The Store

by James Patterson

  Amazingly, after what I estimated to be around five miles of driving, I still had not seen another car—one truck and two tractors, but no car. Of course I assumed that this lack of traffic was part of the plot to capture me, and it seemed like just the sort of creepy, scary method the Store would use. I also knew that it was only a matter of time before the drones would be sailing over me.

  I saw four more electronic posters and two electronic billboards with new and enhanced photos of me. One even had a separate rendering of my dirty red-and-white sneakers.

  I kept driving, and I kept thinking that some great mother of an idea would hit me. But the only thing that hit me were those posters and those now incessant auto-info broadcasts.

  This was truly hell on wheels.

  Shit, man. I was a goddamn fugitive.

  Chapter 57

  YOU HAVEN’T tasted the putrid combination of fear and depression until you’ve stood in the Greyhound bus station in Carolton, Iowa. A tattered billboard half a mile earlier had said BUS STATION. GO GREYHOUND. And it was the first sign of hope that I had encountered since I had escaped the “intervention” at Maggie Pine’s house.

  I left my car in the rear of an abandoned gas station on the outskirts of town, although it was hard to tell where the town ended and the outskirts began. Then, with my head down, I shuffled toward the bus station. It was a small gray wooden building that looked more like a small saloon in an old western.

  Inside, the station was almost empty except for a good-looking teenage boy, blond, skinny, rimless glasses. He sat behind the small counter. The kid was reading on an iPad, and I’m sure he hadn’t noticed me enter.

  On one of the two wooden benches was a pudgy middle-aged woman knitting. I assumed she was waiting for a bus, but she didn’t have a suitcase or even a pocketbook. She was just sitting and knitting.

  On the other bench sat a man around seventy years old. All I need to tell you about him is that he smelled distinctly like a dirty men’s room.

  I got the young guy’s attention, and he very politely asked, “Where you going, sir?”

  “Well, when’s the next bus coming by?”

  “It should be here in an hour,” he said. “But that depends on if the driver stopped in Walkersville for some liquid refreshment.”

  “Where’s the bus headed after here?”

  “Next stop is Garrettville, then Independence, then it goes straight to Springfield, Illinois,” the man said.

  “That’s where the Simpsons live,” I said.

  He smiled. “You’re not the first person to make that joke.”

  “I guess I’m not. It’s just—”

  Then the old stinky guy spoke. He didn’t yell, but his voice was strong enough for the young man and me to easily hear him.

  “I think that’s him,” the old man said to nobody in particular.

  The woman who was knitting ignored him completely. A woman who’s knitting is not usually interested in talking to a bum who smells of piss.

  “That guy is the guy,” the old man said. He was looking directly at us. He was also clearly drunk.

  “Mister,” the old guy said. “Aren’t you the guy…you know…the guy?”

  The woman finally spoke. “Hush up,” she said. “You old souse.”

  The old man looked at the slow-moving ceiling fan. Then he seemed to lose interest. But I was extremely interested.

  “Before I buy my ticket to Springfield, is there someplace I can get a soda and a sandwich around here?” I asked.

  “A soda?”

  “You know—a pop, a Coke.”

  “Yeah. Four doors to the left is Cappy’s. It’s not bad if they have the pork shoulder today.”

  “I’ll be back in five minutes,” I said. As I headed to the door, the lady who was knitting looked at me carefully. The old guy was snoring.

  I walked as fast as I could toward my car. I passed Cappy’s. (I’d live with my hunger and thirst.) I passed a small True Value hardware store and an empty barbershop. In ten minutes I was back at the abandoned gas station.

  There was only one problem. My car was gone.

  I looked to my right and to my left six or seven times, as if I might just have misplaced the damn car. Then I realized I couldn’t do anything but use my feet. I could either walk or I could give myself up. I touched the flash drive, safe in my pocket, and I started walking.

  That little plastic technobullet in my pocket worked like a good luck charm. I wasn’t walking more than five minutes when a semi pulled up right alongside me and stopped.

