Centralia

by Mike Dellosso

  “Anything else?”

  “Get yourself some clothes. Toiletries. Deodorant, soap, toothpaste, toothbrushes. Anything we’ll need for a few days on the road. And first aid supplies.”

  “You think this will be over in a few days?” She was questioning his optimism.

  Peter scanned the parking lot again, his eyes covering the entire area in seconds. “One way or another.”

  “That’s not reassuring,” Amy said.

  Peter put the car in drive and pulled to the front of the store. There were many people milling around, coming and going, entering and leaving the store, and each one seemed to have an eye on them, seemed to watch them, study them, wonder if they were the couple they’d seen on the news before leaving the house. Peter had to remind himself that they were just people, and generally speaking, people were not very observant.

  Amy shifted in her seat, smoothed her pants, glanced around the parking lot.

  “You okay?” Peter said.

  “No, I’m not okay.”

  “Just relax. Be yourself.”

  “But this isn’t me. I’m not a criminal sneaking around, trying to avoid being seen.”

  Peter sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.” He turned in his seat to face her and handed her a stack of twenties. “You can do this, okay? When you’re finished, I’ll pick you up right here.”

  She nodded, opened the door, and exited the car.

  He watched until she got inside the store, then parked at the back of the lot, out of the watchful range of the security cameras but at a location where he could see the entrance. He rolled down the windows and waited. A gentle breeze moved across the parking lot, stirring up paper litter and sending it skittering across the asphalt. To the left, a stray dog emerged from behind a Toyota minivan, sniffed the ground, then lifted its leg on the vehicle’s tire. It nosed around a bit, then—spooked by something unseen—raised its head, ears perked, looked around, and ran off.

  The sight of the dog unearthed another memory that had been buried somewhere in the soil of Peter’s mind.

  It’s hot. Blistering hot. The sun is a blazing orb hovering in the sky, scalding the earth’s surface. And this area looks like it’s been scalded countless times, stripped of all vegetation. Nothing but dirt and sand and drab block buildings and heat. Occasionally a car will drift by, covered in dust and half falling apart.

  A dog saunters into view, running its nose along the ground, looking for anything worth eating. The thing is just bones and flesh; its fur is matted and clumped and missing in areas, mostly around the hips.

  The dog noses up to a bicycle that’s parked outside one of the homes, sniffs it, lifts a leg, and waters it.

  The sight causes Peter’s mouth to burn with thirst. He unscrews the cap of his canteen, puts it to his lips, and lets the tepid water linger in his mouth before swallowing it.

  To his left, a gunshot cuts the silence. A single shot. The dog’s hind end whips around as the mangy beast lets out a pitiful yelp.

  “Whatcha do that for, ya jerk?” someone says.

  Another voice answers, “It’s just a stray. What? You wanna take it home or somethin’?”

  “Maybe.”

  The dog limps, whines, pulls itself along with its front legs. The entire back end of it is red with blood.

  “Well, someone put it out of its misery.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  But before another shot can be fired, the final shot, Peter stands and approaches the dog.

  The police SUV returned and glided to a stop in front of the entrance. The officer in the vehicle spoke into his radio, then opened the door and stepped out. He was a big guy, thick arms and neck, made larger by the body armor he wore beneath his uniform. He turned and scanned the parking lot as if looking for someone, then slipped a phone from his utility belt and proceeded to make a call. He spent no more than a minute on the phone, searching the lot as he spoke. Finally he finished his conversation, adjusted his pants, and stepped inside.

  Peter’s heart thumped. Had his pursuers somehow tracked them that quickly? If so, they were more resourceful than he’d ever expected, and their response time was incredible. If this was the federal government, it had to be the work of some little-known agency, highly specialized, not found on any budget sheet or under the attentive gaze of any congressional oversight committee. He’d wait a few minutes and see how things played out. The cop might just be responding to a report of a stray dog watering cars in the parking lot.

