Meals from Mars

by Ben Sciacca

  Malik said nothing for a moment as he tried to get his bearings. “Just drive,” he finally blurted. “Drive us far from here, man.”

  Jim continued down the main street toward the interstate. His whole body felt limp and numb; his foot on the pedal and his hands on the wheel scarcely gave him any sensations at all. He kept sucking in his lips and tightening his jaw. After a few blocks of silence, he decided to speak again.

  “East or west?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Huh?” Malik asked with a start.

  “The interstate—do you want to go east or west?” Jim didn’t know why he was asking these questions. He wanted to give Malik the keys and run away, but the neighborhood scared him. For some strange reason, being inside the car felt safer than anywhere else at the moment.

  East would send them back to the suburbs, closer to Jim’s home. West would take them out of the city.

  “West,” Malik mumbled. “Take us west.”

  As they pulled onto the interstate, Jim cast a glance into the rearview mirror. Home was getting farther away. He looked at the dash. The fuel indicator was one notch above “E.” They wouldn’t get more than fifty or sixty miles out of town before they had to fill up again. This fact filled him with a mixture of elation and horror.

  Malik slowly raised himself up from crouching on the floorboard and sat down in the seat. He felt a drowning sense of hopelessness crashing down on him. He rubbed his hand up and down his face and sighed a great sigh.

  Suddenly, the sense of panic reasserted itself. “Hey man! You want to go faster, dude?”

  Jim was going ten miles under the speed limit. Cars were passing them with a whoosh. He applied his foot to the pedal, the car roared into action, and very shortly the city was just a yellowish glimmer on the skyline behind them. Nothing but vacant asphalt and distant taillights lay before them.

  Malik leaned forward and clicked on the radio. He fumbled through a few stations hoping to hear some sort of update on what had just happened. He finally settled on a news station, but the commentator didn’t say anything about the gas station—only a weather warning, the potential of freezing temperatures and possibly ice. His mind continued to race as his heart thumped wildly in his chest. He could imagine Mike, Cam, and Tyrell seething on some distant corner and plotting what they’d do to him when they found him. He could picture the police talking to eyewitnesses who were fingering him for mugging Habib. As they passed various cars and trucks on the road, he wondered if the other drivers knew who he was. Angst and fear consumed him.

  Suddenly he slammed his fist against the dash and cursed. “This ain’t right!” he blurted out. “I didn’t do nothin’.” He twisted violently in his seat, looking out every window. There were headlights in the distance behind them, two eighteen-wheelers not more than fifty yards ahead. Malik raised his gun just slightly in Jim’s direction.

  “Slow down a bit,” he said. “Let these trucks get a ways ahead of us.”

  Malik’s words were direct but wavering, with an underlying insecurity. He had no clue what he was doing.

  “Look,” Jim said cautiously, shooting a glance at Malik out of the corner of his eye. “You can just drop me off at the next exit and have the car.” Now that Edgewood and gangbangers in hoodies were behind him, Jim was anxious to get out of this situation. He wondered if any witnesses back at the gas station would identify his car and somehow link him to the crime. He wanted to clear things up quickly. Getting away from Malik and his gun would be the first step toward making that happen.

  Jim cleared his throat in an attempt to resurrect his offer, but Malik remained quiet. With white knuckles Jim gripped the steering wheel. The clock on the dash said 6:27. He grimaced. He should be pulling into his garage right now. Instead he was plunging further into the dark night down some desolate stretch of highway.

  Just then, Jim’s cell phone rang. The noise itself startled both men like an explosion. Malik raised his gun from his lap.

  “Who . . . who is that?” Malik asked aggressively.

  “It’s probably my wife,” Jim replied. “I was supposed to be home, like, ten minutes ago. She’s wondering where I am.”

  Malik hesitated for a moment. The phone continued to ring in Jim’s coat pocket. His eyes narrowed.

  “Just let it go,” Malik offered.

  “She’ll keep calling,” Jim said with a nervous chuckle. “She’s like that.”

  The ringing stopped, and the car was filled with silence. But then, only ten seconds later, the ringing resumed.

