by Jason Pinter
We entered the motel, where an elderly man with a crescent moon of gray hair was resting his eyes at the reception desk. I rang the bell. The man stirred, picked his head up and wiped the drool from his mouth.
“What?” he said, his voice irritated, like a cranky teenager woken from a nap.
“Hi, uh, we’d like a room.”
He grimaced, then reached beneath the counter for a water bottle with an inch of viscous black liquid at the bottom. He raised it to his mouth and spit chewing tobacco into the lip. Whatever missed the bottle dripped down the side like an insect’s number two.
“Minimum’s one night. None of that ‘we need fifteen minutes for a quickie’ bullcrap. You want that you best go a mile down the road to the Sleep ’N’ Snuggle Inn, fifteen bucks an hour at that slop house.”
“Then we’ll take a room for one night,” I said.
“Don’t you be bull crappin’ me,” he spat. “If you plan on stayin’ more than three nights I need a down payment. Too many peoples coming in here staying and don’t paying.”
“Just one night,” I repeated. “Honest. And we’ll even pay that up front.”
“Well, all right then.”
He reached under the counter and pulled up a gigantic logbook, its yellowed pages more like remnants of Talmudic scripture than loose-leaf. He turned it around to face us, and motioned to a pen attached to a chain. Not a dinky chain of metal balls like they have at banks, but a full damn chain. If this is how he protected writing implements, I wondered how he tethered his pets.
“Need your name—both of ’em—and John Hancocks.”
“No problem. Can we pay in cash?”
“This is still America, right? Haven’t gone all to plastic yet.”
“Far as I know,” Amanda said.
I took the pen and logbook and began to scrawl. B-O-B W-O-O-D.
Before I could finish, Amanda jabbed me in the ribs.
S-O-N, I wrote. Bob Woodson. Stupid name.
Amanda took the pen. With delicate penmanship, she wrote in Marion Crane. When I looked at her, she was blushing.
Marion Crane. Janet Leigh’s character in Psycho. The woman who ran from her lover and the police with $40,000 of embezzled cash, before becoming Norman Bates’s carving block.
Marion Crane. The girl who just wanted a better life.
He said, “Now I’ve blocked the rooms from dialing those 900 numbers. You want me to unblock it, I’ll need a credit card imprint. Seen some people run up ungodly charges on those things.”
“No thanks, that won’t be necessary,” I said.
He gave me a creepy smile, smiled at Amanda. “I’m sure it won’t.”
He handed us a small key attached to a palm-sized block of wood. “So you don’t be stealin’ it,” he reprimanded us. The key was stamped 4. He pointed us down the hall and told us to hook a right. All the doors were a faded red, the paint cracked and dirty. We passed by a soda machine. I was thirsty, but the machine was sold out except for the Diet Shasta Orange. Yum.
After we turned the key, room 4 took several hard kicks to open. Just like home.
The bed was concave, as if it had recently been vacated by a particularly obese buffalo and hadn’t yet taken back its normal shape. Thankfully the bathroom was clean. The shower stall was cramped, but at least the water ran.
Amanda collapsed onto the bed. Her legs hung off the end as she took long breaths. I sat down at a small desk in the corner and pulled up my pant leg, pain shooting again as the fabric grazed my wound. Dried blood the color of charred wood had congealed around the yellowed gash. I gently pressed my finger against it, winced.
I stood up and went over to the scratched oak dresser, throwing open the drawers one by one. All I found was a Gideon’s bible and a wadded-up tissue. Ew.
“What’re you looking for?” Amanda asked, her voice sluggish.
“Just checking to see if anyone might have left some spare clothes, socks maybe.”
“Sure, I bet the Salvation Army figured they didn’t need little Johnny’s socks anymore and tossed ’em in the drawer.”
“Whatever,” I said, easing back into the chair. “I need to get out of these clothes, take a shower.”
“Be my guest.”