  Moments later a cruiser pulled up behind the SUV. A cop, shorter but stockier than the first one, exited the car and spoke into his shoulder radio. He waited a few seconds before entering the store.

  Peter tensed. The gears of his mind engaged, running through various scenarios, weighing options, calculating responses. He needed to act quickly and get Amy out of there. He shifted the Accord into gear and hit the gas.

  But just as he reached the fire lane, Amy emerged carrying three bags, a baseball cap resting low on her head and large sunglasses hiding her eyes.

  Peter pulled forward and she got into the car. Her face glistened with sweat and her cheeks were flushed.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  She put the bags in the backseat. “Did you see the cops?”

  “I saw them.” And he’d come terribly close to engaging them. He pressed the accelerator and moved the car out of the drop-off zone and through the parking lot. Amy’s hands trembled. “You okay?” he asked.

  “I thought they were coming for me.”

  “They weren’t?”

  “No. Some guy was caught shoplifting. A real loudmouth. He was going on about how much the government owes him and what he’s entitled to.”

  Peter pulled the car into a parking space and stopped. He breathed deeply and relaxed his hands on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, Amy. I didn’t want to get you involved in this. You can go anytime, you know. If you want to get out right now and just go, that’s okay.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind. Whatever this craziness is, I’m stuck in it too. Where would I go now, anyway? To the cops? And tell them what?” She was nearly frantic. Tears pooled in her eyes, and her chin quivered.

  She was right. Whoever was after him—and now her, too—might or might not be working with local police. She had no car; she couldn’t go home; she couldn’t go to the cops. All he could say was “I’m sorry.”

  Amy touched his arm. “Don’t worry about that now. We can’t. Let’s keep moving.”

  She was right again. “We need to get to Centralia,” Peter said.

  The Oceanview Motel was not your typical wayside overnighter. Located in the heart of Pennsylvania near the state’s coal region, it wasn’t anywhere near an ocean. But due to its proximity to the borough of Jersey Shore—a small town with a population just exceeding four thousand, located sixty miles from Pennsylvania’s northern border and 260 miles from the real New Jersey shore—the name was oddly appropriate.

  When Peter slowed and steered the Accord into the Oceanview’s lot, Amy said, “You’re kidding right?”

  The motel was a two-story throwback built in the late sixties. It consisted of twenty rooms, ten on the ground level, ten on the second story. A concrete staircase with a landing midway was at one end, while the other end of the building was framed by a small office with a blinking Vacancy sign in the window. The bulbs behind the A and C were both burned out, so the sign read V ANCY. The teal paint on the doors and molding outside each room was in desperate need of a fresh coat. Cracks and fissures spiderwebbed the sidewalk, and the asphalt parking lot was faded and warped. The lot was empty except for a big rig parked on the far west side.

  Peter imagined at one time the motel did a decent business from coal workers wanting to take their sweethearts somewhere oceanic and shore-like, somewhere away from black dust and subterranean mazes. Now, with the coal industry in decline and more families going to the real Jersey Shore, business had dried up.

  Pet
er shut off the Accord’s engine. “You’re used to the Hilton?”

  Amy looked around the premises. “The Holiday Inn would do just fine.”

  “Stay off the grid, remember?” Peter said.

  “Yeah. And this is certainly off the grid. You think they have running water in the rooms?”

  They entered the office, a small room sporting teal shag carpeting and paneled walls painted white and teal, a color scheme better suited for a motel along the real Jersey Shore, where ocean-thirsty vacationers came to play, rather than in a motel on the edge of coal country, where locals and passers-through came to hide. The manager met them at the desk. “Evenin’, folks,” he said. A thin, middle-aged man with dark hair, a pencil mustache, and a goatee, he had hooded, watery gray eyes and a plastic smile. “Like a room?”

  “Yes. Please,” Peter said.

  The man reached under the counter and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Wonderful. Just fill this out and I’ll get you a room key. You have a preference?”

  “Ground level—”

  “Just one that’s been cleaned recently,” Amy said.

