Exit

by Thomas Davidson

  “It was too good.”

  “Well, there’s one upside. We’ve officially hit rock bottom, so it can’t get any worse. Our manifesto has hit the airwaves. EyeSoar knows our names. Wonder if they told the police yet? Or kept quiet. Act innocent, like they have no idea what’s happening. What’s it matter? Viewers are already calling the cops or TV station and saying, ‘That terrorist dude on TV? Damn, that dude subbed at my high school last week. That sexy girl in front of the bed sheet? Listen, she served me frog legs with garlic the other night at Voltage Café. I recognized the frog in the boiling pot. I musta ate his fucking legs.”

  “Tim?”

  “Hello, WXZY? Those two terrorists? They live right above me on the second floor. Get your camera crew—”

  “Tim, leave it. There’s nothing we—”

  They both froze when her cell phone buzzed.

  Rayne carefully reached for her phone, looked down. She forced herself to sound steady. “It’s Alex.”

  Tim didn’t hesitate. “Sure it is. Don’t answer it. It’ll confirm we’re alive and here. We gotta ditch the phone. We gotta get out of here.”

  The phone buzzed again.

  “It feels creepy, radioactive creepy, like I’m holding onto a chunk of uranium.” Rayne held it in her sweaty palm, knowing this was their lifeline to the outside world, beyond EyeSoar. “Two things. I’m gonna call Martina, see what’s happening at my place…”

  The phone buzzed a third time.

  “Goddamn phone,” Tim said.

  “That’s it. It’ll go to message.” Rayne looked up at the clock by the TV. “Thirty seconds and I’ll check it.”

  “That cell is making my skin crawl.”

  “I know.”

  “We gotta do something about the car. What else can go wrong?”

  “I know, I know.” After a moment, she held up the phone and checked for a message. They put their heads together and listened. And heard Alex Portland’s cultured voice:

  “It’s Alex.” Pause. “It’s been a singular night, but I’m okay. I’m home. Meet me at my apartment a.s.a.p.”

  End of message.

  “That’s his voice,” Rayne said.

  Tim locked eyes with her. “Absolutely. And a few minutes ago, I saw and heard us on TV.”

  “How do they do it?”

  He shrugged. Then his eyes lit up. “Meet him at his house? Yeah, that’s gonna happen. Whoever that is, they’re hoping we didn’t see the TV news yet.”

  Rayne punched a number, waited.

  A woman answered. Her voice was forcibly hushed, but filled with excitement: “Honey, I know you the shit, but this is crazy!”

  “Martina, whatever you heard, it’s all—”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The shit I’m hearing and seeing is unbelievable. You’d think I was living next door to Osama Bin Ladin.”

  “Last two days of my life have been a train wreck. Don’t even know where to start. But I’m in over my head. Tim and I got set up.”

  “You what?”

  “We saw something. We’re witnesses. And now everything’s hit the fan. We’re being made out as…I don’t know.”

  “Terrorists.”

  “But that’s not us in that video. We can’t figure out how they did that. Did the police come to the building yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, won’t be long. Listen, M, I need a favor. I need to borrow your cell phone.”

  “You got it.”

  “And I need to hide my car. Short-term hiding spot. Any ideas?”

  Rayne heard her exhale. A moment of silence.

  “My mother rents a parking spot in a long garage behind the condo building where she lives. I can park her car on the street.”

  “It’s just temporary. Until Tim and I figure out our next move.”

  “Sure.”

  “M, you’re the best. Where should we meet?”

  “My mom lives near Memorial Drive by the Charles. Meet me in the parking lot of Micro Center. I’ll wait in the back of the lot. You know my ride.”

  “Will do.”

  Tim stood nearby and said aloud, “Martina, just look for two bomb-throwers in blood-soaked clothes.”

  “He’s a little upset,” Rayne said. “It’s been a long day.”

  “A long day,” Tim said, almost choking on the words.

  “If I were him,” Martina said, “I’d have anxierrhea. Be there in twenty minutes or so.”

  “See you.” Rayne held the cell phone, knowing it could be used as a tracking device. In her hand, it had the size and weight of a hand grenade ready to explode. “Thank God for Martina.”