  “I told you,” Jim mumbled. “She won’t give up till I answer. She’s a persistent woman.”

  “Fine!” Malik barked. “You answer it, but tell her you’re broke down. Then you tell her about the tow truck that’s on its way. Then you tell her about how hard it is to hear her and that you’ll call her back when you know somethin’.”

  “I can’t lie to my wife.”

  “Man, bump lying, dude!” Malik growled as he gripped his gun. “You’ll do what I say. I ain’t gettin’ arrested or shot for a bunch of nonsense—you got me?”

  Jim nodded. He reached slowly into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. He glanced at Malik’s desperate eyes and the gun in his hand before answering the call. “Uh, hi honey.” His voice cracked slightly.

  Malik leaned his ear close to Jim’s face, struggling to hear the conversation. Jim grimaced and spoke with as much confidence as he could muster. “Yeah . . . I had some car troubles. I broke down about ten minutes after dropping those groceries off . . . I’m waiting for the wrecker now . . .”

  Jim stopped talking as his wife shouted her dismay. He glanced at Malik with a look of embarrassment.

  “Yes . . . yes, honey, I’m out of the neighborhood . . . I’m safe now . . . No! Listen to me, your dad doesn’t need to come get me. I’ll call you when I know something.”

  “Tell her you can’t hear her anymore,” Malik hissed as he leaned forward. “You’ll call her later, remember?”

  “Baby, I can’t hear you anymore. It’s breaking up awful. I’ll call you in an hour or two. I love you. I gotta go,” Jim said through a clenched jaw. With a great effort he pulled the phone from his face and clicked it off.

  “Here. Gimme that,” Malik said as he yanked it from Jim’s grasp. Without hesitation he rolled down the window and hurled the phone down against the asphalt. Jim watched in dismay as the phone disintegrated into bouncing bits in the rearview mirror.

  Malik’s phone chirped. He carefully slid it out of his pocket and took a look. It was a text from Brenden. Tell me u ain’t caught up in that mess @ the gas station. Some folks r puttin ur name out there.

  Malik felt sick. He slowly pulled his hat off his head and dragged his hand across his forehead. His grandmother’s ten-dollar bill fell to the floorboard between his feet. He looked out the window. Dense woods lurked in the distance. The sky was speckled with stars. The moon hung like a bright white dish. For a moment he thought about his grandmother and the Thanksgiving dinner she’d be preparing in the next couple of days. His chin dropped on his chest. The gun in his lap felt like a boulder. He stared hard at the floor.

  “We gotta get off this road,” he said with resignation. “Take the next exit and get us somewhere else.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jim replied. “What’s the plan? I already told you, just drop me off somewhere and take the car.”

  Malik cast his eyes on Jim. They were resolute. “I ain’t got no plan,” Malik said. “Just do what I said and get us off this road. Now!”

  Jim’s head was spinning. Why wouldn’t this kid just let him go? What was he thinking?

  A road sign in the distance indicated that county highway 57 was two miles ahead. “Take 57,” Malik said, pointing at the sign. “That’ll work.”

  7

  THE COLD

  7:15 p.m., Monday before Thanksgiving

  THE COUNTRY ROAD WAS DARK AND OMINOUS. Aside from a full moon that played peek-a-boo behind w
ispy gray clouds and a towering wall of pine trees, the high beams from the Lexus were the only lights in the night. The asphalt glistened in front of them like an ebony carpet speckled with jewels. Thin drops of sleet peppered the front windshield.

  Jim grimaced, gripping the steering wheel. He glanced at the dash. It was 7:15 and twenty-six degrees outside. He knew his wife had kept calling, even though he had told her not to. It was only a matter of time before she would start to panic, if she hadn’t already. But what could she do? How could she—or anyone, for that matter—find him? His stomach churned.

  He stole a glance at the kid in his passenger seat and at the gun resting in his lap. Is this thug going to kill me out here? He didn’t seem like a killer, but Jim couldn’t be certain. And anyway, even if the kid let him go now, how would he survive in this freezing wilderness? All he had was a fleece and no phone. Death was possible both inside and outside his vehicle, and he was powerless to change the outcome in either scenario.

