by Cindy Davis
"Chris, what if...."
"They were just tourists? I thought of that too late, of course. But then, why would she be waving that way? Why did she stay back and then, when reinforcements came, race up beside us? No, they were definitely after you—us."
"I'd feel awful if it turned out we just trashed some tourists and left them on the highway to die."
"Don't think the thought makes me happy. It didn't look like anyone got hurt if that makes you feel any better. You're my only concern right now.” He turned into the lot of a large gas station and waved to the attendant, a tall painfully thin man with long stringy hair and dingy overalls. One hand was invisible inside the bib section.
Chris backed the trailer expertly into a spot between a rusted Ford that looked like it hadn't been moved in years, and a border of elms at the back. “I want to check the damage to the truck and unhitch this thing. Climb on out, stretch your legs a little."
"Okay. In a minute. I have to do something."
"Me too, but I'll get this done first,” he said with a grin.
She used the porta-potty, washed her hands, then hunted for a hairbrush. In the drawer that held the cell phone, she found one with nylon bristles and hounds-tooth handle. She fluffed her natural hair into shape. As Paige returned the brush to the drawer, a grunt of satisfaction escaped her lips. Checking for Chris whereabouts, she drew out two keys tied together with a thick string, and dropped them into her jacket pocket.
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Fourteen
Paige stood to the side watching Chris while he worked. His eyes kept roving between her and the roadway. She wondered if he was looking out for their pursuers or waiting for her to make another dash for freedom.
They walked to the front of the station building where he greeted the attendant. “Hey buddy, what's shakin'?"
"Not much Christian, my man,” the thin man answered, one hand fumbling around inside the overalls, scratching upward along his collar bone, neck, and then to a spot just behind his left ear. “Major busy lately. They don't build cars like they used to. Guess I should be happy. Keeps the kids in sneakers.” His tinny laugh resounded inside Paige's head.
"Tom, this is Tracy Wilson. She's riding with me for a while."
"Tracy Wilson, eh?” He stopped scratching to greet her, and for one horrific moment, she feared he'd stick the hand out for her to shake.
"I went to school with a Tracy Wilson."
She feigned interest. “Did you?"
"Yep, one of the most popular kids in school, too. You know the type: always the center of attention, a big fancy car when the rest of us're driving old beaters. Trace, as they called him, had a fire engine red..."
Trace? A male? How did that compare to her?
"Old Trace wouldn't give me the time of day. Still doesn't. He owns the pharmacy downtown. Inherited it from his grandpa a coupla years ago."
Tom's roving hand reached out and pointed in what she assumed was the direction of town. She had a glimpse of black half moon fingernails and greasy crease lines as distinct as highways on a map, as the hand again traced a path to the bib area of his pants. She couldn't contain the shiver, disgusted by his mannerisms, but unable to look away, fearful that whatever he was scratching would somehow leap the four-foot distance between them.
She took a half step backwards.
"Tom helped me out of a big jam a while back,” Chris explained.
Tom's laugh rang out. “Like I suspect I'm going to again. Am I right?"
"Might be. Might be.” Chris took hold of Tom's sleeve—which made Paige wince—and the two stepped a few paces away. Chris turned so his back was to her. The men bent their heads together.
She shrugged and turned her concentration to the road in front of the station while the men chatted, Chris obviously discussing some sort of plan with his old buddy. A plan that either entailed more henchmen on her tail, a way to escape from them, or a better way to keep her under his thumb a little longer.
Traffic was heavy. She watched with one eye while surveying her surroundings. Across the street was a restaurant sporting an enormous peeling sign, SPORTS BAR RESTAURANT. The door opened, allowing a glimpse of subdued lighting and the sound of raucous cheers. Paige wondered what sort of sport garnered such a crowd at ten in the morning.
