by Liam Jackson
Throughout the telling, Charlie smiled politely and nodded and sipped on her cup of chocolate. As soon as Sam finished, she sat the cup down and, still smiling, said, "Well. That has to be the biggest crock of crap I have ever heard in my entire life." Her remark caught him completely
off-guard, but before he could respond, she changed the subject and the tension passed. Again, Sam was amazed at how easy it was to open up to her and apparently, she was equally comfortable.
Sam was surprised when Charlie echoed his own sentiments. "You know... I get the oddest feeling that we've met before. Like... like maybe I've known you since grade school. I also get the feeling that you're up to something, besides going to see your uncle. Now, tell me where you're really going."
Startled by the change in direction, Sam started to sputter. Charlie smiled and said, "It's okay. If you don't want to tell me, that's cool. It's none of my business, anyway. But... if you decide that you want to talk about, you know, anything, I'm a good listener."
He didn't know what to say. He told himself that it might be good to unload and confide in someone; just lay it all out on the line, and be done with it. Unsure of what to do, he looked out the window. His heart skipped a beat. Sam slowly stood up and walked to the window, taking care to stay close to a large soft drink machine.
"What is it? Sam? What's wrong?"
He held up his hand and motioned for quiet, then peered around the edge of the machine. There, parked across the highway, was a long white Lincoln Continental. The windows were heavily tinted, making it impossible to see the occupants. The car just sat there, the motor running and a thick cloud of exhaust pouring from twin tailpipes.
Impossible! It just can't be the same one! Can it?
The Voice answered his unspoken question, leaving little doubt. Time to leave. Now!
A hand fell gently upon his shoulder, nearly startling him out of his skin. Whirling about, he found Charlie standing behind him, wearing a concerned expression.
"Damn it, Charlie! Don't do that!"
Sam's severe tone caught Charlie off-guard, but she stepped back and mumbled an apology. "Tell me what's wrong, Sam. You look like you've seen a ghost."
Sam shook his head. "That car, it's followed me across damn near half the country."
Charlie looked out the window across the highway. "What car? Sam, there's no one out there."
"It's right there, goddamn it! Side of the road. That white Lincoln with the tinted windows, and curb feelers, and forty pounds of bugshit on the windshield. Don't tell me you can't see it!" Seeing the shocked expression in Charlie's eyes, Sam's voice softened. "Look, I don't know why you're playing with me, but it's not funny." The Voice interceded. People can't see the car, but you've known that all along.
No, I didn't— started Sam. Then, okay, so I guess I did know it.
Charlie peered through the window again, then shook her head. "Sam... there's no car out there. I don't know what's going on, but you're scaring me. If someone is following you, maybe I can help. I can call my dad or maybe the police."
"No!" both he and the Voice yelled simultaneously. "Not the cops!"
Charlie backed away another couple of steps. "Calm down, for Christ's sake! Wait... you're running from the police, aren't you? That's why you won't tell me where you're from or where you're going!" She paused, allowing Sam an opportunity to speak. But he didn't.
"You won't tell me, will you? Then, fine! I don't care!" This time it was Charlie who lowered her voice, pleading, "Sam, I want to help you, but first you have to trust me. Please. Let me help."
Sam didn't respond. Instead, he stared through the frosted glass at the white Lincoln. Bastard found me again. How? How does he do it? Fear mingled with anger, and the result was a very real desire to confront the mysterious driver and be done with it all. The bottom suddenly fell out of the Styrofoam cup, spilling hot chocolate on his jeans and sneakers. Startled, Sam held the cup away from his body. Surprise gave way to confusion, then bewilderment as he stared at the ruined container. The cup had melted in his hand.
Sharing his surprise, Charlie reached out tentatively and took Sam's hand. The moment flesh touched flesh, she snatched her hand to her chest, and stared at Sam in wide-eyed amazement.
"You... you're burning up!" She glanced at the cup, then back at Sam. "That's not possible, is it?"
