by Ellis, T. W.
He says, ‘Sounds like you’ve had quite the morning.’
I nod. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand because the handkerchief is now soaked.
I clear my throat to respond. ‘Not exactly what you expect when you’ve only just had your avocado on toast.’
Trevor shoots me a look. ‘Your what?’
‘It’s a fruit. It’s … ’ I make a dismissive gesture. ‘Not important.’
Merlin is still growling at me. I don’t think he’s stopped for a second since I climbed into the truck.
‘He’ll do that all day long given half the chance,’ Trevor explains, shaking his head. ‘Then he’ll tire himself out and go to sleep, dream about growling at you, then wake up and start the process all over again.’
‘He’s committed,’ I say. ‘I’ll give him that.’
‘That’s one word for it. He just isn’t a fan of people.’
‘All people? What about you?’
Trevor is silent, composing his thoughts. ‘I would say that, at best, he tolerates me. But only because I feed him.’ Trevor smiles at me, showing crooked teeth and gaps between them and the smile is mischievous and warm at the same time. He says, ‘What now? Where am I taking you?’
I shift on my seat. ‘I need to go and speak to the police. I need to speak to Rusty.’
‘The chief’s a good woman,’ Trevor says in an approving tone.
‘Could you take me into town, to the police department? I know it’s a lot to ask so I won’t be offended if—’
‘Of course I will take you,’ he interrupts. ‘This country may be going to hell in a handbasket but there are still some with integrity left.’
‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’
‘Day I turn my back on a lady in distress is the day I call myself a damn socialist.’
I wait for him to smile to let me know he’s joking, only he’s not.
‘We’ll take the back ways,’ Trevor tells me, ‘since we’re already heading the wrong direction. We can take a nice long circular route and come at the town from the other side. That way, if they’re expecting you to show up – which would be a fine guess considering that’s exactly what you want to do – we’ll sneak up on their flank. Fools will never see us coming.’
He has a sparkle in his eyes. He’s pleased with this idea and so am I.
‘Good thinking,’ I say. ‘Of course, we could just call the police if you had a phone like everyone else in the world.’
The sparkle is replaced by a glare.
‘Never had one of them cellular devices and never will have one either. You want the government to keep track of every single moment of your life, that’s your prerogative. Me, I like my freedom the old-fashioned way. We did pretty well as a civilisation before the invention of the personal communications device, did we not? You modern folk don’t own your technology, you let it own you. Those phones tell you when to wake up, when to go to bed, you check your Bookface ninety times a day, you walk around with a GPS locator in your pocket and you pay for the privilege. Best of all you think you’re the smart ones for doing so and I’m the crazy one for staying well clear.’ He shakes his head. ‘Don’t make no sense to me.’
I’m not sure how to respond.
Trevor isn’t done. ‘But what do I know? I’m just an old man in a new world that I don’t like too much and that new world doesn’t like me either. So, screw the world.’ He reaches a hand down to give Merlin a rough stroke. ‘Ain’t that right, buddy?’
Merlin just growls in response.
Trevor sticks to his plan, taking me on a mini-tour of the local area, along backroads and tracks I didn’t even know existed, circling all the way to the other side of town without ever going near it. I’m getting nervous as we get closer. I can’t shake the feeling that Wilks and Messer have everything figured out, that they are lying in wait to ambush us. Messer saw the truck, after all.
We’ve been driving in silence for a while. I’m so tired I could fall into a deep sleep at any moment. It’s a constant fight to stay awake yet my mind is restless with so many unanswered questions. The memory of terror is constant, inescapable. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Anxiety means I’m constantly worried, always on edge, sometimes to the point of feeling like I’m going to die, but I’ve never before thought someone might murder me. It’s such a powerful, base feeling, but until earlier utterly alien to me. My existence has been so safe, so uneventful, that I’m unprepared for this experience and these lingering sensations. I feel an exhaustion that is not only physical but mental, not only mental but emotional. I feel …
‘Stop the truck.’
