When they pulled out of the Three Rivers Lodge, Carol had to resist the temptation to put the pedal to the metal. Surprisingly, Mark was calm throughout the ordeal and managed to coax Carol into slowing down and pulling onto a side road. They drove down the meandering road until Mark saw a turnoff; he directed Carol to it and saw that it wound into some brush.
"Let's park here and wait it out for a minute," he said.
Carol pulled in but was wary about turning the car off. "I don't think we should stay here for very long," she said, hugging herself. In their haste to leave they had neglected to dress in warmer clothes. Mark was still in his sweat pants and a T-shirt, and Carol was dressed in a sweatshirt and sweat pants. Their coats and heavy clothes were in the suitcases in the back seat. "It's cold out here," she said. "We should find somewhere else to stay."
"Once the police investigate they'll get our names from the front desk," Mark had said. "They'll be looking for us."
"So what are we going to do?"
Mark thought about it a minute, then donned some warmer clothes from what was in the suitcase and stepped outside. He wandered along the dirt road until he found a house sitting up on a small hill. The occupants of the home appeared to be fast asleep judging by the lack of lights in the house. More important were the two cars in the parking lot; a brand new 1991 Chevy Blazer and a 1988 Toyota Celica. Mark tried the Celica first and found it was unlocked. He didn't know how to hotwire a car, so he crept up to the house and tried the door. The stereotype was correct: people didn't lock their doors this far out in the boonies.
Using his animal stealth, Mark silently opened the door and crept inside the house. Despite the darkness he was able to see everything, and he found a set of keys within a minute. He pilfered them from a shelf near the front door and quietly let himself back out. Once at the car he tried them on the Celica: perfect fit. He released the emergency brake, put the car in neutral, and coasted it down the driveway. When it was a goodly distance from the house, he started the engine and drove it to the clearing they had parked in.
They quickly transferred all their belongings to the Celica and were heading back to the main highway within minutes. By the time they reached Bakersfield it was nearing two a.m. Carol suggested pulling over somewhere and catching some sleep for a few hours, but Mark vetoed that; he was so wired now that he wouldn't be able to sleep. What he wanted to do was get out of the state as soon as possible.
Once in Bakersfield they retraced their way to Interstate 10. They followed the 10 all the way to the California /Arizona border. Carol fell asleep and got a good two hours' worth between Palm Springs and Needles. She woke up around six and by then Mark was getting tired. They switched driving roles at a truck stop just past the California border and continued on until they reached another truck stop a few hours later, literally in the middle of the desert. Mark had dozed lightly and woke up when they reached the truck stop. Already the sun was struggling to rise.
"Pull over here," he said, motioning to the motel/diner off the interstate. A full service gas station was across the way, and both lots were full of eighteen-wheel tractor-trailers. "We'll be fine here."
Carol pulled in and Mark checked them in to a room at the motel. Once in the room they crashed. They didn't wake up until four o'clock that afternoon.
They left the Toyota in the lot the following day and hitched a ride with a trucker to El Paso, Texas. From there they went over the border to Juarez, Mexico, where they bought a Chevy Suburban for four grand. Mark paid for the vehicle with some of the cash in the manila envelope and they drove over the border without even having to sign ownership papers. The vehicle had Texas plates, which the seller had switched with a pair of plates from Oklahoma to play it safe. "These will be better," he said, his grin gap-toothed. "You'll go far with this."
Thank God for shady used-car dealers who were experts in rubbing down vehicle identification numbers and switching plates, doing everything they could to erase all identity of a stolen car. By the end of the day they were heading north in the Suburban toward Oklahoma. They stayed in Carlsbad, New Mexico that night, then drove on to Oklahoma, then through Kansas into Missouri. They stopped in Florence four days after they fled Three Rivers because a strong winter storm was starting to dump snow along the highway and the Missouri State Highway Patrol was setting up roadblocks.
