by Dan Alatorre
I sat alongside him as we drove to the pancake house, but I just stared out the window. “Have you never been shamed?”
“Sure. Everybody has. You know what they say, though. It’s not how many times you get knocked down, but how many times you get back up again.”
Folk wisdom. Not what I needed right now.
We pulled into the parking lot of the pancake house. Bolton glanced over at me. “You gonna be okay?”
“Are you worried about a suicide?” I opened the cruiser door. “We’re not on campus. It’s not your jurisdiction.” I got out and slammed the door.
Bolton bristled. “You could be a little nicer, you know.”
Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.
* * * * *
Melissa had already rolled past the pancake house once. Seeing none of her friends in the parking lot or visible through the large windows, she kept right on going. She circled back to the Sun Dome. Nobody knew the yellow truck as something she’d be driving. It was safe enough to do some reconnaissance.
But nothing seemed to be happening in that parking lot, either—not that she knew what she should be seeing. In fall or spring, there would be at least intramural sports going on inside; people coming or going from sorority volleyball or a pickup game of basketball, things like that. Not to mention actual NCAA basketball games during the season. In summer, however, if there wasn’t a concert in town, there wasn’t much happening at the big dome.
And that’s how it looked now: not much happening. Nothing, really.
Did I miss it, or am I early?
She tapped the steering wheel.
If they moved the time machine into the Sun Dome, there was still a chance to steal it back. The building might seem like a concrete fortress, but it was just a college basketball stadium. Once the machine left the campus for the armory or the air force base, it was unlikely they’d ever see it again. Campus cops were one thing; armed military personnel were another.
No, their best chance would be to steal it back, right from here, after it was moved and after everybody settled down and relaxed a little. When everybody might lower their defenses.
But when the hell would that be?
* * * * *
Barry made his way along Fowler Avenue, USF’s south border, with the use of his crutches. Even with the borrowed cell phone, he wasn’t getting through to anybody.
The number you have dialed is not in service at this time…
It was slow going, just as Gina had mentioned. Walking on one foot was awkward. The palms of his hands were already hurting, so he let the crutch slide up into his armpit, which made him chafe.
He paused to try Melissa’s cell phone again.
Nothing.
Why is everybody’s cell phone out today?
He huffed and puffed, half stepping, half hopping, along the hot sidewalk.
Or is it maybe that this borrowed cell phone can’t call them for some reason?
He dialed his parents’ home in Miami. After a few rings, it went to the answering machine.
So it works, but it can’t call Melissa or Peeky. What about my own phone?
The battery was dead, sure, but the service was still on, and he knew he’d paid his bill. He dialed, sweating in the sun as he waited for the call to connect.
Again, the tones. “The number you have dialed…”
Then it hit him. Somebody had purposely shut off their cell phones.
It was almost a relief to discover.
But now what? I can’t call my ride.
He scanned the grassy areas of the empty campus.
If somebody cut off the phone, what else might they have shut down?
A bus stop bench under a nearby tree offered some relief from the sun and the painful crutches. He pulled out his wallet and dialed one of his credit card companies. Within a few minutes, he’d confirmed what was nagging at the back of his head all along. Somebody had accessed his accounts and shut them down on purpose.
The cops? Could somebody in the police force do this, to draw us out, maybe? Or at least make life difficult for us while we try to hide?
If so, it was working. They didn’t feel safe going back to their apartments. Without cell phones or credit cards, they couldn’t go too many other places. Most hotels chains were out. And since he didn’t see this coming, he didn’t pull any cash out of an ATM. Barry flipped through the bills in his wallet. About fifty bucks.
The paperwork at the hospital had been processed with no problems, so somebody could track his movements to there. Then to Dr. Harper and Gina. Then to, well, the south Tampa armory. He chuckled.
Or if they happen to drive by, they might spot me on this bus bench. Better get moving.
Barry didn’t know all of Melissa’s friends’ phone numbers, but he knew a few. He could look some up on the phone’s browser. Maybe if he spoke with them, they could somehow network a message to Melissa if she called one of them to check in. It was a long shot. Where might she go?
If I were Melissa, where would I go?
* * * * *
“Can I help you, sweetie?”
The waitress at the pancake house was a friendly, plump middle-aged woman. Such cheerfulness would usually be reciprocated by me. Today, I couldn’t.
“Do you need a little more time with the menu?”
I sighed. “Do you have anything that’s not pancakes? I don’t care for pancakes.”
“Then a pancake house makes an odd choice for you to eat at, doesn’t it? But we have hamburgers, great milkshakes. It’s pretty hot out and you look like you’ve had a bad day. Some folks have a shake with a Belgian waffle. How ‘bout that?”
It didn’t sound good. Nothing did.
“A glass of water, maybe?” I handed the menu back and put my cheek to the cold table top, wrapping my arms around my head and uttering a low groan.
“Oh, I see. Okay. Um, how about a shake? On the house. Chocolate. Sound okay?
Without lifting my head, I attempted to nod. “Can you put sprinkles on it?”
“Sure can, sweetie. Whipped cream, too. You just sit there and relax. We’ll get your hangover fixed right up.”