I removed my socks and shoes and lay them neatly by the radiator. Stepping into the bathroom, I hung my shirt and pants on the shower stall, hoping the steam might rinse away some of the sweat and dirt.
Steam wrapped my body like a glove and I closed my eyes, the world seeming ever so far away. Just a few minutes, and I forgot all about John Fredrickson. The last two days never happened. The weight of the world disappearing down the drain.
I was back in the Guzmans’ apartment. Luis was reciting lines from The Glass Menagerie while Christine showed off booties for their unborn child.
I was back at the Gazette, writing obituaries while Wallace and Jack observed from across the newsroom. Everything was right with the world.
Then it all came rushing back like a busted dam. The gunshots. John Fredrickson’s body prone on the ground, blood everywhere. The pistol pointed at Amanda’s head. The cold glare from the man in black. The cops who wanted me dead. Hours cramped in the back of a truck, knowing every breath might be my last. Death and destruction, all following me like my own shadow.
Suddenly I was awake. I looked at my watch. Half an hour had gone by in a blink.
I shut the water off and grabbed a crinkled towel. My clothes were still damp, so I wrapped the towel around my waist and rejoined Amanda. Modesty damned to hell, I wasn’t going to put those nasty clothes back on until they’d been boiled and disinfected.
To my surprise not only was Amanda awake, but she was wearing a different shirt. A large plastic bag lay at her feet.
“Is that new?” I asked, incredulous. When we arrived, Amanda was still wearing her fleece. Now she had on a blue T-shirt with the letters CPD embroidered on it. Chicago Police Department. What a sense of humor. “What’s in the bag?”
She threw it at me, and I thankfully managed to catch it while keeping my dignity around my waist. Inside was a shrink-wrapped package containing a fresh T-shirt, a package of underwear, size XXL, and a pair of cargo shorts that looked like a stiff breeze could undo the lining. I looked at Amanda, her eyes sparkling, anxious for my reaction. Had she gone shopping?
“Sorry about the underwear,” she said. “They were out of large and XL, and you don’t look like a medium kind of guy.”
“Large usually, but I’m not going to complain.” I paused, looked into her gorgeous eyes. “Thank you.”
She nodded. “So what do you think of the T-shirt? I felt it was appropriate.”
I shook my head. “Maybe I should get one that says ‘Fugitive’ on it. We can wear them at Halloween, maybe accessorize with a ball and chain. I’ll carry the pickax.”
“You can be Harrison Ford. I’ve always had a crush on Tommy Lee Jones.”
“I’m not sure I needed to know that. Besides, you’re much prettier than Tommy Lee Jones. And a lot less leathery.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Well, he is an attractive man,” I said with a grin. “Amanda, really, you didn’t have to do this.”
“I know, but I did it anyway.”
My smile came easily. I emerged from the bathroom a minute later feeling like I’d just taken a dozen hot showers after being stuck in a mudslide. New clothes never felt so good.
“Jesus, your leg,” she said. I glanced down. The wound was angry and yellow and deeper than I’d thought. “What happened to you?”
“A bullet…when I was running from those cops.” I made a slicing motion through the air to drive the image home. Amanda shuddered.
“We need to take care of it,” she said.
“We don’t need to do anything,” I replied, stern.
“Hold on,” she interrupted, bolting for the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Before I could stop her, Amanda was gone.
I sighed, in no position to chase after her, and turned the television on, flipped to CNN. Then I turned it off. I didn’t want to see the news. Everything was already too real.
What if I had just turned myself in? Surely things could have been worked out. Surely the truth would have been revealed.
Surely…surely bullshit.
The only witnesses had publicly testified to my guilt. If my case ever went to court, it was the word of a man accused of killing a cop against three people plus the entire NYPD. Hell, if I was a cop I’d want me dead, too. But my survival depended on smoking the truth out from its hiding place. The mystery package, the one both Fredrickson and the man in black wanted, held the answer.
Five minutes later the door swung open. Amanda was holding another bag. She took out a bottle of alcohol and some cotton swabs, several gauze pads and an Ace bandage. Her face had the confidence of a doctor ready to perform her very first surgery while drunk and high on methamphetamines.