Trevor glances my way. ‘I’m not sure we should really—’
‘Stop the truck.’
Trevor needs no further convincing.
I have the door open before the tyres have stopped moving and throw up in the middle of the road.
I vomit several violent times, heaving and retching until my insides are an empty void, until ropes of spit and snot stretch from my nose and lips, until my eyes are full of moisture and my cheeks are drenched and the dark asphalt is splattered bright by the contents of my stomach.
I feel so much better.
Trevor leans across the cab to check I’m okay. I form a weak thumbs up to tell him not to worry. He peers past me and grunts.
‘If that’s what avocado looks like on the way back out then count me glad I’ve never tried it.’
9:14 a.m.
Trevor says, ‘ETA eight minutes.’
I don’t know what that means but a minute later when he says ‘ETA seven minutes’ I crack the code. ‘Almost there’ would have done fine, but I stay squashed half in the footwell, half on the seat, and let him do it his way. I’m so grateful for his help that he’s my new favourite person in all the world.
Keeping low was my idea and I’m not sure it was the right one. I don’t like the restricted view, I realise. I can see the upper floors of taller buildings flanking the road but that’s it. I can’t see ahead and I can’t see the sidewalks. Of course, this means that anyone out there – Wilks and Messer in particular – can’t see me in return. I’m hidden and I’m blind because of it.
I’m closer to Merlin than either of us wants me to be and his constant growling has taken on a deeper, angrier tone. I’m invading his personal space and it’s no surprise that he doesn’t like it one little bit.
I know how you feel, buddy, I had two cartel hitmen invade my personal space this morning.
‘You sure you wanna do this?’ Trevor asks.
I say, ‘What choice do I have? I need to tell the police. I need help.’
Trevor shrugs. ‘My cabin is out of the way up the creek. No one can come within a mile without me knowing about it. You’ll be safe there.’
‘That’s sweet of you, Trevor. Thank you. But then what? I can’t just hide out there indefinitely, can I? I need to get hold of Leo before he gets on that plane and I need to speak to Carlson again and find out what’s going on, why the cartel is coming after Leo. Without a phone, I’m helpless. Worse, Leo is helpless. This is a matter for the police whatever else happens or doesn’t happen. Leo’s in danger and so am I. Rusty will know what to do, won’t she?’
Trevor is not wholly convinced.
‘You can get some rest,’ he begins. ‘Figure out your next move without pressure. You’ve been through hell so far today so you ain’t thinking clear. In my experience that’s when people make a bad call. Can you afford to make the wrong move?’
‘At this moment Leo’s on his way to the airport. Maybe he’s there, maybe he’s waiting to board his plane to Europe. I hope he’s safe in the departure lounge and out of everyone’s reach. If he’s not then I have to speak to him and warn him. God, maybe they sent people after him too. They could be waiting at the airport for him.’ My heart is beating faster and my breathing’s quicker as I picture Leo taken by people like Wilks and Messer.
‘Sounds like he should have been the
one to warn you.’
I don’t respond. Oh, Leo, what have you got yourself into? You should have told me. We could have found a solution before killers turned up at our home.
‘ETA five minutes,’ Trevor says. ‘So far so good.’
I have described the black SUV driven by Wilks and Messer so Trevor knows what to look out for on the roads. I also gave him descriptions of the two of them, but to my surprise I found it hard to describe them. Is Wilks the older one or is that Messer? Are they both wearing charcoal suits or is Wilks’ navy? Which one had dark hair and which was blonde?
‘A man and a woman in suits,’ Trevor summarised. ‘Never trust a person in a suit.’
He’s my eyes. He keeps me updated as he drives deeper into town, speaking with his teeth clenched together and his lips hardly moving in an extreme, but necessary, precaution. Slowly, my fears diminish. There’s no sign of a black SUV blocking the road, waiting to ambush. No man and woman in suits with guns ready to fill the truck with bullet holes.