* * * * *
Why didn’t I eat something when I had the chance?
Barry continued his sweat-filled trek across the campus, leaving the hard surface of the sidewalk for the shaded grassy patches underneath USF’s many large oak trees. There was even an occasional water fountain along the jogging trail. The water was warm, but it was better than nothing.
Food, on the other hand, was nonexistent on this side of the campus.
Then he remembered. Melissa said she was picking Peeky up at the pancake house.
Even if the two of them had already caught up with each other, Melissa might realize it had been the only rendezvous place they had discussed. She specifically said she’d meet Peeky there. Since their phones had all stopped working, maybe they’d be watching for him.
So how do I make myself visible to my friend and not to my enemies?
Not by hiding under oak trees.
Back to fucking Fowler Avenue and the heat, chafed armpits and all.
* * * * *
There it is.
After about an hour of waiting in the Sun Dome parking lot, a small caravan of trucks drove up. Melissa hunched behind the wheel of the pickup truck as they rolled by. On the back of a flatbed sat the time machine, the big bronze egg that had been the source of so much trouble.
They delivered it using one of the university trucks, the way Barry and the rest of them had done a few days earlier. Right in the open for all to see.
Several maintenance workers got out of the first truck and opened a few large overhead doors, allowing the vehicles to enter the floor of the Sun Dome.
Within minutes of arriving, they had disappeared inside.
She sat back, imagining the workers unloading the machine and storing it somewhere in one of the locker rooms or storage areas. Before long, they re-emerged, shut the
big door, and drove off.
As simple as that? Maybe I should have tried to sneak in while they had the door open.
From a side door, a figure emerged that she knew well: Dean Anderson. He was accompanied by a uniformed police officer, but from where she parked, Melissa couldn’t tell if he was a campus cop or City of Tampa police, or what.
More vehicles approached. She slid down in her seat.
Two campus cruisers sped by. They drove up to Dean Anderson and the other man. They hadn’t seemed to notice the yellow truck, but a stray vehicle on a large college campus wasn’t unusual. Runners parked in random spots to go for a run. Students played Frisbee on the large spans of grass. A little yellow pickup on the edge of the Sun Dome lot wasn’t cause for alarm.
Four officers went into the stadium. Dean Anderson and the other officer got into one of the squad cars and left.
This will be the security for the machine, at least until the military guys show up. Four guys. Campus cops.
The news report had said the Air Force brass at MacDill were organizing a transfer in the morning.
So our time machine will be spending the night right here. We have one night to get it back.
* * * * *
I was just finishing my second chocolate shake when the waitress returned again.
“Looks like you’re feeling better, sugar.”
I smiled. “I am.”
“Would you like a hamburger to go along with all that ice cream?” She glanced at her notepad. “Or are you gonna go for a third shake?”
“As tempting as a third shake sounds, I think I’ve reached my limit. Better call it quits before I explode.”
“Okay, hon.” She set the check down on the table.
“Can I sit here for a minute and… digest?”
“You bet. Flag me down if you need anything else.”
As she disappeared, the front doors banged open. A figure on crutches was attempting to enter—and doing a bad job. The crutches smacked into the door glass while he worked to keep his balance.
Barry.
I grabbed my credit card out of my wallet and waved it at my waitress before dropping it on the table and rushing to help him. “Barry! What the hell happened to you?”
“Long story.” His t-shirt was drenched with sweat. He handed me a crutch. “Help me with these, will ya?”
Between the two of us, Barry’s ankle cast, and his crutches, we had more trouble walking through the entry than when he was doing it alone. Everything got tangled up. Finally, a waitress came over to hold the door. Barry hopped through.
“Over here,” I said, helping him to my table. “Miss? Some water for my friend, please?”
“Sure thing, hon.”
As he lowered himself into a chair, Barry winced.
“What is up with you?” I asked. “You look terrible.”
Barry’s hands were swollen and red, with some blisters starting to appear. He pulled at his armpits. “Crutches are definitely a cruel joke, I’ll tell you what.” He clacked them together and leaned them against the table. “My hands are raw and my armpits are fricking bleeding.”
“What are you doing here?”
“When Melissa was driving me to the hospital, she said she was supposed to meet you here. I took a chance.”
“Where is she now?”
“No idea. I thought she’d be with you.”
The waitress returned with some water and my credit card. “Sir, this card’s been declined.”
I was surprised, but Barry intervened. “Mine have been cancelled, too, Peeky.” He eyed the waitress and reached for his wallet, pulling out twenty dollars. He slid it across the table to her. “I’ll just pay in cash, ma’am.”
Her face turned white. “You’re the ones they’re talking about on the news, aren’t you?”
My heart stopped. She backed away from the table, holding her arms up. “We don’t want any trouble!”
I stood, floundering for some words. The waitress bumped into the counter and yelled. “Somebody call 911!”
Just then a yellow pickup truck drove into the pancake house parking lot. Barry recognized it. “Peeky!”
“What!”
He jumped up. “Run for it!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The door of the yellow truck opened. “Missy!” Barry yelled, hobbling his way toward the pickup. “We need to get the hell out of here.”
