by Ross Elder
“Russia?”
“Yes! Yes, Russia.” Now he’s groaning and beginning to squirm again.
“Knock it off! Where do I find Upton! Where are these people? Tell me!”
“Here! Here is.” More spittle splattered his face.
He’s reaching into his jacket, but I don’t feel threatened by his movements. He’s retrieving something. Several folded pieces of paper appear in his right hand as it is withdrawn from his jacket. Shakily, he’s holding them out to me, urging me to take them with shoving motions. I take them with my left hand, maintaining my aim with my right. Using my thumb to flip open the pages, I see names, phone numbers, and addresses. Information. Upton’s name is on the top page. Contact information. I let the papers fold back together and attempt to slip them into a nonexistent rear pocket. Sweatpants. Shit.
“Please, help. Call doctor. Please.”
He is looking past me now, back toward the hospital. I quickly glance in that direction. There’s personnel outside now, appearing to help the wounded. I can hear sirens approaching. That would be the police responding to calls of a shooting.
“Give me your wallet!”
The man quickly fishes a thick, leather tri-fold out of his jacket and tosses it on the ground at my feet. He’s rambling in Belarusian again, but I’m not paying attention. The wallet and folded documents are almost too thick for me to hold firmly.
“Doctor. Please!”
He’s crying a little. The pain must be excruciating. Poor guy.
Before I can stop the motion, the pistol reacquires a sight picture on the man’s face and fires. The round penetrated just above his left nostril. The angle would give the bullet a trajectory straight through to the occipital lobe of his little brain. He’s fucking deader than shit.
Run, Mason! Run! Go! They’re coming for you!
I can hear it as plainly as I can hear the tinnitus in my ears and my pulse pounding through my veins. Somehow, in some strange way, I know it is inside my head. It’s me. I must run. I have got to run, now.
Chapter Twenty-Five
September 22, 2016
2004 hours
I can’t stop running, even though the experience is painful. Bare feet on cement and debris. They must be bleeding by now. I don’t know what is compelling me to run, but it is commanding and irresistible. I don’t feel safe. I need to find safety. I need to get back to my townhouse, pick up a few things, and keep running. They’ll be coming for me soon. Either as a suspect or a victim, they will come looking. My only hope is to beat them there.
I need to get rid of this gun. I have to stop long enough to do that. Here, in an alley. Quickly. I wipe it down with my t-shirt and keep the shirt between the gun and my fingers as I disassemble it. The slide and lower go into a trash Dumpster, but I keep the barrel. Keep moving. I’ll ditch the barrel somewhere else. That will confound the evidence process somewhat, even though the striker marks on the cartridge casings can be specific to a firearm. I’m not sure of the legality of that, though. With fewer things now in my hands, I can fumble through the wallet I took from the guy I… well, the guy I murdered, basically.
His identification and cash stay in my hand but the rest gets wiped down with the shirt and tossed down a storm drain. Just shy of $100. The ID may come in handy when I get where I’m going. If I knew where I was going, that would be more significant, I’m sure. At this point, I just should get out of here.
A cab! Awesome. Holy shit, my feet hurt. The driver barely looked in my direction when I climbed in. We are moving before I give him the address. He just nods and grunts. Not a talkative kind of guy, I suppose.
“Hey, what’s the ride going to cost me?”
The driver is glancing at the meter, grimacing. “’bout thirty bucks.”
I hand him the wad of bills over the seat back. “You can have all of this if you let me borrow your cell phone.” He didn’t even hesitate. The phone was raised over his shoulder. He must have been holding it in his hand. He better not be texting and driving. Jerk. Amanda’s phone number popped into my head, and I dialed it.
“Hello?” She sounds suspicious. Hesitant.
“Hey! It’s me!”
“Mas…where the hell are you? Whose number is this?”
“Cab driver. Look, this is serious. I need you to…”
“This isn’t some woman’s phone? Are you calling me from some other woman’s house or something? I swear, Mason, if I have to…”
“Stop it! It’s the cab driver’s phone. Hey, say something, will you? Just say hello.” I hold the phone over the seat, and he leans toward it.
