by Dan Lawton
Sheila’s fingers linked with his and captured his attention. He looked at her.
“You ready?” she said. She smiled, paid no attention to the disapproving onlookers. He loved that about her.
He nodded. He was. Anywhere but there. The judgment game was strong, and he did not like it. He was not used to being noticed, and frankly, it made him uncomfortable. Outside, they climbed into the truck and she kissed him with wet, gentle lips.
“What do you think?” she asked after they separated.
“I think you look great. Stunning. But I thought you did before too.”
“What about you? Do you like yours?”
He flipped the visor and opened the mirror window. He studied himself, turned his head from left to right. “I don’t know. It’s not me.”
“That’s the point.”—she smiled—”I love it. You look...so different.”
“Bad different?”
“No. Definitely not. Exotic. Confident.”
“You think?” He looked again, did not see what she did.
“Sexy.”
He turned to her and smiled. She kissed him again.
“I feel better now,” she said. “Now it’s your turn. Where to?”
He shifted the truck into gear and checked the clock. It was still relatively early. “If we make good time, we could be there by dark.”
She turned and buckled, as did he. Then they were off, headed west.
. . . . .
It was dark when they arrived. Ten hours later. The town was called Green River, though he had never seen a body of water that color. It was a tiny commuter town but with spectacular views of the frosted mountains on the horizon at its highest points. What few people resided in the neighborhoods were generally quiet but friendly, from his experience. He thought they would blend in fine, just until he could figure out their next move. All he knew was they could not keep doing what they had been—it was neither sustainable nor realistic. He still had not heard back from Larry, which ate at him.
The house at the end of the short drive was ranch-style—one-floor living at its best. It was hard to make out the features in the dark, but Randolph knew its shutters were the same color as the roof, and the vinyl siding was bright and cheery. The gutter on the front of the house was cracked near the base of the downspout the last time he was there—he remembered the crawl space underneath the house being dank and muddy because of the runoff. He wondered if it had been fixed since the last time when he pointed it out. He hoped so.
He woke Sheila, asked for her opinion. The time zone had changed, but it was still late. Closer to ten o’clock than nine like the dashboard said. Too late? It seemed so. But he had not seen anywhere to stay on the way in, and he also did not have the energy to try and find one at this hour—not to mention the lack of desire to spend yet another night in a strange bed with unusual smells and a shortage of worthy towels. Sheila said it was up to him.
Great.
Should he call first? He did not want to cause alarm, though—the phone never rang after nine o’clock with good news. He could send a text message, but what if they were asleep? A call would get their attention at least.
He sent a text.
No more than sixty seconds later, the porch light flipped on. Randolph felt a jolt of excitement, but also angst. Showing up unannounced was inappropriate for anyone, especially this late. But what choice did he have? They were there now.
The front door opened and a man stepped onto the porch. Loose sweatpants drooped from his hips, slippers on his feet. Sleeves covered his arms. He hurried to the truck and stood with his arms crossed, his expression not one of joy. Randolph lowered the window.
“It’s late, I know,” Randolph said. “I’m sorry.”
“And unannounced.”
“I’m sorry.”
The man looked between Randolph and Sheila but did not say anything.
“This is Sheila,” Randolph said.
“Hi. Nice to meet you,” she said.
“This is Bruce,” Randolph told her. “My son.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Benji was still wet but wrapped in a towel as he sat on the edge of the mattress. The drips from his hair landed on his shoulders and he shivered, missed the warmth and solidarity of the liquid magma. Cheyenne stood in front of him, fully clothed, her arms crossed. He felt like a child about to get scolded.
They had been through the details—he relayed as much as he could remember about his conversation with the mystery airport man, told her about the tape, what he saw. He failed to mention he had seen it already because it seemed irrelevant. She did not have to know everything.
“What exactly did you agree to?” Cheyenne asked, referring to the agreement between him and the mystery man.
“He had a list of questions about the girl on the tape, so I answered them.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“Freedom.”
“Freedom?”
“No prison.”
“Should you be in prison?”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It matters to me.”
“Too bad. It has nothing to do with you and me, so forget it.”
She was quiet. Her arms were still crossed while she eyed him.
He thought about her question. Should he be in prison? While it was true, he was not a law-abiding citizen, he had not hurt anybody. His crimes were digital only, never personal. Hacking, security footage retrieval, the occasional editorial manipulation. Nothing worthy of prison. He was simply a kid who meant no harm—he was pleading ignorance.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked, bringing him back.
