North to Baltimore? Or south to Richmond? My intuition took me south, back to my home state of Virginia. I had to see my dad. I could only imagine what was going through his mind after seeing his only son in the news. I bore right and accelerated up the on-ramp and merged onto the interstate. Sliding into the farthest left lane, I began to reach speeds well over 120 miles per hour. I glanced back in my mirrors and saw the Chargers becoming smaller and smaller. The passing cars were a blur as I approached 150 miles per hour. The only way I was going to outrun them, to have any chance of an escape, was by maintaining that speed.
If 95 remained empty, at this rate, I would be there in around forty-five minutes. I felt my iPhone vibrating in my pocket, and as I felt the sensation, I realized they would be tracking my location through it. I slipped it out and tossed it. Whoever told the media that I was the culprit, made a big mistake. They picked the wrong fight, with the right guy.
“Ma’am, the last street camera caught him on I-95 South going well over 140 miles per hour. They’ve lost him.”
The flames of anger licked my insides. My teeth were clenched as I watched the video recording of him zipping by on his motorcycle.
“Well, if he doesn’t kill himself at that speed first, we need to find out where he is going. You said the father still lives in the house Owen grew up in, correct?”
“Correct. The father, Ted Marina, lives in a house in a small development in Midlothian, Virginia.”
I watched the graphics populate the many screens that surrounded us. The birth certificates, documents, and addresses. All the information I needed, right at their fingertips. There was no way he was going to slip through our grasp again.
“What about his mother?” I asked.
“Mother is deceased. Died of a heart attack in 2007.”
“Well, that eliminates the question of which parent he would go to first. Easy enough for us. Are we still triangulating his movements?”
“No ma’am, he destroyed his phone on the interstate just moments ago.”
I paused, thinking.
“If he continues at the pace he is going, he will reach Richmond in a half-hour. Our guys won’t be able to apprehend him in time. Contact the Midlothian Police Department. Inform them that Owen Marina is the most wanted fugitive in the United States. Have them intercept his arrival.”
One of the men beside me picked up his phone and began to call.
“Ma’am, you do realize that if he happens to not go to his dad’s house, if he deviates from the main roads onto back roads, with the capacity of his bike, we could lose him for good. We have all of his receipts pulled up for the YZF-R1 he is on. It is far from stock. It has over twenty grand of upgrades on it. That bike can go in excess of 200 miles per hour, and from our records this isn’t his first bike. He has been riding close to a decade. This gives him an advantage over our guys on the ground.”
I wanted to smack him so badly, but I restrained myself.
“That is nothing but an excuse. I want every camera, every pair of eyes we have, watching for that bike. Put an alert out to every police station in the Southeast, give them his tag number. We will catch him when he reaches Midlothian. That has to be his destination.”
“Right on it, ma’am.”
I stared at the video loop of Owen’s bike—a black blur, shooting past the visible field of the camera on I-95. I smiled at the thought of us putting him in handcuffs, and the court case that would follow. Even the best lawyer wouldn’t be able to get him out of his situation. Our evidence was foolproof.
“If Owen wants to take us on a chase, then we will chase him, and a merry chase it will be.”
The engine grumbled and sputtered as I slowed down to exit the turnpike. The skin beneath my jacket was unbearably icy. I wasn’t in gear that would keep me warm during high-speed interstate travel. I never planned on having to flee Washington. On most days, after my coffee, I might have responded to some emails, or gotten on a conference call, but today wasn’t most days.
I hurried down the back roads of my hometown and navigated them solely by memory. Autumn colors—burnt orange, cardinal red, and amber leaves blanketed the yards and the edges of the street. What a majestic display they put on, as if their change of color were a final performance before their death. The sun sneaked out from behind the clouds periodically. Although it was overcast, there was no rain, and many homeowners were taking advantage of the lack of precipitation to break out their riding lawn mowers. If you ever wondered what upper-middle class America looked like, Midlothian was it. Perfectly manicured lawns, a close-knit community, and just a short drive to the city.
Welcome to Suburbia.
I turned onto Oakengate Lane and the familiarity caused memories to flood my mind. Our street sat behind Salisbury Lake. Many of the families who lived here when I was growing up never left. I imagined the streets would be filled with children and their parents in a few weeks, trick-or-treating for Halloween. I smiled momentarily, and as I pulled into the driveway I thought I should conceal my bike in the backyard. I parked it, and as I took off my helmet I saw the glimmer of sunlight reflecting off the lake. I used to smoke weed with my buddies the summer before my senior year while kayaking, and then we would all get paranoid when someone forgot the eye-drops. I would cautiously walk into the kitchen in hopes of avoiding my parents, all for some munchies.
Only in America—first world problems. Now, after the Confinement, many of those lighthearted times had disappeared. They were cherished times. The real world, the world that I lived in, was no longer carefree. We lived in the wake of a tragedy, and the forceful imprisonment that followed haunted us all. Our reality was darker. That was something I was hell-bent on changing.
Before I took a step onto the back porch the door flew open.