  “Now we gotta slip out of here and sneak down the street.” He paced back and forth in front of a dryer.

  What was she forgetting? Other than a million things, what was she forgetting specifically right now?

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She shook her head, concentrated, and recalled the image.

  “The TV news. Back at Mass General. My clothes, my black tunic was all over TV. I’ve got to…uh…” She shook her head again to reshuffle her thoughts, clear up the confusion, looked at Tim, past Tim. There, now she knew. She glanced at the phone, then at the dryer.

  “What is it?” he insisted.

  “Desperation.” She looked through the window and saw the woman outside, still reading the magazine on the bench. “Shhh…not a word.”

  Rayne stuffed the phone back in her pocket, opened the dryer, quickly rummaged through the stranger’s clothes. Rayon, polyester, a synthetic sea of shirts and shorts. This was no time to try an item on, check the fit, check her reflection in the dryer’s window. Screw it. She found a…what was it? And would it bite? She pulled it out, a fisherwoman reeling in a trophy-sized fish. It was a navy blue and white…tablecloth, with swirling flowers and pom-pom trim.

  Tim said, “And that’s…?”

  “It’s what it is. It’s, I don’t know, a shawl, a disguise. It’s the Shroud of Turin with an image of C.C. Seymour on the front. You blind?”

  “Matter of fact…”

  “Can’t believe it’s come to this.” She folded it into a tight square, stuffed it under her tunic.

  “Gee, ya think she’ll figure out who took it?”

  “You got a better idea?”

  “It’s a joke, Rayne. Maybe my last one before I’m shot in the back for resisting arrest.”

  “That’s not funny. Don’t say that.”

  Tim held his hands up. “Okay, okay.”

  “Don’t even think it.”

  Then she refocused—everything was happening at hyper speed—and remembered. She grabbed the cell from her pocket and tossed it into the dryer, onto the top of tangled clothes. “Best I can do. At least she gets something in return.”

  “If she paid ten bucks for that tablecloth, she got ripped off.” Tim’s eyes flicked toward the window, back at Rayne. “Not a bad tradeoff. Don’t turn the dryer back on, it’ll fry the phone.”

  Rayne did a quick fist pump in the air. “Let’s go, Mr. Crowe.”

  In the fading light, they hustled across the asphalt lot. In the front seat of the LeSabre, Rayne folded the tablecloth in half to reduce the size, then put on her new shawl.

  “How’s it look?”

  “Move over Gisele Bundchen.”

  “Well, it covers up the tunic. We need any advantage we can get.” She keyed the ignition. The engine whined and woke up.

  “You look like Gisele Bundchen coming out of a homeless shelter.”

  “This is supposed to be a disguise, not a freaking billboard.”

  “If you’re a billboard, I’m a one-eyed pirate. We’re made for each other. Things can only go up from here.”

  “My phone’s in a dryer. I’m wearing a tablecloth.”

  “Rayne, listen.” From the shotgun seat, he reached over and drew her closer to him. “You could put on a paint-spattered drop cloth and look g
ood.”

  Her eyes flicked up. “Please.”

  “Reason why, you have…let’s just call it an ‘edge.’ But you have it. You carry it wherever you go. And that’s what sets you apart. What you wear, don’t wear, doesn’t matter. Being with you is…ah…never boring. Give me that any day.”

  A moment of silence.

  “Boring,” she replied, “does not quite describe the last two days.”

  “I meant what I said.”

  Rayne faced the windshield, gripped the steering wheel. Then she glanced at him with feigned boredom, her voice flat. “Wanna go for a ride?”

  Tim buckled his seatbelt.

  She hit the gas. Blasted off. They rocketed away from:

  Coin Operated Fort

  FORT LAUNDRY

  Under Siege 7 Days

  CHAPTER 23

  Rayne spotted her as they pulled into the nearly full parking lot. Martina Salgado stood beside her silver Volkswagen Tiguan, her pixie haircut getting combed by the wind. She looked like a model, wearing a hooded, single-breasted pea coat, tight jeans, and knee-high, brown leather boots. She was holding a white paper bag.

  Rayne pulled up beside the divine Ms. Salgado and parked.

  Martina opened the back door and climbed inside, behind Tim. “Holy shit, girl,” she said by way of greeting.