My back has been aching for a while as I keep hunkered down below the window line, contorted in the footwell.
‘You want me to pull up right outside the police department?’
‘Something in your tone tells me you don’t recommend that course of action.’
He’s still speaking with his crooked teeth clenched, doing his best ventriloquist impression that almost makes me smile despite the circumstances. ‘I’m just thinking out loud here,’ he says. ‘But it’s not like you have a million options at your disposal, is it? They know that. Could expect you to head to Rusty and they’ve had plenty of time to get there first, haven’t they? Not that I expect they would open fire outside an outpost of law enforcement but in my opinion it don’t do you any favours to underestimate your enemies.’
‘Okay,’ I say in return, ‘stop half a block away. If it’s clear I can walk the rest of the way, and make doubly sure. Stop half a block round the back, I mean.’
He nods. ‘Was gonna.’
It’s a quiet town. Quaint. There are handsome little bed and breakfasts, welcoming cafés and lots of little mom and pop stores. There’s no concrete in sight. Every building looks as though it hasn’t changed in more than a century. Trees on every street. There’s lots of red brick and white-painted wood. Lots of decorative awnings. Everyone here appreciates its small-town charm and wants to keep it that way.
The diner on Main Street advertises the best apple pie in the state. I think the movie theatre is the second oldest in the country. It’s an ‘on the way’ kind of town because despite its picturesque beauty it’s not a place anyone goes out of their way to visit. There’s more famous, more touristy towns in every direction. Real picture-postcard locations. And that suits us just fine, thank you very much.
Trevor drives slower as we near our destination. He’s cautious. He’s on constant lookout. I’m hoping that Wilks and Messer will be easy enough for him to spot in their suits. This isn’t the kind of place where folks wear collared shirts and ties, loafers and single-breasted jackets. Wall Street is only eighty miles away yet it might as well be a thousand.
He stops the pickup outside Earnest’s convenience store, which is on the road that runs behind the police precinct, and says, ‘This is it.’
I take a deep breath.
‘No rush,’ he assures me. ‘Go only when you’re ready. I have all day if you need it.’
I shuffle up from my hiding spot, feeling every one of my fatigued muscles, my many aches and pains. Trevor sees my suffering.
‘You don’t have no shoes,’ he says. ‘Why did I only just notice?’
My feet are bare but they’re covered in a crust of earth and dried blood. Kind of like the world’s worst pair of socks.
‘Take mine,’ Trevor says, reaching down to untie his laces. ‘Can’t go anywhere like that.’
His generosity is touching but, ‘You’ve got clown feet, Trevor. I won’t be able to walk in those things. I’ll fall over and crack my head open.’
He stops. Pouts a little.
‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me so far. You’ve saved my life. That’s not an exaggeration. I know in my soul I would be dead by now if you hadn’t driven by when you did.’
He can’t look at me, such is his embarrassment at receiving praise. I give him a half-hug with one arm and kiss him on the cheek. He goes a ketchup shade of red.
‘Trevor,’ I tease, ‘you’re blushing.’
‘I am not,’ he’s quick to insist. ‘It’s just high blood pressure.’
I smile. He’s sweet. ‘I’d take your number but you don’t have one.’
He responds with something like a grunt.
‘Where’s your cabin?’ I ask. ‘I’ll bring you round some of my tomatoes once this is all over. They’re delicious. Organic too.’
He huffs. ‘Don’t get me started on that hippy nonsense. This country was built with food grown the proper way. We didn’t come over here to—’
‘Your address, Trevor. Please.’
He tells me, then adds, ‘I’ll wait here for a while. Anything even feels wrong, you come running – hobbling – back. Okay? Promise me, Jem.’
I nod. ‘Will do.’ I take a deep breath and open the door. ‘See you soon, Merlin.’
Merlin growls.