  The man stopped, hesitated, then blinked rapidly and forced a smile until his lips disappeared. The flesh on his face was as thin and translucent as onionskin. He had an appearance of someone more suited for life in the basements of funeral homes, interacting with the deceased, than for managing a motel so brightly garnished, interacting with the living and breathing. “All our rooms are cleaned daily, miss.” He reached for a key, then paused and glanced at Peter’s left hand, then at Amy’s. “One room?”

  The guy was no doubt used to catering to traveling businessmen and their mistresses popping by for a few hours of imagined seaside bliss. He’d learned to be observant. “Yes, please,” Peter said.

  The manager retrieved a key from the Peg-Board behind the counter, held it between his index finger and thumb as if it were coated with flesh-eating germs, and handed it to Peter. “Room five.” Then, shifting his eyes to Amy: “It was cleaned just this morning.”

  Peter slid the half-completed form across the counter.

  The manager scanned it. “Mr. and Mrs. Cooper. Minnesota.” He looked up, that strained, disapproving smile parting his lips again. “You’re a long way from home. Headed anywhere in particular?”

  “The real Jersey Shore,” Peter said. “Thought we’d stop here for the night—you know, a little teaser before the real thing.”

  The manager cleared his throat and coughed once. “Very well, I’ll just need to see some photo identification.”

  Peter handed him more cash than was required. “That’s not necessary.”

  There was a brief moment when electric tension arced through the space between the two parties. Finally the manager tightened his lips, pocketed the cash, and said, “Very well. Enjoy your stay. Checkout is by ten tomorrow morning. If you need anything, just ring for me.”

  Peter nodded. “Thanks.”

  When the odd guests left for their room, Conlan Slenker headed back to his lounge area, where Sandy, his aging bulldog, and reruns of Knight Rider were waiting for him.

  He sat in his recliner and rubbed Sandy’s head. “What a couple a’ weirdos, huh, girl? Think they can fool me. No one fools me. I knew from the second they walked in that they were up to no good. Sneaking away to the Oceanside for a little hanky-panky, that’s what they’re up to.” He slipped out the wad of twenties the man had handed him. What did he care if they weren’t married? If they were cheating on their spouses? He wasn’t the morality police. Let ’em do what they wanted to do. Let ’em screw up their own lives. What did he care? He had a business to run and profit to turn, which was becoming more and more difficult.

  “What’ya think, Sandy girl?”

  Sandy lifted her head and looked at him with lazy, disinterested eyes.

  “Aw, what do you know? You like the weird types. That’s why you hang out with me, huh?” When Sandy gave no response, Conlan laughed and rubbed her head harder. “That’s my girl.”

  As the show transitioned to a commercial break, Conlan reached for his beer and took a long, steady swig. He should hate this place, the motel. It was the only thing his old man had left him when he died. No money, not even a house, just this broken-down motel. At least it wasn’t in debt. The entire thing was paid for and all his. He should hate it, though. It was such a ball and chain around his ankle, holding him back from having any kind of social life, holding him back from having a woman in his life, holding him back from becoming really successful at something else. But he was successful, wasn’t he? He was a motel owner, a businessman, a proprietor. And when he attended the hotel/motel manager conferences, he was really somebody. Besides, there were lots of good-looking women who attended those conferences.

  He held the can close to his mouth and looked around the lounge area. Besides the recliner, there was a small table, a plastic tree of some sort in the corner, a mounted marlin on the wall that his dad caught off the coast of Maryland, and an old TV with an annoying flickering screen. Some dream.

  He thought again of the couple he’d just given room five to and chuckled. Conlan had read them like a lusty paperback, them and their little rendezvous. The guy’s wife was probably home with the kids, wondering where her hubby was, wondering if he was pulling a double shift to earn money for the kids’ college funds or maybe at a church meeting learning how to be a better husband. Instead, he was here, at the good ole Oceanview with his little woman.

