by Sandy Kline
Epilogue
On The Run
Two Years Later…
It’s another beautiful day in the land of the never ending summers. I’m sitting on my front porch sipping coffee and looking out across the crystal clear, blue green water. Children are playing in the surf and farther out near the edge of the reef several dive boats are anchored waiting for their divers to finish their business. I can hear the faint voices of the children and nothing else. No cars, no radios, no shouting, screaming, or any signs of unease or strife. After all, how could one possibly be unhappy in paradise?
After escaping the Death Crusaders wrath and any other entanglements with the law I drifted around California, Oregon, and Washington for six months before finally deciding to go somewhere that I could really relax; Belize, Central America. I went there once many years ago and absolutely loved it. At the time I made the decision to come here I was living in Southern Oregon. Since I couldn’t take the risk and fly that meant I would have to drive. I spent a day going from Oregon to San Francisco and another day to get to Los Angeles. I spent the following day getting to the Mexican border. My biggest fear was that my name would come up on some wanted list and I’d be picked up trying to get into Mexico. Turns out my fears were unfounded. After I crossed into Mexico, went as far south as my car would take me before it finally conked out. Two days later I boarded a bus that would take me on the long arduous trip to Belize City. Spending one night there was enough. The next morning I took a taxi to the water taxi terminal and I was on my way to the tiny Caye Caulker, and I’ve been here ever since.
After an hour soaking in the sun I do what I do best lately; I take a nap.
“Miss Clarkson?”
I jump ten feet into the air. No one in this tiny country knows me by that name. I open my eyes and standing in front of me is an American man. He doesn’t have this ‘Ha I found you’ look about him so I didn’t figure him to be a cop.
“Who are you?” I ask.
For an answer he produces a faded, tattered photograph and hands it to me. It’s a picture of Blade. At first I thought it was some really old photo but then I noticed something. There’s a new patch on his cut; president. He was never president when I was there. I’m stunned. I can’t believe this. I look up at the man with tears streaming down my face.
“Ms. Clarkson,” He says with a kindly smile. “It’s time to come home.”
THE END
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