I take a breath. Just a short walk to safety, to Rusty.
I tell myself I can do this.
9:18 a.m.
Any right-minded individual prefers to start her day with a good cup of coffee and Rusty is no different. But just so long as that coffee is not your regular drip machine fare. No ma’am, Rusty has more refined tastes than that. Tastes she acquired at an early age. Her granddad had come back from the war after operations in Italy and, as well as a thousand stories, he returned with a little aluminium stove-top percolator. Rusty, who spent many summers at his house, watched every morning as he took the time to grind beans by hand until he had a fine black-brown powder that she would come to know in time as espresso.
He would put those grounds in the percolator and tell her, ‘Now, the best part. We wait.’
She hadn’t understood the value of waiting back then. Little Rusty was an impatient child, as most children are, and became bored in seconds. Patience is an acquired virtue, after all. Yet she wanted to make Grandpa proud and so sat with him each morning to watch the percolator.
When it finally hissed, he grinned, revealing his uneven jaw that had been broken in two by a German rifle stock long ago. He poured steaming coffee from the percolator into an enamel mug and took a noisy sip.
‘Unbeatable,’ he said, so happy and so content.
That first time Rusty looked on with eager eyes, waiting for her turn to taste this unbeatable black liquid. Her mouth watered in anticipation.
‘Oh no, young lady, this is not for you.’
Rusty was not happy. All that patience she had displayed, all that expectation, for nothing.
‘You’re too young,’ he insisted.
Well, she would show him, she decided. Having watched him step by step, she waited until he had gone outside to start the day’s chores. Then Rusty set about emulating him. She ground the beans, which was really hard to do. She had to brace the grinder between her thighs and use both hands to wrench the handle round and round. With each rotation it grew quicker and easier until she had that fine espresso powder Grandpa had made. He had already washed out the percolator so she filled the base with water and filled the middle compartment with the grounds and screwed on the top and set it on the stove. She was too short to reach it so used a stool to make up the difference.
Then, she waited.
This time she didn’t mind the wait. She didn’t grow bored. She was excited and scared and couldn’t wait to sip her creation.
She had made one hell of a mess with coffee beans on the floor and grounds scattered here and there and splashes and puddles of water everywhere else. She didn’t notice any of it.
In time, the percolator hissed, announcing her success, her victory.
Grandpa had used a rag to take it from the stove and she did the same, dropping down from the stool and spilling some steaming coffee on the floor, almost scalding her tiny pink toes in the process. A narrow escape, and she made a concentrated effort to be more careful.
Grandpa’s enamel mug was outside with Grandpa so she found another, set it down on the kitchen table and filled it to the brim with the coffee.
The steam moistened her face as she peered down at her creation. Her mouth watered so much she had to swallow away the saliva.
It was too hot to sip, she knew.
She waited.
Rusty wasn’t sure how long it would take and grew impatient. She blew on the dark surface and watched the ripples and waves, and more steam rose into her face. She gripped the mug in both hands and brought it to her face, blowing the whole time.
The brim found her bottom lip and she tilted the mug and sipped her coffee.
She spat it back out.
Not because it was hot but because it was disgusting.
Forty years later, she won’t touch anything else.
Which makes her wonder why Officer Sabrowski has set a cup of tasteless, soulless filter coffee on her desk. After one grimacing sip, she calls Sabrowski back into her office just so she can throw a pen at him.
To his credit, he’s fast enough to duck.
‘Are you trying to poison me, Officer?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Do you want me to suffer?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Do you really hate me so very much?’
‘Ma’am?’
She uses both hands to gesture at the cup of pure insult on her desk.
Sabrowski takes a few seconds to understand. ‘Sorry, boss. Must’ve given Zeke yours by mistake and you his.’
Rusty plants both meaty palms on her desk and leans forward. ‘Then you’d best hurry to rectify this travesty before Zeke acquires tastes far beyond his lowly station.’
