Her words pulled me in like gravity. Hearing her say fate caused my heart to beat faster. I could feel excitement coursing through my veins, and I didn’t want it to stop. Everything had suddenly clicked in my mind. From the beginning of the conversation, the fire I saw behind her eyes, the passion, the confidence. She had the plan, and it was worth taking. The last time I had heard those words uttered they were from Cole’s mouth during the Confinement. Looking back on it, I realized that when things were too ironic to be coincidence, happened, you couldn’t ignore them. It just went against the universe, the ebb and flow of things. In that moment, Rachel sold me on her idea.
“I guess we will find out, won’t we?” I said playfully.
She grinned. “All right, let’s go then.”
“I bought us some more coffee for the road,” Rachel announced as she handed me my cup and sat in the driver’s seat beside me.
“I’m liking you more by the minute,” I replied with a smirk.
She revealed an unenthused smile. “Stop.”
“What? Can a man not joke?”
She shook her head and rolled her eyes.
“Men. You’re all the same,” she sighed.
“And you don’t think men feel the same way about women?”
“They may, but they’re wrong,” she chuckled.
“So are you.”
“Owen, I highly doubt that you’ll change my mind. Chivalry is dead.”
“Whoa, kind of grim there, don’t you think?”
“I’m just being honest.”
“I mean come on, look at you.”
“Is that your way of telling me I’m attractive?” she asked, her eyebrows quirked.
“Well…you definitely aren’t ugly,” I teased.
“Wow, way to kill a compliment,” she scoffed.
“I’m sure you get plenty of them.”
“There you go again, back and forth. How old are you?”
“Five. I turned five today,” I answered, mispronouncing my words and imitating a child’s voice.
She tried to suppress a smile.
“That would make a lot more sense.”
“And how old are you? I wasn’t aware you have to exchange your sense of humor when you get a degree in journalism.”
“Oh please, bite me. I prefer sarcasm. I’m too much of a cynic to survive in this world without it.”
“You don’t look like a cynic,” I added.
“You don’t look like a politician.”
“Now why is that, because I’m not old, fat, or bald?”
She chuckled. “You tell me, pretty boy.”
“Aha, I see what you did there.”
I heard the grumble from the inline-six engine accelerating as we merged onto I-40 East. Rachel leaned forward and hit two switches, and moments later I felt my bum heating up. Her car was a black, convertible BMW 325ci.
“You have a nice cage,” I blurted.
“Excuse me?
“You have a nice cage,” I said, repeating myself.
“That isn’t some sort of innuendo, is it?”
“No, no,” I laughed. “Your cage.” I held my hands out and waved them around the cabin.
“My car?” she asked bewildered.
“Yes, that is what us riders call them. On a bike, you’re out in the open. A car is a cage. There’s just not as much freedom involved.”
“You’re a lot freer in my cage than you were on your bike,” she pointed out with a smirk.
“Ouch. Touché.”
“So is this how you are with all women? You hit them with a barrage of random comments and just roll with it?”
“Sometimes. Although, I don’t see any evidence you have a boyfriend, and judging by your snide remarks you wouldn’t keep one.”
She glanced at me glowering. “Ooh, you are so lucky this story matters to me, because I would have left you on the side of the road for that one.”
“I’m sure that’s the only reason…” I said, flirting.
“You know, we aren’t in high school anymore. You don’t have to pick on women you like just to get a rise out of them, that doesn’t work with a real woman.”
“What makes you think that I am?” I answered with a wink.
“Ugh,” she huffed. “Look, we have a long ride ahead of us. So could you please stop acting like a teenage boy and grow up a little?”
“All righty then,” I said, and looked at her with wide eyes, like her comment was uncalled for. “So, where are we going?”
“Orlando,” she said, without looking at me.
“What? Why all the way to Florida?”
“I have a friend who lives there. I think she might be able to help us. Well, to help you, mainly.”
“She doesn’t know you’re coming, does she?”
“I’ve only asked her if she was home. We’ll explain everything to her once we get there. And don’t worry, I haven’t told her or Ian I am with you. I’m not that stupid.”
“Good to know,” I said.
We became silent. The ride was smooth, and I couldn’t hear a single thing going on outside of the car; it was a quiet cabin. I saw signs that said I-95 was approaching. Just thinking about the chase yesterday was enough to make me nervous about getting back on it. Every once in a while I kept glancing at Rachel. Her thick, brown hair fell past her shoulders, and her skin had a sun-kissed glow even though it was late autumn. I didn’t know why I was being such a dick. It had been over five years since I wooed a woman into liking me for more than just an evening. Back when I met Megan, our teasing each other built up a thick sexual tension, and the majority of our time spent together early on was just that—sex. We were interns at a lab together. We’d fuck in storage closets, empty rooms—anywhere we could escape for just a little while. As time passed, the high that accompanies a new relationship fizzled out, but we had fallen in love. Part of me was still torn that she left, all because of my new title. I didn’t have as much time, and she wasn’t going to give me hers for the little bit that I was around. Perhaps that was why Rachel was indifferent towards me, because I was trying to attempt a puzzle with old pieces. Pieces that used to fit for me, but now they didn’t. I just didn’t know any other way.
