up. But Will was right. The last thing we need right now is to be the subject of a police interrogation which could lead to a deposition and result in an overnight stay. We would be once again in Damon’s back yard, and he would have the home turf advantage, and that made me very nervous. If he tracked us to a local hotel, who knows what sinister games he would play while we were helplessly asleep. We would be isolated and alone in an unknown town with no one to come to our defense. It was clear; we had to get away from here as soon as possible.
“Well, I’m glad everything’s okay,” I say. “He could have blacked out while driving and injured someone.”
“Yeah, exactly what we were thinking. Sorry to inconvenience you. Have a nice evening.”
The trooper shuts off the flashlight and strolls back to the police cruiser. I roll up my window in relief. Will starts the engine but waits until the police cruiser darts into traffic and disappears. Will turns on the headlights and eases onto the highway. Within minutes we’re humming along at seventy. I wish I could forget all this and just go to sleep, but something is really bugging me. I turn to Will.
“How did they know it was us?” I ask.
“Well, maybe a security camera gave them our license plate number. Or perhaps the police car was there all the time, parked in the other lot, hidden in the dark, and we never noticed it. Remember, we didn’t waste any time getting out of there. I certainly wasn’t looking around. It’s also possible Damon told them. He knew what our car looked like.”
“But why would Damon do that? Wouldn’t he be glad to get rid of us, so we couldn’t tell the police?”
“Never underestimate your enemy, that’s what my commander used to say. We’re dealing with a psycho here. Maybe Damon had some convoluted plan for revenge. Draw us back into his web of influence then trap us. Remember, he might be well connected, with powerful people. They’re going to believe him, not us.”
“If he wanted us back, then why not just say we forc
ed him into the ladies room at gunpoint? Then we look like the bad guys and he’s the hero.”
“Because a gun makes it a felony,” he says. “That means detectives get involved... and the press. And if he is the son of a judge or politician, the press can be bad news. They’ll dig and dig and dig until they uncover something in his past he doesn’t want to reveal. He’s not dumb. He’s got it all figured out.”
I was so happy to have Will with me. As a homeless person, Will had developed a keen sense of survival, learning from his experiences on the streets. He knew what to do and which places to avoid and it was paying off right now. I wish there was something I could do to repay him, but knowing Will, he wouldn’t take it anyway.
As the miles fly by, I settle back, close my eyes, and try to get some sleep. But my body is saturated with adrenalin and I begin thinking about what lies ahead. In three days, I would have to convince Dr. Jessica Parker to hire me for a non-paying intern position at Florida University. If working for low pay sucks, working for free sucks even more, even if it is in the exciting field of microbiology. But I had no choice. I needed access to a world-class laboratory to complete my research and provide the evidence Dean Haas said I lacked. Without funding there was no other way. And who would fund me after being black-listed both by an ivy-league university and a multi-national corporation?
My plan was to operate under the radar, secretly gathering samples, making measurements, forming a hypothesis, testing the hypothesis, proposing a theory, confirming the theory through experiments and observation, and then, with all the evidence in place, publishing a scientific paper. Then my paper would be subjected to peer review, as is the normal practice. At this point, unless someone can find compelling evidence to counter my claims, my conclusions would stand as presented. My research would be recognized among my peers as scientific fact, and no one could do anything to discredit it. More importantly, my paper would officially become part of the body of scientific knowledge that other researchers could draw upon and cite in their references. For a scientist, this is the highest level of accomplishment. And then, with all that behind me, I could file an appeal to have my dissertation reconsidered. With the entire scientific community in agreement with my conclusions, the university would have no choice but to take my application seriously. It would be a huge undertaking, but I had the necessary training and with the backing of Dr. Parker, someone who shares my sentiments and concerns about the environment, I felt confident I could pull it off.
But then there was the money issue. I had managed to save a little over the years, enough to pay a couple months’ rent and put up a security deposit. But it wouldn’t last a whole year. Fortunately, I have never been inclined to charge anything I couldn’t pay off immediately so my finances are in good shape. Running a balance on my credit card always made me feel like a slave to the bank so it wasn’t going to be an option this time either. The solution was clear; I needed to find a reliable source of income.
My extensive training in math and science allowed for the possibility of tutoring. It paid pretty well, when I could find work, but it wasn’t steady income. It came in spurts with little to no work the rest of the time. Students tended to operate in denial, failing to acknowledge they needed help until a couple weeks before finals. Then you would be bombarded with more requests than you could handle. Nonetheless, tutoring was definitely on the table.
My fallback would be a restaurant job, a waitress or cook. It wasn’t a matter of doing the work, it was finding the time. My schedule was filling up fast. If everything went according to plan, I would be working at the university during the day, doing a restaurant job in the evening, tutoring in the library whenever needed, and documenting my own research into the early hours of the morning. I was getting a headache just thinking about it.