  “I know.”

  “Hey, blondie,” she said to Tim.

  “Thanks for coming, Martina,” he said.

  She handed him the bag. “I made a quick stop on the way over. Two fish sandwiches and coffees. Thought you might be hungry.”

  “Perfect,” Tim said.

  She leaned over the seat and kissed Rayne. “I’m ready. Shock me.”

  “Martina, listen. Tim and I talked on the way over. We think it’s best to leave you out of this as much as possible. We don’t want to get you involved.”

  Martina held up both hands as if standing in left field, about to catch a fly ball. “What? I’m in your car. I’m involved. What…is…up?”

  Rayne half turned in the front, put her arm over the top of her seat. “There’s a new company called EyeSoar. They’re recently on the news. They make drones.”

  “Drones.”

  “Yeah, supposedly for the police and for private-sector security. By accident, Tim and I found out the drones are connected with some missing people who got killed. EyeSoar kept it undercover. No one else knows.”

  “Except you two?”

  “We think so, yeah, far as we know. So EyeSoar has to stop us in any way they can. They can’t let the story leak. Right now, they’re focused on making us look like…well, public enemies number one and two.”

  Rayne filled in a few details while she ate.

  “So what’re you gonna do?” Martina asked.

  “Don’t know yet. We can barely keep up with what’s happening, everything’s moving so fast. But that video today, that’s a game-changer. Like, how do we explain it? We can’t even account for the last couple of days because we’ve been on the run.”

  “And now,” Tim said, “they’ve got a filmed confession. So we’re guilty, no matter what happens from here. The next step for EyeSoar? We get killed or have an accident. The way things are going, maybe they’ll figure out a way to turn us into suicide bombers. I don’t rule out anything.”

  “This is…I don’t know what to say.” Martina’s eyes widened. “I’m about to have a bladder malfunction.”

  Tim nodded. “That sums it up.”

  Rayne faced both of them. Beyond the windows, she saw a car pulling into the lot. She hoped it was just a shopper. “There’s a way out of this. We’ll figure it out. We just need to buy some time, lay low.”

  “Here.” Martina took her smartphone from her purse, handed it to Rayne. “Take this, it’s better. I’ve got another here in my pocket that I just use for work.”

  “Thanks. This is our link to the outside world.”

  “Just one question, Rayne.”

  “Yes?”

  “Honey, why the hell you wearing a tablecloth?”

  Rayne glanced down at her shoulders, seeing swirling flowers. “Is it that obvious?”

  Martina fanned her face furiously with both hands, then turned to Tim. “Your girlfriend look like a table to you?”

  “It’s a shawl,” he explained.

  “Sure it is, Rayne Man. What’s wrong with you two? Get that shit off your shoulders, Rayne.”

  “I saw myself on the flippin’ news. I’m wearing these clothes. This black tunic. I’m trying to cover it up. These clothes, my face, my hair.” Rayne paused, dropped her voice. “Yo! ‘Scuze me, girlie, you look familiar. I seen ya before, right?”

  “Tablecloth,” Martina repeated, and shook her head no. “I’m gonna put this out on the deck in the daylight, where everyone can see it, don’t be mad. You’re probably the smartest girl I know, Rayne, but I gotta be honest. Sometimes you make no sense. You’re off in your little rainy world.”

  “Meaning?”

  Martina started taking off her clothes.

  “What’s going on?” Tim asked.

  “Don’t you be looking back here, blondie.” She shook off her coat, then knuckled Tim in the base of his neck. “Just messing with ya. We cool.”

  “What’re you doing?” Rayne asked her.

  “I can’t believe this. You got my phone. Now you’re gonna get my $200 camel-colored pea coat that I just bought from Macy’s cause it’s c-c-c-cold in November. And don’t you be getting any blood on this coat. You can’t wash that shit out. And no bullet holes, either, no nothing.”

  “Blood,” Rayne echoed. She took off the tablecloth, then the tunic.

  The pea coat flew into the front seat.

  From the backseat: “God I hate to ask this. Did the local news show all your ass? Head to foot?”

  “I guess, yeah. It did.” Rayne pitched the tunic into the backseat.

