by J C Lane
Laura held up her hand. When she was done coughing, she smiled. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
The woman went back to her yarn.
Laura ate the granola bar and finished the water. After a few moments of shut-eye, she realized she had to be leaving. Her eight o’clock location would be transmitted in two minutes. But where to go? She couldn’t put the hospital in danger, or the kind old lady.
Laura silenced the alarm, said good-bye to the lady, and left the waiting room. She wanted to say thanks to the white-coated woman, but she was gone, and Laura couldn’t stick around. Her time was up.
Avoiding the front door, Laura walked toward the ER entrance, where she’d come in. She stopped short. It and one of the big men stood just inside the ER doors. How did It find her so fast? Laura slowly turned around and stood behind a family waiting in the hallway. She peeked through them and watched the girl. She and the guy were talking to an orderly, It holding her hand up, as if to show Laura’s height. The orderly shook his head and shrugged. Laura hoped he was saying he hadn’t seen her. Which was true.
But then the nice woman in white showed up. The orderly gestured her over, and she listened to the girl. The girl looked completely different from at the train station. Now she looked anxious and worried and sweet. The woman patted her arm and turned toward the waiting room where she’d stashed Laura. The girl checked her watch, frowned, and followed the woman, eyes on her watch.
Laura wasn’t sure which way to go. Would there be more men outside the ER door? Or would they be dispersed around the rest of the building, since the girl and only one guy had come in that way? Laura wished a movie trick would work. She would grab a doctor’s coat from a closet and sneak into surgery. Or jump into a laundry cart and be rolled to safety. Or stow away on an ambulance. But that couldn’t really happen.
Laura’s wrist buzzed. Her location had just been transmitted. There would be no doubt at all where she was now.
She threw herself into the closest stairway and scrambled down to the basement, where she speed-walked past the laundry room, the kitchen, a shower room, and the building’s maintenance system. It was there, at the end of the hallway, where she found an emergency exit. A sign said an alarm would sound if she used the door. But what was an alarm compared to what awaited her outside of any other door? For all she knew, there was a guy waiting out there, too. But she couldn’t stay in the hospital.
Laura took a deep breath and opened the door.
8 a.m.
Laura
The alarm on the hospital door sounded immediately. Laura ran up the concrete stairs and across the alley, jerking the door handle on the adjacent building. Locked. She ran twenty feet to the next door. Then the next. Finally, one opened, and she almost fell in. She spun around and locked it. She hadn’t looked behind her as she ran, so she had no idea if she’d been spotted leaving the hospital.
A guy at an industrial-sized dishwasher stared at her. His open mouth was the only thing she could see of him since he was covered head to toe in a yellow rubber coat and boots, and wore safety goggles. He looked like he was ready for a ride on Niagara Falls, where Laura’s class would be going for their senior trip in the spring. Water dripped from a nozzle he held chest-high. “Um, can I help you?”
She pointed at his suit, labeled “Milagro.” “I need one of those.”
Within a minute she was “Julio,” decked out in rubber and spraying down dishes. By the time It’s guy banged on the door, there were two indistinguishable yellow people mucking through the room. At the knocking, the real dishwasher guy opened the door. The big man burst in asking if they’d seen a girl, yea high, blond, skinny. Milagro answered in Spanish, waving his hands. From her four years of high school Spanish, Laura knew he was saying how a girl peeked in before running back out when she saw them there. She’d only been there for a second, and he didn’t know where she went.
The big guy scowled and insisted on looking through the windows of the door leading into the main kitchen.
Milagro spoke in Spanish again, this time asking what the girl had done. Was she in trouble with the cops? Was she being chased by the Mafia?
The big guy shook his head, not answering. Laura could tell he was mad, but since the kitchen people were all acting naturally, he had to know she hadn’t run through there. They would have been talking about it, and things would be chaos. He pushed his way back past Milagro, stopping by Laura.