Sam wasn't sure how to respond. He could see the confusion in her eyes; her beautiful brown eyes, sprinkled ever so lightly with gold dust and with a glistening diamond-shaped tear in one corner. Confusion and fear. The knowledge that she was afraid stung, and in that instant, Sam knew he had fallen in love with a girl that he hardly knew. Of all the stupid things he had ever done, this had to take the cake, he thought.
Yep, you're an idiot, agreed the Voice. "Shut up!" muttered Sam.
Misunderstanding Sam's remark, Charlie raised a hand to her mouth then turned and backed away. In an injured tone, she said, "I only wanted to help. Maybe it's time you left."
She paused for a moment, her lower lip quivering, and Sam was afraid that she was about to cry and he knew that if she did, he might well do the same. Then softly she added, "You can leave by the back door. Don't worry, Sam. I won't say anything to anyone."
Sam mentally kicked himself, but said nothing. What was there to say? That if he stayed any longer, the bogeyman in the Lincoln would get both of them? That he couldn't go to the cops in case he had been reported as a runaway? Or maybe that he was falling in love with her, and that scared the crap out of him? One made as much sense as any of the others, which was to say, none at all. He retrieved his duffel bag and walked slowly to the counter. Charlie looked away, pretending to wipe down the countertop with a damp cloth.
"Charlie, you... you don't understand. I..."
She stopped cleaning the counter, and stared at the floor. With her other hand she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
"Stop. You don't have to explain anything. I was... I just thought... oh, I don't know what I thought. It's just that I felt..." Her voice trailed off and another tear slowly trickled down her cheek. "Just... go. I won't say anything, I promise."
Sam felt the growing lump in his throat as he fought back the desire to vault over the counter, take her in his arms, and confess it all. He wanted to, but he didn't.
Instead he shot another quick glance at the Lincoln, making sure that it hadn't moved, then opened the back door and stepped out into the blowing snow. Sam had no idea where he was going. He couldn't just strike out along the highway. That would make him an easy target, and he had no doubt whatsoever that it was the same car. He thought of his dwindling cash reserve. Maybe he had enough money to get a room for the night and kill two birds with one stone. He could simply wait out both the blizzard and the Lincoln.
But first, he had to put some distance between himself and that car. He would worry about Abbotsville tomorrow. As he jogged toward a nearby row of old warehouses, he swore a silent vow that when this was all over, and if it was at all humanly possible, he would come back for Charlie. Run! urged the Voice.
CHAPTER 22
Knoxville, Tennessee
Mark Pierce rolled over onto his back, and grasped his head with both hands. The mother of all hangovers was pounding away at both temples. In self-defense, he pulled a limp pillow across his face and willed himself to breathe deeply. The overpowering stench of sour booze nearly gagged him and he flung the pillow from the bed. Cursing, he struggled to a sitting position, and then cursed again as his bare feet found the cold tile floor. He looked around the edge of the bed but his socks were nowhere in sight.
Probably buried under that mountain of old newspapers and empty chip bags. Where's the damn maid when you really need her?
Shoving his bare feet into a pair of scuffed Redwing work boots, Mark made his way to the small kitchenette and opened the rusted front door of the apartment-size fridge. Taking inventory of his food supply required little time. On the single shelf was a carton of spoile
d milk, a near empty tin of sardines in mustard sauce, and a half-eaten knockwurst on rye. Below, in the crisper compartment, were three forty-ounce cans of malt liquor.
Mark decided that there was only one real question at hand; would this be a one- or two-beer breakfast? He popped the top on a can and walked back to his bed, pausing only long enough to turn on the nineteen-inch television.
"Must be Saturday," he muttered, as the cartoon image of a talking dog and his gang slowly came into focus. Raising the can in a high salute, he said, "Cheers, old buddy." He then proceeded to down a full third of the beer.
Actually, he was relieved that he didn't have look at another of those damned news flashes that kept interrupting "regularly scheduled programming," announcing another missing child in Knoxville.
