The Tracker

by Chad Zunker

  We had a twenty-hour road trip ahead of us.

  I shook my head, said a prayer, and put the truck into drive.

  The conversation came in awkward spurts. Like me, my mother was not a talker. She was the strong, silent type and had no problem sitting quietly and staring out the window, so I did my best to make small talk. Within an hour, we’d already covered all the important topics. Favorite food? Favorite movie? Favorite actor? Actress? Favorite book? Favorite sports?

  When I found out she liked Bruce Springsteen, like me, I plugged my phone into the stereo and we listened to his Wrecking Ball album. That bought us an hour of comfortable silence as the U-Haul rumbled on through Louisiana, but it eventually played out.

  More silence. More short, random conversations.

  Somewhere near Lake Charles, she asked, “You going to marry Natalie?”

  It caught me by surprise. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a fool if you don’t, Samuel.”

  “Thanks. Are you the expert on marriage?”

  It was an unnecessary jab, I knew it, but I often found myself saying these things with her to keep a certain protective barrier between us. To let her know that while I was willing to do this whole mother-son deal, I was still pissed at her. She always rolled with it. I don’t think there was anything I could say that would get a rise out of her. I’d tried to push her buttons and start fights, but she never really took the bait. Kind of pissed me off. I wanted to fight with her.

  “No, I’m not,” she admitted. “But I could give you a very long list of what not to look for in marriage, that’s for sure. That girl comes nowhere close to that list. She’s special.”

  “I agree.”

  “So don’t screw it up!”

  “Can’t make any promises. I think screwing up is in my family’s genes.”

  Another jab. And down the road we went.

  We ate dinner at Half Shell Oyster House in Biloxi. The gulf was a block away.

  Mom said she loved fried oysters. I was happy to see her eating as she hadn’t touched much food at all since I’d been with her the past two days. She said the cancer was stealing her appetite. Nothing ever sounded good. I could tell she’d lost quite a bit of weight already. It pained me to think it would only get worse.

  I ate a bowl of gumbo. The restaurant was half-full on a weeknight.

  “When did you get the tattoo?” I asked her.

  She looked down at her wrist, at my name, kept chewing.

  “A week after I left Denver.”

  “Why?”

  “What kind of stupid question is that?”

  “A simple one. Great, you got that tattoo, but you never came back to look for me?”

  “I thought about it every single day since the day I left you.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  She wiped her hands with a napkin, took a long moment. “I haven’t been in a good place in more than twenty years. It’s always been one step forward, two steps back. Or three or four steps back. Half-stoned most of the time. Going back never felt like the right thing to do. I always figured you were better off without a failure like me.”

  “I wasn’t better off.”

  “I didn’t know that, Samuel. I’m sorry. And I was too afraid to ever find out.”

  We were quiet for a moment.

  Then she said, “I need a cigarette.”

  We slept in separate cheap motel rooms. Hit the road again before day break.

  We passed through Alabama and then Tennessee. My mom told me a story about visiting Knoxville once, as a kid, during one of her mother’s good spells. She said that they went out to Dollywood — Dolly Parton’s amusement park — and that she and her younger sister had a blast riding roller coasters and eating corndogs and cotton candy all day. One of the few bright spots of her entire youth. She’d never forget it. She actually had a smile on her face.

  “I didn’t know you had a sister, Mom,” I said.

  The smile disappeared. “She drowned in the river when I was ten.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  A deep sigh. “I think that was the last straw for my mother. She gave up after that, gave in to the demons. She went completely off the deep end. Fell deeper into depression and drugs and never recovered. She took off forever when I was thirteen.”

  “At least you got thirteen years,” I jabbed.

  “That’s true.”

  “You haven’t seen her or spoken to her since?”

  “Only once, on the phone. Very briefly.”

  “What happened?”

  “I found her in Las Vegas about seven years ago. It wasn’t too hard. She hadn’t changed her name or anything. I got her on the phone. But when I told her who I was, she just sat there in silence. Never said a word. And then she hung up on me.”

  I actually felt bad for my mom. “There’s still time, I guess.”

  My mother shook her head. “She died five years ago. Drug overdose.”

  “How do you know?”

  “A friend of hers mailed me a package with a note. It had a photo of me, my mom, and my sister together when I was kid. The friend said my mom always kept it on her mirror. She didn’t talk a whole lot about it, but the friend thought I should have it, and thought I should know what happened to her.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just kept my mouth shut. I decided right then and there that I needed to back off a little. Cut my mom just a little slack. Stop living in my own pity party. It wasn’t doing anyone any good.

  It was a pretty quiet ride the rest of the way to DC.

