by Laurel Dewey
“I said, ‘You’re safe.’”
“Yeah?” he smiled. “Humph. It’s funny. I didn’t hear you say it, but I remember relaxin’. And I knew I was gonna be okay.”
Jane searched through the car and found her last remaining disposable cell phone. She stared at the phone, willing herself to dial the numbers. “We are going to be okay, Harlan.” Looking at the haphazard collection of items in the car, she sighed. “We need to get this all organized so we can transfer it easily.”
“Transfer it where?”
“To another vehicle. This one is too much on the radar. Could you take care of it for me?”
“Sure,” he said, happy to have something to do. “But, you really think we should add car theft to the list?”
Jane wished it could be that simple. “Just take care of it, would you?” She squashed out the cigarette and lit a new one. Fresh tobacco was required. She turned and walked back into the pillows of darkness that hugged the parking lot. Somehow, having this conversation in the shadows of night was fitting. She stalled for five minutes, lighting her cigarette and puffing on it like a fiend. Then she dialed the number halfway and stopped, going over her appeal out loud, changing the wording to sound less desperate. After half an hour and down to the butt of her cigarette, she let out a long breath and with a shaking hand, dialed the number. It rang twice before he picked up.
“Jane?”
She was stunned. It was a disposable phone. How could he know it was her?
“Jane?” he asked again, his voice raising a nervous octave.
“Yes,” was all she could utter. Hearing his voice somehow overwhelmed her.
“Where are you?”
“I’m okay, Hank.”
“Where are you?”
“Can you get to Sheldon Springs sometime today?”
“Sheldon…Jesus, how in the hell did you get down there? Yeah, yeah. Of course.”
She arranged to meet him at the only motel she remembered in that area. If memory served, there was a wooded area one block west of the motel that would come in handy. Jane gave him her cell phone number and asked him to call her before he got there and she’d relay the room number.
“I need some stuff,” she added. She could hear him grabbing a paper and pen.
“Are you going to tell me what in the hell is going on?”
“I will when you get here.”
“Has this got to do with Wanda?” he asked in a probing manner.
She smiled. “God, I wish. You have that pen ready?”
“Yeah,” he said, not satisfied. “Shoot.”
“I need five hundred bucks. I’ll pay you back.”
“I don’t give a shit about that. What about your credit cards?”
“I lost them.”
“Uh-huh.” His voice was tense. “Jane, what in the hell is going on?” he asked, dredging up his past law enforcement tone.
“I’ll fill you in when I see you. The next thing I need is food. Lunchmeat, apples, cheese, chips, two dozen eggs…no, make that three dozen—”
“What?”
“You writing this down?”
“Three dozen eggs. Got it. You want four pounds of butter? How about a skillet? Should I pack some dishes and cutlery? Need any salt?”
His sarcasm was oddly calming to Jane. God, it felt good for her to hear his voice. “Nah, just the eggs will do. I could also use a couple disposable cell phones.”
He scratched his pen on the paper. “This is getting interesting.”
She touched her cut lip, feeling heat emanate from it. “Is that aquarium store still in business south of Midas?”
“Aquarium store? Yeah…”
“Good. When they open this morning, could you go down there and pick up some fish antibiotics?” She heard his pen drop.
“What?”
“Just look for Fish-Mox Forte,” she replied in a serious tone. “It’s amoxicillin. The same shit humans use, just packaged differently.”
“Is that right? How many bottles do you need, Jane?”
“One will do. I figure that a single capsule a day treats a ten-gallon aquarium and there’s 100 capsules in a bottle—”
“Jane! What in the hell is going on?!”
“Will you get these for me?” she stressed.
He let out a tired breath. “Fish antibiotics. Check. What else?”
“I need a rental car. Something on the larger side.”
“How large? A four door sedan or a van?”
She thought about it. The idea of tooling around in a van gave her the chills. But it would be a helluva lot more comfortable for Harlan and it would give them an adequate place to sleep at night without having to rely on seedy motels. “Get me the van. Something really plain and boring.”
“Plain and boring van. You want GPS?”
“No. I hate GPS. I like to see where I’m going. I’ll take a good map, though.”
“A good map. Anything else?”
She thought quickly. “Maybe a box of 9mm ammo?”
“Ammo. Of course. Makes sense. Right. Is that it?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“So, let me read this back to you because I think you need to hear this. You want five hundred bucks, lunchmeat, apples, cheese, chips, three-dozen eggs, a couple disposable cell phones, one bottle of fish antibiotics, a vanilla van with a good map and a box of 9mm ammo.”
She went over everything in her head. “Yeah. That covers it.”
“Seriously, Jane?” He sighed. “You realize that anybody else would get the authorities involved?”
“You’re not ‘anybody else.’ That’s why I called you.”
“Why didn’t you call me four days ago when you got your car stolen?” For the first time his voice sounded angry.
“I sent you a message,” she offered in a soft voice.
“What do you mean?”
“The day after my car was jacked. I sent you a mental message, letting you know I was okay.”
“You know that’s not the kind of message I’m talking about, Jane.”