She froze, unable to breathe, the nozzle in her hand dripping onto the big guy’s shoe. He grunted, shook his shoe, and banged back out the door. Laura slumped, but the big guy came back. He thrust a business card at Milagro. “If you see her again, call us. That girl will bring you nothing but trouble.”
Milagro shrugged, saying in Spanish that he didn’t think he’d see her again, but he’d keep the card. To prove the point, he tucked the card into his big, plastic pocket.
When the big guy exited the second time, Laura waited to relax until she knew for sure he wasn’t coming back. Finally, Milagro relocked the door and shoved his goggles onto the top of his head. His brown eyes were ringed with wide circles of red, but sparkled with curiosity rather than fear. He seemed about Laura’s age, maybe a year or two older. In perfect English he said, “So, what’s the deal?”
Laura leaned against the dishwasher, but leapt up as the heat scalded her through her rubber gear. “I can’t tell you.”
He pulled the card from his pocket. “Inkrott Investments. That you?”
“Hardly.”
She reached for the card, but he pulled it away, smiling. “Is this a game?”
She jerked back. Did he know? Was he one of them?
“So.” He tapped the card on his chin. “A game. Twenty questions? Okay, I’ll bite. Is that guy bigger than a bread box?”
She blinked at him.
“Is he vegetable? Or mineral? I’d guess mineral.”
So he thought it was that kind of a game. Not life or death. “Stop.”
“Come on. Whatever it is, I can help.”
“I don’t want you involved. You could get hurt.”
“I’m already involved. What’s your name?”
She shook her head.
“Okay. So who was that guy? Is he Inkrott? Or working for Inkrott? And is he really expecting me to call? I have to say he wasn’t my type. I like them smaller. And less likely to cram me into a trunk and shoot me.”
Laura ripped off her goggles and began shedding the rubber suit. “Forget I ever came here, okay? Forget you saw me or that man or that business card.”
“But why? What does this Inkrott Investments want you for? I didn’t really think you were wanted by the cops. I just said that because I felt like I was on TV, with you running in and putting on the disguise and everything, and him showing up like an FBI agent.” He grinned. “Except he looked more like a bad guy than a cop.”
Tears filled Laura’s eyes as she yanked off a boot. She wished it were the cops. And that they really were in a stupid show.
“Hey, whoa.” Milagro’s grin disappeared. “Don’t cry. Here.” He patted himself all over, then grabbed a paper towel from the far side of the room. “Come here.” He pulled her to a bench half-hidden beside a bathroom so tiny you’d be lucky to get in and out without someone helping. She gazed at it longingly.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Take all the time you want.”
Which would be twenty-six minutes. If she was lucky.
Laura angled into the bathroom and shut the door, locking it with a flimsy hook and eye. Gazing into the cracked mirror, she stared at what less than a day had done to her. Bloodshot eyes, wild hair, her only makeup smeared underneath her eyes.
She used the toilet and washed her face, scrubbing it with the anti-bacterial soap provided in the gigantic green dispenser. As she dried her skin she listened for sounds from the outer room. It was so quiet,
it was like she was alone. Milagro wouldn’t have gone to call that number would he? No. He would’ve just given her up when the guy was there. Right? She ran her fingers through her hair, using water to tame the frizzies. What she wouldn’t give for a toothbrush. Or, actually, some of that breakfast she could smell drifting through the cracks of the door. That granola bar hadn’t been enough, and her stomach wasn’t feeling so hot.
She closed the toilet lid and sank onto it, the weight of her predicament settling on her like one of the big guys was sitting on her. What had happened? Less than twelve hours ago she’d been perfectly content in her safe, busy, world, counting the minutes until she could text Jeremy, designing her homecoming dress, feet up as she lay on the comfortable horseshoe couch. How had so much changed in such a short time?
hic
Three quiet raps sounded on the door. “You okay?”
She blew her nose with some toilet paper and unhooked the lock. Milagro stepped back as she opened the door, and she attempted a smile. “Sorry. I’m just…” She didn’t know how to end the sentence.
“Hungry?” He held up a plate of food.