What kind of screwed-up city is this anyway? he wondered. Kids being snatched off the sidewalks in broad daylight and the cops are fuckin' clueless... as usual.
Mark listened to one incredible report after another, the worst of which had aired just last night on "News at Eleven." A ten-year-old girl had been abducted from her bedroom while her parents watched television in an adjacent room. Over the past ten days, he must have seen a half-dozen such broadcasts. Mark Pierce knew he was pretty much a lost cause as a human being, but there was one thing he couldn't and wouldn't abide; you just didn't hurt a kid. You can give them away without a backwards glance, but you never, ever hurt them.
Mark sat down on the bed and lay back against the rickety headboard. He needed to think, to concentrate, but the pounding in his head was deafening. He lit his last cigarette and flipped the empty pack onto the floor. For two weeks he had waited, squandering his small reserve of cash on booze and a long gone nickel bag of weed. And now, he was broke. Well, not broke exactly. He figured he had maybe a buck-fifty in change scattered about the room. A buck-seventy-five, tops.
At least he still had a roof over his head for another two weeks. But would he really be any better off by staying? Why was he still here in the first place? There was no sense in kidding himself any longer. The whole trip had been just one big cluster-fuck and he hadn't heard a single voice since arriving in Knoxville. Even they have better sense than to hang around here, he thought.
Maybe it was time to cut his losses and make for the Sunshine State. At least in Florida, he could starve to death in some nice warm alley. If he could just scrape up enough cash for a bus ticket, he'd be outta here before nightfall. Maybe the old man at the counter would give him back a weeks' worth of the rent money.
Yeah, right. Pigs will shit golden eggs before that happens!
Glancing at the bedside table, he again entertained the notion of just helping himself to some quick cash. What's the worst that could happen? Getting caught in a holdup and being sent back to the joint? Looking around his room, Mark laughed. Hell, a Florida penitentiary would be a step up in accommodations.
His mind made up, Mark reached for the bedside table. He would hit the office tonight, take only what cash he needed and get the hell out of Dodge before God got the news. He had done far worse things in his life.
Pulling open the single drawer of the nightstand, Mark reached inside. The .45 was gone. Jumping to his feet, he yanked the drawer completely out of the stand. He turned the nightstand upside-down, then, on hands and knees, he frantically searched beneath the bed. An hour later, Mark leaned against the wall and slid down into a sitting position. Panic had driven away the booze-induced cobwebs and he was thinking clearly for the first time in weeks. He had been robbed.
The old cadaver working the front desk said his name was Artie Freeman; he's the thief!
There was no sign of forced entry into his room, and that meant the motel owner had waited until Mark was away on a beer run, then used a master key to help himself. Mark spat out a string of curses, then coldly plotted his next move. Yes, he'd see the old man one more time. Tonight.
At the far end of the motel row, Janet rolled over onto her side and looked at the large green numbers on the digital clock radio: 11:42 a.m. Groaning, she struggled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. She had stayed awake well past midnight, watching for signs of the mystery man,
Mr. Mark Pierce, before finally calling it quits. Either he hadn't been in or he simply wasn't moving about in his room. No lights, no sounds, nothing.
Janet crawled out of bed and padded across the frigid slate tile to the bathroom. After a leisurely hot and relaxing shower, another pleasant surprise in these otherwise spartan accommodations, Janet quickly dressed and located a notebook and microcassette recorder from her overnight bag. It was time to get down to business.
She quickly made additional notes, most of them taken from her conversation with Doris the day before. Then she reviewed everything that she knew about the murder in Lexington. She felt like she was missing something, but what? A half hour later, she dropped the notebook onto the bed, and sighed heavily. Other than the matchbook, there just didn't seem to be much of a connection between the two motels. She had nothing.
Janet picked up her cell phone and dialed the number to her voice mail. She listened impatiently as the mechanical voice replayed the half-dozen messages.
Four were from her editor, eloquently insisting that Janet immediately "get her ass back to the office," and one from her landlord, asking when he might expect to see the past due rent. Same old tired shit.