  On the TV a commercial pushing car insurance ended, and a special breaking news announcement came on. The talking head, that woman with the nice figure and pretty face from the local station, said something about a couple fugitives on the run, a man and woman. A picture flashed on the screen, and Conlan sat up like he’d taken a thousand volts to his backside and dropped his beer can. It landed in front of Sandy and poured its contents onto the rug.

  “Holy sam hill, Sandy, that’s them!”

  Not impressed in the least, Sandy inched forward and slid her tongue along the carpet, lapping up the spilled alcohol.

  Conlan stood and moved closer to the TV, drawn there by a sudden mesmerization of good fortune and destiny. The woman said if viewers spotted the two, they were not to call 911 but rather were to call the number on the screen immediately.

  Conlan froze, his mind a blank. He stared at the screen as the special report graphic faded and another commercial, this one for hot dogs, came on. He noticed then that his heart was racing so fast it felt like it would burst out of his chest and go bounding across the room, and his palms were all clammy. This was it, his big break. He’d be the one to capture the fugitives or at least to turn them in. News crews would be here, probably FBI and all kinds of cops. Reporters, detectives, maybe a SWAT team. The Oceanview would be on every news channel. They’d probably interview him, put him on morning talk shows; maybe he’d get a movie deal out of it.

  Folks from all over would want to come to the Oceanview, the place where the modern-day Bonnie and Clyde took refuge and where they were captured. His rooms would be full; he’d have money to make repairs, give himself a pay raise, and retire early. Thank you, Dad.

  Making his feet move, he went back out to the front desk, where the phone was, rounded the counter, and peered out the big front windows. Yep, their car was still there, and the door to room five was shut. Wouldn’t they be in for a surprise.

  Returning to the desk, he lifted the phone with a trembling hand and dialed the number that had been on the screen.

  Peter sat at the small round table by the front window of their room in the Oceanview. The room offered nothing more than your typical lonesome motel, inaccessible to any major thoroughfare. It had two double beds, the table and two chairs, and a TV on a dresser. The seashore motif continued in the room with more teal carpeting, a seashell design bedspread, and white oak furniture. The room was at least clean. Whether it had been cleaned this morning as the manager had claimed was doubtful. A musty, earthy odor hun
g in the air as if the windows hadn’t been opened in days, maybe weeks. As Peter leaned on the table, he wondered if clean, salty ocean air from a distant sea would magically waft through the room if the window were open.

  Amy sat on the bed, one leg tucked under the other, and stared at the wall.

  “What is it?” Peter asked.

  She glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You want to say something.”

  “I do?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “How can you tell?”

  He smiled. “You have that I-need-to-say-something look on your face.”

  “You know, I think you make half this stuff up.”

  He waited a moment, then said, “Well, don’t you want to say something?”

  “I thought I was supposed to be the psychologist here.” Then, sheepishly, as if caught in a lie she’d been keeping for years and now must finally reveal, Amy shrugged and said, “Actually, I do have something to say.”

  Peter waited. He could tell it was something weighty, some burden she’d been carrying and needed to unload. The tension in her face and hands and the way she nervously shifted her eyes gave it away.

  After a few silent beats, Amy sighed. “I’m sorry, Peter. Very, very sorry.”

  “For what?” He thought he knew what she was referring to but wanted to hear her say it. The air between them that had been polluted and fogged with regret and resentment and discord needed to be cleared once and for all.

  They’d been working together on a professional research paper on circadian rhythms and chronobiology with a goal to submit it for publication in Biological Psychology. The project had required them to spend a lot of time together. Time outside the office. Time at Amy’s home. Amy’s behavior had changed subtly at first, so subtly he didn’t even notice. But things had escalated, and one day at her house she told him she thought she was falling in love with him. He was floored and flattered at the same time. He initially downplayed her interest in him, told her—and himself—it would pass, that they just needed to keep the focus on the project. They needed to finish it and get it to the review board. But as time passed, her interest didn’t. Finally Peter had to cut it off. He told her the feeling was not mutual and that she needed to put a stop to her behavior.