  “See how much I love you, Rayne?” A zipping sound emanated from the backseat. “I’m givin’ up my boots. I surrender my shoes. Try ‘em on. They don’t fit, fling ‘em back.”

  The left boot sailed into the front seat.

  “Blondie, keep your eyes on the windshield. And your mind out of the gutter.”

  The right boot followed the same trajectory.

  “Tally up. Phone, coat, boots. Hmmm…what’s next? Maybe my mom’s wheels. You guys need that, too? I thought all white people were rich. We got this ass-backward. Uh oh…Rayne cracked a smile. Rayne, who swore she’d never laugh in her lifetime.”

  “I do laugh,” Rayne said, tugging on a boot. “Now and then.”

  “Sure you do. How they fit?”

  “They do.”

  “I was afraid of that. Now I’m out a pair of never-mind-how-much boots from thievin’ Neiman.”

  Rayne donated her sneakers to the backseat.

  “Actually, I could use a tablecloth,” Martina said. “Do you mind?”

  “Here.” Rayne transferred it to the backseat.

  Tim said, “Rayne, did the local news televise your underwear?”

  From the backseat: “Ohhhh…blondie, blondie, blondie. I so see through you.”

  “We should go. God, Martina, you’re the…” Rayne leaned over the seat and hugged her. “You’re a lifesaver. I can never—”

  “Shut up before I change my mind. Follow me. My mom lives nearby. I keep a set of her keys at my apartment, so I’m set. I’ll park in front of her building, then take her car out of the garage in back.” Martina gave her the address.

  “Okay,” Rayne said.

  Martina popped the back door and stood outside. She leaned by Tim’s window and knuckled the glass. He rolled the window down.

  “Look at me, I’m Rayne Moore.” She tugged on the black tunic with one hand while holding the folded tablecloth, and lifted a foot to display a sneaker. She leaned down and looked at them. “If I’m smiling, it’s because I’m nervous as hell. This is serious. You guys gotta get out of this. Rayne,
I said you were smart. Now prove it.”

  “Yes,” Rayne said.

  Martina tapped the rooftop twice with her hand, then got into her car.

  Rayne and Tim followed her out of the parking lot and onto Memorial Drive. Rayne’s headlights shone on Martina’s VW, including her rear bumper sticker, PMS meter high. They could see Martina’s head and shoulders through her rear windshield. Friday evening traffic was heavy, kick-starting the weekend.

  “I can’t believe she put that on her bumper,” Tim said. “Maybe it creates an invisible force field that deters tailgating.”

  “P…M…S,” Rayne said sowly. “Prefer…My…Solitude. Except EyeSoar is giving me wicked cramps and headaches. I’m gonna go off, Tim, I’m getting real close.”

  “You and me both.”

  Rayne saw Martina raise her right hand to her ear. Seconds later, music sounded in the Buick’s front seat. Inside Rayne’s pocket, the opening notes to Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want to Have Fun. She reached for the borrowed phone.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Rayne, the strangest thing just happened.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Up? You are so right. My hood ornament. My hood ornament is like…up.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Me neither. Because, like, I don’t have a hood ornament. Not that I remember, unless I’m crazy. Maybe you guys freaked me out.”

  “Martina, what’s going on?” Rayne squeezed the phone, heard Martina inhale deeply. She saw the VW wiggle slightly on Memorial Drive in the fading twilight, then decelerate. An intersection with traffic lights came into view.

  “I’m driving, and I see a hood ornament suddenly go…there’s this little piece of metal…it just like…I don’t know…it rose up from my hood. And it…wait, we got to turn here.”

  The VW banged a left onto Brookline Street.

  Rayne followed the PMS-mobile.

  Martina said, “It kind of…it was like flying by my windshield.”

  “Listen carefully,” Rayne said. She focused on their location, and what large buildings were nearby. Micro Center, an electronics store, only had one entrance. A really large building with multiple exits was needed. “Change in plans. We’ve got to switch this up. Don’t go to your mother’s yet. Go to MIT. We’re only a mile away. Park close to the campus. Then go into MIT, the big main building off Mass Ave. Go inside and walk all the way through it, then leave through an exit on the other side of the campus. Stay alert. See if you’re being followed by anything that...well…looks like that hood ornament. Anything that looks like a flying bug.”