“It’s my phone, lady. He’s just borrowin’ it.”
“There. Happy?” I’m asking as I put the phone back to my ear.
“Well, I don’t know what’s… where are…”
“Amanda! Shush! Listen to me, god dammit. I’m stopping by the complex. I need my go bag. It’s in the walk-in…”
“I know where it is. Why do you…”
“Listen! Jesus Christ…just go to my place and grab it. Take it to your place. Oh, and grab my keys! And…”
“What’s going on?” She’s shouting. She’s frightened. Now I feel like shit because I’m shotgunning orders to her and she’s scared.
“It’s okay, baby. I need a change of clothes, too. Can you do that? Like, right this second? I’ll be there in just a couple of minutes.”
“Yes. Going now.” She didn’t hesitate in her answer.
I imagine her running across the courtyard, bare feet, and nightgown, rushing to my door, using her key. It’s kind of hot. I hand the phone back to the driver. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem. Happens all the time, really. Keep this phone extra. You in some kind of trouble, ain’t ya?” He’s asking, in a casual way.
“Little bit.”
“Yeah, hell, we all have trouble sometime.”
“Yep.”
“You got someplace to go?”
His question caused my mind to come to a full stop. Do I? I think I do. Something, somewhere, in the back of my head, is telling me, yes but it won’t fully materialize. I feel like I know where I’m going but don’t know where it is. That doesn’t make sense. “I…think so. I think. Yes.”
He’s chuckling now. “Go bags and shit, man. I feel you. Mines is in the trunk. Got to have my shit ready, you know? Never know when shit goes sideway like.”
“Amen, brother.”
“Hey, pull over for a second. Real quick.” A small alley with a massive pothole at the entrance is just ahead. He stops. I’m out of the cab in seconds, rushing over to the alley. The pothole has a deep crack just to the right of it. When they fill them, they just fill them and pound it down a little. Perfect. The pistol barrel goes down the crack out of sight, and I’m back in the cab. He immediately speeds away without asking a question.
The cab is stopped outside the complex now. The driver wished me luck and promised not to listen to the news for a while, just in case the cops came asking about his fares for the night. I can tell by his demeanor and attitude that he’s done a little time in prison. Seems to be trying to keep his life straight now. That kind of makes me feel good. There aren’t too many who turn their lives around. Hell, what am I saying? This guy could be a serial killer, for all I know.
I jump over the sidewalks and try to keep my feet on the grassy areas as I rush to Amanda’s townhouse. I see her glancing out from behind the curtains next to her door. The door is open when I reach it. I rush in, and the door is closed behind me.
“What the hell is going on? Why aren’t you at the hospital?” She’s frantic and shaking. She isn’t barefoot and in a nightgown as I had imagined. She’s fully dressed, wearing jeans, an Ohio State University sweatshirt, and running shoes.
“They came for me! I was able to contain it outside the hospital, but both of the green badgers are down. I think one might be dead. A couple of other people are dead, too.”
“Oh, my God, Mason, what should…”
&n
bsp; “We have to go! I need clothes. Where’s the bag?”
We? We have to go? Somehow I instantly knew Amanda would not be safe here alone. If they come for me here, they already know she and I are close. They probably know everything. If they want to find me, they will use her to do it. I can’t leave her. She’s pointing toward the living room at the bag resting on the couch.
It’s a Kifaru Nomad. It can hold sufficient supplies for a seven-day trek for one person. I don’t remember what I have in it, but I know there will be a medical kit, a few pieces of clothing, some freeze-dried meals, a pistol and ammo, and assorted knives and survival gear. The pistol, a Glock 17, is the top item in the left main compartment. A fully-loaded magazine is already inserted in the grip, but no round is in the chamber. I remember storing it that way but don’t know when. Two additional loaded magazines are also in this compartment. Beneath those, a leather hip holster and magazine pouch.