“Owen,” my father gasped.
“Dad…” I said as we embraced in a hug. I could feel him exhale as I held him. The fact that I was alive and in his arms was enough to comfort him. It was enough for me, even if that comfort was short-lived.
He glanced to his left and to his right at the neighbors’ houses.
“Come inside.”
I followed him through the door and was instantly enveloped in the warmth of the house. My skin was still numb from the ride over. After all the years, my old home hadn’t changed a bit. There was the rustic walnut table in the dining room, with matching chairs, and the many picture frames that lined the walls. Our house was built in the twenties. My dad bought it when I was in my mom’s womb. Back then, property in this area was one-fourth of what it was now. It was a smart investment. My mother, while she was still alive, was passionate about French antiques and design. Much of our furniture she chose and my dad never sold or changed any of it. They were pieces of her, fragments of who she was. It had almost been a decade and he still hadn’t remarried. I doubted he ever would. He couldn’t let go of her.
“What the hell is going on, Son?”
As he asked me that question, I had the realization that I was just as helpless as he was. What did I know?
“This must be some mistake. Just an hour ago I was in a coffee shop, and then I saw myself on the news. I just don’t understand.”
My dad looked towards the carpet in thought and then glanced back up at me.
“What you just said, Owen—say it again.”
“That I just don’t understand?” I questioned, confused.
“No, before that.”
“That this must be some mistake.”
“Yes! Yes, that this must be some mistake.”
“What are you getting at, Dad?”
I saw a barren emptiness behind his eyes as if he was digesting the gravity of his thoughts.
“That this wasn’t a mistake, Owen. Have you seen the news? You are the guy. Not just a potential suspect, or an accomplice. You are the one they want. The media is going berserk right now.”
Ring…Ring…Ring…
Mine and my father’s eyes locked. His home
phone was ringing. It still had the classic, mid-nineties ring that was the standard sound for all phones at the time.
“The only calls I get on this phone are for the election,” he mentioned nervously.
My dad picked up the phone and put it to his ear.
“Hello. Sheriff Aldridge, no, I—I’m not watching it right now. I had to shut it off. What? No, I haven’t seen him. What do you mean?”
There was a long, long pause. I watched some of the color leave his face. My pulse began to increase. I felt flushed with heat.
“Yes sir, I understand. Thank you, tell the boys I said thank you, too.”
He set the plastic phone on its base.
“We have ten minutes before the feds get here,” he announced, expressionless.
“Ten minutes?! Are you serious?”
He had pressed a button on his watch moments ago.
“We probably have nine now, get up! You have to get out of here, fast.”
Where the hell am I going to go?
“Dad, what did Sheriff Aldridge say?”
“He said the IT guys accidentally crossed up the wires, and they created a fake accident outside of town. A couple ambulances were all they needed. It backed up traffic on the turnpike for miles. They called me on a secured line. Apparently someone working for them is well-versed in cyber-security.”
“They did it because of who you were to them…” I murmured.
“Yes, he said they gave us the window because of my tenure.”
I felt grateful that my dad’s title as retired Sheriff assisted me in my evasion.
“Get your shit together, Owen. You have to leave now! They will have our street blocked off in minutes.”
He shuffled me towards the back door, and as we made it onto the porch, I turned to him.
“Dad, you can’t stay here. You have to go somewhere! A hotel, or maybe your second cousin Bobby’s place in Chester. He’s not related, is he?”
He shook his head and dismissed my statement with his body language.
“I’m not worried about me, Owen. I’m worried about you.”
“But Dad, if they can’t have me, they will come for you. You’re the only family I have.”
He grabbed my shoulders and gave me a shake.
“That’s exactly my point. You’re the only family I have. I can’t lose you, Son. Get out of here, now!”
He pushed me down towards my bike and walked with me. He glanced at his watch.
“Five minutes. Five minutes until they’re here.”
I turned around as we reached my bike.
“Dad, I…I don’t know how I will get in contact with you, but I will find a way.”
He wrapped his arms around me in a firm hug.
“I love you so much, Son. Take care of yourself, please. We will figure this out. Whoever created this lie will be exposed.”
“I hope so,” I added with uncertainty in my voice.
His brow furrowed from my statement.
“Owen, you can’t just hope. You have to take action! You know that better than I do. Look what you and Cole have accomplished in Washington. You didn’t get to where you are by hoping. You are where you are now because you didn’t sit on the sidelines during the Confinement. You figured out a solution. Don’t give up your dream just because of this, Son. Who knows what will happen with the polls because of the attacks.”
The polls…
Hearing his comment was like running face-first into a wall. A fire began to burn inside me. The same fire I felt every time I saw my scar. My father’s words had rekindled the fire.
“Thank you, Dad. Be careful. All right, old man?”
He laughed, “I might be old, but I can still kick your smart ass if I wanted to.”
“I love you, Pops.”
“I love you too, Owen. Stay in the backyards. Go now. If you circle around the lake you can bypass the streets and get back onto the turnpike. Go somewhere, some place that isn’t family, or to someone you haven’t talked to in a long time. Hurry!”