Laura inhaled sharply. “For real?”
“Looks real to me. Although sometimes the bacon here is a bit iffy.” He gestured to the bench, and Laura hesitated for only a moment before sitting and taking the plate. She left the rubbery bacon, but the toast was perfect, and the scrambled eggs warm and comforting, easy on her rumbling stomach.
Milagro didn’t watch her eat. Instead, he went back to washing dishes, the goggles making him look like a big yellow bug. It was soothing to watch him pick up a dish, spray it, set it in the rack, and do it all over again. The steam made Laura sleepy, and it was with a tremendous amount of willpower that she got up and handed him her plate. “Thank you.”
He stopped the water and lifted the goggles. “You’re welcome.”
“They didn’t ask who you wanted the food for?”
“You’re not the first person to come to the door for help.”
She didn’t know what to say. “Thank you.”
“You already said that.”
“Not for the food. For…everything.”
He slid the business card from his pocket, read it again, and held it out. “You’re really not going to tell me what this is about, are you?”
“I wish I could.”
She reached for the card, but he held onto it for a second before letting go. “Come on. Let’s take you out a different way.”
He led her through the kitchen, where the workers glanced up but didn’t ask questions. Instead of the front door, he took her down a small hallway, up some stairs, and down another set. “This doorway is from some apartments, rather than the restaurant, so hopefully they’re not watching. Whoever they are.” He pointed to a spot behind the door. “Hang there for a sec.” He stepped out into the street, like he needed to stretch, and came back. “No big guys. Can I do anything else?”
She shook her head and wrapped him a hug, not minding the wetness. “You saved my life.” She didn’t add, “For now.”
“Look, whatever your name is, I want to help more.”
“But now it’s my turn to help you, by walking away.”
And she did exactly that.
8:30 a.m.
Tyrese
Tyrese woke when the truck jittered to a stop.
“Sorry, son,” Arte said. “I hate to wake you, but this is where you’ll have to get off if you still want to head to Chicago. I’m gonna grab some grub here, and head northwest. Don’t like them interstates, driving through all that busy stuff. I take back ways so’s I don’t meet up with traffic. Plus, I don’t have to weigh in at all those nit-picky stations.”
Tyrese rubbed his eyes and checked his phone. He’d slept through the alarm…no, he’d forgotten to set it as a.m. instead of p.m. He’d ridden in the truck for over two hours, with the last transmission going to It just three minutes earlier, at eight-thirty. He fought down panic and busied himself shoving Arte’s coat in the back and drinking the last of the water. He didn’t need to be carrying a bottle around while he was running.
They stopped at a gas station, the kind with several pumps and a little store, where you could stock up on candy and lukewarm fried chicken. Only a few vehicles sat in the parking lot, all of which had seen better days. Next to the gas station, not adjoined, but close, hulked a concrete block garage with two bays and an office, surrounded by cars just as decrepit as the ones at the gas station. Mike’s Repairs. Tyrese wasn’t sure if the garage was there to try to fix up the cars, or dismantle them.
“Sure you don’t want to keep on going with me?” Arte asked. “I’m glad for the company. Even if you are snoring.”
“Can’t. Thanks, though.”
“I’d say anytime, but I figure we won’t see each other again, ’less you’re thumbing your way another day, and I happen along.”
“Doubt it.”
“Yeah, me too. You don’t look like the kind does this often.”
Headlights flashed in the side mirror, and Tyrese ducked.
“What’s wrong?” Arte said.
A large, muddy pick-up stopped next to the gas pumps, catty-corner to where Arte had parked the semi. Three guys sat across the front seat, and one got out, wearing camo and a bright orange vest. Hunters. Could It be three people instead of one? Was this a hunting game, like when those rich dudes paid a ton of money to hunt exotic animals? An athlete like Tyrese would be worthy prey—fast, strong, a high-priced commodity, especially if they knew how much he was being offered by some of the universities to play ball.