“Yeah. Well, you must have gotten the message.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you said my name when you answered the phone tonight. And if you believed for one second I was dead, you wouldn’t have done that. Am I right?”
There was a hard pause on the other end of the phone. “Okay. I’ll give you that. But goddammit, Jane, you should have called me. The old fashioned way? You can’t leave me hanging here! I need to know what’s going on.”
“I’ll talk to you when I see you. My minutes are running out on this crap phone,” she lied. They said a rushed goodbye and she hung up. Part of her felt weak for having to phone him and ask for help. But another part of her was aching to touch him. He’d reduced her to rubble, she decided. Where once had stood an independent, self-sufficient person, there now was a lost soul standing in a dark parking lot at four in the morning, counting the hours until she could hold him in her arms. She hated herself for it. Needing anyone was a sign of weakness in her eyes. One starts depending on another and before they know it, they’ve lost their drive and vulnerability becomes their fulcrum. While she’d allowed herself to be vulnerable with Hank over the past month, it wasn’t etched into her psyche. And the longer they’d been apart, the more she’d convinced herself that it was wise to leave a door open or at least a large window in order to escape if necessary.
Taking advantage of the cloak of night, Jane drove north to a twenty-four hour gas station. She secured her ball cap on her head as she got out of the Mustang and did a quick check around the area. She added air to her tires and checked the oil level under the hood. Using the rainy day, hundred-dollar bill she’d been holding back in the glove compartment, Jane put twenty-five bucks of fuel in the Mustang. If the plan was going
to work, she wanted to make sure he could drive straight back without stopping. That’s assuming Hank would agree to do it.
Checking the time, she figured that traveling on the highway might be safer and certainly quicker than the bumpy county roads and back highways. But the closer she drove toward I-25, the more she felt the walls caving in on her. A few blocks later, she saw flashing lights and what appeared to be a checkpoint up ahead. Her paranoia kicked in and, putting two and two together, wondered if the cops at the Shangri-La put out a BOLO for her Mustang. She pulled over to the side of the road, keeping her engine running.
“Why you stoppin’, Jane?” Harlan asked from under the covers in the backseat.
“I don’t know how to get to Sheldon Springs on the back roads. I’m not sure there even are back roads. What’d you do with the map I had in the glove compartment?”
He lifted his head and scanned the interior of the car. “I saw it ‘round here somewhere.”
Headlights crested the hill behind her. “Get down, Harlan,” she ordered him.
He obliged. Jane watched the headlights loom closer in the rearview mirror. As it approached, the vehicle slowed. She kept her eyes pinned in the mirror, her heart racing faster as it moved closer. And then, the flashing lights came on.
“Fuck!” Jane exclaimed, as her mouth went dry.
“What’s goin’ on?” Harlan asked.
“Whatever you do, whatever happens out here, do not make a sound or move a muscle. You hear me?”
“What’s happenin’, Jane?” Harlan stressed.
The patrol car eased up behind the Mustang.
“Don’t move a muscle,” Jane said quietly, as waves of anxiety crested. She spied the 9mm tucked into the side of the passenger seat. Moving her hand carefully, she lifted the service weapon, took off the safety and racked the slide.
“Jane?” Harlan whispered with fear. “What are you doin’?”
“Shut up,” she whispered, feeling part of herself drift away. Securing the gun under the driver’s seat, she watched the cop get out of his car. At first glance, he appeared young by the way he moved. She sensed slight apprehension from him, indicative of how a rookie ambles up to a vehicle late at night. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she concocted the first stunt that entered her mind. Burying her head on the steering wheel, she pressed on her cut lip until it opened and blood shot out. She heard the tap-tap on the driver’s side window and saw the harsh flashlight beam entering the car. Forcing herself into character, she left her cop vibe behind and assumed the role of a victim.
“Ma’am?” the youthful voice asked.
Jane turned to the window, blinded by the flashlight. “Help me!” she cried, rolling down the window.
“What’s wrong, ma’am?”
Jane saw that he indeed was as green as they come. He didn’t look over twenty-three and while she couldn’t be certain, he looked more scared than she was. She opened the driver’s door. “My man…he beat me up. He cut my lip. See?” She got out of the car as crocodile tears welled in her eyes.
The cop backed up and shone his flashlight in her face. “Have you been drinking, ma’am?”
“Drinking? Oh my, God, no! I’m just tryin’ to get away from him so he won’t do me like he’s already done me tonight.”
The officer pointed the light into the backseat of the Mustang. Jane quickly fell to the asphalt in a crouching position. She knew if the cop was trained correctly, he would keep his focus only on her.
“Ma’am? Please get up!”
“I just want to get north of here but I don’t know how to do it,” Jane cried.
“Please, ma’am,” he said with an uneasy tone, “you have to get up off the ground. Come on!” He offered her his hand.
She took it and slowly worked her way back up. “Thank you. You’re very kind, officer.”
He turned to the Mustang in an inquisitive manner. Observing him, Jane realized he was a fucking pup. He was too tentative. She knew she could overpower him in less than a second, grab his gun and knock him out. His eyes continued to linger a little too long on her car. A fire began to boil in her gut. She could take him down. One good pop to the back of the head and he’d go down hard. She’d cuff him and stuff him in the back of his own patrol car. Yes, she could do it.