She sat me down, gently biting her lip as she poured alcohol onto a cotton ball. I closed my eyes, then felt a hot, searing pain rip into my leg. I gritted my teeth, a sharp yelp escaping my lips as she increased the pressure.
“Let me know if this hurts.”
I nodded, said I would. If she hadn’t picked up that it hurt like a motherfucker, I wasn’t about to tell her.
Eventually the pain died down to a dull throbbing sensation. Her hands were fluid, swapping pads caked with dried blood for clean ones, no hesitancy about touching my wound or cleaning it. Her fingers seemed hungry, kneading my skin as though it contained some hidden antidote for her as well. As much as she was helping me, fixing me, I knew I was helping her, too.
When she finished, Amanda placed a clean gauze pad over the wound and fixed it in place with the bandage. She fastened the end with small metal clasps and gave my leg a quick pat.
“How’s it feel?”
“Hurts like hell,” I said. “Are you sure it needs to be so tight? I think you cut off circulation to my leg.”
“Better than it getting infected. If the wound gets gangrenous, an amputation might be necessary.” She winked at me.
“Maybe it needs to be a little tighter.”
Amanda washed her hands, collapsed back into bed and sighed. Her eyes closed, her chest rhythmically rising and falling. My eyes traced her delicate curves, the brown silky hair spilling over her neck. Why now, in the middle of everything going wrong, did something feel so right?
“Why are you helping me?” I asked before I could think not to. Amanda didn’t move, simply laid there, breathing.
“It’s the right thing to do,” she said drowsily.
“How do you know it’s the right thing? You just met me. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough about you,” she said softly. “Believe it or not I’m a good judge of character. I trust my instincts more than any person’s word. Those men in my house tonight, you’re not like them.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re helping me. You could go home right now, call the cops and tell them where I am. Why don’t you?”
“Don’t you get it?” she said, rising to rest on her elbows, her voice plaintive. “I’m in danger, too. And if I turn you in, no justice will have been done. We’ll never know what Fredrickson was looking for, or why the Guzmans and Grady Larkin lied, what they were protecting themselves from. I’m with you, Henry, to the end of this. No matter what.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, knowing the enormity and truth in those two syllables.
Amanda nodded. Soon her breathing steadied, her eyes closed and she fell into a deep sleep.
Watching her sleeping peacefully only made me more aware of my own body. My bones felt like they’d been rubbed against a cheese grater. I needed a long, peaceful sleep, if only to remind me of the life I used to have. But sleep never came. I just watched Amanda, hoping her dreams were peaceful. Soon, I hoped, our reality would mirror those dreams.
26
David Morris was combing his hair—the thick, long hair that Evelyn fucking hated, god damn her—when the doorbell rang. Slamming down his plastic comb, David yelled at her to answer it. She didn’t respond. He heard the muffled sound of the television. Some sort of damn daytime talk show. Fuck. Couldn’t she get off her ass once a day?
David insisted she get a job months ago, and what did Evelyn do? Watched more television. Now that he was working full-time again, coming home late at night and sleeping until early afternoon, she had all day to be productive. Twice a week he had to make the three-hundred-mile drive from St. Louis to Chicago, arriving home long after the midnight hour, dropping into bed like a sack of bricks. And yet he still made time to get the kids ready for school, pack their lunches and drive them to soccer practice. Years ago he would wake Evelyn up for a quickie, gently tickle her neck and bite her earlobe. These days the thought of munching her ear made him sick.
Ever since they’d moved to Chicago, Evelyn had made David’s life a living hell. His salary was off the charts, but his home life sucked worse than an Eagles reunion. At least twice this month, David had seriously considered grabbing the kids from under her nose and getting out of the hellhole he called home. Throw some Hank Williams on the radio, throw his arm around David Jr. and little Cassie, and he’d be home free.