"Better for you to pull over if you can," one patrolman said when they pulled up to a checkpoint; they had been heading east on Interstate 63. "The road ahead is going to be pretty rough going. We're expecting twenty inches of snow in the next day."
So they pulled over and meandered down a secondary road until they found a little town called Florence and found the Star Motor Lodge. Their first week there had been spent virtually snowbound. The storm dumped forty inches of snow and the wind chill dipped down to eighteen below zero. Mark and Carol spent much of that time huddled in their room keeping each other warm and keeping their fears at bay.
When the storm abated a few days later, Mark suggested they stay for a while. "At least until we can think of what to do," he said. Despite having enough cash to carry them through for awhile, Mark suggested they get jobs so they wouldn't attract attention. "People might think we're drug deal ers or something. Might as well blend in as much as we can."
Blending in was more difficult than they thought it would be. They landed jobs at a small diner in the main drag of town-if you could call the two intersecting streets that comprised Florence, Missouri the main drag. The diner's clientele consisted of farmers who showed up mainly for their morning breakfast of eggs and hashbrowns.
Despite easily landing jobs at the diner, the patrons immediately picked them out as city folks. Carol came up with a safe alibi; they were both from Omaha, Nebraska, and were hoping to get away from the hustle and bustle of the big city and settle into a rural area. Mark kept mostly silent as Carol knew Nebraska well enough to successfully field the questions that would come up when offering bits and pieces of their new background. For the most part, Mark thought they were doing all right as far as escaping the scrutiny of the locals. Within a few weeks they were hardly being paid a second glance. Just as long as Mark was able to prepare the orders fast enough and Carol was able to serve with a smile, they were doing okay.
And through it all they tried to keep up with the news in Orange County as best as they could. No matter how many newspapers they read, or how many times they watched the news, there was simply no news on the arrest of Bernard Roberts for anythingattempted murder, embezzling, or otherwise.
A month later, Carol Emrich finally cracked under the strain. It was a cold day, the sky spitting snow, and Carol was due to leave for work in thirty min utes. She had just put her waitress uniform on and suddenly stumbled out of the bathroom, crying. "I can't take it anymore!"
Mark took Carol in his arms as she sobbed and she leaned against him. He held her, her sobs more of tiredness and frustration than hurt. The four days it had taken them to drive across the country had been wrought with fear that they were going to be pulled over; or worse, that Bernard Roberts was dogging their every step. In the weeks that passed they lived with the fear that Bernard would appear on their doorstep.
Carol's sobbing dwindled. Mark held her, rubbing her back. "I'm so tired," she said between sniffles.
"I know," Mark said.
Carol stood up and walked to the dresser, wiping the tears from her eyes with a Kleenex. "I'm tired and I'm scared and I don't know how long I can live like this."
Mark didn't know how to respond to that. He sat on the bed silent.
"Mark?"
"What?"
Carol turned around. There were dark circles under her eyes. She was no longer wearing makeup the way she had when he had known her in Orange County; she was a pretty woman, but without the makeup her face looked tired, worn down. She didn't even look like the same woman he had met and fallen in love with. "How long are we going to keep living like this?"
"It's only been a month," Ma
rk said. "If you want we can move somewhere else. Maybe a bigger town, like Sedalia, or head east to St. Louis. In a bigger city we might be able to blend back in with the same standard of living we had before."
He knew that Carol was going to suggest that they give themselves up; she hadn't said it yet, but he could tell. She had been hinting around it. The past week she had suggested going back to Orange County, or calling their friends to tell them they were okay. Mark had nixed both swiftly, countering them with, "If we turn ourselves in we're in deep shit. Bernard will find a way to kill us both." Now she brought it up again and Mark quickly vetoed it.
"For all we know Bernard might be in custody now," Carol argued. "After all, it's been a month. Don't you think the cops would have done some checking when they picked him up in Three Rivers?"
"I just don't want to risk it," Mark said, rubbing Carol's shoulders. "If he is in custody, he's already spilled the beans about my involvement. That will be enough for the authorities to begin linking me with all three murders, as well as the attempted murder of George Fielding. There's also the matter of my parents. And then there's the tape."
