by Paula Stokes
When the current carries me past a wide stretch of gravel and sand I recognize as a canoe pullout, I work my way over to the bank. There’s a painted wooden sign here. I squint to read it in the dark: LAZY DAYS CAMPGROUND AND FLOAT TRIPPING. Score. I peel off my waterlogged hoodie and let it float downstream. Maybe someone will see it, and McGhee and Gonzalez will think I went farther than I did. Maybe they’ll think I drowned. Even better.
I follow a winding path through a dense grove of trees and emerge into a campground. Most of the tents are still zipped closed for the night, which is good. Even in the “anything goes” atmosphere of most campgrounds, I’d probably raise a few eyebrows strolling up from the riverbank soaking wet and covered in mud.
I find what I’m looking for along the far side of the clearing, where a few RVs sit in asphalt parking spaces—a clothesline tied between two trees. Unfortunately, all I see is girls’ clothing. Impossibly skinny jeans and ruffled tank tops. Not going to work. But then I see a plain oversized T-shirt advertising last year’s Sacramento Fun Run. Good enough. It’s a little damp, but not soaked. Either it didn’t rain here last night or the trees’ dense branches protected the clothes on the line.
I head toward the middle of the campground, past a smaller wooden sign pointing to the shower area. Is it stupid to take a shower when you’re being chased by the FBI? Probably, but then being covered in mud is pretty conspicuous. Besides, when I lived on the streets, I sometimes found useful stuff lying around in bathrooms. Since I left all my belongings at the cabin, I should at least check it out.
Unfortunately, this bathroom doesn’t have anything to offer except for a vending machine that spits out various toiletries. There’s a two-pack of razors I can use to shave my head. It isn’t much as far as disguises go, but it’s a start.
I slip into one of the showers and decide to rinse myself off, even if I have to put my soggy pants back on. Wet hair will be easier to cut, or so I think.
After all that time in the river, the warm water feels amazing. I have to keep reminding myself that McGhee and Gonzalez could be closing in, because otherwise I’ll stand under the steamy jets all day. I hack at my hair and give up on going bald almost immediately. The flimsy razors are not made for cutting through five inches of tangled mess. I fight through my knots as best as I can, stopping frequently to rinse out the blade. When I finally give up, my hair seems to be several different lengths, but all of it is shorter than it was before. My trademark long bangs are lying on the tile floor of the shower, surrounded by other irregular messy brown clumps.
I start to slide my wet pants back over my legs when I hear footsteps. I hold my breath as a pair of muddy tennis shoes moves past my stall. There are a few beats of silence, and then the shower next to me starts up with a creak of pipes and a whoosh of water.
I exhale hard. What kind of weirdo goes camping and gets up before sunrise to take a shower? I peek out the side of my stall door. Bonus. My shower neighbor has left a towel and a pair of khaki pants hanging on a hook. I’ve never stolen clothes before, not even when I was homeless, but I’m pretty sure I need these khakis more than he does. I give myself a quick pat-down with the towel before slipping into my new clothing.
The pants are too big in the waist and about two inches too short for me. One of the hems is coming unstitched so the left leg is actually longer than the right leg. Oh well. I almost leave my wet pants behind for him, but I decide not to risk it. I don’t want to leave a trail for McGhee and Gonzalez. Something tells me my stuff wouldn’t fit Shower Guy anyway. I ball my wet, heavy clothes up under my arm.
Cruising through the bathroom, I stop for just a second to check out my hair in the mirror. It’s sticking up all over. I’m going to look like a douchebag boy band singer when it dries. Either that or a crazy person. Best to find a hat, but not here. I can just imagine skulking around the campsite looking to score a forgotten baseball cap and having Shower Guy catch me wearing his oversized pants.
I follow the main path through the campground to a tall building made out of logs. The sign says that it opens at six. I plop down on the porch for a few minutes, studying the sky’s colors. I’m trying to decide what time it is, and whether I should risk hanging around, when an old sports car with a red eagle painted on the hood peels into the gravel parking lot. A kid my age gets out, wearing sunglasses and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
“S’up?” he says as he fishes in his pocket for the key to the front door.