  Malik sat in the passenger seat, angry. He felt like a puppy fleeing from a wolf, only to find a tiger hindering his escape. Where could he go? What could he do? He had only driven a car a few times when his Uncle Keith was trying to help him get his permit a couple of years ago. He wouldn’t feel comfortable driving this car on a night like this. He couldn’t let this man go, even though he had offered Malik the car. And he couldn’t just let the man drop him off. He had no good options.

  The road took a sharp turn ahead. Jim decelerated and kept both hands on the wheel as he prepared to navigate the curve, but the back tires hissed and fishtailed slightly on the slick blacktop. Malik grabbed the door handle and cursed under his breath.

  “That’s ice, kid,” Jim blurted out. As the road straightened, the car righted itself. “It’s not safe on this road. It’s freezing outside, and this sleet is going to continue to stick and ice over. We need to stop somewhere before we end up in a ditch!”

  Malik knew the man was right—the road was becoming more dangerous by the minute. He also knew that the 9mm in his lap meant that he was in charge, and as precarious as the road was becoming, driving still felt right. Moving felt right. The idea of stopping anywhere frightened him more than anything.

  “Just keep going for a while,” Malik muttered.

  Jim shot a look of disbelief at his captor. He let out a sigh and kept driving.

  After five minutes of silence the low-fuel light came on again. Jim’s stomach sank. “Do you see that?” he asked as he jabbed his finger at the dash. “That light right there means we need to stop somewhere soon, or this car is going to stop for us.”

  “Man, you think I don’t know what that light means?” Malik blurted. “So where do you want to stop, huh? You got some place in mind? Ain’t nothing out here but trees and darkness.”

  Jim was driving under twenty miles per hour, doing his best to stay on the slick road. The sleet was falling in thick sheets now, freezing to the windshield. He adjusted the heat and threw on his wipers. They crossed a short bridge, and the car fishtailed again. An old wooden sign along the side of the road referenced a hunting camp three miles up the road.

  Both men noticed the sign at the same time. They made eye contact for a moment.

  “I think we found ourselves a place to stop,” Jim said hopefully. “A couple nights before Thanksgiving, I doubt anyone will be there. I bet we can find a cabin to hole up in for the night.”

  Malik hated every bit of this idea, but the icy roads and the yellow dash light gave them no options. One bad patch of ice would send them off the road and into even greater danger. They hadn’t passed another vehicle in over thirty minutes. Help wouldn’t be coming.

  “Fine. Whatever,” Malik said resignedly. He shook his head.

  “There’s probably some firewood . . . maybe some food,” Jim said wishfully.

  “Bet you there’s some rednecks with dogs and guns too,” Malik mumbled.

  “Hey,” Jim replied, “I’ll take rednecks and dogs over dying of hypothermia in a ditch any day.”

  “Not me,” Malik said tersely. “Just let me freeze.”

  Suddenly, a sharp wind rushed across the road and barreled violently into the car, like an invisible monster. Jim tried to steady the wheel as the vehicle slid slowly like a puck on the ice.

  “Dang!” Malik braced one hand on the dash.

  Ahead was another sharp curve. Flecks of ice and snow twisted across the road like snakes. Jim took his foot off the gas to navigate the turn, but a large dip in the road sent the car into a free skid toward the road’s edge. The vehicle lights revealed a precarious rocky slope just six feet beyond the road.

  “Hold on!” Jim shouted, more to himself than anyone else. The car skidded past the edge of the road and toward the ledge until the thick dead grass snagged and stopped them.

  The two men paused for a minute to catch their breath. Malik slowly looked out of the passenger window and eyed the jagged slope, just two feet outside of his car door.

  “I guess a hunting cabin may be the safer option,” he said faintly.

  Jim peeled his hands from the steering wheel and ran them through his hair. He looked at the young man beside him and nodded before slowly hitting the gas pedal and steering them over the grassy patch and back onto the road.

  From that moment on, the two drove in silence. Occasionally they both shot glances at the gas light. Soon, though, they saw the sign for Morgan’s Hunting Cabins and an arrow pointing to the left. Jim took the turn. The sound of gravel under his tires reassured him, and he relaxed his grip on the steering wheel.