The sixth and final message got her attention. "Janet, this is Detective Kelly. Stay right where you are. I'm on my way to Knoxville. There have been some important developments in the case and I'll explain everything when I see you. Oh, and best that we play it safe. Tell no one where you are, until after I arrive. I should see you around midnight."
Excited, she replayed the message. The guy really sounded excited! She hated to get her hopes up, but maybe this meant that there had been a major break of some kind. As predictable as a Timex, Kelly couldn't wait to play the big shot, and cut her in on it. Of course, he'd want something "extra" in return, and she wasn't at all interested in reciprocating.
There would be plenty of time to worry about that later, after she milked him for information, she thought, grinning.
For now, she would do as he asked and keep a low profile. She only needed to relax and wait. Relax. Right.
For what seemed like the one thousandth time, Mark looked at his watch: 10:20 p.m. He still had awhile before it was time to move. His nerves were tempered by the knowledge that whatever happened in the next couple of hours, the old geezer had brought it on himself.
You just don't steal a man's gun and not expect a swift kick in the jewels in return.
He had planned well. Using the plastic trash bags from his room, he had collected every scrap of garbage in the room that might possibly carry his fingerprints.
With trash in tow, he crawled through the room's rear window and made his way to a large Dumpster a couple of blocks over. He left the bags there buried beneath mounds of other assorted trash. By the time anyone called the police to the motel, the snowstorm would have completely covered his tracks and his room would be free of any and all evidence. He returned to the room by the same route. No sense leaving two sets of tracks, he reasoned.
Pleased with his plan and preparation, he congratulated himself by grabbing the last beer from the fridge. Mark kicked off his boots and lay back on the bed to watch some 'toons on cable.
Aided by two episodes of the Stooges, the hour passed quickly enough and it was time to move. As he dressed, Mark reviewed the plan. He didn't really want to hurt the old guy but he wasn't about to take any chances. The old fart was now packing a locked and cocked .45 semiautomatic. If things got out of hand, Mark wouldn't hesitate to crack a head.
He paused at the window and peered out into the parking lot. The snowstorm had turned into a full-blown blizzard and the streets were completely empty of traffic. A single car sat in the motel parking lot, but there were no lights on in any of the other rooms. Mark went to the back window
and crawled through a final time.
He quickly made his away along the rear of the old row house, until he came to the last window on the east side of the building. Mark crouched beneath the sill and listened for sounds from within the office. Wind whistled shrilly through the alley, making it difficult to hear anything except the wailing of distant sirens.
After a miserable ten minutes of waiting in the cold, Mark was reasonably sure that the old man must be asleep. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a length of flat metal trim that he had removed from the edge of the shower stall. With a practiced hand, Mark slid the homemade jimmy into the window frame just below the catch, and seconds later was sliding headfirst into the living-room area of the office.
Dingy yellow light from a parking lot streetlamp illuminated the room. As he looked around the dimly lit interior, the first thing Michael noticed was that the room was every bit as cold as the outside. The furnace was unlit and frost was accumulating on the inside of the office windows.
Mark carefully made his way across the room to the front desk and searched the contents of the drawers. The bottom drawer held a small metal cash box, secured by a simple latch. Careful to avoid leaving fingerprints, he opened the box and was instantly rewarded by the sight of dead presidents. He began counting the assortment of bills and was only a little disappointed to find that the box held sixty-three dollars. Not a major haul, but it was enough for a fifth of cheap whiskey and a bus ticket to warmer climes.
Shoving the small wad of bills into his jeans pocket, he looked back across the room at the single door. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. That door, he was sure, would lead him to the motel owner and his gun.
CHAPTER 23
Knoxville, Tennessee
Five doors down, Janet threw the phone book across the room, and watched it land in a pile of torn and crumpled paper on the floor. Her patience was exhausted. The room was growing smaller by the second and if she didn't get some relief very soon, she would, would... well, she wasn't exactly sure what she would do, but she vowed to do something, anything, besides wait.