Melissa’s face appeared, then went back into the truck. As the motor started, Barry opened the passenger door and fell in. I squeezed in next to him.
“What the hell’s going on?” Melissa steered the truck through the parking lot.
“The waitress figured out who we are,” Barry said.
Melissa pulled onto the street and headed east toward the interstate, squealing the tires as she did. I grabbed the dashboard. “Take it easy, you’ll draw more attention to us.”
Melissa glanced in the rear view mirror. “That’s the point.”
* * * * *
Findlay’s cell phone rang in his pocket. It was Captain Ferguson.
“What’s the good word, el capitan?”
“Findlay, what do you think a college football helmet costs?”
“Why the fuck would I care about a thing like that?”
“Because one of your little friends was caught trying to steal some this morning from the practice fields. A fella by the name of Richard Franklin Fellings.”
Findlay bolted upright. “Riff? Hoo boy, this is my lucky day, isn’t it? What a bunch of screw ups I’m dealing with.”
Ferguson chuckled. “Turns out these helmets cost the school about $400 apiece.”
“Four hundred dollars for a freaking football helmet? What a rip off.” He leaned back in the chair. “No wonder tuition costs so much.”
“That may be, but seeing as Mr. Fellings was apprehended with four of them, that’s $1,600. That kicks him up to grand theft.”
“And?”
“And early today he was transferred to the custody of the Tampa Police Department. He’s been booked and has been sitting in jail all day.”
“That was this morning and they still have him? He didn’t bond out?” Findlay scratched his chin.
“Fellings gave them a fake name, so it slowed things down for a while. But when they saw our bulletins on the wire, they ID’d him. The captain there’s a buddy of mine, and he wanted to know if we’d like Fellings back or if they should keep him.”
“Hmm, what’s the smart move here, Ferg?”
“Well, if we take him back, we can question him. If they keep him, he sits in jail until he posts bond. As it is right now, he’s probably out of commission for overnight or a little longer.”
Findlay grinned. “It’s probably better if he stays out of the way for now. Riff’s pretty useless anyway, except maybe as a bargaining chip if I need one. Is any of this un-doable if I change my mind?”
“Like I said—the captain’s a friend. We can do whatever we want as long as we decide in the next 24 hours or so.”
Findlay nodded. “Then let him rot in the Tampa PD lockup for a while, getting the hell scared out of him.” He chuckled. “Maybe he can become some bubba’s girlfriend. Then if we need him for anything, he’ll be more cooperative.” Using Riff as a bargaining piece might come in handy when it came to do the next step or two. “Ferg, would the same thing apply for Roger?”
“The guy in Tampa General hospital? Sure. He’ll stay there while he recovers, but he’s up for theft of school property, too. All four of them are. Plus conspiracy to defraud, evading arrest—among other things.”
A thin smile crept across Findlay’s face. “Then let’s go ahead and arrest Roger, too.”
“Consider it done.” Ferguson hung up.
Findlay took stock of the situation. Riff is arrested and in police custody, Roger is in intensive care at Tampa General and is about to be arrested, and Peeky has already been flipped to my side. That just leaves two little mice to catch, and
without cell phones and credit cards, that won’t take very long.
* * * * *
The Motel 6 on Fowler Avenue stood a few miles west of I-75 and the pancake house, and it had one big advantage besides a swimming pool and cable TVs. Near the university and respectable enough to let parents house their friends there during graduations, a little more than sixty bucks would get a tired traveler a room for the night.
As she pulled the yellow truck into the parking lot, Melissa presented our options.
“We have to assume the people at the restaurant saw you get into this truck. But they also saw me speed east toward the interstate. From there, we could go anywhere. North, south—the cops won’t know where to look for us. That’ll buy a little time.” She glanced at Barry and me, as if to make sure we were following her logic. “By doubling back to here, we should be fine for a while.”
“Fair enough,” Barry said, “but this is a pretty easy car to spot.”
“Yeah.” Melissa pursed her lips. “We’ll have to ditch it.”
Barry checked the truck’s cab. “Is there anything in here we can use?”
A backpack rested on the floor. “Grab that,” Melissa pointed. “Peeky, see if the glove box has anything.”
Barry laid the backpack in his lap. “You gonna call Sheila and tell her what’s up?”
“No way. The less she knows the better.”
I rummaged through the overstuffed glove compartment. “There’s a pen and some tampons. CDs. Lipstick. A hair brush. Corkscrew. Several corkscrews, actually.” I smiled. “Your friend is a party girl.”
“Okay,” Melissa said. “Bring that stuff. Bring all of it. Stick it in her backpack.”
“What for?” Barry stuffed the items into the backpack.
“It’s her stuff, Barry. The least we can do is save it for her.”
“Meaning?”
Melissa sat up straight and addressed us. “Meaning, I’m going to take the car and ditch it behind the mall or an office building somewhere.” She gripped the steering wheel. “If it ends up getting stolen, at least my friend will have some of her personal shit.”
Barry peered past her to the motel office. “What’s the deal with this place? I’m not sure any of our credit cards are working anymore.”