  SAM CALLAHAN

  Age Twenty-Four

  Washington, DC

  I met with the director at Brookwood Cancer Center in his private and spacious office. He’d called me with high urgency an hour ago. My mom had been a resident at Brookwood for the past two weeks. It was our second facility during her first month in DC. We lasted only two weeks at the first one. My mom bit a nurse on the arm her first week, and called her the most vile of names. She swore to me that the nurse was rude, disrespectful, and trying to intentionally hurt her. When it happened again a week later, and the same nurse threatened to file charges against the center, the director asked us to find another facility to receive our care. So we did. And now I was being called into the principal’s office because my mom had supposedly acted out again.

  Director Fields was a nice middle-aged guy with a peaceful demeanor. He asked me to have a seat across the desk from him.

  “We have an issue, Mr. Callahan,” began Fields.

  “I sort of figured that. What did she do? Was it biting?”

  He looked at me funny. I had not mentioned anything about her biting or us getting kicked out of another facility before coming over to Brookwood.

  “No, I’m afraid it’s theft. Your mother stole a wallet in the cafeteria today.”

  I was stunned. “What? No way. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, quite sure. This isn’t the first time, I’m afraid. We didn’t know it was your mother until we had a second occurrence this morning. That’s when we went back to look at the security video.”

  He pointed toward a flat screen on his wall to my right, raised a remote control. The TV flashed on and there was security footage of my mother eating in the cafeteria. Another lady of similar age sat a few feet down from her at one of the long tables and placed her wallet on the table next to her tray. My mom began making small talk with her and then scooted over to join her. I couldn’t believe what I was watching. My mom was a con. Like me. In the middle of conversation, my mom did a shift of the hands, a distraction technique, and scooped the wallet off the table top in one smooth motion. Then she politely said goodbye to the lady and was out of the screen shot a second later. The wallet was no longer sitting there.

  “Here’s the other incident from three days ago,” said Fields.

  The screen went to more security footage. This time they were back in the cafeteria but it looked like they were playing Bin
go. Fields paused the screen, pointed.

  “Watch this man right here. He’s wearing a gold and diamond watch on his left wrist.”

  The man refilled his cup from a water fountain, took a swig, and then he began to walk back to one of the tables. Fields paused the TV again.

  “This is your mother.”

  I scooted to the edge of my seat. Director Fields hit play. I watched as my mom walked past the man with the watch, gave a slight accidental bump, a quick one hand on shoulder apology, the other hand down low, and then they separated. The watch was clearly gone from the man’s wrist. I sighed, shook my head.

  “Needless to say, Mr. Callahan, we frown on theft here.”

  “I understand.”

  In that moment, I had conflicting thoughts. I was so pissed at my mom. I knew we were goners from this place. She was going to die from the cancer while living in my efficiency apartment.

  But I have to say, I was also very impressed with her skill set.

  She was smooth as silk. Now I knew where I got it.

  I found her in her private room, folding stacks of her clothes on her bed. Obviously anticipating moving out of this place. The small TV in the corner was on Family Feud.

  She looked up at me, frowned. “They kicking me out?”

  I nodded, crossed my arms. “Yes. We’re no longer welcome here.”

  She cursed, kept folding. “This place was lame anyway. We can do better.”

  “Why, Mom? Why did you do it? Do you need extra money for something?”

  “No, I guess I was just bored.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She seemed defensive. “All anyone does in this place is sit around and wait to die. The staff acts like we’re already dead. It’s depressing as hell. Well, you know what? I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to stop living while this cancer tries to eat up my body. I want to feel alive for as long as possible.”

  I sighed. “I really appreciate that, Mom. But you think perhaps we can find another way to feel alive?”

  “Like what? Skydiving? Drag racing?” She smiled.

  I shook my head. “We’ll figure something out.”

  I found her suitcase in the closet, started helping her stuff her clothes into it. We had to be out by the end of the day.

  She finally said, “I really am sorry, Samuel. I know I screwed up. I know I’m making this hard on you. I’m a mess. I wouldn’t blame you for sending me back to Houston.”

  “I’m not sending you back anywhere.”

  “Well, I’ll behave, I swear. The third time’s a charm, right?”

  We exchanged a quick smile.

  “Natalie said you can stay at her place tonight while we work on securing another facility tomorrow. But I’m going to hide her purse.”

  “She is so sweet. Have I told you to marry her yet?”

  “Only two hundred times.”

  “Well, then you know I mean it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We finished packing her suitcase. I looked around. I’d have to hire yet another moving crew to come get her furniture by tomorrow. I needed a fourth or fifth part-time job.

  “Mom, I have to ask you something. Where did you learn to steal like that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. That was professional.”

  She laughed. “My Uncle Judd. He was an incredible pickpocket. Taught me some cool tricks the one summer he was around. I think I was six or seven. He used to tell my mom he was taking me to the park, but we’d always go down to the dog track instead. He’d send me into the crowds, and I’d come back with pockets full of cash. It was fun.”

  “Nice. Where is Uncle Judd now?”

  “Oh, he died in prison a long time ago.”