He turned back to her. “This a ’66 Mustang?”
She never took her eyes off him. “No. It’s a ’69.” She inched closer to him. “It’s the only thing of value my deadbeat man owns. When he finds it gone, he’s gonna come after me. That’s why I gotta get outta Dodge and head north. But I don’t know how to do that. I’m all turned around, you see?” She looked deeply into his eyes. God, he was innocent. The inferno inside strangely tamped down. Out of nowhere, she heard three words. Manipulate the outcome. Looking up, she saw a vehicle crest the hill behind them. “Oh, god!” she screamed, running into the center of the road.
The cop turned around. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s him!” Jane screamed, moving farther away from her car.
“Ma’am! Get outta the road!”
“He’s followin’ me! I can’t let him catch me!”
The cop rushed toward her and quickly pushed her to the opposite side of the road. “You can’t be running into the road like that, ma’am.”
The approaching car slowed and then passed them.
“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Jane exclaimed. “You see what he’s turned me into? I’m all paranoid!” She grabbed his sleeve. “Can I ask you for a huge favor?”
“What’s that?” he replied, visibly overwhelmed with her antics.
“Would you please escort me to the highway that heads north?”
“Well, I—”
“I beg of you, officer. I don’t have no map! Please? If you could just lead me to the highway and drive with me a little bit, I’d feel so much safer.”
He was so confused by this point, Jane wasn’t sure if he even knew which way was north. He nodded nervously. “I can do that for you, ma’am.”
Jane returned to the Mustang and followed the patrol car around the checkpoint and onto I-25. For ten miles, she trailed him until he waved her forward and exited the off ramp. She didn’t stop shaking for another half hour.
∆ ∆ ∆
The rising sun was minutes from cresting over the far mountains when Jane rolled into Sheldon Springs. She checked out the wooded area west of the motel to ensure it was still densely cloistered and would work. Satisfied it would serve the necessary purpose, Jane swung the Mustang toward the far end of the motel and told Harlan to wait for her. She barely had enough cash for one night and the look on the front desk clerk’s face when she handed him every coin in her pockets was priceless. Jane specifically asked for a room in a section of the building that was vacant, explaining that she’d been on the road for days and needed to sleep soundly. The clerk happily obliged her, directing her to the second floor and the corner room, explaining that there were only two other guests staying in that section.
Jane returned to the Mustang as the morning sun filtered through the cottonwoods that lined the parking lot of the motel. She quickly motioned Harlan to get out and together they quietly ascended the stairway and went into their room. Jane figured it would do just perfectly. Before going back to the car, she quietly walked past the rooms on that side of the building. Only two of them had their window curtains covered. The rest Jane could easily peer into and see that they were empty. She noted the room number two doors down from their location. Number fifty-one. Satisfied, she returned to the car and unloaded everything out of it, including every box from her trunk and each item from her glove compartment. Taking care to be exceptionally quiet, she gingerly walked up the stairs and stuffed the sundry items into the room’s spacious closet. There was only one thing left to do. Heading downstairs again, she drove the Mustang to the wooded area about one blo
ck west of the motel and parked it in the shadiest section she could find. Before walking back to the motel, she took one last look at her beloved ride and said a quick prayer.
Once settled back at the motel with Harlan, she sat down on the bed next to him and explained her plan.
“I get it, Jane,” Harlan said, after hearing the whole thing. “You need some time alone with him. I got no problem gettin’ out of your hair for a bit.”
Jane wanted to tell him that it wasn’t just about being alone with Hank; it was more about keeping Harlan hidden. As much as she hated lying to him, the truth remained that nobody could discover him. Not even Hank.
Jane wisely used the free hours before Hank showed up. She hopped into the shower and washed her hair. After re-organizing the luggage, she pulled out clothing that needed to be cleaned. Turning the motel’s bathtub into a large washing sink, she pummeled and scrubbed a couple shirts and her muddy pair of jeans. Figuring Harlan’s lone flannel shirt could stand to be freshened up, she had him remove it and then added it to the wash water. Hanging everything on the bathroom hooks, Jane turned on the fans and heat lamp and willed the clothing to dry quickly. She heard Harlan call her name with urgency.
When she walked back in the room, Harlan had the television tuned to the local Denver news morning show.
He pointed to the television. “That’s my ex-wife, Jane!”
Jane looked at the forty-ish woman. She was maybe five feet tall and probably tipped the scale at two hundred pounds. She didn’t look smart but she didn’t look mean or vengeful. The banner beneath her face read: Arlene Kipple, ex-wife of fugitive Harlan Kipple.
“She’s lost weight,” Harlan offered, obviously taken back by the whole thing. “I expect it’s ‘cause of the stress.” He stared at the TV screen, his mouth slightly ajar.
“I ain’t seen him for a while now,” Arlene told the reporter, her eyes tearing up. “But I don’t care what anybody says, the man I knew was not capable of the crimes they are sayin’ he did. I want that information to get out there!”
Harlan began to tear up. Jane sat next to him on the bed and put a comforting hand on his back.