  Chapter 58

  “TEN DOLLARS. Jump in if you got it. Jump back if you ain’t.”

  This proposal was offered by a greasy-looking teenager who could have been the evil twin of the Greyhound ticket seller in Carolton. His bare feet just made it to the pedals of the truck. His hair was slicked back, and the black onyx (I’m guessing it was onyx) piercing on the side of his nose was almost as big as the nose itself. He was smoking weed.

  I guess I didn’t respond to his offer fast enough to suit him.

  “You in or you out, man?” he asked.

  I did what I had to do: I hopped in and handed him two fives.

  “And you’re going where?” I asked.

  “More important, where are you going?” he said.

  “Ultimately I need to be in New York.”

  “Well, you are extremely out of luck, ’cause this baby stops in Naperville, Illinois.”

  “Closer to New York than I am right now,” I said. I was determined to sound like a casual wise guy instead of the scared, hungry, nervous, filthy mess that I actually was.

  I looked at the clock on the dashboard.

  “Holy shit,” I said. “It’s noon already.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock,” he said. “I always keep the clock an hour ahead of time. It gives me something to look forward to.”

  I didn’t quite understand that sentence. And I wasn’t really all that happy riding with a stoned driver who could pass for a thirteen-year-old.

  We drove in silence for a few minutes.

  “You got a name?” the driver said.

  “Yeah. I’m George,” I said.

  George? Where the hell did that come from?

  “Was you ever president of the country, George?” he asked, and then he laughed loudly, as if he had just told an incredibly funny joke.

  “And your name?” I asked.

  “Kenny. And no one named Kenny was ever president.” He laughed at this joke even more loudly.

  Then he said, “I think we both could use some food. Open the glove compartment.”

  I did. It was filled with five packages of Hostess cupcakes.

  “Take as many as you want. Dinner is covered in the admission price. Gimme a pack. I want to hold off the munchies best I can.”

  As I was unwrapping the cellophane from the cupcakes the dashboard speaker blasted out a short siren and shot out the announcement about the possibly dangerous guy who was on the loose. The news was that the middle-aged white guy, Jacob Brandeis by name, was reported possibly in the areas of Iowa, Illinois, or Missouri. He had not been spotted in screenings at airports or hotels, and—in an unusual burst of Store honesty—the suspect’s tracking location is uncertain.

  I kept my eye on the young driver. Even when the announcer mentioned those red-and-white shoes the kid didn’t cast a glance at my feet. He seemed totally occupied licking crumbs and fake whipped cream from his lips.

  “These cupcakes are good,” I said.

  He ignored me. He was way too busy flashing his brights at the “dumbass mother” car in front of us.

  I slept.

  Chapter 59

  IT WAS dark night when I woke up.

  The truck was parked somewhere on the side of the highway. I assumed it was still I-80. But I couldn’t be sure, and I had no immediate way of finding out. The driver was not there.

  I got out of the truck and left the door open so I could have a littl
e light. I walked a few feet into the woods and urinated. As soon as I zipped up I heard my traveling companion’s voice.

  “Hey, we both had the same idea,” he said. He was walking toward me from a spot deeper in the woods, and I thought that perhaps the friendliness in his voice came from the new big fat joint he was smoking. We both walked the short distance back to the truck.

  He handed me a Thermos. “You thirsty?” he asked.

  I was thirsty as hell, but I suddenly had a ridiculous, nauseating feeling: I didn’t want to drink from a container where this punk’s lips had been. The punk must have been a mind reader.

  “Don’t worry, man. I look like a scuz, but I don’t have any disease.”

  I took a gulp and almost immediately choked.

  “What the hell is that?” I asked.

  “Tequila, OJ, and Amaretto. Wicked good.”

  “Plain wicked. You got anything else?”

  “Whaddya think this is for ten bucks a night? The goddamn Hilton?”

  He laughed, but I didn’t think he was happy. We climbed back into the truck.