  “Of course.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Sunday, 10:17 a.m.

  Washington, DC

  1 day, 13 hours, 43 minutes to Election Day

  I’d never been more grateful to walk off an airplane. I practically sprinted.

  DC’s Dulles International Airport was buzzing, as usual. I kept my head tucked low, focused on the airport carpet in front of me, navigated the terminal, and finally found the outside exit where I grabbed a waiting cab. I hopped in the back, gave my driver the address for Angel Cancer Care in Bethesda, a thirty mile ride, and sunk deeper into the cracked vinyl seat as the cab pulled away. I had made it to DC. Considering the circumstances, it was quite the feat, even for me.

  But I still had a long way to go.

  I’d developed a plan to see my mom. There was a young custodian, a friendly black kid named Cedric, a freshman at Howard University. He took really good care of my mom’s space. He was a hard worker, polite, and we had bonded because he was a foster care survivor who had done well, like me — well, before I was a murder suspect on the run from the FBI. Through one of my law professors at Georgetown, I had connected Cedric with the vice principal at Walt Whitman High in Bethesda in a mentoring-type role. Cedric was grateful and was learning a lot.

  I could leverage that now. But he was such a good kid. Could I trust him not to call the police immediately?

  Angel Cancer Care was a cluster of three red brick buildings with about fifteen private rooms in each, nothing fancy. The one-story buildings were old, built in the 50s. The grounds were drab with little landscaping, the decor was dreary and the carpets were tattered. The staff, though, was friendly and caring, and most importantly, it was the only care facility left as an option for us. We had to make it work.

  The cab dropped me off on the corner. I studied the surroundings for several minutes, and wondered who else was out there, monitoring the property. I noticed no obvious police cars out front, no black government sedans with tinted windows, no random men in sunglasses and trench coats. Who had found my mom so quickly? My mom had a different name than me. I didn’t talk about her with my friends. There was very little to connect us from my past. Although I did pay the facility bills out of my personal bank account.

  I tugged the hood from my long-sleeved blue sweatshirt up over my head and covered my new short blonde hair. DC was a crisp forty-five degrees with some rain mist. Miserable weather, really. The leaves were starting to fall. The city was quickly headed toward the harsh bite of winter that everyone around these parts complained about so much. Being from Denver, the cold didn’t really bother me, but I could do without the rain.

  To be cautious, I took a stroll around the block. The center was at the edge of a nice neighborhood. Most of the block was old, two-story, Federal-style homes. My mom and I liked to walk the neighborhood, when she felt strong enough, especially the past few months as the leaves had turned, showcasing their beautiful fall colors. It was a Norman Rockwell painting down every street. She had not felt strong enough the week before I left on my tracker assignment. I was concerned about her heading downhill really fast. Cancer can be so brutal, giving you hope one moment, then cruelly ripping it away the next. But my mom was a fighter. She never felt sorry for herself in spite of her difficult life.

  When I could find no sign of anyone monitoring the facility, I approached the property from the back, where a small parking lot held a half dozen employee cars. I was thankful to find Cedric’s old maroon Pontiac Sunfire in one of the spots, the Howard University sticker on the front windshield. He was on duty, as expected. Cedric normally worked the morning shift on weekends, from five to noon. I didn’t need him to be out sick today. As custodian, Cedric was frequently taking the trash out back to the only large metal dumpster located near the employee parking lot. I hovered around it for about twenty minutes before Cedric made an appearance. He had a shiny shaved head, an athletic build at about my height, with a thousand-watt smile, and wore the standard dark gray medical scrubs. The kid always seemed to be in a good mood. He opened the back door of the middle building and pushed his yellow custodial cart out. His headphones were in his ears and his head was bopping up and down. He rolled the cart over to the metal dum
pster and began tossing in trash bags.

  I stepped out from behind the dumpster. It did not startle him. He was a tough kid from the streets. I doubted much startled him. He did pause, though, and stare at me for a moment. I pulled the hood down off my head. Now he recognized me and he popped out his headphones. I wondered if Cedric paid attention to the news. Would he recognize that he was standing five feet from a most wanted man? If he did, he sure didn’t seem to be overly concerned about it.

  “Nice hair, Sam.”

  “Thanks. I need to talk to you.”

  He tossed another bag in the dumpster. “We’re talking, aren’t we?”

  “I need some help.”

  “Yes, you do. Your mom is worried about you.”

  “You talked to my mom?”

  “Sure, first thing this morning.”

  “I’m innocent.”

  “Okay, cool. I’m down with that. Unlike most people in this country, I still believe in innocent until proven guilty.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  Another bag tossed into the dumpster. “What do you need?”

  “I need to see her, my mom. But I obviously can’t walk straight into her room. I’m not sure who to trust right now.”

  “And you want me to go get her? Bring her out here to you?”

  “Yes.”