There was a lot. For starters, Cheyenne thought the girl on the tape was an associate—a hired hand with a role in the game, someone without a stake. And it would stay that way. Cheyenne could not know he and Shay were lovers; she would be devastated. He would wait until this was all over before breaking the news to her about them—that this was all it would ever be between them. There was no scenario in which he saw a future with Cheyenne. None. He did not trust she would react well to this revelation.
“What if we get caught?” he said.
“You assured me we wouldn’t. That’s why you’re here. That’s why we’re here.”
“I used to believe it, but now, I’m not so sure.”
She stepped toward him. “Don’t let this prick bring you down. You’re dynamite. You hear me?”
“He said he’d be in touch if he needed more information.”
“And?”
“Which means he’s watching me. Us. He’ll figure it out before long.”
She backed away and crossed the room, reached for her obscenely large bag. “I don’t have time for this shit.”
“Where are you going?”
“Where do you think I’m going? We came here for a reason. I’m following the trail with or without you.”
“You’re not afraid of getting caught?”
She shook her head. “It’s too late for that. I’m in too deep.”
“It’s not too late. If we stop now, no one will ever know.”
“Wrong. You wouldn’t understand. I’m going to make this very simple for you, okay? Either you put some clothes on and join me in the car in five minutes, or you’re on your own finding a ride to the airport. And I think you can figure out what that means for you.”
She left.
He stayed on the bed, still dripping with water, stuck at a proverbial fork in
the road—go along and do what he knew was wrong, or change his ways and make a good decision for the first time in his life.
He missed Shay.
. . . . .
Once a bad boy always a bad boy. Right? It was too late for him to change his ways now; as Cheyenne said, he too was in too deep. Fuck that guy from the airport. Fuck everyone. He was dynamite.
He rode in the passenger’s seat, window down, arm out, his overlong hair sweeping through the air. The list of Shay’s communications was in his other hand—the list he bartered from the guy from the call center, the one he traded a bag of his good not great stash for. A more recent list was traded for a stack of green he could not smoke, in the form of a small fraction of a Bitcoin. Benji transferred the currency an hour ago.
The lists did not make sense. Shay may have been in trouble, despite the most recent text message, which said the opposite. But how easy would it be to forget that? He had no hard evidence she was the one who actually sent him the text. It could have been anybody. This was not part of the plan, and her safety was now priority number one. Once he found her, he would get the answers that ate at him, and they would have a path forward to execute the plan as previously established.
That was before.
Now was after.
Things were different now. The stakes had changed, had risen. Benji was involved now too—even deeper than before—thanks to airport guy. His investment was personal. And he knew Cheyenne would feed him to the wolves if it came down to it to save herself. He was not as ignorant as she thought, or as he pretended to be. He was stealthy, fully aware of the danger in front of them. One false move could mean the end. And prison. Airport guy had no idea what he did not know.
They were in the middle of nowhere. It could not have been farther from the bustling city life he was accustomed to and enjoyed. His phone worked, but barely. The signal flipped between one bar and none. He was glad he downloaded the lists ahead of time. More than simply a record of the phone numbers Shay called and texted, Benji’s list had full details.
Cell towers had four unique identification codes attributed to them, which shared data about which mobile devices used it. The mobile country code said which country the tower was in; the mobile network code offered insight into which wireless provider’s network it was; the location area code broke it down further into the tower’s general geographical location; and the cell identification number homed in on the specific location. Contrary to popular belief, this information was not accessible by the police only; if someone had this data, they could easily find out the precise location of the cell tower. Which meant, in Benji’s situation, he knew Shay had been within roughly 45 miles of the towers on his list at one time—the average radius of a standard cell tower.
In short, Benji traced Shay’s movements from the time she left Iowa. But instead of following her from location to location, they simply went to the location of her most recently registered mobile network connection. They were a day behind, maybe less, at worst. Airplanes were a beautiful thing.
Benji was wired. Even as Cheyenne pulled into the gas station and groaned about something he ignored, his focus was strong. He tried to put himself into Shay’s shoes. If she were in trouble, what would she do? He thought about it. Sadly, he did not know. He realized he did not know her very well. On the surface, sure, but not at her core—not as a human being. How might she react during a time of crisis?
He suddenly felt very uneasy. Almost queasy. Was she playing him? He considered what her motivations could be, how doing so could benefit her, but he came up blank. She had nothing to gain. Not at this stage.
The car stopped. Benji looked around, saw a rusty gas pump and a crooked sign, a hotel across the street. A pickup idled at the light on the street, though it sounded as if it may stall out if the light did not quickly turn to green. Cheyenne’s window lowered.
