“I’m sorry.”
“She wanted to survive and get what was best for her, same as us. Right at the end there, if they hadn’t found us, you were finally ready to kill her.”
Alan blinked. “Yeah.”
The light turned green, and Alan had to figure a way to get in the right lane to turn around and make for the airport. The traffic was thick and slow, his blinker not making any difference as he dripped along at ten miles an hour, cars behind him honking, while the cars in the right lane passed and passed. Finally, he revved the motor and stuck himself in front of a Cherokee that was coming up quickly. It flashed hi-beams, honked a long blast. Alan pulled in front, ignored the light show, and turned into the parking lot of a shopping center. He could cut across it to the side road that led to the airport entrance.
The Cherokee pulled in behind him, lights still flashing.
“This is bullshit,” he said.
“Ignore him and he’ll get tired. Stop and we lose time.”
Alan wove through the half-empty lot, home of a K-mart that had seen better days, and a few small stores with hand-painted signs—A Cut Above Salon, Jim’s Cards and Comics, China Buffet. The Cherokee stayed right behind, almost tapping the bumper of the Monte Carlo.
“Fucking moron—”
Lydia said, “Let it go.”
“If he touches the car—”
“It’s not like you’re ever going to see it again after we park it, right?”
A van pulled out of a parking lot suddenly, one of the reverse lights out, and Alan slammed on brakes. The Cherokee was too close, bumped the Monte Carlo hard. The hard plastic light covers shattered.
Alan threw the car into park before Lydia could say anything. He was out of the car as his name left her lips.
The Cherokee driver was out, too. Just a guy with a slight gut, half-bald, in a denim shirt. He was ready to be mad, ready to threaten lawsuits and talk without stopping for breath. He was yammering the second Alan started towards him.
“So, you think it’s my fault now? No, I’ve got a case here and witnesses, pal. You cut me off, no signal, then you slam on your brakes out of spite. Don’t even try to argue, because there’s no way this would’ve happened had it not been for you. That’s the law.”
Alan checked the Cherokee. No other passengers. A bucket of chicken on the floorboard, tipped over. Same with mashed potatoes, a drink in the cup holder angled out, lid popped off.
Alan grabbed the guy by the throat. He was all for strangling tonight. Seemed easy. Seemed the quickest way out of this. In the back of his mind, a little replay of his murders ran with a meter underneath measuring how afraid he was each time. Remorseful, too. Shooting Cap, off the meter, wild red zone panic. Killing Tompkins, a spike to the middle but then calm, only to spike up again when Terry and Lancaster showed up. Almost killing Lancaster, the needle dropped to almost dead nothing. Smothering Norm, sure, a small spike there, more adrenaline than fear, though.
This Cherokee driver. Not registering anything. He was in the way.
Alan’s fingers clamped into this guy’s throat, pinching the arteries, and Alan’s body pinned the man against the driver’s seat, arms and legs immobile. Alan looked around, saw no witnesses. If they were in cars, he couldn’t tell, and if there were a security camera scanning the lot, then fuck it, he was screwed anyway.
You want to keep living like this? Kill anyone who gets in your way because of her?
Only a few days before, Alan was close to calling that gaming school, see if he could teach. A snapshot of him back behind the board, four students watching his every move and taking notes. No fear, no danger. No Lydia, though. He desperately wanted her in his life, but without the drama, the money, or the power, she would grow bored.
The man went limp. Alan let go. He almost shouted to Lydia, Pop the trunk, before remembering he had to do it himself. He propped the driver against the tire and ran to the Monte Carlo, reached over Lydia and pressed the trunk release in the glove compartment. He didn’t look at her.
At the Cherokee again, he lifted the driver to his feet and moved him to the trunk, let him drop inside. He banged the man’s head going down, then again inside on the jack. He was twisted sideways. Alan lifted the rubbery legs and tucked them inside, slammed the trunk. Tight fit. The back bumper was scratched, dented deep, and the taillight cover was in shards on the ground, the bulb busted, too. Perfect excuse for a cop to pull them over, but moving Lydia to the Cherokee would take too long.