  “Where are we?” I said as he drove us back on the highway.

  He didn’t answer, but he tossed me a cheap stand-alone GPS unit.

  “See for yourself,” he said. (I think he was still pissed that I didn’t like his special cocktail.)

  We were in Joliet, not very far from Naperville, the destination he had originally mentioned.

  “What are you delivering to Naperville?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer, but he did laugh.

  “Is that funny?” I asked.

  “Sorta,” he said.

  “Something illegal?” I said, trying my best to sound like I was totally at peace with delivering drugs or guns or illegal immigrants.

  “Yeah, something very illegal,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you,” he said, and he laughed again.

  Chapter 60

  “WHAT THE hell are you talking about?” I asked.

  “You’re one of those guys who think ’cause I sound stupid I actually am stupid. But you got it all wrong.”

  I had some idea where this little conversation was heading, and I wasn’t happy to be participating in it. Especially when I heard the locks on both sides of the cab click shut.

  “I know exactly who you are,” Kenny said.

  The truck driver’s voice transformed from street-punk nasty into something just a little smoother.

  “Here’s how stupid I am. I’m stupid enough to listen to the radio and all the news announcements about the cops trying to catch you. I know a lot. I know that your name is something like Jacob Brady. And I know that you’re the dude everybody’s looking for. And I know that I could make myself a few pieces o’ gold when I turn you in.”

  Options automatically began clicking through my head. If I tried to fight this guy, we’d end up in a sure-to-be-head-on highway collision, even if I had the smallest chance of taking the wheel from him and knocking him out. This was no road movie.

  My next option was that I could try to bullshit my way out of the situation. I thought I’d give this option a shot.

  “Man, I’m an out-of-work floor layer trying to get to see my girlfriend in New York. I sure am not any Jacob Brady.”

  He smiled at me.

  “I know you’re not Jacob Brady,” he said. “Your name is Jacob Brandeis. I thought I’d screw with you a little.”

  I would be a jerk to keep playing possum with Kenny on this one. He was right. He may not have been particularly eloquent, but he certainly was not stupid.

  “I’m curious, Mr. George-Jacob-Brady-Brandeis,” he said. “What in hell did you do to get the folks at the Store so goddamn pissed off?”

  I was silent for at least sixty seconds.

  “Huh? What is it you did?” Kenny asked.

  I was ready to answer. “I tried to tell the truth.”

  Now he was quiet.

  “You’re kind of a crazy mother, ain’t you?” Kenny said.

  “I don’t mean to preach,” I said. “But I just don’t think that telling the truth is all that crazy.”

  “I guess I agree. But I’m still not buying you, man. The Store? They’re gonna hang you when they get you.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “I’m going to get hanged for writing a book.”

  I slipped my hand into my jeans pocket. The little lump of a flash drive—my past, my present, my future—felt so stupid and unimportant next to my key chain, a box of Tic Tacs, and a few coins.

  “You wrote a book? I just assumed you did something like kill some big shot at New Burg headquarters or that you messed with Tom Owens’s wife.”

  “No. All’s I did...” Why was I starting to sound like Kenny? “All’s I did was write down the sneaky shit they do at the Store. How they weasel their way into people’s lives. How they contol what you do, what you buy, maybe even what you think.”

  “A book,” Kenny said. He shook his head. “That’s amazing.”

  I thought, perhaps foolishly, that I heard a note of understanding in his voice, but I was wrong. He kept shaking his head in wonderment.

  Then he added, “Amazing. It’s goddamn amazing. Who the hell would want to read a book about that?” A pause. Then he said, “Shit. Who the hell would even want to read a book?”

  Chapter 61

  I PRETENDED to be asleep, as if pretending to be asleep were a plan in and of itself. I pretended to snore quietly, as if sleeping and snoring quietly were also part of the plan. But there was no plan. A not-so-dumbass teenager was my ultimate downfall. Who would have predicted that?