“I lost my hat,” I say. “Just looking for a new one.” I follow him into the store, which thankfully has a whole slew of hats. I skim past the ones with sayings like “fishermen do it with crappie bait” and find a plain black hat with a brown leather brim. It’s still a little lame, but it beats getting arrested. I wear it forward, which is something I haven’t done since I played on a baseball team in middle school. I put on the cheapest pair of sunglasses I can find, mirrored “cop sunglasses” I wouldn’t normally be caught dead in, and check out my reflection in one of the tiny rectangular mirrors built into the glasses carousel. Along with the hat and shades, I’m sporting a couple days’ growth of beard. Even I don’t think I look much like myself.
I figure by now Shower Guy has realized that someone stole his styling khakis. He’ll probably go back to his tent first and accuse whoever he’s camping with, but I should still get lost, just in case he heads up to the store to replace them.
I grab a couple of energy bars and sticks of beef jerky and line my purchases up on the counter. The cashier is texting on his phone and listening to the radio. As I’m handing him my wet money, the song ends and the DJ comes on for a special announcement. I tense up and one of my soggy bills ends up on the floor. My hands start shaking. I almost make a run for it. But the special announcement turns out to be about a lunchtime interview with a San Francisco band, and I feel stupid for almost blowing it. I’m expecting everything to play out like the movies, where the airwaves and TV stations are full of grave voices announcing that I, Max Cantrell, am a fugitive, presumed armed and dangerous.
And then I realize with a start that I am armed. The Colonel’s Glock is still in the side pocket of my wet cargo pants. Jeez! Good thing I didn’t leave them behind for Shower Guy.
I finish paying for my purchases and gingerly slide my wet clothes, along with the gun, into the crinkly plastic bag I get from the cashier. It’s time to get going. Like a shark, I remind myself. I lift my hand to touch my shark’s tooth pendant and remember it’s not there—I forgot to look for it in my camping gear. “Which way to town?” I ask.
“South,” the cashier says. “Make a left when you get to the road.”
I thank him and head out. I need to find a way to Vegas, but first I need to find civilization.
The Lazy Days gravel driveway ends at a paved two-lane road. All I see in either direction are rocks and trees. I don’t dare walk along the street. Just because the radio stations aren’t beeping in with special bulletins about me doesn’t mean they won’t be soon.
There’s a ditch that runs along one side of the road, with a dense line of pine trees just beyond it. I duck behind the thick, feathery branches, just far enough to stay out of sight, yet close enough so that I don’t lose track of the road.
The air is humid, but cool. I swipe at a cloud of gnats as I step across a fallen branch. Crickets chirp in the grass around me. An old truck with round headlights and a metal grill that looks like a face passes from the other direction. I hide farther back in the trees until the truck disappears from sight, and then I keep going.
After about a half an hour of walking, the sun starts to rise. I come across a green sign outlined in white that says EAGLE’S PASS: 8. Ugh. At least eight more miles to civilization, if a place called Eagle’s Pass even counts. It doesn’t sound like the kind of place that’s going to have a wide variety of prepaid cell phones for newly minted criminals such as myself. I look down at the stiff khakis with their fraying hems. Grand theft pants. Not su
re stealing these would even count as a misdemeanor. More like an act of goodwill.
It takes almost three hours to get there, but Eagle’s Pass surprises me by having a gas station of unusual size—one of those trucker plazas with gas pumps, a Burger Barn, a doughnut shop, and a convenience store all rolled into one. There are little TVs mounted on the wall behind the cash register, and as I pay for a phone my eyes casually float upward. College football highlights are playing. No picture of me with a moving ticker tape of my alleged crimes flashing below it. So far, so good.
Only now I’m going to have to find a way to Vegas without a car, unless Parvati will come get me. I shouldn’t involve her, but she’ll get pissed if I don’t. Part of me thinks she’s been waiting her whole life for something like this—a chance to use the tactical skills she’s been honing since she was old enough to know what her father did for a living. Plus, I have to at least let her know I’m okay.