One more scan for witnesses, security cameras. His paranoia kicked in—on the road, people with cell phones could’ve seen. All those people passing by. Fuck them all. Keep moving. The tickets, the plane, before anyone figures anything out, he and Lydia would be in the air.
Alan parked the Cherokee in an empty slot, then climbed into the Monte Carlo again, buckled up, and drove off the way he had wanted to go in the first place.
Quiet in the car except for Alan’s heavy breathing. He caught himself, eased air through his nose, calmly, easily, peacefully, numbingly.
Lydia said, “I’m not mad. You don’t have to worry about me being mad. I think he would’ve given up following us after a couple of miles. And now we’ve lost some time. I’m not mad. Maybe worried.”
“Stop worrying.”
“If they beat us there by even a little.”
“They get within ten feet, I’m yelling like a baby. Security will shoot him down before anything happens.”
“What if they wait in the parking garage? What if they wait on the shoulder of the road before we even get on the ramp?” Lydia said.
Alan’s confidence crumbled, hearing Lydia scared like that. She was always rock steady and sure of a way out. So, was this a trap? Waltzing into the airport if Lancaster was already there, hiding, ready to pounce, no win situation. Same if they made it on the plane and the cops got it all figured out before they landed, waiting in Miami to take them off the plane. Or if they drove, broken taillight, tried to make it somewhere safe with a two-state manhunt full-bore. No one escaped anymore. America’s Most Wanted took care of that.
“Please, we can’t do this,” he said.
“Can’t what?”
“No changing now. We’ve got tickets. Let’s just go use the tickets.”
THIRTY-ONE
Megan told Lancaster about the ambulance ride, about Lydia and Crabtree, about the shoot out with the cops, about Norm’s resurrection and how Crabtree killed him again. She told these things to Lancaster softly, close to his ear. Terry listened, caught most of the conversation, though it was clear that she wasn’t talking to him, only to Lancaster. Terry’s role was defined back at the motel—a bitch slap, a good threat, and he was a lowly driver. Lancaster’s punk.
“Their flight leaves at nine-thirty,” Megan said.
“I know, you said that.”
“What do you want to do?”
Lancaster took a deep breath and stared out his window. They followed signs as best they could to get to the airport. Terry didn’t know any shortcuts. He stayed right, slow, careful. He finally found a sign that made things more clear, turned right at a light and found himself in lanes with signs above pointing to terminals, long-term parking, arrivals, departures. Thick traffic.
“We should park in the garage, get a different car on the way out,” Terry said.
“There won’t be a way out.”
“Sure there will.”
Lancaster smiled. Terry even thought Megan looked a bit surprised by that.
“We do what we need to do, and we leave. We always leave,” Terry said, then wishing he hadn’t because it sounded condescending.
Megan nuzzled Lancaster’s neck, her fingertips roaming. “Baby?”
Lancaster grunted, sat straight, moved Megan’s hand, then turned to both of them.
“We can’t get guns in there. We probably can’t get knives. We should be happy they stopped searching cars finally. This thing we’ve got to do, we improvise. Steal a guar
d’s gun or strangle Crabtree with a shoestring, whatever. And with all these people, how do we get out without a fucking shootout or chase?” Lancaster’s eyes flicked back and forth between Megan and Terry. “I’m not going to surrender. This is it, what it all leads up to.”
Terry shook his head. “And I’m supposed to go down with you, no questions asked?”
Lancaster’s smile went Cheshire Cat. “Partners, bro.”
*
Megan didn’t come this far to commit suicide, especially after having a second shot at innocence. Seeing Norm alive was like being born again.
She felt so close to Lancaster, though, like this was her soulmate, so the blaze of glory stuff surprised the hell out of her. She sat in the middle of the backseat as they climbed the ramps into the upper sections of the parking garage, thinking maybe Lancaster’s play was a bluff, a cry for attention. What she would do was change his mind. Yeah, show him all he has to live for with her in the picture. The places they would go, the people they would hurt, the drugs they would share.