David pulled on an AC/DC shirt and trudged downstairs, leering in the direction of Evelyn’s talk show, silently cursing whichever red-faced evangelist had her attention this morning. He peeked out the side windows before opening the front door. Force of habit.
The man outside was wearing black pants and a black shirt, sunglasses shielding his eyes. He held his arm at an awkward angle, like he’d recently injured it. David was no stranger to the law—hell, his band had torn up the southwest in his younger days and he’d spent a few nights in county lockup—so he immediately knew the visitor was a cop. Sighing, he opened the door.
“Can I do for you, Officer?” The cop laughed, showed his white teeth, then removed his sunglasses, wincing as he bent his arm.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Can practically smell the gun oil through the front door.” David looked around for the squad car, saw only a beat-up rental. “Where’s your vehicle, Officer?”
“Federal Marshal, actually.”
“Fibbies drive rent-a-cars? Lemme see some ID.” The man pulled out his wallet—a handsome leather model—and flipped it open. Inside lay a government-issued ID stamped with one of those five-pointed stars sheriffs in western movies wore on their vests. The agent’s name was Spencer Bates.
“So what can I do for you, Agent Bates?”
Bates pointed to David’s truck. “That your Tundra?”
“Be a mighty coincidence if it were someone else’s.”
“Mind if I have a look?”
“Mind if I ask what this is all about?” Bates smiled and apologized.
“Mr. Morris, we’re tracking two fugitives by the names of Henry Parker and Amanda Davies. We have reason to suspect they hitched a ride out of St. Louis last night, and we’re doing a search of all vehicles we have reason to suspect may have aided in their escape.”
“I was in St. Louis all day yesterday for a meeting. What’s my truck got to do with this? I didn’t aid nobody.”
“We have a record of your E-Z Pass being charged at a tollbooth in downtown St. Louis late last night, around the same time the suspects were seen fleeing Ms. Davies’s house in that neighborhood. We’re just being thorough and following procedure. There’s a possibility they could have climbed in the back while you weren’t paying attention.”
“No way,” David said, stroking the hair flowing down the back of his neck. “I woulda seen something.”
“Maybe,” the agent said. “Maybe not.”
“Well, suit yourself, I got nothing to hide. Let’s go examine my vee-hi-cle.”
Better to get the cop off his back than give him a reason to get suspicious. Bates walked over to
the truck and lifted the tarp covering the bed. He ran his finger along the metal, looked at it, nodded.
“Whaddaya got there?” David asked, squinting. He joined Bates at the car.
“If you look at the dust patterns in the flatbed…” Bates said.
“Ain’t no dust patterns in Betty. I keep her good and clean.”
Bates rolled his eyes. “If you look at the dust patterns, Mr. Morris, they’re uneven, like someone was wriggling around. You can even make out where a derriere might have lain for several hours.”
“A derriere?”
“Someone’s ass, Mr. Morris. Now let me ask you, did you examine your flatbed when you got home? Was it empty?”
Morris nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. I keep my toolbox there. Wouldn’t leave it sitting around overnight. Goddamn vagrants here’d steal it in half a minute.”
“Did you stop anywhere else last night on your way home? For gas? Food perhaps?”
David thought, put his hand to his lips. “One stop,” he said. “Gas and coffee. Some place on I-55. Ken’s something. Ken’s Coffee Den.”
David felt a surge of pride. He was assisting in a federal investigation. This shit ever made the news programs, maybe he’d get interviewed. Maybe write a book, be like that Mark Fuhrman guy, get as much money as that blond chick who screwed Scott Peterson. Plus those anchorwomen were hot. He’d ditch Evelyn for one of them in a heartbeat.
Bates took out a notepad and wrote the information down.
“Ken’s Coffee Den, you said? On Route 55?”
“Interstate 55,” David said. Bates nodded.
“Can you think of anything else? Any other stops you might have made?”
“No, nothing.”
“Any strange movements you may have noticed during the ride? Maybe a bump or a pothole, something unexpected jostle you?”