I hit the ignition switch and began to carefully maneuver through the edges of the neighbors’ yards. I had to get around shrubs, speed up when dogs came hurtling towards me, and be careful not to slide down to the lake. This kind of riding, especially in the grass, was ten times as difficult as speeding down the interstate at 150 miles per hour.
I was halfway around the lake. I knew I would be coming up on the back road that would lead me away from my house, and also keep me from the direction where the feds would be coming from.
My dad’s voice echoed in my mind. “Go somewhere, some place that isn’t family, or to someone you haven’t talked to in a long time.”
My thoughts hit a dead wall. Everyone I knew was in D.C. It’d been ten years since I graduated high school, since I’d lived here.
Who do I know? Someone who I was close with but hadn’t talked to in a while.
That was it. As I made it back onto asphalt, I knew my destination. I knew I’d be safe there, at least for the evening. Only back roads would be used. No highways or interstates.
I drove down the suburban street and glanced at the houses to the left. Which one is Grey’s? I saw the maroon paneling and the color confirmed the house’s familiarity in my mind. I pulled into the driveway and parked the bike on the side of the garage. Nervously, I glanced around at the surrounding houses to see if anyone was outside. Luckily, the coast was clear.
I banged on the door with my fist. Come on, Grey. Come on.
The door opened and Grey pushed open the glass storm door.
“Owen! What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, with wide eyes.
“Well nice to see you too, Grey,” I answered sarcastically.
“Get your ass in here. Did anyone see you?”
“No, not that I know of.”
He shut the door behind me and quickly locked the deadbolt. Inside, not much had changed since the last time I had visited him. It was the typical bachelor pad living room. There was a flat-screen TV, a PlayStation 4, and a saggy old couch. There were minimal decorations and plain white walls. It was obvious it was a rental property. I could smell popcorn, like he had just popped a bag.
Grey stared at me like I was a ghost, as if I had just appeared out of thin air. He almost seemed scared.
“We need to put your bike in the garage,” he announced. “I’ll go open it, and you go through the backyard and pull it around.”
I nodded my head and walked out the back door onto the deck. The grass was covered with dead maple leaves. I reached my bike, and when I hit the ignition switch I tried my best to let the engine idle. I was afraid the noise would draw attention to myself.
I pulled it around and quickly parked it in the garage. Before I could turn it off, the garage was already closed behind me. Grey didn’t wait to let me in. He just closed the door and left me in the dark.
When I walked into the kitchen, I turned into the living room to see Grey sitting on the edge of an ottoman, anxiously tapping his foot on the ground with his fingers interlaced.
Perhaps he was praying I would disappear. Who in their right mind would want to be an accomplice to last night’s attacks?
“What, do you think I did it?” I asked him nonchalantly.
He glanced up at me with his expression contorted. Maybe I should have seemed less relaxed when I posed the question.
“Did you?” he spat.
“Fuck no. I had nothing to do with the bombs.”
My words didn’t appear to placate Grey at all.
“Then why did you jump out of your seat and walk up the steps right before the bombs went off? Have you even seen the news?”
“Not since this morning. I was in a coffee shop having breakfast, and then the story came in.”
Grey stood up and grabbed the remote from the old, weathered love seat across the room.
“Look—you need to see this shit.”
I saw the image fade in on the flat-screen as he turned
it on. He didn’t even have to change the channel. I guess Grey had been watching it last. It was set on CNN.
“…The last time authorities caught him on video was just an hour ago, getting off I-95 onto the Midlothian Turnpike. We now know he went to his childhood home off of Oakengate Lane, behind Salisbury Lake. His father, who still resides there, has been taken into protective custody and is being questioned on Owen’s whereabouts…”
Motherfuckers. They have my dad…
“Just wait,” Grey said. “That is just the beginning of the shit they’ve been spewing on here.”
“…Now, let’s go over to Shanna, who is with body-language expert and renowned psychologist, Dr. Nina Grant…”
The camera switched views to a female reporter who sat across from the doctor. They were both sitting in powder-white stationary chairs.
“…So tell us, Dr. Grant, what do you interpret from the video footage of last night’s attack at the final debate? What indicators are seen with the fugitive, Owen Marina?”
They had an interactive TV screen, perhaps a smart computer, behind them. The doctor stood up and began using her finger to point around the screen. The video was of me standing up out of my seat at the debate and walking up the steps. Then, the feed caught the bombs and black smoke filled the auditorium.
“…See, in the moments before he stands he keeps glancing around the auditorium, almost like he was waiting for something…”
I could not believe what I was hearing.
“…When he stands, the guards immediately attempt to intercept him as he began to climb up the steps. Boom…and then they go off. See, this area right here…” She used her index finger to draw a red circle around the front few rows of the Convergence Party. “…was the hardest hit. The front rows had the most casualties. Interestingly enough, Owen was sitting in those front rows, and just happened to get up at the perfect time to save himself from critical injuries.”
The Gambit Page 5