“You gettin’ out?” Arte sat half-off the driver’s seat, door open, one hand on the steering wheel.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting out.” Tyrese stole another look in the mirror.
“Those guys bother you somehow?”
The Rules didn’t say “Its,” they said “It.” And he couldn’t stay in Arte’s cab forever, not if he wanted to get to Home Base first.
“I’m fine.” In a smooth movement, he opened the door and swung onto the pavement. The two guys in the truck didn’t notice him, but the guy getting gas stared. Tyrese stared back, daring the guy to come after him. The guy nodded. Tyrese nodded back.
Arte came around the front of the truck. “Wow, you are a big one, ain’t you? Strong, too. Didn’t notice so much when you was all slouched over sleeping.”
Tyrese looked down at the driver’s awed face. “Helps sometimes.”
“I’m sure it does.” Arte patted his large mid-section and grinned. “My muscle all ends up here these days.”
“Um, right.” Tyrese glanced at the hunters, who had forgotten him. The guy getting the gas was done, and climbed into the cab. He nodded again as they drove away.
Arte turned to go into the store. “Get you something inside, son?”
“I got money.”
“All right. I guess this is it, then. Good luck, wherever you’re headed.” He stuck out his hand.
Tyrese grabbed it. “Thanks, man.”
Arte didn’t let go. “You sure you’re all right?”
“I will be.”
Arte frowned. “You take care now.”
“I will.”
Arte finally let go, and disappeared into the bright lights of the Gas-n-Go.
Tyrese scanned the street, then slipped around the back of the station, into the shadows.
Laura
Laura wanted to run as she left Milagro and the safety of his kitchen, but she couldn’t, even if it meant the 8:30 transmission would place her too close to his diner. How many movies had she watched where she wanted to tell the dumb girl that if she ran she would draw attention to herself? She would be smarter than that, and hope Milagro stayed out of It’s sights.
She paused at the corner. Milagro watched her from his
door, and held up a hand. Laura wished she could go back and hug him again, but she scooted around the corner instead, feeling her wrist vibrate with her present coordinates.
Swiveling her eyes side to side, she watched for It and her thugs, whoever they were. She backed into a doorway and pulled out the business card. Inkrott Investments. The address was Madison, Wisconsin. Not anywhere close to Laura’s home in Illinois.
Laura thought back. Had she ever known someone by that name? She would remember, for sure. It wasn’t exactly a usual name where she was from. She wanted to research her pursuer, but needed to get further from her last transmission point.
She exited the doorway and zig-zagged down the streets of the Loop. She recognized some of it. Her church youth group had come one time to work in a soup kitchen, and she’d also been there with her parents, when they’d bought tickets for a concert at Orchestra Hall. She passed sculptures and restaurants, stores, homeless people, a guy playing saxophone, and street vendors. She stopped at a table of hats and sunglasses and purchased one of each, along with a large brown sweatshirt, which covered her too-bright pink one. Maybe it would help.
The El thundered above her as she speed-walked east, and she cringed, imagining the sound of an army after her. She kept her eyes pointed straight ahead and tried to look casual. East to Michigan. North to Water Tower Place.
Laura hit Michigan in about twenty minutes, passed the familiar pillars of Orchestra Hall, and spent some time circling Millennium Park, waiting for her 9:00 transmission to go. As soon as her watch buzzed, she ran as fast as she could across the park to the Art Institute, also a past field trip destination.
She wished those lions out front were real, and could protect terrified, teenage girls.
Tyrese
So there he was in the middle of white-trash-ville, staring at the back walls of the Gas-n-Go and Mike’s Repairs. Tyrese had nothing against white people in general. Just individually, if they looked at him wrong, like with anybody. The trucker had been cool, and the hunter, but it still felt creepy, being somewhere he knew he would stand out. Not only was his skin a different color, but he was big. Taller than everyone he’d seen so far, and stronger, and…less fat. It wasn’t unusual for him to be the best physical specimen, but in a normal setting—his normal setting—his size and fitness were assets. Here they would bring him attention he didn’t need.