I duck into the men’s room and lock myself in one of the stalls. After quickly activating the phone, I realize I can’t call her on her burner phone because I don’t know the number. Swearing under my breath, I dial Parvati’s regular cell. Just as I expected, she doesn’t answer. I don’t feel safe leaving a message, so I decide to just hang out here for a while to see if she calls back. It’s possible her parents confiscated her phone or she doesn’t have it on her since she’s expecting me to call the prepaid. I’ll give her until lunchtime and then continue on to Vegas by myself.
Somehow.
I have thirty bucks left after buying the phone. I want to spend all of it on cheeseburgers, but the Burger Barn doesn’t open for an hour. Keeping the brim of my hat low, I grab a bag of chips and a turkey sandwich and take them to the front register, doing my best not to make eye contact with anyone in the store. I crack my knuckles and scan the items in the glass cases as the clerk rings me up: leather wallets, switchblades, a bunch of cool silver rings shaped like skulls. I’ve always wanted a ring like that.
The door to the shop trills mechanically, and I resist the urge to whirl around and see who it is. With slightly shaky fingers, I count out the money I owe the clerk and then take my bag and receipt. I carry the food back through the front door of the shop and out into the sun. I saunter around to the back of the parking lot and sit cross-legged against the brick wall of the gas station.
I let out a huge breath and try to relax my back and shoulders. I’ve been on high alert for so long that my entire body is rigid. As I unwrap the sandwich, my stomach rumbles in anticipation. I eagerly bite off a big hunk of meat and bread.
I watch the highway as I chew. I can see everything coming from both directions. I’m not sure exactly what I’ll do if a parade of cop cars appears, but I feel a little better knowing nothing can sneak up on me.
About an hour later, I get a call from an unknown number. Warily, I press the button to connect it, but then don’t say anything.
“Who is this?” Parvati’s voice. She must be calling on her prepaid. Emotion floods through me and I have to choke back a lump in my throat before I can speak. “Hey,” I say finally. “It’s me.”
“Oh my God. Are you all right?” she asks. “Where are you?”
I swallow hard again. “Eagle’s Pass. Some place called the Flaming Engine.”
She doesn’t say anything for a minute, and I can almost see her furiously googling. “Damn, that’s like fifteen miles from the cabin. How’d you get there?”
“The river, mostly. I had to leave my car.” And the laptop. And the hard drive. And Preston’s phone. Man, I really messed everything up.
“McGhee and Gonzalez interrupted our family dinner last night. They threatened to charge me with aiding and abetting if I knew where you were but didn’t tell them.” She sighs loudly. “My parents freaked this morning when they found out you had been at the cabin. I had to tell them you must have stolen my set of keys back when we were dating.”
“Great. My alleged crimes just keep adding up.”
“It was either that or end up under house arrest, and you need my help. When we find Preston and everything goes back to normal, I’ll tell them I lied.”
“Sure.” I blink back tears. The lack of sleep combined with the craziness suddenly has me teetering on the edge of hysteria. Inhaling deeply, I lean against the building, watching an eighteen-wheeler swing out to the right in order to make a left turn into the lot.
“Can you find a safe place to hide?” she asks. “I can pick you up tonight, as soon as my parents are asleep.”
“That would mean another ten hours before you can even leave, plus an hour to get here. I’ll just start walking, or hitch a ride with a trucker. If you come, there’s no way you’ll get back in time for school tomorrow.”
“Screw school. Screw truckers. They’ll turn you in,” she says. “And trying to walk all the way to Vegas will take days. Not to mention there’s nowhere to hide out in the desert.”
“But your parents will lose it completely if you disappear.” Even worse than my parents are no doubt losing it at this very moment. Which is probably a lot. They seem laid-back, until something bad happens. Then Darla starts to self-destruct. I wonder what Amanda is thinking, whether she knows I ran away from the FBI.
“Let them lose it. It isn’t like I’m sneaking out of the house to hook up with you. I’m trying to help you find Preston, and not go to prison for something you didn’t do. Getting grounded, even getting shipped off to military school, is kind of worth it.”