  “I know you’re not really sleeping, Jacob ol’ buddy,” Kenny said. “I got a girl who does the same thing. She pretends to be sleepin’ and snorin’ when she doesn’t want to play around.”

  My response was simple: “Son of a bitch.”

  “There’s a rest stop right up here,” Kenny said. “I’m going to pull over before we haul in to Naperville. My bladder isn’t what it used to be.”

  The rest stop was nothing but three unusable phone booths and a few weak streetlights. It was deserted and depressing.

  “Now, here’s how we’ve got to do this. I’m gonna lock the doors behind me, and then I’m gonna stand right next to your door and take a leak. Just in case you get rambunctious and decide that you can knock me over and take off. That would just be foolish.”

  So Kenny did what he said he would do. In fact he leaned his back against my door while he relieved himself. Then he motioned for me to lower my window. I pantomimed back that I couldn’t. I mouthed the words electric window. Kenny nodded. He scooted around to his side, unlocked the truck, and slid into the driver’s seat.

  “I was thinking,” he said. “You got a name for it?”

  “Of course. It’s called Twenty-Twenty.”

  “I get it. You’re a clever bastard, ain’t you?”

  “Not that clever,” I said. “I’m going to Naperville with you.”

  “Twenty-Twenty,” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard me speak. There was a long pause. Kenny looked ahead at the weeds and trees beyond the filthy phone booths and overflowing trash cans. Then he turned and looked at me.

  “Get outta the truck,” he said.

  “No. I don’t need…”

  “Get outta the truck,” he repeated.

  He clicked open the locked doors.

  “Go ahead,” Kenny said as he started the truck engine.

  I opened the door and slid down off my seat and onto the ground. Then I turned around and looked at Kenny.

  “Twenty-Twenty,” he said. “I think I may just read that book.”

  The truck took off.

  Chapter 62

  IN JOLIET, Illinois, I hopped a freight train.

  That’s right. I hopped a freight train. Suddenly I was living in a folk song.

  In this Store-controlled techno-packed world, where the sky was covered with drones an
d supersonic planes, freight trains still existed. And when I saw a guy hoist himself from a ditch alongside the tracks onto a big red car marked NYC PENN STATION, I followed him on board.

  After twelve hours of inhaling the overwhelming odor of pig feces, keeping an eye on two fellow travelers who, I knew, would gladly slit my throat to steal my wallet, and eating a Subway sandwich with shredded lettuce that had turned brown around three days ago, I was in New York City.

  Twenty minutes later I was somewhere on West 24th Street and Tenth Avenue. Between a bodega and a Chinese restaurant was a FedEx store, and fifteen dollars later my cherished flash drive had been transformed into good old hard copy—a four-hundred-and-ten-page manuscript. I bought a cardboard box, slipped the pages inside, and asked the clerk to tie it with string.

  I was nervous. I was exhausted. I was hungry as hell. I didn’t even give a crap when the middle-aged woman behind the FedEx counter thought it was perfectly okay to say, “Hey, mister, have you considered taking a shower? You stink.”

  I was out of there and headed downtown to SoHo, to Anne Gutman’s office. The drones were beginning to hover. The stress was making me light-headed. Although I had been to Anne Gutman’s office around thirty times, I was having trouble remembering the precise address.

  I wandered off course a bit, and I worried a lot. I would have been naive to believe that the Store had given up their search for me. In fact, their efforts had most likely intensified.

  If I needed something to scare me even more, it was at that precise moment that I heard a woman on the sidewalk say, “That’s gotta be him. That’s the guy. Jacob Brandeis.”

  It was also the precise moment when I recognized that I was standing in front of the building that housed Anne’s office.

  Here goes everything.

  Chapter 63

  A FEW hours pass, and my life consists of waiting for Anne Gutman’s opinion on my manuscript. I am waiting as a man accused of mass murder waits for a jury decision. I can think of nothing else—not the thousands of people searching for me, not the consequences of my possible capture. I think my book is really important. Now I need Anne Gutman to think so, too.