"Nobody's going to believe what they're seeing on that tape!" Carol said, animated now.
"Yeah, maybe not. But why risk it?"
Carol opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. She turned to the mirror and opened her makeup case. The subject appeared to be closed with her. "I don't want to argue about this anymore. If we do I'm just going to cry and I can't be late to work again."
Mark didn't say anything. They'd had a similar conversation the previous night and Carol had gotten so upset that she had been late to work at the diner. The diner's owner had chewed her out for her tardiness and that had only made her more upset. "I just hate what we've become," she said, applying eye shadow, trying hard to keep her voice from breaking.
"I know," Mark said. "We'll think of something."
"You said that last night." Carol touched up her other eye, then applied lipstick. She stood back, appraising herself in the mirror. "That's good enough for these country yokels."
As Carol gathered her jacket, boots, and purse, Mark remained seated on the bed. They had spent the last three weeks at the Star Motor Lodge, resisting the urge to move into the more spacious dwelling of a two-bedroom house in the sticks. As much as Mark wanted to settle down in one place, the urge to move someplace else was stronger. Moving to more permanent dwellings would only serve to put them closer in the crosshairs of those hunting for them.
"I get off at nine-thirty," Carol said, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "I would say that we'll talk when I get home, but obviously if the conversation is just going to go around in circles about us doing something about our situation, we might as well forget it."
"Carol-" Mark said, turning around to follow her out, but she wasn't hearing any of it. She strode past him and out the door into the cold, winter afternoon.
Mark stood at the foot of the bed as he heard the engine of the Suburban start outside. The diner was only half a mile down the road, but with this weather and another storm due in the next eighteen hours, it was better that Carol drive to work. Mark had the evening off and the only thing on his agenda for the evening was chilling out and trying to think about what their next move should be.
But what should that next move be? Move to St. Louis? Maybe further east to Memphis, Tennessee? Out of the country altogether? Mark had toyed with the idea of getting new identities for the both of them, but he had no idea if that would work. They would eventually be caught anyway.
But they couldn't simply give themselves up. Even if Bernard was safe behind bars now, Mark would still be facing charges. He was damned if he was going to take the rap for Bernard, which he knew would end up happening.
Mark flopped down on the king-sized bed and closed his eyes. He felt a migraine coming on and he pinched the bridge of his nose. The headaches were coming on more regularly now, especially since they had been on the run. He was also tired and hadn't been getting much sleep. Maybe if he took a nap he would wake up with a fresh perspective on things. Maybe if that happened by the time Carol came home from work they could talk this problem through rationally and sensibly.
He felt the sandman come and he gave in to it. Within minutes he was fast asleep. And with sleep came the dream.
He was in Big Bear, six months after graduating from high school. He had remained home after that fateful day in mid-June, when he had joined the Gardena High School's Class of 1982 on the campus football field. It had been a typical June day; overcast and sullen. He didn't even know why he decided to show up for the ceremony, but show up he did, in cap and gown. He had paid for the cap and gown himself with money earned from a part-time job he'd gotten a few months before at a gas station. His parents surely weren't going to spring for them; it would only take away from the beer money.
Apparently attending their only child's high school graduation hadn't been worth the effort of blasting past the morning hangover, because neither parent had been present at the ceremony. Mark had taken the bus to a friend's house, had changed into his gown there, and had ridden along with his buddy's parents to the school. He had told his friend that his parents were coming from work, but as he sat out on the football field with the rest of his classmates, some of whom he'd known since kindergarten, he knew his parents weren't going to show up. He'd tried to push the thought out of his mind, instead concentrating on the milestone he was achieving with graduation. He was now a man. He was now finally, in the eyes of the rest of the world, an adult.
He had been right; his parents hadn't come to the ceremony. In fact, they had been pissed off at him when he'd come home later that evening, mildly intoxicated from an after-graduation celebratory bacchanal. The argument had tipped into violence when his father had struck him across the head with a spatula. Mark had almost felt the beast leap out of him right then, but instead he'd turned tail and headed out the door, hardly even aware that he was crying hot tears of anger and hurt.