Amanda, always thoughtful and seemingly a half-step ahead of me, also gathered an armful of clothes from the closet and brought them with the go bag. I keep a pair of Keen hiking shoes in the bag as well so I’m pretty much set. I’m not paying attention to what clothes I am putting on. Amanda is just handing me things; underwear, socks, t-shirt, jeans, a shirt. The shirt is long enough to cover the holstered pistol.
“Where will you go?”
“We. We are going. And, I don’t know where just yet. Something has to click in my head. It’s kind of…blank…at the moment. I know we are going to run. I just don’t know where.”
“I can’t just…”
“Yes! Yes, you can.” My voice is a little louder than I wanted it to be but I think I made my point. I was not leaving her here alone. Her face slackened and shook almost imperceptibly. She blinked.
“Oh. Okay. Yes. Yes, okay.” Her voice was quiet, resigned, but not unpleasant.
“Where is Max?”
“He flew back to Virginia last night. He thought you were safe. Said he had some things to take care of, but he would be back.”
“Grab some things. We have to go. Now.”
“I have my bag. I’m ready.” She’s pointing at another backpack, very similar to mine, sitting next to a dining room chair. The memory is very clear suddenly. I gave her the pack, another Kifaru, and helped her figure out what to put in it. It was sort of a fun project we worked on together over a weekend. I remember being afraid she would think I was one of those end of the world types who was awaiting the realization of the Book of Revelation. She didn’t think of me that way, though. She was very receptive. She’s a logical woman, in many ways. She saw it as an intelligent method of being prepared. We even dined on some survival food on a Sunday evening, enjoying the surprisingly tasty lasagna which touted a fifteen-year shelf life.
“Gun?”
Amanda raised the bottom of her sweatshirt and turned her right hip toward me, revealing a small semi-auto pistol held in an inside-the-waistband holster just behind that lovely curve. That’s my girl. Wow, she looks great in those jeans.
“Your ass looks amazing in those jeans.” I couldn’t help myself.
“I know.” She didn’t even wink or anything. “I have the keys. Let’s go.”
“Uh… yes, ma’am. Off we go!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
September 23, 2016
0115 hours
“Stop pacing. You’re driving me insane.”
Amanda is curled up at the head of the motel bed, her legs tucked beneath her. A pair of loose shorts and a soft tank top has replaced her escape outfit. She’s rapidly tapping the screen of her smartphone, searching for God knows what, or researching something. Whatever it may be, she seems to be intensely focused on her task.
We drove around for over an hour, just thinking and trying to formulate a plan. This small motel seemed to appear out of nowhere, and we quickly agreed. It is out of the way, a little dark, and, quite frankly, kind of shady. The rooms seem to be quite clean, though. We even examined the mattress for bedbugs. Amanda’s go bag contained some travel-sized cleaning supplies so she sanitized the bathtub, sink, and toilet, even though they didn’t appear to need it. Once we knew the place was clean, she was able to relax a little and change into her sleep clothes. It looks like she recently enjoyed a pedicure. The scent of her lotion still hangs in the air.
“Is Max coming back?” His trip back home is troubling me. I’m sure he has a lot of things he’s been neglecting while he helped look after me but I miss having him here. I miss having someone I can rely upon in a time of trouble. There is some…camaraderie there. Some intangible thing that binds combatants together with a bond that can’t be explained. That’s how I feel about Max. I can trust him without hesitation.
“Tomorrow,” she tells me, still tapping away.
“What the hell are you doing on that thing, anyway? Don’t your fingers get tired?”
She’s giggling. She’s finally put the phone down on the bed. “I’m trying to figure out what this guy Upton’s deal is. I can’t really find much about him, personally. Plenty about his books and his website. His biography is a little vague, though.”
“He isn’t a real person.” The words just came out of me before I could filter them through any sort of thought process. I’m not sure where they came from.
“What?”
“He’s not real. I mean, there is a real person behind that name and personality, but Upton, as an actual person, doesn’t exist.”
“Like a pseudonym? A pen name? Yeah, I assumed that.” She’s slowly rising from the bed now. She’s stretching.