I open my eyes, focus on the myriad billboards as they fly by. Hotel billboards, restaurant billboards, truck-stop billboards. There are billboards for gift shops, billboards for firecrackers, billboards for museums, billboards for radio stations, billboards for jeans, billboards for perfume, billboards for wine-tasting, billboards for historic districts, and billboards for places I’d be embarrassed to be seen in.
I look over at Will. He is unmoving, staring out the windshield as if hypnotized by the road.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“We need gas.”
“Let’s pull off at the next exit.”
Will slows the Cruiser, eases it down the exit ramp, and then pulls into a gas station. He waits by the gas pump while I jog over to pay the attendant.
As he fills the Cruiser, I slip into the driver’s seat, re-adjust it to fit my frame. Will replaces the gas cap and then approaches the driver’s door; I roll down the window.
“I’ll take over,” I say.
“Fine,” he says, and then saunters over to the passenger side and gets in. I start the engine, place the shifter into DRIVE, and within minutes we’re back on the interstate.
I gaze at Will and he’s fast asleep. He deserves the rest; he’s been driving for over eight hours, more than his fair share. I settle back behind a U.S. Mail truck doing seventy and set the cruise control. I turn on the radio and find a local station playing some upbeat Latin music. It takes my mind off my problems; I’ve had enough thinking for tonight. I’ll deal with that tomorrow.
CHAPTER 10
At 9:00 PM we cross into South Carolina. The interstate has become an endless convoy of trucks and the incessant congestion is wearing me down. Sunday night is always a busy time for trucking because the stores want them there in the early hours of the morning so they have time to unpack the goods and put them on display before opening for business on Monday. It’s not unusual for these drivers to travel over a thousand miles in one sitting, without any rest. Some are behind schedule and trying to make up time. Finding myself trapped on all sides by these eighteen wheel behemoths traveling in excess of seventy miles per hour gives me visions of those horrendous accidents at the Daytona 500 where cars smash into tiny fragments and fly all over the track. But what can I do about it except give them all the space they need and try to stay out of their way?
As the night progresses, my exhaustion is taking its toll and it’s getting harder and harder to maneuver around these big rigs. The thought of colliding with one of them through a mistake in judgment plays on my mind and terrifies me.
“I can’t go on,” I say. “We need to stop.”
“What about dinner?” he asks.
“I’m not really hungry. But I’ll stop if you want me to.”
“No, don’t bother. I’ve been filling up on snacks.”
Actually both of us had been snacking all afternoon. The Cruiser was well stocked with food, and with little else to do, snacking was too great a temptation. It was pointless to resist the assortment of apples, bananas, sodas, yogurt cups, and cake, all stored in a cooler filled with ice. And next to the cooler were bags of potato chips, pretzels, and breakfast fruit bars, almost anything one could want. Carrying our own food proved to be a wise choice; it saved us a lot of money and shaved hours off the trip. Even a brief stop at a fast food restaurant could delay us thirty to forty-five minutes. And time was not something we had an abundance of.
“Why don’t we stop for the night,” I say.
“Fine with me. If we get on the road by eight tomorrow, we can still be there before dinnertime.”
“Where’s the nearest hotel?” I ask.
Will searches through one of those hotel coupon books they give out freely at the rest stops. These booklets offer the absolute lowest price you can get anywhere, but the hotels don’t always have rooms at that price. It depends on the time of year and, of course, the time of day. The hotels only offer discounts on a limited number of rooms, so if you delay, you lose. But this was a Sunday night, not exactly a hotels busiest time, so I wasn’t too worried about it.
“There’s a decent place in Florence,” he says. “Only forty-nine bucks.”
&n
bsp; “What exit?”
“Next one.”
I guide the Cruiser off the interstate and on to a local highway. I’m dazzled by a plethora of signs, red signs, green signs, blue signs, yellow signs, illuminating the night air like a fairground. There are signs for restaurants, signs for hotels, signs for gas stations, signs for convenience stores, one after another, signs-signs-signs, all vying for my business. And then, there it is; the sign for the hotel. I pull into the lot and park the car near the office. Will hands me the coupon book.
“Good luck,” he says.
I exit the Cruiser and walk towards the dimly lit hotel office. A red neon sign in the window flashes, “VACANCY... VACANCY... VACANCY.” I enter the office, push a bell to signal the clerk, and wait. On the back wall I notice a sign, “Rajesh Patel, Proprietor”. A man, about fortyish, with a little grey mixed in to his jet black hair and an unmistakable Indian accent enters the office.
“You want a room?” he asks, in a stern voice.
“Do you accept coupons?”
I point to a coupon in the discount book. He glances at it then shuffles over to the window. He places his hand up against the glass shielding his eyes from the glare then peers outside. Will is completely oblivious standing by the Cruiser holding a soda.
“Just you and your husband?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, not wanting to go into a lengthy explanation of why Will’s not my husband.