To the left of the sports bar was a flower shop, whose owner was obviously more concerned with what went on inside the shop than the impression created outside. Weeds grew tall through cracks in the pavement and between heavy heads of orange marigolds and purple and red petunias, the flowers’ colors clashing with each other yet lending an air of hominess to the scene. Paige recalled a time about a year ago when she'd spotted a weed in her roses. She'd fired the gardener on the spot saying it wasn't the appearance of the weed itself, but the fact that he had allowed it to grow to its full height without tending to it.
Deciduous trees lining the fringes of the surrounding Ozarks showed the first signs of the coming autumn. Pointed mountain shadows lay over the town, a sharp punctuation to the rolling country space and freedom, a thing Paige wished she could feel, or even define properly. There was no sign of the white Suburban or the black SUV, whichever one hadn't burst into a ball of flame.
"Are you ready?” Chris’ voice made her start.
Tom stood beside Chris, his hand roving somewhere inside the back of the overalls, an expression of whimsy on his face.
She cast a suspicious frown in his direction. “I guess. Where are we going?” she asked as they climbed into the tractor.
"You'll see.” Chris winked.
It wasn't a wink that inspired confidence.
They were on the road again, this time bob-tailing through town.
"Stop that scratching, will you? You're driving me crazy."
"Sorry, your friend really got to me. How did you ever meet someone like that?"
"Met him right there. I had a flat tire and stopped to get it fixed. Tom's a nice guy."
"He needs to be fumigated.” Paige pointed at a large white sign with black letters. “What's in Greenwood?"
"Nothing. That's the point. It's off the beaten path, a place they probably won't think to look for us. I warned Tom that someone might come around asking about us."
"What's he going to say?"
"That he didn't see any woman. That I talked about going to Missouri: Springfield, to be exact. I'm banking they haven't found out who my dispatcher is. If they've contacted him, they'll already know we're headed for Memphis."
"Okay, what's in this Greenwood that caused so many sly looks between you two?"
"Er, I thought we could do a little shopping, get a real meal or maybe two, spend the night..."
Spend the night? “What about your schedule?"
He laughed. “It's all blown to hell now, isn't it?"
"So, why was that schedule so all-fired important yesterday and now you don't seem to give a damn?"
Chris gave an exasperated grunt. “Sometimes other things take precedence.” He stopped at a red light and leaned forward, looking first behind and then left and right. “And, sometimes things happen to put your own life in perspective."
"What are you looking for?"
"The...” At that second, a flash of white screeched out of the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot to the left.
"Shit.” Chris yanked the wheel right, and jammed his foot on the throttle.
The tractor shot into the intersection, pitching Paige to the left. Her seatbelt locked in response. “What the—"
The Suburban, for which Paige had been so diligently watching behind them, slewed to a halt just inches from the driver's side door of the tractor.
"Damn! It's them!” Chris yelled.
"Shit, they got past us?"
He didn't answer, just slammed the truck into gear, wrenched the wheel left and bashed the front of the Suburban. The SUV pulled into the path of an oncoming pickup innocently making its way through the intersection. Chris alternately pressed
a foot on the clutch and the gas, and shifted gears as if he was playing some weird video game.
Paige put a stranglehold on the door handle, then remembered her suitcase and handbag in the bunk cabinet. She got up and lurched between the curtains as Chris took a right turn at forty miles an hour. She tumbled to the floor, banging her head in the corner of the bathroom door.
"What are you doing?” Chris hollered.
She lay dazed as the truck careened and squealed its tires along the streets of Greenwood. By the distance and sharpness of the turns Paige assumed they'd entered a residential neighborhood; not much of a place to hide a bright yellow rig such as his.
Finally the truck slowed to a sedate twenty-five miles an hour, and Paige was able to stagger to her feet and stumble to the cabinet holding her belongings.
"Will you sit down!"
As she opened the door, Chris took another turn. She fell again, this time the corner of the cabinet tore into her rib cage. While down, and clutching one arm around her ribs, she took out the purse and suitcase. Paige staggered onto her knees and one hand, and then to her feet. She climbed back to her seat, jerking and pulling her belongings between the seats.