“Deeper than that, I think. I remember some of it, but not all. I was researching him before all of this…shit…happened. I’m afraid some of it is gone forever. I just can’t remember it. God, Amanda…sometimes I just…I just wish I had lost all of my memory for good. I think it might be easier that way. Now I have to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out what’s real and what isn’t.” I’m staring at the closed curtains. I feel her small, warm hands touch my shoulders and her cheek press against my back.
“Baby…we’ll figure it all out. You’re going to be okay.” She gripped me tighter. “I’m scared.”
I turned so I could face her. Her arms immediately wrapped around my neck. I pulled her close and just held on while I felt her quietly sobbing against my chest. I love her. Is that what I’m feeling? Is that just sympathy for bringing her this grief, or…no, that can’t be. How could I? Hell, I don’t even remember much of the time we’ve spent together. I was chasing Toni around and… oh, God. She tried to act like it was normal behavior for me but… does she? I stroked her hair softly.
“Did I ever tell you I love you, Amanda?”
Okay, so that was kind of a strange segue. She stopped sobbing, or at least it feels like it. Sometimes I should really think about what I’m going to say a little before blurting it out. But, as if that isn’t enough, I think she’s starting to giggle. Yeah, that’s not even just a little giggling. She’s fucking laughing now.
“Oh, my God, Mason,” she says before a long sniffle puts an end to her tears. “Something seriously went wrong with your brain during that coma.”
Now she’s wiping her face on my shirt. That’s…kind of rude but I guess that means she feels close to me. Right? At least she already washed off her makeup. Mascara is a bitch to get out of a shirt. Not sure how I know that.
“Amanda, I…ouch!” God, she pinched me!
“Stop it. You're silly.” She’s wiping her face with her fingers now, still sniffling a little. “But, no. No, you never told me you loved me. We had an arrangement. Apparently, you don’t remember it. It was just fun and physical, and we vowed not to get serious and…”
“But, this is serious.”
“It is?” Her voice is a whisper, her eyes still moist.
“I…it feels like…I think I’ve felt this way for…what feels like a long time.” I don’t know what I’m saying, really. I’m an idiot. This is neith
er the time, nor the...well, I guess a quiet motel room is an okay place for it, but seriously, now I’ve started a conversation she doesn’t want to have. I opened my mouth to explain better, but she put a finger to my lips.
“Shh. No, Mason, just shush. Hey! Shush.” She waited until she was sure I wouldn’t blurt anything else out. “Not now. When this is over, and you are better, and people aren’t trying to, you know, murder you, then we can talk about these feelings. Right now, we can’t. We just can’t, okay?”
I’m nodding, and she seems to be smiling ever so slightly. She does care about me. I can see it in her eyes. She’s happy, but she’s also very scared. Hell, I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. I don’t like this feeling of uncertainty. There are these moments when I feel very weak and vulnerable. Like I am afloat on the ocean and a slave to the tides. Up and down, here and there, just riding the waves of indecision that are my damaged brain. It seems I only truly know what I’m doing when I am no longer in total control of my mental faculties.
“The door is locked. It’s quiet outside. We have nothing to do until morning when Max gets back. So… let’s, I don’t know, go to bed,” she says casually.
“Uh…okay. That sounds like a great idea, actually. But, let me take care of a couple of things first.”
“Okay. Don’t be too long.”
Ten feet doesn’t seem like that long of a walk, but she sure did saunter the entire way. She let the shorts slip down her legs as she went and the top was tossed to the floor just before she slipped beneath the covers. Damn.
I’m digging in my bag again. There’s a roll of duct tape in there and a doorstop. The duct tape is for the door peephole. There are devices out there on the market that can be placed on the outside of the peephole and can correct the distorted image, allowing the viewer a clear view inside the room. The doorstop is just to add another layer of delay to someone trying to break down the door. If they get a master key, the doorstop will give me an additional couple of seconds to formulate a response. Double check the other supplies. Everything appears to be in order. I need to brush my teeth and take a quick shower.