He had spent that night at the Calvary Baptist Church day care center, just down the street from his home. He had slept in the day care's playground, and when he woke up the next morning he'd made his way silently back to the house. Both parents had found the motivation to get up early and truck their sorry asses to their respective jobs and Mark had sought the opportunity to dash inside for a shower, shave, and to gather a quick change of clothes. Then he had riffled through his parents' things, coming up with five hundred and eighty-three dollars. He'd packed all his stuff in one large duffel bag, then headed out. He never went back.
His friend Shane Peters had taken him in. Shane had lived in a small, two-room bungalow that sat adjacent to a larger home occupied by his parents, built on ten acres of land on the corner of Artesia Boulevard and Normandie. Shane's parents had owned and operated horse stables that they rented out to equestrians, and Mark eagerly accepted their offer of stable hand in exchange for free room and board. Mark spent the next six months cleaning stables, watering and feeding the horses, and making sure they got appropriate exercise by frequent walks or rides around the grounds. He also assisted Shane's mother, Michelle, with record keeping, as well as other odds and ends around the grounds. After a month of employment, Shane's parents raised his pay by an additional two hundred and fifty dollars a month; spending money that had been wisely used that summer in pursuit of the last vestiges of teenage wasteland.
He had called his parents a few days after fleeing for Shane's and told his father that he was living with a friend and not coming back. His father had yelled at him over the phone and called him a fucking moron. Mark hung up on him. He'd called back five minutes later and apologized. Dad told him when he got his hands on him he was going to wring his skinny neck. Mark had held his temper and told his dad that he wasn't coming home until he and Mom got help for their drinking. His father replied that he was going to rip off Mark's head and shit down his neck. Mark hung up again. As troubled as he had been
by the conversation, he hadn't cried. He'd bottled up the emotions inside him, part of him telling himself that he should have expected it. They were never going to change.
Some small hope that they would change had remained and it was this hope that spurred him to call again in late November. Once again his father had answered the phone. And that time his father had sounded sober.
For the first time Mark could remember, father and son had a long talk. Mark had detected a sense of hesitancy in the older man's voice, and Mark had resisted the urge to steer the conversation toward the fights that had broken the family apart. Instead they had talked about the day-to-day things; work, current events, Mom's newly found interest in a bridge club. Mark had felt his spirits rise as he thought maybe they've changed. Those feelings had been verified when his dad invited him on a trip to Big Bear for the first weekend in December. A friend of his at the plant had a cabin there and maybe it would be good for the three of them to get out of the city for an extended weekend. Just hang out, not worry about the day-to-day things of life. Mark had immediately said yes.
In the days that followed, Mark and his parents talked every day on the phone. Mark had gotten the directions to the cabin and Shane had agreed to let Mark borrow his truck. He'd also gotten Friday and Monday off of work and on Thursday evening, December 4, he'd set off for Big Bear.
He'd arrived at the cabin a little after ten-thirty and his parents were already there. When Mark had walked in he'd met two strangers he had never seen before; both of his parents were cold sober. His mother had looked worn, but rested somewhat. She'd smiled and held out her arms to him. "Hello, son," she'd said.
Mark almost cried in relief as he hugged both parents. It was them, and they were sober. They were completely different people. The three of them had held onto each other as if they hadn't seen each other in years and then his dad had stepped back. "Let's go inside. Your mom's got some coffee brewing."
That night was the first time in Mark's life it almost felt he had a family. They'd sat up and talked and like that first conversation with his father, he'd gotten the impression that his parents were still a bit apprehensive about revisiting earlier times of dysfunction. Fine, Mark had thought. Going back down that road might not be a good thing for them, yet. Let them get strength in their sobriety, and when they feel like they want to talk about it, they'll bring it up.
Shapeshifter: 1 Page 20