"What the hell are you—” Chris shook his head in disbelief.
He got the truck stopped in a small neighborhood of tract houses, the colors all that differentiated them from one another. It was mid morning and most of the driveways were empty.
"Damn!” He pounded his fist on the steering wheel and repeated the curse twice more.
"What?” The word came out in a pained whoosh of air.
"Damn,” he said a fourth time, then turned and started to say something, “What the hell were you—Holy shit, you're bleeding. What happened?"
"Fell against ... the cabinet door,” she wheezed.
He moved to the bunk area and gestured for her to follow. “Come here and let me look at it."
"Not now. I'm all right. Get rid of them first."
"Don't have to."
"What?"
Chris gently hauled her into the back of the cab and unbuttoned her blouse, peeling it tenderly away from her skin. “That Suburban wasn't the one from the highway."
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Fifteen
Paige dropped onto the dinette, gasping for air. Chris unrolled a wad of paper towels and helped her back to her feet. He dabbed away the blood and examined her injuries. “Got quite a gash there. I think I've got the bleeding under control."
His eyes moved up to her face. Was he really concerned? Or was he just worried about getting blood all over his truck?
"Wouldn't be surprised if you have a broken rib or two, though.” He took her arm. “Can you sit? I think I have an ace bandage somewhere in this drawer. I'll bind you up until we can get you to a hospital.” He rummaged a minute tossing aside razor blades and cotton swabs. “Here it is. I wonder if the clips are here or I'll have to use tape."
"Not ... the same Suburban? How many ... white S-s-s ... can there be? Same. Had to be."
He busied himself with the job of binding her ribs.
"Answer!” She winced and wrapped both arms around herself.
"What? Oh, the white vehicle. It wasn't the same one. The one on Route 40 had Oklahoma plates."
"Plates can be changed.” She raised her eyes to his face. “There was a dent in the passenger door where you rammed it out on the highway."
"Yeah, but I rammed it only a few minutes ago. The Suburban in the intersection had a four-foot long dent, with rust in it. I'm telling you it wasn't the same vehicle. This was all some kind of a spooky coincidence."
"Or setup."
"That's going too far."
"Then why did we drive away?"
"Because it took me this long to figure it out. I screwed up big time. In the past two days, I've broken about every law there is."
"Not murder."
"Not yet anyway.” He patted her knee. “There, this should hold you till I can get you to a hospital."
"No hosp—"
"Yes. Don't argue with me. We're going."
Chris drove directly to St. Edward of Mercy Hospital. The sprawling brick building portrayed a much newer facade than its advertised 1905 founding date. Updating and renovating had obviously taken place recently, in the form of new hardtop and landscaping. The building was a study in simple angles and square edges that blended crisply into the surrounding neighborhood of businesses and elderly tenements. Even the hospital's newer additions were design replicas of the original, difficult to tell where one began and the other left off. Only the telltale variations in brick colors gave the secret away.
Chris helped her step gingerly down from the truck, her arms laden with her possessions.
"Leave that stuff here."
"No way. I believe ... that Suburban's the same one. They ... know where I am."
"It stays.” He left her leaning against the fender and crammed the suitcase back inside.
Step by painful step the couple shuffled to the emergency room. A white clad ambulance driver, who was just about to leave the parking lot, pulled his vehicle to the curb and hopped out to help them the last thirty feet.
Inside the sliding glass doors, they maneuvered Paige into a wheelchair. Eyes of people seated in the emergency room, like cattle destined for slaughter, interrupted what they were doing to turn and watch Paige's arrival. Curious looks, not of concern for the bloody woman who'd just been wheeled through the doors, not of anxiety for her wellbeing, but expressions resulting from the knowledge that their turn in line was about to be shoved back another notch.