Maybe there was sex, too, but not the primary thing. She had sex anytime she wanted, with friends and one night stands and older men who wanted to possess her, friends of her dad, even. Megan knew sex, knew what she liked, understood her body and its responses better than most women knew their own. What she missed, except for a relationship a few years before that lasted a year and a half, was intimacy. Not Lifetime TV or women’s magazine bullshit intimacy, either. She was talking spiritual refreshment, psychic renewal.
Yes, there would be sex with Lancaster, she was certain. The more exciting part was this instant intimacy she experienced so wholly in those first moments and the brief conversations, and now in the same car with him. He was also a wild card, unpredictable, exactly what she wanted—a life of surprise, the death of boredom, of her old self.
Terry pulled the car into a tight spot between a Suburban and a pick-up. He was pretty tense, more sunken and pale than Megan remembered him being at the hospital. Her impression, pretty fresh, was that Terry had been reduced to a tag-along. If he were left holding the bag at the end of this, then she could get Lancaster all to herself.
Opening the doors and getting out proved to be a tight squeeze. She and Lancaster exited on the same side while Terry stayed behind to wipe prints off as best he could, do a final search for loose hair, threads, blood spots. They lingered at the trunk as Terry combed the floorboard. Megan leaned into Lancaster, and he wrapped his good arm around her.
“Just promise me you’ll try to live,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s say things go better than you think they will in here—”
“They won’t.”
“No, hold on, let’s say they do. I want you to try to make it out okay. For me?”
“Shit, I thought you’d be down with it.”
“I’m down with it later, sure. Bonnie and Clyde, hip hip hooray. For now, like, we can have some fun. I’ve been dreaming of it.”
Lancaster’s face softened a little, his lips grinning and fighting it. He squeezed her closer. She wished they could abandon the whole plan and leave.
“Let him take the fall,” Megan blurted, not even aware for a moment that she said it, a pouty whine.
Lancaster said, “I’ve been thinking about that.”
Megan lifted her head. “Really?”
“I don’t know, maybe. We’ve been together a long time, and I owe him for getting me out of the hospital. Stuff’s different now. Still, you know, friends are friends.”
“You don’t treat him like a friend, what I saw.”
Lancaster shrugged. “Like any other relationship. Good and bad, up and down. Used to be he would talk people out of money. I was a back-up plan, sometimes just stood by looking mean. If we got in trouble, same thing. Let him ease us out of there. And it was a fifty-fifty deal, not like either of us was any more important, right? It worked.”
“So what happened?”
She felt the sigh leave his chest, long and tough.
He said, “I got tired of waiting for him. Life’s too short.”
Megan slid against him, tiptoes, lips giving him a sweet smack on the cheek. “That’s what I’m telling you. You don’t have to wait on me. I’m right with you, spur of the moment. And the other thing is, relationships end sometimes. They just do. Fighting to keep them makes it worse, and makes you fight with the one you want to keep. So, why not try a different partner for awhile?”
The car door slammed behind them. Terry ambled out, hands deep in his pockets. He looked ashamed, Megan thought. It wasn’t exactly fear. More like he thought everyone was laughing at him for pissing his pants.
“All done,” he said quietly.
“Let’s move, then.”
Lancaster waited for Terry to take the lead, then he walked by Megan’s side, his arm on her shoulder and hers on his back.
He whispered to her, “You’ve got a point. Something to think about.”
THIRTY-TWO
The scary part was being alone. Surrounded by thousands, Lydia was alone. Alan had pulled up to the Delta departures curb, jumped out and explained the situation to the first person in a Delta uniform he saw. Lydia watched from her seat, hoping they wouldn’t check the trunk, wishing it was easier. The story was simple—family emergency, last moments of Mom’s life, so we had to leave in a hurry and catch any plane we could. Didn’t even have time to bring Lydia’s big electric wheelchair.