A man walked up—a dirty, filthy man. He wore a faded mesh trucker hat with a torn rim and badly stained denim overalls. Oversize work boots clunked against the pavement with each step he took. He was like a cliché out of the deep south—except they were not in the deep south. The dirty man leaned on the window frame and flipped a toothpick between his rotted teeth. His lower lip was fully packed.
“Whatcha need?” the man said. Then he spat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Bruce led them into the house. Randolph kept Sheila close but with still enough distance between them so to kill the negative energy. The vibes were bad. Bruce was not happy. Randolph understood why. He should have called first.
It did not hit him until he saw Bruce’s face—the thoughts that must have gone through his mind. As far as Bruce knew, Randolph and Patricia were happily married. Little did he know—and why would he?—about the reality about all that had happened throughout the years. He and Patricia tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy whenever Bruce and Max were around, and he was proud of that. But what he had not considered was how abrupt it may appear for Bruce when it came to a head. For that, he misjudged the situation. Badly. He needed to speak with his son in private.
He caught up to him. “Bruce, can we talk?”
“Not now. It’s late.”
And that was that. Randolph would have to sleep on it. Somehow.
“Everything okay?” Bruce’s wife said when he approached. Her name was Janet. She was generally reserved and always kind. She looked like someone’s mother—she gave off that vibe, had that motherly feel about her. Maxwell was a lucky boy to have her for his mother. Randolph liked her very much.
Bruce whispered something to her in passing and she disappeared into the house. He held open the door for his guests and they entered into the living room. It was just as Randolph had remembered, just more chaotic—children’s toys piled in one corner; a thinned bookshelf on the far wall; a tower of DVDs racked near the television. A giant container of jumbo Lego was on its side on the carpet. The wick of a candle flickered on the end table, though it smelled nothing like the pomegranate pictured on the label.
Randolph stood with Sheila at his side, unsure what to say, unsure if he should. Bruce clicked off the television and swept the invisible crumbs off the sofa and gathered the mess from the floor and shoved it into the corner with the rest. Randolph thought to offer his help but kept the idea to himself as to not overstep.
Janet returned with an armful of pillows without pillowcases and a large, fluffy, squarely folded quilt. She smiled at Randolph when their eyes met, but did not say anything. Bruce took the makeshift bedding from his wife and laid it out over the sofa.
“This is the best we can do, sorry,” Bruce said. “Spare bedroom is more of an oversize closet at this point.”
“This is more than adequate,” Randolph said, and he meant it. “Thank you.”
He watched his son for a while longer. He looked older. The shadow on his face was dark, but not more than the bags under his eyes. The full head of hair he once had now showed more forehead than it ever had. His belly protruded out further than Randolph had ever seen. Dad life.
“Would you mind if I used your bathroom?” Sheila said. “Long ride.”
“Of course!” Janet said. “Follow me.”
Sheila did. She crossed the room and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway with Janet.
“Son?” Randolph said when they were alone.
Bruce tucked the edges of the quilt under the cushions before straightening his back and facing Randolph.
“I should have called. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, Dad, you should have.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you even doing here?”
“It’s a long story. But I’m happy to tell�
�”
“Who is this woman you’re with? And where’s Mom?”
“Bruce, there’s something we need to talk about.”
“I’d say so. But not tonight. I’m tired. Max has been fussy so it’s been a long week. I’m going to bed.”
“I understand.”
Bruce stepped toward the hallway but stopped before he got there and turned to face Randolph. “Please be quiet. Max is asleep. He’ll be up early, so I expect you’ll be too.”
“No problem.”
Bruce scanned him from head to toe, shook his head. “What’s up with your hair?”
“Long story, like I said.”
“I’ll say.”
They stared at one another for a few seconds before Bruce broke it and turned away.
“Goodnight, Son.”
But he was already gone.
. . . . .
Aside from a small side lamp, the house was dark. And quiet. Not a sound from anywhere. Eerie almost. Randolph was exhausted. He and Sheila faced each other on the sofa, their legs intertwined, their backs against opposite armrests. They both wore the clothes they had on before, their bags still in the truck.
The pressure of the situation weighed heavily on him. Randolph knew Bruce was pissed, and Bruce knew Randolph knew he was pissed. Which meant Janet, the sweetheart she was, should be upset with Randolph too. Sheila was not happy either. He had played this all wrong.
“Sorry about the setup,” he said to Sheila, whose arms were crossed so tightly he thought she might get stuck. “I guess I should have called first.”