“So, are you a daddy’s girl driving around this nice Beamer?”
Her eyes turned cold and her lips were pressed with anger.
“Are you seriously that much of a douchebag?” she sneered. “I mean, I’m really starting to rethink approaching you with this idea in the first place. How in the hell are you this charming, intelligent person on TV, but yet in real life you act like a burnt-out frat boy?”
Damn. That stung.
She noticed my silence, but that didn’t quell her temper.
“And since you are just so good at icebreakers,” she began, her voice trembling with frustration. “To answer your question, I’m not a daddy’s girl. My dad is dead.”
My gut wrenched from her words. Recalling my question, I realized why she got so upset. She kept her eyes straight on the road, and I saw her brush her hand across one of her cheeks. I made her cry.
“I’m sorry Rachel…” I apologized.
She let out a long, drawn-out exhale.
“Maybe the next time you start a conversation with a girl you don’t know, you won’t be as brazen,” she chastised.
I didn’t know what to do or say.
“Can you tell I’ve only had one girlfriend since I was twenty-one?”
“I’m surprised that you’ve had any.”
Rachel was pissed. I had shot myself in the foot, and she didn’t care that I was limping.
“I’ll take that. Look, I’m sorry about being such a dick. I’m just going to put aside my ego and tell you the truth. I am intimidated by you.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, I’m not,” I answered. “I mean, come on, you’re as sharp as a knife, and you’re a beautiful woman to say the least.”
Her expression softened as
I said that.
“That’s hard to believe. I was probably the first girl who didn’t approach you like some fan-girl groupie.”
I nodded. “Now that is the truth.”
She chuckled, exhaling sharply through her nose.
“Owen Marina is intimidated by me. I would have never thought.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” I asked and laughed with her.
“Well, you’re kind of the pot calling the kettle black. Do you honestly think I wasn’t intimidated to sit at your table unannounced? I felt like I was going to throw up.”
“No way,” I countered, playfully dragging out the words.
“You aren’t exactly the ugly duckling of your family, either.”
“I’m an only child.”
“You must have some good genes,” she said with a smile.
“Is that your way of telling me I’m attractive?” I mocked her from earlier.
“Oh, you’re smooth. Don’t mimic me.”
We were laughing. She was loosening up.
“Hey, I’m sharp too…or at least, I’m good at faking it, like most politicians.”
“Probably the latter,” she teased.
“So,” I said, and shuffled in my seat to face her. “What’s your story?”
“I was born in Brooklyn and I lived there until I was seven. That was when my father passed away. My mother hated the cold, so she packed up everything and moved to Miami.”
The pain returned to her eyes. The same pain I saw when I joked about her dad.
“Damn, that’s so young…” I consoled. “Why Miami?”
“Most of our family was already there. Both of my parents are from Puerto Rico, if you couldn’t already tell.”
“Nah, I thought you were white.”
She giggled. “You’re quite the comedian. I like this side of you better.”
“I would hope so. I’m trying not to be nervous in front of such a pretty woman.”
“Stop Owen, you’re making me blush,” she said with sarcasm.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking…what happened to your dad?”
The normal energy she gave off disappeared. The happiness was wiped from her face.
“He was one of the people murdered in the Račak Massacre in Yugoslavia, during the Kosovo War. He and forty-four other villagers were led up a hill and executed.”
“Rachel…that is horrible, my God. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “It has been a long time. It’s much easier now.”
“Was he in the Army or something? Why was he over there?”
“He was one of the lead reporters for CBS news in the late nineties. He was the best at what he did…at least that’s what Ian tells me. When I was born, he left his position as a journalist and took the job at CBS. It was more money and he wanted to get out of Brooklyn and have a nice place in Manhattan, closer to work. Sometimes, I wonder if he would have stayed at the New York Times maybe he would still be alive.”
“So he and Ian worked together. I understand now.”
“Yes, for years. They were both journalists, and after my father died, Ian stayed with the company and moved up into management. My mom said they were inseparable, and when I was born, he made Ian and his wife my godparents.”
“That’s your connection to the industry. You’re the goddaughter of the Editor in Chief.”
“Exactly,” she replied and glanced at me with a smile. “He was like a father to me when my dad passed. Came to all my birthdays, school plays, and my graduations. He would fly down to Miami just for an evening if it need be.”
“He sounds like a good man.”
“He is a great man. I think the reason why he did so much though, and now I realize it that I’m older, was he knew how much I meant to my father. He knew my dad inspired me to reach high in life and do great things. With him being gone, Ian tried to fill the shoes the best he could.”
“Did your mother ever remarry?”
“She did, around the time I was in middle school. I was never angry because I saw how lonely she was, and I couldn’t help her fix that. My step-dad was all right, but I always looked forward to Ian’s sudden visits more than anything he ever did for me.”