  Malik had never been this far from the city in his life. The pop of the gravel under the car was unnerving, a sound he had never heard before. The road was narrow, and the trees leered over the vehicle, their leafless branches reaching out like menacing arms.

  To their right, nestled back in the trees, was a small cabin. An old pickup truck was parked beside it. Malik squinted into the darkness. He thought he spotted a faint light in one of the windows, but he couldn’t be sure. They continued on and passed more cabins. Dark and vacant, they sat back among the trees. Jim was about to offer a suggestion that they pick a place when suddenly Malik chimed in. “That’s the one! Park the car in the back.”

  Jim was surprised by the young man’s enthusiasm, but he followed his lead. The drive leading toward this cabin was wide, and the cabin itself wasn’t shrouded by as many trees the way the other ones were. Jim didn’t understand the excitement, but he was ready to get out of the car.

  “Turn here and then back it in behind the house,” Malik said.

  Jim did as he was told. Behind the cabin was a rear entrance and, to Jim’s elation, a small stack of firewood underneath a tattered tarp. For the first time he felt that he might survive the night after all.

  8

  THE INVESTIGATION

  8:45 p.m., Monday before Thanksgiving

  MARQUAN LOOKED AGAIN AT THE ADDRESS ON HIS NOTEPAD: 1017 Spencer Road. The light turned green, and he took a left up the hill into Stone Brook. The roads were almost completely empty. The cold and the threat of ice had people behind doors. He took a sip of his coffee and meandered slowly up the hill. He eyed the gated mansions and their long, bricked driveways.

  “Some big houses for some big-time people,” he said with a half-smile.

  He threw on his blinker and turned onto Spencer Road. Driving slowly with his head cocked sideways, he tried to find the street numbers along the gates and walls surrounding the houses he passed.

  “1013 . . . 1015 . . . 1017—there you are,” he mumbled. “Ah, and the gate is open too. Why, thank you very much.” He cruised slowly up the driveway and parked next to a black Mercedes SUV. The front door to the house opened, casting light out into the spacious front yard. Detective Cole took a final sip of his coffee as a silver-haired man in a dark blue sweater and khakis stared at him from the entrance. MarQuan opened the door and stepped out into the night.

  “Evening, Congressman Lawre
y,” the detective said, waving his hand in the air. “I’m Detective MarQuan Cole—”

  The older man frowned. “Where’s Detective Podolski? I called for him.”

  MarQuan shook his head and smiled. “He’s gone for the holiday, sir. Is your daughter home? And if so, may I come in?”

  Just then Mary Beth appeared in the door. Her father slung his arm around her and pulled her close. Her eyes were red, and she held a wad of tissues in her fist.

  “Yes . . . yes, of course. Come in, Detective.” The congressman beckoned MarQuan in with some terse waves of his hand.

  “Thank you, sir,” MarQuan said as he walked up the stone steps. He squinted slightly in the bright lights of the living room. He took a few moments to wipe his feet on the mat at the door. “You have a nice place, ma’am,” he said cheerfully.

  “Come in, Detective,” the congressman said without smiling. “This is my daughter, Mary Beth. Over there is my wife, Susan.”

  MarQuan stepped inside. Susan was seated in a small chair at the back of the room, frowning and gazing absently at the flames crackling away in the fireplace. He took one more minute to survey the house from where he stood, admiring the high ceilings and the large painting of a flowery field just above the hearth. He nodded slightly and then turned his attention to Mary Beth.

  “Do you mind if I have a seat?” MarQuan asked, sitting down in a cozy leather recliner. He removed his notepad from his coat pocket and plucked a pen from behind his ear. “So, since your phone call came in, Congressman, we’ve done a little bit of homework at the precinct.” He crossed his legs.

  Mary Beth and her father sat down on a couch opposite from the detective. Susan shifted her head slightly to hear better, even though she continued to stare into the fire.

  “You said your husband called two hours ago and said he was broke down somewhere en route to coming home?” MarQuan read the details from his notes. “And now his calls go straight to voice mail?”