The ambulance attendant hollered, “Someone help this woman, STAT!” then whispered in Paige's ear, “That'll get you to the head of the line."
She squeezed his hand, unable now to gather enough breath to speak.
Contrary to many people, Paige was not repelled by hospital smells. She enjoyed the sterility and attention to detail in these environments. But today, she was not able to appreciate any of it. Barely able to draw a breath, she was swept quickly into a curtained cubicle.
While uniformed people tended to her, a nurse herded Chris back to the desk to collect her pertinent information. Paige watched him through a shifting screen of both male and female nurses.
Chris kept casting glances back over his shoulder. Was he worried about her? Or afraid she'd try to escape again? She didn't try to decipher any further. There was a much more pressing problem. How did Stefano's men keep finding her? How?
[Back to Table of Contents]
Sixteen
Paige, breathing easier wearing the oxygen mask, shut her eyes and tried not to breathe at all while the x-ray machine hummed, taking pictures of her insides. Clacking metallic sounds came from the leaden booth to her right.
Moments later, the attendant shuffled into the room wearing a heavy lead apron. He brushed kinky black hair off his forehead with the back of a hand. “You can relax a few minutes while your pictures develop. I'll take a look at them and if we don't have to retake them you'll be out of here in a flash. They're backed up behind you like traffic in the George Washington Bridge on Christmas Eve."
"You from New York?"
"Originally, but I've been here twenty two years."
"What time is it?"
"'Bout midnight."
"Where's my—er ... friend?"
"I didn't see him back here, so he must be upstairs in emergency."
A buzzer sounded from inside the booth. More clanking and banging and the attendant returned carrying a square folder and a can of Diet Coke. He opened the door and called to the waiting nurse that Ms. Wilson was ready to leave.
Paige was loaded back on the gurney, wheeled into the hall and parked against the wall. The jolting caused her to grimace and inhale sharply.
"Sorry,” whispered her male nurse as though he'd merely brushed against her in a crowd. He balanced the folder containing her data and x-rays on her shins.
Feeling like a painting
on display in a museum, she stared first at the wall, which was painted a pastel green with a mousy brown stripe at what would have been at eye level. A black spot about a half-inch in diameter marred its smooth, satin finish. Paige resisted the impulse to pick at it, to see if it would come off. She turned her head, focusing weary eyes into the blur of activity in this lonely corridor in the bowels of the hospital, where time had no meaning until the individual's shift was over.
She stared at respective flashes of movement until they separated from each other, becoming individual scenes unto themselves. The puke green-color dissolved into an orderly pushing a gurney with a white-sheeted lump with blond hair. The white flashes distinguished themselves into nurses pushing wheelchairs, occasionally leaning over the patient's shoulder to listen or speak more clearly. The blue back and forth oscillation turned into cleaning women wagging mops along the green and white tiled floor, then propping yellow plastic WET FLOOR tents in the center. The pleasant aroma of disinfectant wafted through the corridor. She closed her eyes to block out the flurry of activity and breathe in the soothing, therapeutic aroma.
The movement of her gurney jarred Paige awake. She was in a curtained cubicle, not the same one as before because the cabinets and equipment were on the opposite side of the room. A squat, round man wearing a teal color smock had his back to her. He had a square head with a ring of black hair that made a dipping semicircle to the nape of his neck. The top of his pate absurdly mirrored the fluorescent bulbs above. He stood in front of a square box on the wall, one hand in the pocket of the doctor's coat. The box was backlit and some x-rays were clamped at the top.
Paige blinked, trying to focus in the bright light as the tip of the doctor's pen traced a path along what was obviously one of her ribs. What was on the other side of that curtain? Was Chris waiting just outside, or maybe by now Stefano's goons had relieved him of his duties. She had to escape. But how?
"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling? Miss, um...” The doctor checked a chart on the counter, “Miss Wilson."
Paige smiled. “Better."