Rachel had been through a lot. I lost my mother. She lost her father. I understood her pain.
“It sounds like you two have a strong bond.”
“Definitely,” she said.
“You said you were seven. How much do you remember of him?”
She smiled before she spoke.
“I remember a lot, surprisingly. The clearest memories were towards the end when I was getting a little older, and he had taken the reporter job. He would be gone for a week or two, covering something in another country. I used to get so excited when the news came on. I would always do my homework just to watch it in time. There was just something so fascinating about seeing my dad through the TV. At that age I would greet him when he came on, and sometimes I would try and touch him on the screen.”
I laughed at her.
“What? You remember what it was like being a kid. You do weird stuff!”
“Yes, yes. I remember.”
She opened her mouth as if she was about to speak, exhaled, and let out a small chuckle. She was shaking her head—like she had dismissed a thought.
“What?” I asked her as I noticed.
“No, it’s nothing really.”
“Oh, come on. You stopped yourself. Just tell me.”
“Okay, okay,” she gave in. “I just, I’ve never told this to anyone besides my mom. I mean, it had relevance with my journalist friends, but this was personal and very sentimental to me. The crazy thing is, it relates to your situation so well. Maybe that’s why my mind decided to bring it back out again.”
“Damn, I’m excited to hear this now.”
“This memory is what made me want to be a journalist. If I get emotional, forgive me. It was also the last time I saw my dad.”
“In Yugoslavia, things were getting pretty bad in 1998. He was gone most of the fall but then came home a week before Christmas. I was so excited. I was actually still six when he came home. I turned seven a week before he passed away. I look back, and that is the Christmas I cherish the most. The night before he flew back with the rest of the crew, he brought me onto the balcony that overlooked the city. He told me, ‘Rachel, I’m going to show you something that you can’t ever forget.’”
I heard her sniffle and she wiped her eye with her fingers. She took a deep breath and composed herself. There it was again, that fire behind her eyes. The passion.
“He got one of my toys and hid it underneath a section of the newspaper. He asked me, ‘Rachel, you like your toy, right?’ Of course at six my answer was yes. Then he said, ‘The truth is you like your toy. You know that for sure, right?’ I said yes again. He asked, ‘What if I were to show a stranger, would they believe you like your toy? Would they believe it’s a toy underneath the paper?’ I still hear my little voice answer him back, ‘but I could tell them I did, Daddy. I could tell them it was underneath it.’”
I saw her start to get emotional again.
“That’s when he leaned down, looked me in the eyes, and said, ‘But they wouldn’t believe you. They wouldn’t know for sure. They wouldn’t believe the truth that you know. That’s what I do sweetie, I write the truth so people will know. When you write the real truth, that is a very special thing. Watch.’”
Her lip trembled and she struggled to finish the rest.
“He got a lighter,” she said, “and caught the newspaper on fire. After it had burned to ashes, he asked me, ‘What do you see?’ I answered, ‘My toy.’ I’ll never forget that smile as long as I live. He said to me, ‘You see the truth, Rachel, and if a stranger looks at it, they can see the truth too. Justice is like fire; if you cover it with a veil, it still burns.’”
She glanced over at me, her eyes glistening. I was speechless.
“Where the fuck is
he?” I shouted. My breath was shallow. I walked around the room and waved my hands at the screens behind me. “We have technology that’s decades ahead of what’s available to the public, and we still can’t find him? Have any of the street cams found a match with facial recognition?”
“No ma’am,” someone muttered.
“That is bullshit!” I screamed, and knocked over a mug and some papers. The ceramic shattered loudly. “You heard what your director said earlier. We have six hours until we reach the twenty-four-hour mark. In six hours our chances of finding him go down by fifty percent. Everybody better get their shit together! I want something in the next six hours!”
I had to scare them. If they were scared of me, they would listen. The consequences of not listening far outweighed taking orders. The colors on the screens behind us flickered and began to change. A new feed was being displayed.
“Ma’am, Raleigh PD just found Owen’s bike in some trees behind the Days Inn South. They checked the guest names from last night and he was never registered.”
My blood boiled, but behind the anger an idea came to me. I turned to the screens and saw the footage playing of the cops around the bike.
“It looks like Owen found a ride,” I announced. “Effective immediately, I want as many roadblocks as we can off the I-95 exits. Owen Marina has to be found before he gets too far, before he disappears like Viktor Ivankov. Make it happen, now!”
We were half an hour from the Florida state line, and the drive had been filled with conversation. Rachel and I kept exchanging stories and getting to know each other. It had been so long since I did this with a woman, and it was refreshing. I found out that Rachel went to college at UNC Chapel Hill for journalism, and her mother lived on the ocean in Melbourne Beach. Her father’s name was Emilio Flores, and he left them a small fortune when he passed away. Rachel was thankful, but that wasn’t important to her. She would have traded it all to be with him again. I was beginning to see that materialism wasn’t significant to her. Despite the foreign car and the clothes, she hadn’t spoken of any of it.
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