I was hoping she would say that, but I don’t want her to feel obligated. “If you’re sure.”
“I’ll call you when I leave, all right?” she says.
“Okay.”
“See you later, Max.”
I disconnect the call without answering. A black-and-white cop car is turning into the lot.
TWENTY
I QUICKLY TURN THE PHONE off and slip it into my pocket. Pulling the brim of my hat even lower, I walk casually toward the corner of the building. My first instinct is to lock myself in one of the bathroom stalls until the cop leaves. I take a couple of deep breaths and realize I need to give myself an escape route. Street Living 101: always give yourself an out.
I change direction, cutting across the parking lot like I’m going to eat at the Burger Barn. When I’m halfway there I glance casually over my shoulder. A policeman dressed all in navy is striding toward the door of the Flaming Engine with a white paper in his hand.
It could be nothing.
Or it could be a flyer with my face on it.
Once the cop is safely inside the truck stop, I head back to the road and plunge into the wooded area along the side of the drainage ditch. If I see more cop cars I can just run farther into the forest. The police might have dogs, but if I find my way back to the river they’ll lose my scent.
I work my way deep inside a grove of evergreens and bend into a crouch. The backs of my legs press against rough bark, and the feathery green needles hide most of my form. Through the tightly woven branches, I can just barely see the front of the truck stop. My heart starts up a drum solo. Even though the day is windy and cool, beads of sweat form on my upper lip. Each time the glass door to the Flaming Engine swings open, I am ready to run.
It’s a lady carrying a toddler and dragging a kid Amanda’s age behind her.
It’s a trucker with a carton of cigarettes and a bucket-sized drink.
It’s the cop.
My heart stops. The breeze stops. I swear I can hear each of his footsteps on the asphalt parking lot. He’s carrying a soda cup and what looks like a sandwich. What he’s not carrying is the piece of white paper he brought into the store.
He’s in his car now. Wheels moving. Backing up. I hold my breath as he turns onto the road. He’s coming toward me. I inch backward, farther into the trees.
He’s five hundred yards away.
Three hundred yards.
If I turn and run, will he see me?
Two hundred yards.
> I hold my body completely still. My muscles betray me. My legs threaten to buckle.
One hundred yards.
A drop of sweat falls from my upper lip to the carpet of pine needles below my feet.
Fifty yards.
The black-and-white rolls past without slowing down.
I sink to the ground, exhaling sharply. My legs are shaking so bad that I almost wet my pants. Curling onto my side, I try to slow my rapid breathing. I’m fine. Everything is fine.
No, it’s not fine. Preston is missing and the FBI is acting like I killed him. Everything is completely wrecked.
Still, there’s nothing I can do for the moment except try to calm down and catch up on the sleep I missed last night. Shielded from view by the thick evergreen foliage, I lean back against a tree trunk and let my eyelids fall shut.
I wake up hours later, after the sun has set. Dusting the pine needles from my clothes, I creep out of the woods and cut across the road to the Burger Barn. I lean up against the back of the trash Dumpster and watch the Flaming Engine parking lot from a distance. The cars parked behind the gas pumps are unidentifiable black blobs. I turn my phone on just long enough to check the time and messages. It’s right at 8:00 p.m. Parvati hasn’t called.
I order more food and take it back to the woods to eat in safety. Every fifteen minutes I turn on my phone again to check my messages. Just before midnight, Parvati sends a text that simply says here.
Flipping the phone off again, I jog slowly toward the truck stop. Parvati is parked around the back in her mom’s silver Honda. She’s wearing a choppy blonde wig and pointy glasses that sit low on her nose.
“Your mom’s car?” I say, sliding into the passenger seat. From grand theft pants to grand theft auto, just like that. I am so dead.
Parvati shrugs. “That’s what she gets for confiscating my car keys.” She gives me a pointed look. “Plus the Jetta is purple, and has your license plates, remember?” She leans under the leather brim of my hat to give me a kiss on the cheek. Then she peels out of the parking lot. “Nice look,” she says. “Old-man chic?”