Alan talked a few minutes, then got some nods, and the Delta employee disappeared inside the terminal. Alan turned to the car, grinned weakly, showed her a thumbs up. The employee returned a minute later with a wheelchair, and she walked out to the car with Alan. The employee was a severe-looking woman, Mediterranean, the dark skin and eyes, with dark hair pulled back tightly. Her thin lipped pleasantness was false, for the sake of her job. Lydia still burned over Megan’s double-cross. Not that she had done it, because Lydia knew she would, but that she had hidden it so well.
The self-obsessed little whore wasn’t perfect. She needed others to make anything work at all, the way she hitched the ride with Alan. The way she needed Lancaster to save her at the last second. Yeah, her weakness—alone, she was useless.
Same as you.
It frightened Lydia to think it, but the thought refused to fade. She gave in. Okay, so I’m helpless by myself, too. Glad I’m not alone.
Then Alan and the Delta employee lifted her out of the safe quiet car and placed her into a one-size-fits-all wheelchair that felt hard as a church pew when the preacher went past noon. Alan kept jabbering. “So sudden, and we don’t do sudden very well. Jesus, not at all, you see.” The cars were double-loud in the corridor, the exhaust concentrated like nerve gas, things about the world Lydia had forgotten while at home with her soft lights, open windows, and flowing curtains. Everything out here was about moving yourself, keeping up. Dependence on someone else was a luxury and an obstacle.
The Delta employee tried to keep from looking at Lydia, paid attention to the chair or Alan instead. No one did that when she wore the prosthetics. Being herself made her feel not like herself at all. So goddamn weak.
And then the employee pushed her inside as Alan shouted that he would be right back after parking the car. Lydia felt like she would fall out of the chair. Too many people taking side glances with their heads on the move. Even though they couldn’t help it, she hated them, every last fucking one.
“Anywhere you’d like to wait?” the employee asked. She leaned close to Lydia’s ear.
“By that bench is fine.”
“Which bench?”
“The one I’m looking at.”
“I’m sorry, please. I’ll take you over and you can lead me.” The woman started forward without waiting for an answer. If Alan were there, he would know automatically. Strange how she realized it after all that time, now that he wasn’t there. She wanted to tell him nice things, stop the criticism for a while to tell him a
ll the little points she had held back, thinking praise only made a person lazy and deluded. However, the time was right. On the plane, she would shower him with kudos.
The woman got the right bench on the third try. It was the one facing the rest of the terminal and the sliding glass doors they had come through. She didn’t want anyone to sneak up from behind while she was distracted by the types of luggage people carried in line.
“This fine?” the Delta woman said.
“It’ll do. Don’t any of these wheelchairs have straps to hold me up?”
“I can check into that,” she was already trying to step away.
Lydia knew she wouldn’t check. “Please. Much appreciated.” I bet you’re a she-male, bitch. The thought gave her a tiny fake smile of her own. She set her eyes on the sliding doors, hoping Alan would come back quickly, hoping Megan, Terry and Lancaster didn’t find her first. Finally feeling…
…simply…
…alone.
And the crowd was far away, like the fuzzy background filled with extras in a movie. The noise didn’t have a thing to do with her, bells and whistles and robotic female voices on the intercom.
She looked left, people pulling their wheeled luggage while talking on cell phones. Looked right, a line at the security gate waiting to get into the concourse. That was the only moves she had short of looking up, down, closing her eyes, or shouting at the top of her lungs.
So instead she focused on the sliding doors ahead of her and willed Alan to come back to her. Lovers do it all the time, something psychic about how we connect. Come back, please, to be my arms and legs and heart.
The Delta employee made eye contact. Lydia blinked. That woman was talking to someone. A tall man, grayish hair and a thick mustache. Security guard uniform. He lifted a walkie-talkie, spoke a few words, then listened for an answer. The Delta woman shook her head. The guard then turned to Lydia, then back to the woman.
Lydia remembered the cops at her house. As soon as word got out, of course, Jesus, she was easy to find. Alan wasn’t invisible, either, but fat is a little more anonymous than “no arms or legs.”
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